Brain Barf

May contain traces of nuts.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Cheater pants.

I have 2 1/2 weeks left in the quarter and would rather be anywhere but at this computer writing papers or studying for finals. SOOooo, I took a little mental vacation because I can't take a real one.
(I hope reposting doesn't delete comments, because there are some great ones from people I miss)

**Warning Repost ahead**

We stopped in China town first because I had exhausted my supply of Wasabi peas since my last visit. Hot enough to singe your nose hairs and make the rhinovirus flee in terror. (Don’t forget the exit burn either) China town, where pig uterus and cow spleen can be bought 7 days a week (yum cow spleen), and if you’re ever in need of dried sea creatures, you have found the place.
Our next stop was at my adoptive mothers house in Bothell. My little Vietnamese mama named Lan. I got my cheeks pinched and smacked, I got a scolding for not calling enough, the best spring rolls on the face of the earth, and enough parental love to last me a few more months.
Then I-5 all the way to the tippy top of Whidbey Island, deception pass and down on through to our campsite at Fort Ebey.
Firewood, Corona, playing cards and pretzels, picnic table, tent. Nuff said.
Woke up in the morning with a pinecone up my nose and a mountain firmly lodged in my back, (how come you never see chipmunk shit?) and made our way down to the beach.
The beach…sigh…OK smell this. Warm sand. Drying seaweed. Wet drift wood. Salty heavy air that you can taste and cedar, cedar air all around.
Hear ye hear ye. The sound of the waves coming in and the popping sounds of the rocks and they are drug back out with the waves, or the sound of the waves on the sandy parts of the beach, just a foamy recession. The sea birds, diving into the water, squabbling over who really deserves that crab, and the sounds of the crabs sideways skittering for their lives. The deep in your chest sound of the barges making their way through the sound.
The ferry from Whidbey to Port Townsend, and the Bayview Restaurant with their fresh sea food and clam gravy and homemade tartar sauce with real dill weed and “are you going to eat all of that halibut?” “Yes, and if your fork hovers near my plate again, you may be going home with a few less digits.”
Then Port Hadlock with the old alcohol factory that was turned into a hotel. People pull up in their big fat yachts, dock and stroll on in for lunch. Then Port Ludlow, and then the Bainbridge ferry back to Seattle.
It only rained once on us, but Mother nature made sure that we knew that she was giving us a break. Egg yolk rain drops. Two of them and you’ve had your bath for the day.
OK, I’m on empty now. Tag you're it.


  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 1:45:00 PM, Blogger none said…

    Pig uterus?

    This post reads like an lsd trip. I love it!

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 1:51:00 PM, Blogger Dave said…

    I never realized... you can really paint a picture. Not saying it's the most pleasing picture, but it's vivid; I'll give you that.

    Side question:

    What is it about the two of us that makes us feel like we have to give the other a hard time? I mean, I have nothing but respect for you, and I know you have a massive admiration for me... who wouldn't? So really, what's the deal?

    (OK, so maybe your admiration cannot be described as 'massive'... how about humungous? Gigantic? Titanic? Unmatched? Indescribable? or how about simply 'Non-existent?')

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 1:58:00 PM, Blogger doug said…

    "The beach…sigh…OK smell this. Warm sand. Drying seaweed. Wet drift wood. Salty heavy air that you can taste and cedar, cedar air all around."

    Get out of my nose!

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 3:12:00 PM, Blogger Ms-Chievous said…

    Dave, in reference to your last comment, please refer to Freuds theory wait...shit ummm, OK you know in the laws of thermodynamics that's not it either damn.... After deep soul searching, I really think it's because... YOU STARTED IT!!!!!! :o)

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 3:14:00 PM, Blogger Ms-Chievous said…

    That's a good smell DooVew? To me anyhows.

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 3:34:00 PM, Blogger Phoebe said…

    Phew. (Whew in German); I thought you departed the blog world.

    Warm sand, seaweed, drifwood ..... heavenly.

    I still didn't get the memo where you went. Where is Fort Ebey? Give me another clue.

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 4:31:00 PM, Blogger doug said…

    Keri, absolutely that's a good smell, I love that smell, that smell is heavenly, pure bliss is that smell. But what smell do I have IRL? I will tell you, it is cold prairie smell, grassland winter approach smell, uggggg. If your habitation of my nose was real and permanent then I would welcome you up my nose. But it is not, it is a "smell tease" - a most delicious smell tease, yes - but it is just a tease that torments me and reminds me of where I am vs. where I'd rather be.

    I am the undisputed drama king!

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 7:26:00 PM, Blogger Jo said…

    I amjealous, jealous, jealous dammit! Whidbey is one of my fav places (as you know) We were going to vacation there this year but life got in the way. Next year FOR SURE. I can't wait. I will retire there one day I am hoping. I can feel it, touch it, smell it, remembering it all very well. Thanks for the postcard!

  • At Tuesday, September 21, 2004 10:39:00 PM, Blogger Dave said…


    *I* started it?

    As I recall, when we first started chatting, I was extremely kind, respectful, and quite charming. (In fact, I don't really remember myself ever being any other way on the Internet). I think you took that as a signal to start jumping down my throat like we're related or something.

    I have to admit, I'm quite fond of it... even though I know you're sticking pins in your homemade Schmo doll as we speak.

  • At Wednesday, September 22, 2004 12:13:00 AM, Blogger bluebear said…

    YO-Ms C---

    Widbey was our favorite place to get blackberries. I still have the scars of our bear encounter--what a hoot that was. I move a little a faster in those days. The bear I think ,the way he acted owned the patch,any way he acted very territorial,and on the way out of the blackberry patch,at he speed of light, I tripped on a pile of chipmonk shit and he (the bear) nearly got me,but alas the bear wasn't after me, he was running from someting else and so as not to take any chances I poured on the coal and while I went one way the bear went another. You see it (chipmonk shit) does exist and its always in plain site but you don't know it's there until you trip on it. (or so it seems) I guess you have to be a chipmonk to know where it is.

    We used to stop there in our sail boat and take in the local color. Never tried deception pass in our boat, with an eight ton keel did't think it wise.

    Nice post lotsa fun


  • At Wednesday, September 22, 2004 12:30:00 AM, Blogger Ms-Chievous said…

    I am posting this whilst up VooDews Nose and on Shmoe's Back.
    Pheeb-a-licous, Whidbey Island is in Washington State, it's my "soul" spot. I will retire there.
    Jo, I swear to Dog I collected shells with you in mind. I will mail them.
    OK guys? I can't sleep in this position?

  • At Wednesday, September 22, 2004 1:40:00 PM, Blogger Jo said…

    Awwwww you are a sweetie!!!!!!!! I just got out my pic of the Admiral lighthouse. Or whatever it's called...that's what I call it. Admiralty?Chit what is it? Anyway...cutest dang little lighthouse, folks! Right up against a forest of beautiful pines and bunnies all over the place. Nice view of the ocean, ships and boats and the sunset. Gawd, I miss it so much! Trying to jeannie blink myself there...not working...ouch, yikes! ouch, whiplash!!!!! Help someone dial 911......argh ow ow ow ow

  • At Thursday, November 17, 2005 7:38:00 AM, Blogger JoeinVegas said…

    Chipmunk poop? How would you know?
    But it does sound like a nice memory trip. That's why I have photos of our France trip hanging around my cube, and periodically drift away.
    Hope you weren't gone too long.


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