Yes, there will be blog…

Good name for a blog, I think. As the Ale 81 Inn proceeds through its evolution Yes, there will be blog… will remain as the free, public facing side of the site. Comments are encouraged and welcomed, though they may not always be answered. Various contributors will appear on this blog, identified either by the color of text or with an icon corresponding to the writer. Black text for Tom Darby,  blue text for Celestial Wilde and green text for Ford Wenty. Icons will be added later.

What are we about?  Well… about anything, really. To elaborate a bit further upon the tag line on our home page we are:

An eclectic collection of trivia, musings and free range lunacy. There may be blood, very loud music, the consumption of illicit substances and on Wednesdays there is about a 60% chance of sexual deviancy. (80% if the fair is in town)

Sound like fun? Stick around, things could get interesting.


Wait…. what? Vol. 32

So once upon a time AOC got into some jam with some thugs. They put her down on the ground out in the street so they could make her “bite the curb”.

It didn’t work. When they stomped on her neck the concrete beneath those horse teeth crumbled into dust. Never punch a gift horse in the mouth?

The slippery slope

Whither goes that mystic

and does it yet live

An article waxing cryptic

with no wisdom left to give

No seas are left to cross

No new frontiers to find

Static now, growing moss

Those shining eyes grown blind

The days pass, growing late

These shadows grow long

The bliss they meant to create

is now all going wrong

For those left who still believe

should not trust to hope

Rather we can only grieve

the slow death on slippery slope


How now, Sacred Cow

So rife with subtleties

with every move and gesture

Such cruelties do abound

If only you could grasp the nuance

like members in good standing

Not about money

Not about fame

We all know its about

everyone thinking the same

Chicken shit conformists

all hail the sacred cow

New Atlantis

After desert years

lost in searing sands

Now no longer recall

the time before the rains

The wise men who led

down to water’s edge

All find the high ground

when the levees break

They’ve shed their robes

Their myths debased

They curse the heavens

as their temples dissolve



Rumor starts as a whisper


Judgments somehow affirmed

Ever watchful with

angry, bitter scowl

Ubiquitous digital overlay

The glaring veneer of contrived distraction

I seek only that blissful, early morning drone

The buzzing hum that precedes the dawn

Here there is only menacing growl ever present

The oppressive chorus takes no rest

Interstate missiles sing on asphalt ribbons

Shrieking sirens, blaring horns

Dull your senses

poison of your choice

Or embrace the madness

One can live in day or night

One can only die in one

The skies have changed

Summer skies of Athens, ’74

We were children

walking in a realm of firsts

We joined the ranks

of civilized world, idle dreamers

Our troubles superficial

mostly of our own making

These are but phantoms

unseen in adolescent fervor

Still we find these in later years

while we search for skies

that will not return to us

Sunday Obit

Saturday morning

in unfamiliar air

Before dispassionate onlookers

foul the streets

A man out of place

Refugee or renegade

Lost in the crowd

before they’ve arrived

Faded blue, King’s Bay Fire and Rescue

Too many years in the sun

Shoulder length, color of low tide

He contemplates

that final leap into traffic

for the next day’s paper