Scanning rural radio channels, you think you’ve found a classical station. Your heard turns allll the way around as your brain figures out what the HECK these cats are playing.
Try a few bars and feel your head twirling. Sadly, RHCP are credited with this song — they only covered it, FFS:
VSQ even makes this piece of genius postable (no lyrics!):
Pinky is loaded with fresh DEET for spring fishin’.
You always find something at Renys. Today’s mouthwatering score: a Little Playmate. It’s no longer called that ~ prolly some trademark dispute with Playboy. I got my first from bigmama12 on eBay.
Next, at a church sale, I bought a weird knockoff that seemed more suited to organ transport. Could be…they hold blood drives at that church; maybe they removed parts from donors high on blood loss — and my Little Fauxmate got left behind. I named it Pentagram.**
I hope Pinky Tuscadero holds up like the true Playmate from the 80s. Shaped suspiciously like a six-pack, this vintage workingman’s lunchbox can withstand being driven over by a pickup. But you can’t run it through a dishwasher and don’t ask me how I know that.
Charles named his The Real McCoy.
*No apostrophe. That’s rural punctuation for you!
**Always name your Little Playmate.
My own weird example of asking for (and receiving) a sign is how I landed in L.A. I had abandoned NYC after 1 too many psychotic boss & boyfriend let-downs and was living in VT. The ponies! The lakes! But I was fraternizing/knitting with people twice my age. Knowing I could relocate back to VT, a retirement/casket state, I asked the Forces one day while driving: “Forces, where should I move?”
Exactly then, the Killington radio station WEBK (The Peak) played Randy Newman’s I Love L.A. [Who would spin that song at a New England ski resort — DJ Jungle Jane?] I laffed. I left. “I got it; I’m gone.”
While snowshoeing today, a cloud formation looked suspiciously like the I’d Tap That t-shirt maple tree. Clearly it means I should tap that.
Obey the sign, even if you didn’t ask for it.
If you love innuendo ~ and I know you do ~ behold my favorite t-shirt on Earth. A male friend says this in public to rankle me, so I dig that their ads show chicks wearing it.
I kick myself daily for not buying one at the Tunbridge World’s Fair. Happily, Independent Vermont Clothing has restocked so I can order online…just in time for spring skiing, the only kind of skiing I do. Why else I need this shirt*: the colors, gr8 cotton, price, made by actual Vermonters weary of the same old krep you see at every tourist stop…plus, it’s sugaring season!
Stuff: hand printed in VT. Motto: “Spreading Vermont Pride, Worldwide.” Ethic: when Hurricane Irene hit, they designed a shirt and sent all the proceeds ($26K+) to the VT Red Cross. I don’t know them. But I lerv them.
*or hooded sweats
hirt made of heavy sweatshirt fabric I personally wouldn’t call a “hoodie”, one of my favorite words to hate, ever.
~ whether you like photography, metaphysics, New York City in the snow, non-combative spoken-word poetry, young people with insane talent, or Ted Talks ~ if this piece by Sarah Kay doesn’t blow your mind wide open, you are already dead.
And I say that with utmost respect, from the sticks, well on my own way to Kepler 22-b.
*Today’s post is brought to you by the letter “S”.
As a modern Vermonter, you know that for the real snow, you’ll have to move to New York, Baltimore, or DC…Hell, even Fairfield. Welcome to the New Climate. So after a good dumping here, you’d better git out and play ~ whether that’s shoveling, snowman building, skiing, snowboarding, or shoeing.*
This is the entrance to the Silver Lake State Park. Hard to imagine that in a few months we’ll be there in our bikinis. Oh, wait…**
Last night’s Oscars amazed, delighted, and appalled–from riveting flop sweat moments to charming winners and iffy dresses to the incredibly odd closing number. The vampire actress seemed a limping pill-popper and sullen presenter but I for one liked that, having wearied of clean living by high achievers. I was hoping she’d been in a cat fight or lover’s brawl but she reportedly stepped on glass. Let’s hope it was at least in a fraternity basement.
Gone forever are the awful thematic dance numbers by pro dancers–replaced with the weak dancing of the stars redeemed by the nutty hosting of Seth McFarlane & kicka** belting by divas. With the usual display of comical reaction shots, shifting bodices, and weepy spouses, we laughed, we cried, we aged. Thank you, Oscar.
UVG recommends: Argo, Pi, and The Impossible. All 3 big screeners for different reasons.
Regardless of what part he’s nipping, nibbling, or gnawing at, we’ve had just about enough of it. Enter cabin fever.
Disclaimer: The above link will not take you to a Wikipedia discourse on the history of cabin fever, a term first recorded in 1918, but to the IMDb coverage of a 2002 movie by this name about five 20-somethings in a cabin in the woods who “fall victim to a horrifying flesh-eating virus, which attracts the unwanted attention of the homicidal locals.”
Given a choice, I’d go virus. But I just don’t think I’m going to see this fine work, much as I like the poster.
…best known for, yes, they clothes. Guess which dress belonged to which Lady. Hint: Mamie Eisenhower had it goin’ on.
These from the National Museum of American History on Constitution Avenue. 
Price of admission: $0.
I asked this congenial nutter why he was ice fishing in 30 MPH winds. The answer? Power out at home. Due to 30 MPH winds. Gone fishin’.
Below is your typical Vermont ice hut. They come on wheels or skis, for hauling. Tempura batter recipe for fish here.
The point is you’re fishing, and drinking, inside. 
Man is resourceful.
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