atomic_fungus (atomic_fungus) wrote,

#3690: Inspiration is wherever you get it. an idea for a story about a hillbilly. I'm going to call him "Hooter Jenkins", though "Hooter" is (of course) a nickname. Have to come up with a given name for the dude but it's not going to be a regular hillbilly name ("Cletus" is right out). Right now I'm thinking "Augustus".

Hooter's going to have a brother, known as "Cooter" (also a nickname). I'm thinking it'll actually be a series of stories; the first one is titled "Hooter Jenkins and the $1 car". The $1 car is not actually Hooter Jenkins' car, and it's actually in fairly good repair, having been purchased from a dealership running a promotion--but the car is the impetus behind the story, hence its inclusion in the title.

These will be the kind of stories you can't tell from the title character's viewpoint, so of course someone else will tell the story about Hooter Jenkins from his own point of view.

An off-the-cuff example:
Now, old Hooter, he had a thing about keeping bottle caps.

I don't know but what what he must've had a good five or six 5-gallon buckets full of 'em. Didn't matter what they came from--beer, soda, iced tea--as long as they were metal. As soon as he filled up a bucket he'd start another one. Claimed it was because he'd get good money for 'em at the scrapyard.

So one day we were sitting around lighting firecrackers and tossing 'em at the dog, and I said, "Hooter, why don't you get rid of them bottle caps? Seems to me you could take 'em to the scrapyard and get a few bucks for 'em."

"Naw," he said. "There's some valuable ones in there. From the fifties."

Now what I didn't say then was that he was a damned fool for mixing valuable collector's items with junk. Hooter's got kind of a thick skull and it don't pay nothing to argue with him about stupid stuff like that. Like as not, he'd just say he didn't have anyplace else to put the new ones when he decided to recycle 'em. "So? Spend an afternoon sortin' 'em out and then get rid of the rest."

"Well, I could do that," he said thoughtfully. "Problem is, you know my driver's license expired last month."

"You still ain't renewed it? Lemme take you to the DMV to get it."

"Sure, but I gotta find all my ID first." He sighed. "And then, my truck ain't runnin'. Don't need a driver's license when I ain't got a truck."

"I thought you was fixin' the truck."

"Yeah, it's gotta bad master cylinder, so I gotta take it to Billy." Billy was his mechanic in town--not the guy at the fancy service station on the corner, but a guy out by the grain elevator who fixed cars for cheap, out of his garage. He was a nice enough guy and he did an honest job, but he wasn't all there and sometimes his fixes were kinda "creative". Like the time he patched up Hank Gerston's exhaust pipe with a tin can, radiator clamps, and tile grout. That was kind of a mess.
I don't know, yet, if I'll keep the vernacular in the expositional text or if I'll contain it to the dialogue.

It might be better to have "I" be a city guy who's moved to the sticks and befriended Hooter Jenkins.

Anyway, Lemonzen gave me the idea, and as soon as she opened her mouth the name "Hooter Jenkins" occurred to me and things started percolating.

Well, it's a work in progress. I'll keep you posted.

* * *

Og has trouble with the fuel line in his chainsaw. Again. Apparently they no longer make fuel line that can, you know, actually withstand contact with gasoline.

* * *

The Laffer Curve: it works, bitches.

* * *

Alan Caruba makes one mistake in this post on fear. He says that the Teamsters brought Hostess to its knees, and that's not correct. The Teamsters saw the writing on the wall and dealt in good faith, in order to keep their members in their jobs. It was the bakers' union that wouldn't play ball and ended up killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.

Well, I guess their goose is cooked now.

* * *

The pinnacle of high-performance propellor aircraft is the P-51 Mustang. They just don't get any hotter than that and the sound they make--jet aircraft simply do not make beautiful noise like that, even though they are much faster and more maneuverable (and have better range) than the P-51 could ever manage.

* * *

So: yesterday I cooked up half a gallon of brine, and at 8 PM last night I immersed the turkey breast in it, as instructed by Alton Brown via Og.

In about another hour or so I've got to start cooking. I have one more trip to the grocery store to make; otherwise I do believe I have everything I need.

I think I'm going to buy another four cans of chicken broth, too. 2 for $1--you can't beat that.

See ya!

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