Now that we no longer need them to carry us and our belongings around--and having long since, on this continent, ceased to eat them--and consciously disregarding what we know of the cesspit, that their ubiquitous excrement made of all material existence, in the world before 1920: Horses are, in and of themselves, neat.
The 'Apple-loosa Horse,' twice represented among these ten exemplars of remarkable horse coat-patterns, is, properly (not as mispronounced by mush-mouthed pseudo-folk historians), the Palouse Horse--i.e., a horse selectively bred, both for physical and mental characteristics, by Nez Perce Indians, in what was then their homeland, along the course of the Palouse River, among the rolling hills, in eastern Washington State, of grass-covered wind-blown loess, known as 'the Palouse' (from the French 'Pelouse' for 'lawn')--But 'Appaloosa' if you will.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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