Post by rockefeller on Oct 4, 2021 21:27:11 GMT
There's this Recreational Cannabis store across the street from the Southampton laundromat where we washed our clothes. So while Ms. Rocks watched the driers spin, I went over and shot the breeze with its two twenty-something, bored looking proprietors. Had never been in one. Back when I was chronic (before the grow-ops) you had to know a guy who knew a guy who maybe knew a guy who knew how to get into Rochdale College. And you took what you could get, usually Mexican weed full of seeds and lumber, or acetone-smelling hash. I told them I'd quit cannabis about forty years ago, and was a little pissed at how easy it is now. They offered me chocolate covered cherries (2 mg. THC each), an assortment of beverages and gummies and, of course, bud. Lots and lots of bud, the strongest being 30 percent. I told them I was tempted, but that, for me, weed's a mood elevator that eventually takes you down below the floor you got on, and that really I miss growing more than toking now. So they offered me a wide variety of genetically enhanced, female-sexed seeds. Didn't buy anything, but we had a fun chat and they told me to drop in anytime.
Then, back in our Sauble Beach cabin, I read Conner's Egg cap. Like most of what I see here, it's technically fine. If good writing were mainly about coherency, grammatical correctness and reasonable description, I'd send a lot more up. Sure there's always room for another edit. E.g., "... and scratched her back in just the place." seems to want to say, "the right place." "Helen threw a pillow and hit him in the face. 'OK, but I do need coffee,' he said," took me a few rereads to be pretty sure she, not "he" spoke. See, they're having this playful little discussion/debate about whether or not it's okay to leave their baby sleeping in the cabin alone while they go for a short hike, and this is her finally acquiescing. But then the decision's rendered moot when he, her husband, is vaporized by some reptilian alien's high-energy particle beam. Poof! He's gone. Made me think of those joint writing exercises where one writer wants to write relationship drama and the other cheesy sci-fi. Initially, I thought the two instances of the pronoun "You" in the title, You Eggs Will Bring a Belt of Hands to You House, were typos, meant to be in their possessive form: your. But it turns out it's just that these lizard creatures, capable of interstellar travel, haven't mastered English as a second language, and don't have access to things like Google translate. The rest of the piece involves them biting people's heads off, and her breastfeeding and running from them through the woods until, when caught, she manages to bond with one of the nicer, more helpful ones, and upon whom in the end she bestows the titular wish, but with the you/your mixup corrected. I have not forgotten this blessing's meaning; I never understood it. Not quite killer tomatoes bad. But bad. Maybe if I'd eaten a few cherries, I'd have felt differently about it. But, sadly, I did not. Portholesville.
Then, back in our Sauble Beach cabin, I read Conner's Egg cap. Like most of what I see here, it's technically fine. If good writing were mainly about coherency, grammatical correctness and reasonable description, I'd send a lot more up. Sure there's always room for another edit. E.g., "... and scratched her back in just the place." seems to want to say, "the right place." "Helen threw a pillow and hit him in the face. 'OK, but I do need coffee,' he said," took me a few rereads to be pretty sure she, not "he" spoke. See, they're having this playful little discussion/debate about whether or not it's okay to leave their baby sleeping in the cabin alone while they go for a short hike, and this is her finally acquiescing. But then the decision's rendered moot when he, her husband, is vaporized by some reptilian alien's high-energy particle beam. Poof! He's gone. Made me think of those joint writing exercises where one writer wants to write relationship drama and the other cheesy sci-fi. Initially, I thought the two instances of the pronoun "You" in the title, You Eggs Will Bring a Belt of Hands to You House, were typos, meant to be in their possessive form: your. But it turns out it's just that these lizard creatures, capable of interstellar travel, haven't mastered English as a second language, and don't have access to things like Google translate. The rest of the piece involves them biting people's heads off, and her breastfeeding and running from them through the woods until, when caught, she manages to bond with one of the nicer, more helpful ones, and upon whom in the end she bestows the titular wish, but with the you/your mixup corrected. I have not forgotten this blessing's meaning; I never understood it. Not quite killer tomatoes bad. But bad. Maybe if I'd eaten a few cherries, I'd have felt differently about it. But, sadly, I did not. Portholesville.