Bad to the 12 Bones

I liked my butt with the Jalapeno BaBaCue sauce with a ladle of the spicy vinegar gently muddled into the whole thang, including the jalapeno grits and cornbread.  MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmm.

Signals mean different things

The storefront at Garage 34 on Lexington in Asheville (http://g34avl.com/) is a metal roll-up door that when open reveals a vortex of beautiful repurposed, hand-made, and lusciously arranged great things from jewelry to tiny clothes and petite Steampunk velvet hats for every occasion.  Charlene Sevier (http://thebeaddreamer.com/blog/) absolutely insisted that Kate McKinnon (http://katemckinnon.wordpress.com/) and I redirect our morning to include Garage 34 on our way to lunch at Salsa the other day.  And I loved this traffic light, unlike those we have in California.

Franklin Cristo

I just love baby heads...actually doll arms are my favorites.  I hate to say it, but it all started with a church relic I inherited from my Catholic aunt and uncle who worked in the foreign service, given to them with several others when they lived in Guanajuato, Mexico, in the late 1960s.  [WARNING: If you are easily offended don't read the following.] The relics were taken from a local Catholic church in the early part of the 20th century by some parish members during the time of anti-Christian, and in particular, anti-Catholic persecution by the Mexican government.  A child's arm (maybe even of the baby Cristo himself) was all that they had of the figure, and it came to me.  I lost the arm during a divorce, and have been looking for a replacement ever since.

Fast forward to Asheville.  Ever on the hunt, I found this delightfully suspicious disassembled baby torso at the Screen Door.  The more I looked at it the more I was reminded of a creepy Twilight Zone episode called "The Fever" that ends with the gambling protagonist being tortured by slot machines uttering, whispering, and mockingly hissing his name.  Long story about how it relates to the baby head shown here (I'll have to relate that one later), but trust me on this one.

Password Polka

Someday all I'll have to do is look to the right and my new iris recognition software will magically enable all of everything personally digital to me and I'll never have to remember another freakin' password as long as I live.  Until that wonderful time, I will have to grit my teeth and calm down.

Enough of that.

I'm looking out my log cabin window to a luscious view of pre-peak riot of fall foliage in the foothills around Asheville, NC.  What I like to hunt for are the punctuation marks of alizarin crimson in the thick of it, like these little berries I saw the other day: