Showing posts with label randy cowpoke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label randy cowpoke. Show all posts

Monday, April 21, 2025

The Totally Sketchy Reason That I'm Fascinated by Stories About the Natchez Trace

This is from Outlander,
but it totally fits the vibe

The Natchez Trace is a road that runs roughly from Natchez, Mississippi, up through Nashville,
Tennessee. Back in the olden days, it was mostly a one-way road for travelers. Here's why: once people got past the mountains, most commerce flowed down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. Going upstream—heading east—was brutal. So, if you were a farmer in Kentucky, Tennessee, or Ohio—basically just past the Alleghenies or Appalachians—everything you made went down the rivers to Natchez or to ports in New Orleans. From there, it got shipped around the Gulf of Mexico (yes, the fucking Gulf of Mexico), around Florida, and back up the East Coast by boat.

So, people would float their goods down the river, sell everything, and then walk back home—on the Natchez Trace. That means the Trace was full of stories. Masses of people trudging through the wilderness, walking huge expanses of land. Pirates and sketchy characters on the way down, and even more likely, highwaymen on the way back, since you were walking home with pockets full of money.

Now here’s the part that’s sketchy as hell, and why I think about it so much.

Let’s say you’re a farmer in Kentucky around 1810. You and your wife and kids spend the year harvesting crops. But to make that crop portable and valuable, you probably distill it into whiskey. You barrel it up. Then you go out into the woods, chop down a bunch of trees, and build a raft—maybe with a little shack on top. You float that raft down the river, not just to sell the whiskey, but also because you can sell the raft itself as hardwood lumber to someone building something down in New Orleans.

But here’s the part that gets dark: you might keep that shack for a couple of days. And you might set it up on the riverbank, and—here’s where it turns—start saying, “Hey, anyone wanna fuck my wife for a dollar?”

So yeah, prostitution. For some extra spending money on the long walk home.

And I said "wife," but honestly? It was probably pretty often a daughter. Which is horrifying.

What a weird country.


Jedediah asked his sister to come this time, too




Wednesday, March 6, 2024

Quickshots: The Second Glass of Absinthe

 


I usually like short novels, but this one could have used a few hundred more pages.  In this self-described “A Mystery of the Victorian West“ we get, in no particular order:

·       Murder mystery

·       Helena Blavatsky

·       Spiritualism

·       Tarot

·       Bisexuality

·       Incest

·       Labor unrest

·       Violent union strikes

·       Class warfare

·       Mining politics

·       Drug-induced hallucinations

Oh, and one of the main characters is a white woman who lived with the Cheyenne for years in a prior book and is readapting to white society with her new husband.  The book is good, well researched, well written, but it’s a lot to absorb in a little over 300 pages.

Fun fact- the title comes from the eminently quotable Oscar Wilde: "After the first glass of absinthe you see things as you wish they were. After the second you see them as they are not.”

Wednesday, February 28, 2024

Soaring Sarcasm of Soiled Doves (Twitter Edition)



I started my first draft of this post when there was still a thing called Twitter, before a lunatic went into monstrous debt to the Saudis on a whim and made a farce of a company called X.  One of the few reasons I was ever on Twitter was to follow escorts.  The profiles of escorts there are great.  They are universally funny, erudite, sarcastic, and often post beautiful and scantily clad photos.  I never really got the appeal of the Soiled Dove in fiction; if they were anything like the escorts of X, then they were a marvel.

(P.S.- this is Savannah Hart)

Tuesday, January 16, 2024

When ain't no one watching, ain't no one judging

“I live in a survivalist compound populated by wives, concubines, slaves and wild beasts. At any given time no fewer than two people are restrained and forced to orgasm while humiliated by the jeers of onlookers. This is our culture. You have no right to judge us.”

This was the opening to a gallery I stumbled upon last year.  I edited a few of these to make them vaguely appropriate for Slap Bookleather, but honestly thinking about what I’ve already queued up for the year I’m not sure what’s appropriate at this point.  In the context of my end of the year thoughts on escaping civilization for solitude and meditation it rings… oddly in my noggin. 

What do people get up to when no one is looking?  Probably not just meditation.

Is this the kind of tomfoolery you should expect this year?  Maybe. 

Welcome to 2024.