I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.
July 10
Grand Junction
Just now……..
She has an anteater’s snout. I haven’t spotted her tongue. Don’t want to. I am behind her at the gas pumps at Sam’s Club. Waiting. And, obviously, watching. How could I not, I ask. That nose may be blocking something I need to see. I’ll never know. It is not one fashioned by Geppetto and she is no marionette. Seems to be singing to herself. Must, I think, be nice. The nose is much more Cyrrano-esque, from the original drawing, but sans the bump and downturn mid-schnozz.
I’m not making fun of this lady, trust me. I’ve just never seen a nose like that on a human. Seen some odd ones for sure. I used to bowl with a guy who had cauliflower nose - lumpy as hell and red and large. Fit his head well. Large and blocky itself and topped off with marine-cut red hair. I have no idea if he’s still among the living. He was a serious drinker. Not beer. Hard stuff.
Another friend, an Italian named Sal, was cultivating a rainforest of boar bristle in his nostrils and was having to constantly clip it. Rubbed it frequently for some reason. Super nice guy. Maybe the thing just tickled or itched all the time. Didn’t feel bad for him, though. He was far more the ladies’ man than I. Maybe he was snorting lines of freeze dried Rogaine. Whatever………
So this lady in front of me at the pumps………..nice lips but I can’t see how one would go about kissing them without suffering an eye bruise. Perpendicular, I guess, but that just seems weird. See how this is affecting me? Why the hell do I care about these things? There are eight islands at this station. Eight. The odds that I’d even be having this conversation with myself are only 12 1/2 percent. Think I’ll just pretend I was in a different line.
Later
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