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CALL ME NICK Over the past few years I've had a few nicknames thrown at me. On one hand, I love NPR because this morning their musical "button" (that ties two news segments together) for a story on stem cell research was one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite musicians - Jorma Kaukonen's iconic Embryonic Journey (oh you'd recognize it if I played it for you). I seem to remember the same Majel Barret-like omniscience and cheerfulness coming from her when I was in high school. Well time is relative, I move around a lot, and it may not seem that long to you - but I am really getting tired of them wheeling this same announcer out of the Sandy Woods Outhouse every day or so to tell me what I'd be able to see if 1) the sky here wasn't washed out with a billion points of wasted light and 2) the sky here weren't usually as opaque and fuzzy as a down comforter.
A frenzy of demons perforated my forehead with their blazing pitchforks. Two more times I asked for water in my usual polite and unassuming way.If we stopped paddling we immediately started drifting backwards. I felt like I was on the nautical equivalent of a Big Wheel - or maybe actually a Sit-n-Spin.Regardless, the air smelled great, the trees and cliffs were deeply calming, the water felt great beneath me and wildlife abounded.We didn't go far enough to see elk and didn't have the oarpower to go into the deepwater central channel where the whitecaps were breaking, but there were plenty of pelicans and cool unidentified seabirds, an osprey, plus several bat rays and leopard sharks churning the shallows where we paddled.It's quite a rush to look into the water next to you and see a dorsal fin, or the wingtips of a ray skimming along a yard apart next to you.I was eating viet food and Lebanese food and questionable quality food and pretty much anything that crossed my path, which ranged wide and far and covered some pretty diverse territory. One of my special favorite places simultaneously to broaden both my perspective and my waistline was an Ethiopian place about a half mile west of my house called Red Sea. And I wasn’t in the least embarrassed to make such a fuss at the restaurant.
Ethiopian restaurants are overwhelmingly named either Blue Nile or Red Sea. Sometimes a glass of water can be the most important thing in the world.
Charles can make the ingredients in your multivitamins both interesting and actually informative, so these stories were rollicking sagas that had us well entertained as we rolled though the gorgeous countryside.
We got to the kayak place just after 9 am, signed in, signed waivers, put on wetsuits and spray jackets and reef shoes and PDFs (personal flotation devices, which we're told is the name for lifejackets now that they can't call them that anymore because someone drowned while wearing one and the survivors sued the manufacturer).
Maybe you've heard about the occasional disruptions in service that have rendered my blog inaccessible or my comments occasionally nugatory. Then there was the thing with not being able to adjust my template for weeks. I'm a bit shocked at how quickly it's happened, but far be it from me to complain about a job well done ahead of schedule. Kel once got me a t-shirt that read “food isn’t properly seasoned unless it’s painful to eat.” I don’t know about painful but I do like my head to sweat a little from prandial piquancy. I grew up afraid of the little tub of puny vinegary jalapenos outside of every Tommy’s in L. But eventually I learned that there was spiritual cleansing and elevation of one’s astral being to be had in the sinus-searing potency of powerful spices. Though I had been there many times, I don’t think I was aware of this policy on the particular night to which I herein refer. By the time I got my water, I had overcome some natural barrier.
Maybe you heard this because I've been bellowing in a purple rage out my study window about it. (Well, depending on the job, but I'm not here to quibble.) Any of you who wish ever to pollute your eyes with more of my literary compost are welcome to visit me at my new home: The Chucklehut I'm not leaving you, I'm just going to a better place. And in that process lies my little story for today. I went to Red Sea with a few dear friends and in my pocket. Enough searing chemical corrosives had seeped into enough of my mouth while I sat there that I was thereafter able to withstand some outrageously overspiced foods.
It's occurred to me that I may be one of those people who doesn't really take on nicknames very well. " Andy is not a merely smart guy - I am actually in awe of his mental capacities. It's 2-1/2 x 2-1/2 inches; individual faces are about 1/3" square. The photo no longer fits on the page; details are growing indistinct among the oily blots of pixel. Then he sees one up close and confirms his own worst fears. I've lounged, cooked (extraordinary beans and carrots, really quite remarkable, and the cubed zukes and tomatoes in italian herbs went down pretty easy too), talked to dad, repaired the dog run, did the Pt. That's okay, because it's part of your special unique quality, and I need to be okay with that and not make you feel bad because of it. You bring me the stars but you don't make me laugh. "Just look three degrees below uranus and marvel in the glory of betelgeuse." Sure, Sandy. Sure, it's not great coffee and I seem to have to brew it a disproportionate share of the time, but what the hell, I get it for free.