Just muckin aboot in the west, cappin off a few, and drillin down into the info box doing a little corporate training. Stampede without movement engulfs Cow Town. Not a cranium about without a skimmer and not a foot without a brogan. Seemingly the Mart for Shoppers in this berg will be outselling the blister plasters faster than a roping calf breaking from the bull pen.
Not my last by my first an ocular organ opener, this exhibition of inhibition and imbibition. Ropin’ and tying, chucking and wagoneering. These dudes in the best sense of the word, not rustlers of old. More straw amazing the visitors, more leather adorning the streets, more Daisy Dukes than oughta be nadda, and more plaid shirts not from a checkered past.
It’s a one off and never been before. They have done this or a 100 years and no one is the lesser but the more that attend. I too gandered for more boots but the Brahma’s were too rigid and could not find the Mezcalero’s to meet my needs. Bee Tee Double You, The Metz’ are the only fully handmade boots left on the planet as we know it. Not only though in the whole history of the world.
The parsimonious of us need not attend. There is nothing without in this situ. One night warrants a Cee Note more than the night before during the festivities. Well you don’t know what you can’t Cee. And the mighty Loon flows like water down the Bow in this town of four corners. Which of the NWSE letter applies to your addy on the street? Here they know where they know not that the orient of the letter is not in compass mentis correct.
All things in Rome need to be comprende smiplisico. Getting about in the Bow bound, Elbow cornered, trail-mazed borough is not intuitive lest for the scene of the Rockies. Cranked 90 form the intuitive leads astray those not from the AB. No postal, no code I say. You will be Windsored before you can Detroit that idea.
This I not my first foray beyond the bounds of the Big Smoke, it’s locale and environs. I chatted and Lunched my God-daughter Ms. Nooldes. Great chats and smats, a true daughter of her father. At one time I may but not can the way I want of the wind. Whether the weather agrees or not.
No vitals in my Java Joe, just nectar of the Gods.
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.
Recent Comments