mSpy tracking cellphone software is inclined to keep the family together by keeping an eye on the significant ones. Search cell phone location. On the other hand, unauthorized gathering of information from cell phone users is considered as a legitimate spying activity no matter what the case. On the scale of awesomeness, teenagers usually place adults on the unawesome side. Spying on text messages. If you want to use mSpy for keeping an eye on your kids, you also have the right to do so if you are the one who has bought their mobile devices. And once you log into the secure server, you can map the coordinates of the persons location throughout the day. Mobile phone tracking services. Spy cell phone text messages. As mentioned, this BlackBerry spy application provides a suite of mobile tracking and monitoring tools, so you might be thinking, how can this benefit me? Iphone app spy text messages. Samsung phone s2. Free mobile here smartphone monitoring software. Spying software for pc. Mobilespylogs. Mobile call tracer. Call recording Let’s stop and take stock of all the information you store on your smartphone – bank details? You can also identify if your employees had made any personal calls. Google map cell phone tracking. Google cell tracker. You could use mSpy spying software, but is using a cell phone tracking program going too far? Spying on cell phone conversations.

Day 11: Old Ladies, Accidents, and The Physiology of Fear in Early 21st-century Lincoln, NE

I scared an elderly woman last night.

See Adam and I were parked outside the State Fair Park Campground on the outskirts of Lincoln. We decided to van-camp for the night. The ratty wood of the campground booth slouched. The building had been abandoned for the night, save the gentle light humming on the inside. I shuffled through a pile of used envelopes seeking the appropriate vessel for my after-hours payment. But I wasn’t sure how much I owed. The booth was covered in signs-each with varied instructions. As I sleepily read the various patches of text spread about the shack, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

I was slow to focus on the silhouette of a body clinging tightly to the corner of the shack-a quiet silhouette that wasn’t supposed to be there. As my eyes fully focused I recognized the figure as an elderly woman in a nightgown, meekly peering at me from around the building. My recognition proceeded in slow motion; I told myself, “Hey, look at the woman standing there.” But the acrobatic neurons firing sound rationales and even-keeled perceptions could not shackle my bodily compulsion: I leapt off the ground in fright.

I was scared by an elderly woman last night.

“Oh! You scared me,” I exclaimed, as if she hadn’t just witnessed a grown man jump a few feet off the ground.

“Well you scared me,” she retorted.

“How much do I owe you for a campsite?” I asked.

“$15” she responded.

Martha is her name. I learned this the morning after as I read the text plastered on the wall across from the showers of the campground restroom. I was cursing myself as I had just shaved of a few locks of my ponytail in an attempt to remove the hair on the back of my neck. As the proprietor of this campground, shouldn’t Martha be accustomed to men sleepily stuffing envelopes in the dim midnight light of the parking lot? Am I really so scary?

We nestled The Boss up on the concrete slab of our little patch of rented earth: a serious expanse of grass, yes; but the three tiny trees would offer no relief from the early-morning sun. These are the kind of trees that collapse when you sneeze.

Don’t spend $15 at this site. Please go somewhere else.

But we slept well. Thankfully we slept well.

I chalk up our relatively calm reaction following our car accident to the decent sleep we got after Martha scared me a few feet off the ground.

Around 2pm Lincoln time, Adam ran a yellow-becoming-red light. We were traveling from the Crescent Moon Coffee house to some local gardens. The rest looks like this:

No one got hurt.

The van is fine.

The instruments are well.

The cops took awhile to show so our necks got reddened.

The passengers of the truck we hit didn’t give us a hard time.

Truck Accident A

Truck Accident B

Truck Accident C

Truck Accident D

So now we’re sitting in The Meadowlark as Adam makes calls to the insurance company and his family.

But accidents are stressful-and expensive.

There are moments like these-call them accidents, mistakes, or “bad” moments-that make make me think of the strange threads we weave in moving from event to event, person to person, yesterday to today. We are always living the culmination of everything that has preceded us-why should an accident confront me with questions about fate and avoidance. Why didn’t I drag my feet on the patio outside the Crescent Moon? Why did we tether ourselves to leaving when the meter ran out (I’ve overstayed my time at many meters before)? What if we hadn’t camped at the crappy State Fair Park Campgrounds? If I hadn’t let that little old woman scare me? A moment here and a movement there and the present ceases to be the present it might have been.

We play again on Tuesday-an open mic at Jones Coffee in Lincoln, NE. Lincolners love their coffee shops.

Lately, my urine is green.

Just kidding.

It’s blue.

G’night and soon to be missing you all from the hot concrete expanse of the Devil’s pulled groin.


Did I mention that we jammed with bassist Greg (thanks for the coffee), harmonica-player Tom, and Smokey the bird?
Adam and the Parrot A

Good times.

8 Responses to “Day 11: Old Ladies, Accidents, and The Physiology of Fear in Early 21st-century Lincoln, NE”

  1. alongfortheride Says:

    oh my. I didn’t sign-up for all this, did I? the plot is thickening. perhaps you need rain to thin it down a bit. SO sorry about the accident but happy to hear that you and the instruments are not hurt.


  2. Carson Says:

    Yes, alongfortheride, the plot is thick indeed. But there’s a bit of a delay between real life events and blogtime. So if something extraordinarily thick happens, I’ll let you know through more immediate means.

    Thanks for the caring, and while the rain is fleeting, we found some air-conditioned relief for the night.

  3. born in another century Says:

    OMG carsey life is extraordinarily hard! and finding yourself in bizarre circumstances in rather unfamiliar locales dealing with people who seem to be behaving in a manner that ranges from daft to demented I think it’s apt to make one -exclaim-“whew! Surreal”!!! maybe it IS the Twilight Zone!!(Mid-West Style)!!!”
    Later on some of it will be very funny!
    You’ve met lots of nice people! g’luck!

    I am reminded of ‘Honky-Tonks’ in my long ago life–probably yours are a ‘cut above’ tho. they rarely had “LIve Music!” love and hugs! wina

  4. Carson Says:

    Hey born in another century (Wina)!

    Good to hear from you.

    “Bizarre circumstances” do seem to remind that I am living.

    Miss you!

  5. alongfortheride Says:

    did you mean it when you said your urine is bleu?

    jus’ wonderin’

  6. Carson Says:

    Yes. I meant it. But it’s not.

    I was exaggerating again.

    I never promised to be “factual” about this tour. :)

    Thanks for your concern alongfortheride.


  7. dc Says:

    your ruminations on time, threads and culminations put me in mind of a Billy Collins poem, called “I go back to the house for a book”:

    I turn around on the gravel
    and go back to the house for a book,
    something to read at the doctor’s office,
    and while I am inside, running the finger
    of inquisition along a shelf,
    another me that did not bother
    to go back to the house for a book
    heads out on his own,
    rolls down the driveway,
    and swings left toward town,
    a ghost in his ghost car,
    another knot in the string of time,
    a good three minutes ahead of me —
    a spacing that will now continue
    for the rest of my life.

    Sometimes I think I see him
    a few people in front of me on a line
    or getting up from a table
    to leave the restaurant just before I do,
    slipping into his coat on the way out the door.
    But there is no catching him,
    no way to slow him down
    and put us back in synch,
    unless one day he decides to go back
    to the house for something,
    but I cannot imagine
    for the life of me what that might be.

    He is out there always before me,
    blazing my trail, invisible scout,
    hound that pulls me along,
    shade I am doomed to follow,
    my perfect double,
    only bumped an inch into the future,
    and not nearly as well-versed as I
    in the love poems of Ovid —
    I who went back to the house
    that fateful winter morning and got the book.

  8. Carson Says:

    Nice! Some really striking lines- “shade I am doomed to follow”; “knot in the string of time”; “finger of inquisition.”

    The narrator ends this in a funny manner-I like the way he contrasts his educated book-reading self with his less educated “inch into the future” shadow. Even though the narrator says he’s going to the Doctor’s office, I get this implication that his double is the one who is out “experiencing” the world while the flesh and blood narrator is content to “read” the world.

    And I like how he calls this a “fateful winter morning.” The poem seems understated in its dramatic tension: oddly undramatic-yet the idea of a shadow self splitting off into the future is a crazy notion!

    Thanks for the words.


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