Jerry Martz, Carol Luper, Crystal “Ball” Davis and Dana Turtle.
now that’s muthafuckin’ team coverage.
sorry mother, but i can’t resist that powerhouse foursome — and their props! — wiping snow off cars, crunching through the streets of Pickerington … clips of the salt truck warriors spliced with highways overtaken by winter’s spewing wonderland … YEESSSS!
(Talya, I’m so excited that you’re back! Don’t tease me … )
(and now back to feelings!)
Guys, here’s the deal. Sometimes, I feel like “Oh, man! I’ve got to go home to BANGS this weekend?! WTF?!”
Especially when I-71 is shut down, resulting in a 2.5-hour commute home — but I digress.
On those rare occasions we do make it back to C-Bus before Monday, sometimes we hang out with suburban/urban corporates (whom we love, don’t be mislead,) but mostly the whole thing just reinforces how boring and comfortable normal and happy people can get.
Then there’s this whole one-up-manship thing happening with the watches and the wines and when children are dropped into the picture — whose baby can lift themselves up on its elbows first?!, etc.
Is this what do humans do when we no longer have to make our own clothes or kill our own food?
I guess I forgot drinking. And going to shows.
This is not intended as another “I’m better than you” post, obviously, because, well, just look at the little life I’ve built for myself — look at the tattered, hemless pants. The ‘journalism’ job and the frequently-updated self-conscious web log. The worn shoes and blistered hands. (And those nails…good lawd, sister.)
But! Take heart!
The visit does make me feel better about being so weird. Because I’m mostly happy shoveling pig shit or snow/tearing down walls/painting/scraping/taking our bulldog sledding. I almost cried a little bit when I looked out the bedroom window this morning, so you know it must be true.
I’m sorry I doubted you, BANGS.
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