The Grand Ole Opry's Cooter Holland

Been driving for the past two days, basically coast to coast but vertically. Friends, there is a lot of corn and soybeans and precious little else to see between the Gulf of Mexico and the shores of Lake Michigan. We did notice again that many exit signs suggest names of imaginary silent film stars (Darien Whitewater) or riot grrl singers (Victoria Luxora). Then, I was in a men’s room having done what men do in those rooms, and at the sink I saw a sign that said WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK. And I thought, “Hell, I’m on vacation.”

Moebius, maybe no.

problem with stories, that they have a beginning a middle and an end which is not how memory works usually it is episodic rather than sequential so that you'll say “We used to go on picnics and my uncle would find coins in my ear” it's a cloud of impressions snapping in and out of focus making internal connections without the burden of narrative but of course book binding is a limiting factor and no paper mill can create a pandimensional interlocking infinite loop to contain rather than constrain the flow which would go a long way to solving the

Not particularly ranty

So here’s 100 words about the  peculiar and comfortable feeling of simply not having 100 words I need to say. My friends were telling me about their grandchild, who is a year old and has a vocabulary consisting mostly of "Mama," "Dada," and "Please." Which is nearly enough. By the time we’re two we find out about "No," and then we go on saying it over and over for the rest of our lives. It’s odd that it takes us only a year or so to learn how to talk, and then so many decades to learn to shut up.

Now I'm off to boil my icicle.

I need to apologize for what you are about to read, both a dumb pun and shameless spoonerism. We were talking about Stephen Hawking, who has lived with ALS for about a half century with both cerebral and reproductive apparatus fully functional. Along with his other achievements, he has inspired all those movies with that brainy geek in a wheelchair who from his basement can break into the Pentagon's top-secret files with a Commodore 64 and a 300-baud modem. But what about the poor guy who lacks this intellectual acuity and fertility? What ails this sterile dullard? Neuter Moron Disease.

It's bleeding demised.

It's just sad sometimes when the old band gets back together for one more show, maybe to pay off some mortgages or help a grandchild through grad school. Various original members are dead or too demented to perform. The ones who do show up have to review recordings of the old material to relearn it. Really, it's like seeing a tribute band composed of retirees. Especially since, like infants, old people tend to look alike. Is that really Mick Jagger, or just Don Knotts in a Beatle wig? Of course, at a certain age Funny Walks are pretty much spontaneous.