Burned hand man

I once knew a guy who had a burned left hand - top of the hand, I guess -
charred, scaled skin with wiggly lines pushed up in asymmetric patterns.
He was good with a Pulaski, skilled with a saw, gutted his Copenhagen,
and had very little to say about any of it, ever. One time we went down
to Red Lodge to skid out some lodgepole for a corral the Asst Ranger
wanted to build out in a cabin on the southwest corner of the forest so
he could take his wife there for Christmas. This guy with the burned
hand, one of the things he said once is that the assistant ranger was a
spitting fucking substantiated image of Curly from Of Mice and Men.

And so we're cutting down these skinny little lodge pole and skidding em
down the hill, two at a time for the bigger guys but mostly one at a time
for me. The rain turns to snow, and we get the load we want and one
of the others tries to pull down into the ditch in order to pull a U-turn
but the ground's too soft and the truck and trailer full of poles careens
down the side of the ditch, in slow motion like, until it's clear that
both truck and trailer full of poles will tip over. And the guy with the
burned hand is watching this and smiling, knowing what I do not know. That
is what I remember.

Since sliced bread

IF WU TANG MEMBERS WERE NBA PLAYERS:

http://therapup.uproxx.com/2008/11/if-wu-tang-members-were-nba-players.html

I thought I had understood capitalism. But I had only adopted an attitude - melancholy sadness - toward it

I thought I understood capitalism until I came across all these guys doing the prognosticating who kept asserting that they weren't wrong, the market correction
was.

I am thinking I will understood melancholy sadness but I was just sixteen and hewed to a regrettable policy of experiential learning.




I thought I understanded capitalism, but I was just giving in to the long subtle
caress that "if you can't beat it join it" puts on when the lights go down and
the slow jams come on and the hairs on my neck .

I thunk understanding capital das melancholia Rat Man Alexander Pope.


I aint broke dont fix the conceptual rigor with which you embrace spiraling
debt + vertiginous deficits = understated eternal sunshine of the spotless conscience.


Sell some of that environment we've been keeping on hand; we've been saving it
up for some time now, ennit?


A little more existential fuchsia in the old interior mental decorating scheme and call that puppy, good, ok?