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Cold Iron consists of random bits of irreverence, surliness, and contumely; sometimes it's even funny. Reading it is entirely optional.

...the iron monger and rusticater himself

Cool Iron

"Never hit someone over the head with a hot iron. Wait until it cools so you don't burn them."

...the source of my ideas

Iron Filings - 47

March 1, 2017

Iron Filings - 47

Things I do so that you don’t have to: We’re always hearing talk about the various generations, about who they are, what they want, their effect on the economy and so on. Most people, however, really don’t have a clue as to what age group is where and who conforms to which designation. So here’s a capsule:
Silent Generation: Those born in 1945 or before
Baby Boomers: Those born from 1946 to 1964
Generation X: Those born 1965 to 1976
Generation Y or Millennials: Those born 1977 to 1995
Generation Z: Those born 1996 and later
Of course these are all open to a bit of interpretation, but the ranges are pretty close to what people mean when they use those terms. Also, I’ve just been informed of a new designation, the “Cloud Generation” for the current relatively wee ones. The most important generation, though, is the “Re-Generation,” because without that things start looking bleak.
* * *
It’s March, people. Time to take down your Christmas lights.
* * *
As you may know, Melania Trump is suing a news outlet that published an article alleging that she once worked as an escort (read: prostitute). Since truth, in the Trump world, is highly fungible, that’s not the interesting point. What’s most intriguing is that, since she is claiming that her “brand” has now lost millions of dollars (as well as damaging her role as First Lady, which she doesn’t seem to have much interest in anyway), the news outlet’s defense will be able to demand financial documents so that said losses can be seen, including those tax records the Trumps have been holding so close to the vest.
* * *
Once again, some headlines from the news that I don’t care to investigate because they are just too funny to corrupt with facts: “Octopus Removed From 2-Year-Old Kansas Boy's Throat,” “Wurst Behavior: Mercedes Shareholders Fight Over Sausages,” “Trump Forced Me to Eat Meatloaf at White House: Christie,” “Self-driving cars will create organ shortage,” “Man Who Beheaded Greyhound Bus Seatmate Is Freed,” “Here’s an Unusual Source of Lead Poisoning: Gunshot Wounds,” “Paul Ryan Visits Border, Talks Immigration, Rides Horse.”
I had to laugh when I heard that Trump was considering dumping his press secretary, Sean Spicer, not because Spicer was snarked-out on Saturday Night Live (Trump should know by now that his whole administration is prime rib for those hungry comedians), but because the actor who played him was a woman, Melissa McCarthy.
* * *
People Are Finally Waking Up Department: For as much as we’re all fed up to the gills with politics along with suffering severe election fatigue, it’s encouraging to note that, although we have yet another election coming up this spring here in DeKalb – mayoral – we actually have four candidates running for mayor.
* * *
The following image is just a curio, but it’s a curious curio. I found it lying on the sidewalk during a walk one day, very damp but mostly undamaged. It’s a check issued by the DeKalb County Jail for $10 with the notation, “Balance at Release.” I’m not sure where that money would have come from – perhaps on his possession when he was jailed; perhaps a fund set up by family for purchases from a commissary. Prisoners aren’t kept there all that long so I don’t think they have work opportunities. Apparently the check either didn’t mean much to the fellow or else he’s just a bit careless. More interesting, though, is how totally ignorant I am about our local lockup.

G.K.Wuori © 2017
Photoillustration by the author

Selected Works

I think this book would appeal to anyone who likes a dark crime story set in a rural, somewhat remote part of Maine in a time when the radicalism of the nineteen-seventies was sweeping the country.
Ellen DeLay, an upstanding citizen of Quillifarkeag, Maine, suddenly and unpredictably leaves her happy, twenty-five year marriage for a lonely cabin deep in the Maine woods, where she makes a living dressing hunters' kill - bears, moose, deer. It seems an idyllic life, punctuated only now and then by rifle fire as she shoots into the air to scare off cheeky teens who come to taunt "the crazy woman."
A small-town lawyer in the middle of a gruesome murder case finds salvation in the world of a homeless woman and her daughter.
A young woman's morning walk through her small town finds her immersed in a small tragedy, an indifferent government, and the "science gone mad" of her best friend's husband. Quirky, goofy, nutty - yes, but a gentle look as well at some of the values that keep us from falling off the planet
A hint of generally true autobiography, this piece is part of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill's "How I Became A Writer" series.
Quillifarkeag is a state of mind, one marked by innocence and regret, by guile and sympathy. The people there will let you into their lives - but not very far. Go too far inside and things start to echo, people get close. Honesty becomes negotiable. Bare all and someone might still say, "Were you naked or nude?" It's an important distinction. In a small place like Quilli the naked truth is hurtful. The nude truth is not so bad.

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