Thursday, July 06, 2006
Imagine some dusty, godforsaken town in the Old West. Main Street is empty of foot traffic, but there are horses hitched here and there, waiting for their riders to return.
In front of the Know-It-All Saloon stands a gunslinger. A stranger. Dressed in black from head to toe. And he's wearing the pointiest cowboy boots ever been seen 'round these parts of the county. The gunslinger calls them his "cockroach killers"...
Music and raucous laughter flow out of the saloon, the sound of bottles being smashed, high-pitched squealing feminine voices of the dancin' girls, and the music and laughter of men continue.
The gunslinger spits out his plug of chewin' tobacco, pushes through the swinging doors and looks over the room. The laughter stops, the music stops, the talking stops.
"Whaddaya gotta do to get a drink 'round here?" says the gunslinger in his twang.
"Comin' right up," says the handlebar-mustached bartender, already polishing a glass and pouring a finger of whiskey. He slides it across the bar to the stranger...
Now imagine me. Not a gunslinger. And certainly not a stranger 'round these parts. I don't use chewin' tobacco, I don't wear cowboy boots, and I don't even ride horses!
But almost each time I open my blog to see my previous post, I (with a slight swagger and Queens, NY-like twang) have to say, "WHADDAYA GOTTA DO TO GET A COMMENT 'ROUND HERE?"
And I'm waitin' for y'all to say, "Comin' right up!"