Up The Irons

I’m tired and my eyes are grainy from much reading, so nothing deep or meaningful today.

The recent Chinese balloon incident was very amusing to me, mostly because of the response of the mature, seasoned, and reasonable adults who rule over us. Of particular interest was the crowing about how impressive the fighter jet pilot was, the fellow who shot the thing down. Yes, I was thunderstruck by the difficulty of firing a projectile into an object the size of — what was it they said? — three city buses. With skills like that, the military should be reasonably expected to be able to hit an elephant. IF it swallowed one of their fancy planes.

We occasionally have fighter jets from an unknown base come screaming over our farm. This always upsets the dogs, especially Jinx, who is fearful of loud noises. Thunder always makes him run to one of us and glue himself to our legs for comfort and reassurance. For the past two days, at least four of the fighter jets has flown over the farm. Something different, though. Instead of flying flat over the land, they are pulling heavy G’s as they yaw sideways in hard arcs. Very interesting.

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The springlike weather we’re enjoying is most welcome to the old bones. It was about 63F today and is supposed to be in the same neighborhood all week until Saturday, at which time some snow is possible. We takes what we kin gits.

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I spoke today to a woman who mentioned that her husband recently had carpal tunnel surgery. While we were chatting, I asked what sort of work her husband does. “He’s retired,” she said. “He used to do autobiography work.”

I was immediately interested. “That’s really interesting,” I said. “So am I to understand that he helped people write their autobiographies? I’m sure he has lots of compelling anecdotes. It’s certainly clear why he would need carpal tunnel surgery. All that typing for many years can certainly tend to wear on the wrists and tendons and joints. Does he — ?”

She interrupted me. “Um, no. Not autobiography work. Autobody work. He fixed cars after they were in wrecks. Things like that.”

I didn’t try to chitchat with anyone else the remainder of the day.

**

Speaking of autobiographies, I read a good one over the weekend. We hadn’t been to the library in a long time, and decided on impulse to visit the one in the large town one state over. This was after we stopped in at our favorite used book store. The store is owned and run by a large, beefy fellow who used to be a criminal attorney. He and his wife live upstairs in the shop, which is a good arrangement. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of bacon frying upstairs while we were in the store. The store’s mascot is an obese tomcat, a very friendly creature, and after I scratched him all over upon our entrance into the store, he followed me around while I browsed in the stacks. While back in the history section, my back and knees were singing their little songs, and I sat down in a chair in the aisle. Two woman and a girl were looking for homeschool material (I knew this because I was eavesdropping on their lively conversation), and as they moved closer to me down the aisle, I was mindful that I didn’t want to block their access to the books. The pudgy pussycat came up and sharpened his claws on the back of the chair in which I was sitting. The female voices were much closer, and I turned my head and said, “Sorry, I’ll move.” One of the women, probably about 30 years of age, put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Oh, no, no sir! You’re not in our way! You just sit!”

My old man moment for the weekend. But I appreciated her graciousness. Rare these days.

After we left the bookstore, we went on to the library, where Mrs. Orr picked up a couple of selections she’d been wanting to read. In my browsing, I found a short study of General G.A. Custer by famed Texas writer Larry McMurtry (which is pretty good, in spite of McMurtry’s annoying grumpiness) and an autobiography of the Iron Maiden frontman Bruce Dickinson. The autobio is definitely not ghost written, and is a good read. Dickinson writes in that witty way that the English possess, and he avoids the trap of “Here’s how many women I shagged and how much stout I drank” routine. He’s actually quite an accomplished fellow, a polymath, if I may use that overworked term. In addition to being a prolific songwriter and a very explosive lead singer with an operatic delivery, he’s an airline pilot (he famously flew Iron Maiden on their world tour in a custom made 747, along with all their gear, in order to be able to play dates at locales they ordinarily couldn’t reach in a conventional tour), a world-class fencer, author of novels and screenplays, and also has authored training manuals for pilots. Oh, and he developed his own brand of beer, Trooper, which is reportedly quite good.

In fact, let me share a bit of ol’ Bruce and Iron Maiden. I realize they’re an acquired taste. But so what? Up the irons, as the lads say. And perhaps WJT will enjoy the Hanged Man tarot card reference…

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As long as we’re talking about celebrities, have any of you seen Madonna recently? I won’t pollute my own blog with a photo of that nasty, disease-ridden skank, but man. She looks like some freakish mannequin all shot full of botox and steroids and perhaps animal tranquilizers. It’s stunning to see someone so obsessed with maintaining their yoof-ful appearance that they do everything possible to destroy their appearance and invite people to ridicule them. And Madonna is worthy of ridicule to the end of her degenerate days.

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The nice weather has had the mice on the move. I’ve killed four in the past three days. I saw the gray tabby in the driveway again this morning, driving the dogs insane with impotent rage. I’m thinking I really would like another barn cat to take Harlan’s place. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go out and call to him, and put some food down for him, way down the driveway. If I can progressively get him to come closer, I may be able to acclimate him to the dogs and to the danger they present, but also to tempt him with regular meals and a nice, hay-scented place to sleep. A little rodent control would be nice.

Okay, that’s all for now. Rest well, dear readers.

~ S.K. Orr