(Refuge Farm in snow, recherché. Photos courtesy of Grace).

Editor’s Note: No snide bemoaning of the momentary politics this morning. That squirrelly jet stream of frigid air beat us up but good this week. More snow last night atop the crusty ice that enveloped us at mid-week. The usual preparations for the unknown were revealed to have gaping holes, and winter storm Gail got a name. In response, she gave us crusty slush filled with attitude.

I had assumed it would be the usual Piedmont drill: bad for a while, then a quick melt, a sigh, and back to business as usual. Gail’s host jet stream is still with us, and the earnest weather people on the morning news programs promise us a chilly few days to come that will keep the slush with us. Christmas next week. I think I am supposed to do something about that. In the meantime, Marlow takes action.

– Vic

Plague Blues After Hours

I was watching a well-known, pre-market, business cable YV broadcast from NYC the other day, when the wealthy, multiple-country house owning, limo-riding, talking heads’ whining about this or that vaccine boody-hoody-hoo stuff and how they miss their vacation travel to resorts we unwashed can only read about in Conde Nast became an old lame-assed blues song.

——-

Wrote a song about it. Like to hear it, hear it go.

Got plague blues after hours
And it lasts me until the break of day
Got the plague blues after hours
And it lasts me until the break of day
I’ve been looking for a little relief
But I swear it’s all gone away

Plague blues after hours
I swear they all fell on me
Got the plague blues after hours
And I swear they all fell on me
I’m just an ole poor boy wanderin and wonderin
Where can a little fun be

Gee, fellas, plague ain’t been good for you too
Gee oh gee, fellas, ain’t been good for you
We’ll find and love us some fun
I swear, no matter what these plagues do

Now, let’s all cry “Oh Lord, please send good times back to me
Oh Lord, please send good times back to me
Now if they don’t come back
I’m afraid these plagues gonna bury me.”

——-

Let er rip, my New York City boyz, let er rip, while you endlessly strum the same lame bar of blues notes as you lament your distant place in line for a vaccine shot. Don’t forget to end your blues take with your trademark falsetto “Ahhhh haaa” and conclude with a shouted faux-modesty “Thank you very much!”

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