Rusty Barnes's Blog: Fried Chicken and Coffee, page 48

Fried Chicken and Coffee and the Barry Hannah Memorial Competition

Barry Hannah

I learned on Facebook tonight that Barry Hannah died. I have no confirmation officially–edit in, look here for confirmation– but I have no reason to disbelieve my FB acquaintances, either. After talking it out and over with my lovely and beautiful–and let's not forget smart–wife,  here's what we [...:]

Tenth Frame Spare, fiction by Timothy Gager

Benji watched Kevin scratch his crotch with his left hand while he poked his meaty fingers into a 16-pound bowling ball with his right. The semester had just begun and the place was packed. "So how do I look?" he shouted. "I'm a big King Pin." Mary turned away from his stupid fucking stupid shit [...:]

Post-War Heat by Murray Dunlap

Slick with sweat, Sweets stops at the cargo train tracks to catch his breath and fan himself with the Mobile Press Register.  He shuffles under the welded arch of the main entrance to the Alabama Dry Docks and a uniformed guard directs him to the employment office.  Sweets already knows the way.  He carefully chooses [...:]

Marcellus Shale Issues in February Alone

Sayre Morning Times file photo

According to Steve Reilly at the Sayre Morning Times, the hits are already here and will keep coming. I'll link the whole article, but let me just cut to the good stuff (emphases mine):

Several incidents and fines related to natural gas activity, including notable a spate of arrests [...:]

Class Issues, or Everything's OK if You've Got the Money

Check out what Paul Toth has to say on the issue:

"in every case in which multiculturalism is addressed by textbook and/or professor, nowhere to be found is any mention of economic class diversity.

As I see it, poor whites, blacks and others share more in common than the differences in their skin coloration, whether or not they realize [...:]

Cartin's Brick, fiction by Jarrid Deaton

My daughter, Laney, she got pregnant not long after her sixteenth birthday.  Me and Nora were disappointed, sure, but we didn't come  down on her with lectures or anger. We just told her that we'd help out as much as needed, but she had a whole new world of responsibilities getting ready to crack open on her way before she was old enough.  Cartin's father bolted a week before Laney went into labor.  The first two years he mailed Christmas cards with fifty bucks in them, but then he was all ...

Happy Holidays!

More content in the new year. I'm going to be busy until then, though, turning 40 and reevaluating, uh, very important things, because I'm, uh, officially at what I used to consider middle age.

Here's a song a dear, dear, friend of mine sent me today (thanks Sue!). To say I love it would be an understatement.

I hope you all are well and have family around you, if you want them there. Right now, I'm going out back of the house to piss my name in the snow. Because I can.

Happy Holidays!

More content in the new year. I'm going to be busy until then, though, turning 40 and reevaluating, uh, very important things, because I'm, uh, officially at what I used to consider middle age.

Here's a song a dear, dear, friend of mine sent me today (thanks Sue!). To say I love it would be an understatement.

I hope you all are well and have family around you, if you want them there. Right now, I'm going out back of the house to piss my name in the snow. Because I can.

That's Right--Drug the Little Fuckers!

Who diagnosed this three-year-old kid (referenced in the last graph) with bipolar disorder?? Can someone in the medical professions please tell me a way in which this makes sense? Three-year olds are all over the place mentally because they're, um, three-year-olds.

And it only makes the cake taste better to know poor kids get drugged at twice the rate of their richer counterparts. I imagine that happens with adults, too, but I've not seen any research to that effect. Read for yourself, in the...

Cow-Tipping, fiction by Mark Staniforth

The sight of all those schoolgirls' legs unfolding off the buses at just past four o'clock every afternoon is almost enough to shut anybody up, except for Roscoe Williams when he's got another one of them stupid ideas of his rattling around in his thick old head.

Squinting up at all that bare chicken-flesh parading right past you, it's all you can do just to think straight, let alone talk. But Roscoe Williams, he's so screwed-up with thinking where his next drink's going to come from he could...