Back from the beach with 3rd degree burns over 40 percent of my body. My wife is in worse shape. I like beaches, but I’m not at all sure exactly what the point of lying in the sun and burning our skin is. It is hot, uncomfortable, and changes skin color from either a deep red to a brown or a bronze. This, to some people, is desirable. This, to me, is cooking. There are specific reasons why people don’t climb into ovens at home to recreate. There is a mind set…oh never mind.
We had a pretty decent time over there. I don’t say great time because one of our favorite institutions, Pinheads, was gone. It was a place that combined pizza and bowling, and, believe me, it was one of the classiest institutions in town.
I spent a lot of time at the beach, while the UV rays were having a laugh at my expanse, looking for shells. On our first day there the beach was littered with them. Thousands upon thousands of pieces of small broken shell, with only a few intact ones. When we got back to our room, I thought about this. The true marvel at the beach was the quantity of the shells, and who was to say that the broken ones were in any way less desirable the the ones that hadn’t broken yet. My wife thought about this and agreed, and thought of a wonderful craft project she could use with the broken shells. Our second trip to the beach revealed almost NO shells of any sort. Our third and final trip revealed only fully intact shells. You can’t win for losing. I suppose we can take a hammer to the fully intact shells we collected, but that sorta spoils the whole point of my original pithy observation. Mother nature has a wonderful way of fucking with our minds.
We came home to find that the pfkat had stolen BOTH of our chairs from our den for her new studio. I am now sitting in a fru fru wussy-assed kitchen chair instead of the leather-like, black, manly-man chair I usually sit in. This situation WILL be rectified.
I had a dream last night that somehow on my first day of school our 1st grade class had been scheduled to have a boxing match against the sixth graders. I, being the shortest kid in class (this was never the case in real life, incidently), was scheduled first, to fight the tallest of the sixth graders. The “event” got canceled. I kept waiting for the opportunity to use my joke, “I would have given his shins a beating that they never would forget,” but the dream suddenly had me forgetting to bring a plate of cupcakes down to a stage, so I never got the opportunity. I found this disapointing. Reflectively, why I should find that not having the oportunity for one aspect of my dream self to tell another aspect of my dream self a rather “roll the eyes” joke disappointing is one of those great psychological mysteries of life.
I have one day of actual work, then almost two weeks of … um … self-improvement classes in a group setting. I’m hoping to get a lot out of them.
Love and peace to all of you. Alphonsus would rather I have my own blog rather than take over his, so I’ll be doing that as soon as I have the time. In the mean time, talk to you all later.