bite sized amaze

There's a real-men-love-Jesus bumpersticker that doesn't want me to pass him. Route 421 is a low gear winding drive down to Sanford, North Carolina which, eventually turns right onto 87, and thereafter Fayetteville.
"you're going THERE?" (my lefty friends chime)
"you're going THERE?" (my lefty friends chimed when I said I was heading below New England, and not just New York, but Mason-Dixon)
Hmm.
Seems there's more exotic shock value to traversing here than when I was in say, Tábor, Czech Republic this past August. Funny lefties; not terribly open minded.
But the Jesus stickered truck on the state highway is a shoe-in for a Southerly trek. And my Darwin fish trunk ornament prob'ly suggests something combative (open mindedness aside); especially for the feisty little Toyota Echo that I drive. At any rate...
The tour is over.
I finished in Fayetteville, North Carolina last night, on the bidding and invitation of Greg and Woodie, two potters (one of which is my brother), who figured this would be a real coup for a conservative town (for those who don't know, this place is home to Fort Bragg)... and all coups aside, the show probably was my most assertive, direct, "formal", and thusly, FUN. Sure, there wasn't the blaze and glory of high volume distortion for an hour---but I don't hate mankind, see? Heh. And what spelled different for this night, spelled the difference for ALL the nights on this tour: the crowds here could really show us Northerners a thing or two. On open mindedness. On a whole slew of other things, too. If anything, I've fallen hard for this place and plan to return.
The pic is from outside Greg's gallery. I unleashed Lady Liberty (or Gliberty, if you must know, as I am a proud card carrying Gliberal)... folks hooted and hollered and hurrah'd her inflation. And yes, like liberty and my silly show that more often than not, secretly smiles and makes soft pokes at the paradigms, she rose, toppled, wobbled, and let her air out. We'll let the whole thing rest with her big salmon grin-- like I said, the tour's over!




And this picture is for extra shits and giggles for all my dingbat lefty friends. This is from the hold-out room when in the forseeable future, aka, the Zombie Armageddon arrives... this is where you'll wanna hide. My brudda, Woodie, is an avid collector of Enfields and Mausers and other sorts of heavy caliber rifle from the turn of the century. The big Q is, if you're dumb enough to break into this house, it's not, are you going to get shot, it's what caliber? What year was the rifle made? How many rounds in the magazine? What model, make, and country of origin was the rifle manufactured? Haha.
The South rules!





And as a last note, this snap is from Carrboro.
We here noise artists, when option arrives, have our own formula for calibers, and so it was a nice little moment of C O O L (!) when these fat slugs all got hogtied into one massive daisy chain. You shoulda' heard Scotty (Clang Quartet) baptize the crowd with his initiating set. Tremendous!