You wouldn’t guess it to look at it, but that’s a highly contested piece of village real estate there, under the hat of green leaves. It’s our well. Well, it was our well. Hell, it’s still our well, but we don’t want to fight about it, so we let the neighbor across the lane tell people it’s his well. But we and he and the village know full well whose well it is. Ours. Before us, Jeannie’s. And as nobody would’ve ever dared to claim Jeannie’s well as theirs, we’ll rest our case here. Except to add: it’s beautiful to stare down, a tunnel of dripping moss and rock edges, with darkness where the water should be, darkness and a faint plop-plop-plop.
—Village Idiots
Not the whole story, just some fragments of the days–-literary, political, sporting, and personal. Why call it “A Salty Blog”? Fond memories of the Players cigarette pack, which was also the cover and title of a Procol Harum album called "A Salty Dog," that showed a wild-eyed Jack Tar, wreathed in a tatty beard, leering gap-toothed–-just the kind of guy I’ve always run into in pubs who, when not telling stories of the ouroboros would threaten to “bite yer ****ing nose off!”