Of Mice and Kolaches

Lenny and George at Three Mile Dam

I really wish I had time to fully describe these last few days. No, I'll never have time. But a snippet:



Oggy: I'll pretend to be an employment agent so you can practice getting interviewed.
David: Em-ploy-ment agent?
Oggy:  I'll ask you questions.
David: Like when I was born?
Oggy: Like where you worked last.
David: Where did I work?
Oggy: Yes. (Oggy pretends he is writing the answer down) So, David, what's your employment history?
David: What?
Oggy: Where have you worked...before the temp agency?
David: I haven't worked at the temp agency yet. This is my first job with them.
Oggy: Your first job?
David: And my left arm doesn't work sometimes. Errr. Uhh.
Oggy: And they sent you out to help me move three hundred port-o-potties?
David: Huh? Where? You mean I'm hired?
Oggy: So, David, (pretends to aggressively write on a piece of paper) Where did you work last year?
David: You want to hear a funny story?
Oggy: (tosses away imaginary pencil) Ok. Yes. You tell me a funny story.

And because of time constraints I can not fully tell you that funny story (it involved a place called "Pizza Land" and at one point I exclaimed, "No!" and David said, "Yes. And it gets worse.") or describe an afternoon in 105 degree sun playing Frisbee, getting bitten by a snapping turtle, jamming my finger in the rocks, chasing girls with leering and lustful eyes, and then moving 300 port-o-potties and hundreds of festival chain link fences and subsequently surviving heat stroke...all for $44 ($25 went to gas). This is the curse of my life: I have the most classic and moving stories to tell but I am too broken by observing the events that I can't tell them. All I know is that the language of the destitute is music to my ears. Absolute music like Puccini or Mozart.

For instance, a black laborer said he rolled into a town in Oklahoma from Mississippi, rolled up to the gas station and then...
"I walk in there, ain't no thing, walk up to the motherfuckin' counter. Han' the man my money. Dead silence. I mean you could hear a motherfucking mouse piss of a ball of cotton. Counter cat say, 'We don't got no gas.' No Gas? You racist mother..."

Delicious Raspberry Kolache

Kolaches are a Czech pastry/all purpose food that will forevermore replace the generic doughnut in my life. I am becoming more worldly even though this single Kolache sustained me through 11 hours of labor.