I was just readin' the paper and listening to John Prine (as ya do on a Sunday) and had one of those weird cohesive moments. There's a great metaphor in one of the articles in the paper about something being as futile as "picking fly shit out of black pepper" (that's a loose paraphrase but you get the idea). Now being from the great state of Kentucky, I have a strongly developed appreciation for turns of phrase, because we have quite a few. Since I chucked the accent years ago all the little expressions I use are one of the only tells I have left that betray my youth in the south. And just as I was reading the line about fly shit, this great old John Prine song came on that he wrote after his Mom told him a bunch of similes she learned in Kentucky growing up:
It was such an awesome surprise to find John Prine's Great Days Anthology in the library this weekend since it's one of the cd sets I didn't bring with me on my computer. I visit the public library here all the time - I think it's one of the best things about Wellington. There's something intensely comforting about familiar books and music, and I usually find some good, new local stuff along the way.
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