"GO BACK TO WOODSTOCK!"

  I'm feeling better. Milawyer has been checking in on me with bourbon cough medicine and Mystery Girl and Horst were here for a little weekend visit, giving me some human contact. So this morning I'm just taking it easy, in preparation for opening day. It's a nasty cool rainy morning and I haven't even got my shoes on, when I look out the window and see this big Town of Fallsburg trench excavator tearing up my  nice grassy road edge. I can't find my boots. What the hell are these idiots doing? I run across the wet lawn in my stocking feet, trying to get the operator's attention. The giant gouging bucket tears up another six foot swath of my nice edge, as I appear in front of this guy, yelling and waving my arms. He turns his head nonchalantly and just keeps going. I then step in front of the cab and as he steps back on the throttle, I'm still at maximum volume. "What the fuck are you doing? This drains perfectly." The guy looks sternly at me. "Sir, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't swear at me." I take a breath and come down a notch. "OK....sorry..." I'm catching my breath. "....but....Christ...." He cuts me off. "Hey. I said don't fucking swear at me..." It's on motherfucker.

    I've barely left the house the past couple of weeks and I seem to screaming at the world. This operator and I go at it verbally, until he steps from his glass box and puffs up to the degree I think he's about to leap. The kid, who now steps from the dump truck, comes around to join us and I don't know if he's here to help calm things down, or kick my ass. I quickly size up both of them, who are each twice my size, and stand my ground (in my little wet white socks). "Bring it on asshole." I inform the guy. I'm blinded by rage at them tearing up the church lawn, and incredibly stupid to think that I would survive a fight with either, let alone both. Nonetheless the words and gestures escalate. I call him a "douchebag", and that seems to really strike a cord. This guy's  gonna jump off his big yellow machine and kill me. Somehow I don't care.
    In the heat of the moment he tells me to call the town. I tell him I'm calling the cops. "I'm calling 411!" I scream. I meant to say 911. It's at this point he calls me" a long haired fag." and to"...... go back to Woodstock."  I get called a fag from time to time, but it's probably been 40 years since I've been called a long hair. I've never been told to go back to Woodstock.

So I call the cops and a townie cop comes over, along with whole bunch of red Fallsburg trucks with with various "supervisors". I tell one supervisor how unprofessional it is of his employees (whose salaries I pay with my taxes). "The fuckin' guy came out of his box at me...." I try to explain, when the supervisor asks me not to cuss. What the fuck is it with these guys and cussing? Anyways, long story short, things calmed down, the FUCKING town tore up my lawn and here I sit, a long haired fag, on his way back to Woodstock. I wonder what's going on in Rock Hill?