My husband and I have a running joke. Whenever one of us makes a pithy and/or witty and/or stupid comment like "It sure is hot in Arkansas" or "This is my favorite swimming hole" or "I love ice cream," the standard reply is "Why don't you blog about it?"

We mean this in a snarky, sarcastic, Chuck Klosterman, Gen-X way, because that's how we are, but also because blogs are generally filled with funny and charming voices writing about the nothings of their daily lives. I don't mind this one bit if I love the person. In fact, I like to read about the children and pets and food choices of my friends and family. That's what our lives are made of (mostly)--a series of unrelated events culminating in death! (And I especially like to read about winning softball games when my nephew is on the team.)

This is all to say that from now on, when I hear or say: Why don't you blog about it? I'm going to do it, by gum.

So the first subject is worms and Bono's Bait Shop out on 65, towards Greenbrier. There's a pic of the sign some guy posted on Flickr here but I can't copy and paste it.

The shop was crawling with either super skinny or super fat guys--there was no in-between. The skinny ones were shirtless and Bono hisself was there and they were all standing around someone's minnow bucket, looking in like it was holding something besides fish. It wasn't. We wrote a two-dollar check for a container of Canadian nightcrawlers and headed out to go fishing.

And here's the part where my husband said, Why don't you blog about it?

The nightcrawlers sucked! Nightcrawlers are supposed to be big and fat and juicy. They're supposed to wiggle when you hook them so that you can feel their muscles struggling to escape your God-like grasp. They're supposed to swim for their lives. But these worms were skinny as angel hair pasta. Hell, we've found better worms dried up on the sidewalk. Worms are supposed to die trying to catch fish for you--drowning valiantly! These died when we impaled them. Pffft.

Bottom line: Bono might be an okay musician and ubiquitous humanitarian, but he don't know nothing about worms.

Disclaimer: it's not the same Bono!
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War Eagle, Arkansas

A big storm came through on Friday afternoon and knocked our power out until late Monday night. Normally, I like living on our swampy lake, but it sucks without electricity. It was 95 degrees! Even our toothpaste was hot. I have a new understanding and compassion for folks in the 19th century. It's a wonder I didn't get malaria. For a full weather report see Sans' blog.

We did a bunch of stuff to avoid the heat--spent Sunday at our friend Tim's and we all went to the Gay Pride Parade. This is Arkansas so there were protesters. The signs read: Sodomy is a sin. Uh-oh. I'm in trouble.

And we went to see War Eagle, Arkansas, which was written by Graham Gordy, a local who attended UCA, where I teach. Gordy also co-wrote the critically-reviled Love Guru, but War Eagle doesn't have a single fart or penis joke...though it does have some horny teenage boy titty jokes, including a discussion over whether the love interest has sausage or pepperoni nipples. What is she, a pizza?

War Eagle is a character study, following the relationship between two high school misfits in a small town in the Ozarks. One's a stutterer and the other, Wheels, has cerebral palsy. It doesn't hurt that the stutterer looks like Edward from Twilight. Hunky!

The scenery is the real star of the movie and it's what I love best about this state. It's an undiscovered natural treasure--rivers and mountains and swamps and the ivory-billed woodpecker (maybe). Right outside my window, I've seen eagles, osprey, painted and indigo buntings, ducks galore, geese, turtles, snakes, coots, heron... Ark. looks gorgeous in the film, maybe even better than the Edward lookalike.

War Eagle is a quiet short story of a movie. At bottom, it's a coming-of-age story; the two boys are deciding what to do after high school. There's some true emotion in it and I'm happy that a hometown boy made this film.

There's only one thing it's missing: Zombies!
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