They're outhouses, Russ, not vomitoriums.
I'm not quite a man.
finishing his steak
Next year if you go binary, you'll be 10,000.
You can't stop me; I'm an eating juggernaut.
That's the sort of post title that gets you banned in middle America. And yet, there is a grain of truth in that post title.
You see, once upon a time, there were two aging and cranky vegans (their words, not mine). These two aging and cranky vegans decided to move to Alaska for a year and impose their dietary restrictions upon a perfectly nice set of omnivores. And though the omnivores suffered greatly, they made the effort to feed the two aging and cranky vegans for a year. When the time came for the two aging and cranky vegans to leave Alaska, they left behind a gift and a request. The gift? A generous gift certificate to Big Daddy's Barbecue. The request? Full documentation of the carnivorous orgy.
We invited all and sundry to join us, but in the end it was just the five of us who suffered the most vegan food who showed up. Clockwise from left: Don, Jen, James, Mary and Tom. Not pictured: Salak, who remained under the table in her baby
First up, we had appetizers. That's a big old basket of meat, yes indeed. In the background, you can see the cleverly named "Moose Nuggets." This enraged James, who kept saying, "Hush puppies."
Tom and I raise a chunk of meat to our two favorite aging and cranky vegans.
Drop some sauce on your shirt? Not a problem if you're James. This may be why the two aging and cranky vegans often said he wasn't quite housebroken.
Tom's plate of brisket before.
Tom's plate of brisket approximately 7.8 seconds later. "You finished that thing?" James asked incredulously. He sure did. We spent the rest of the meal listening to Tom say, "Are you going to eat that?" and, "I'll take some of that."
Jen and Don opted to horrify the two aging and cranky vegans as much as possible, and ordered the aptly named Pig Out Platter.
Mmmmm.....pulled pork. I love pulled pork. Wait a minute, is that corn on the cob? That's vegan, right? Hell no! It's a cobbet, a piece of corn on the cob that has been flash-fried in garlic butter. Delicious, delicious garlic butter. Even the bread isn't vegan.
James figured since he wasn't paying, he might as well order the whole rack of ribs. We also attempted to pad the bill with vegan-approved beer, and lots of it.
Brownie sundae? Not vegan.
Flan? Not vegan.
Yellowy-white cake? (Yeah, that's what the waitress called it) Not vegan.
Baby Salak? Not vegan.
Cheesecake? So not vegan.
The residents of Hidden Hill express their thanks and best wishes to the two aging and cranky vegans. If we had known about the happy hour special, we could have spent the gift certificate on 40 appetizers. As it was, we returned to Hidden Hill with a balance left on the gift certificate. I predict pulled pork will be making an appearance at a dinner soon.
Everyone has something that they need when they're sick. A big glass of Alka-Seltzer? Massive doses of Vitamin C? Their mom? For me, however, it's a shirt. But not just any shirt. It's my 1985 Grateful Dead t-shirt, which has clearly seen better days. Like the days in 1985. In 2006, the shirt is definitely looking a little ragged.
It's the sort of vintage look you just can't buy in the stores. Sorry, hipster kids. I pull it out about once a year, which is about how often I get sick. The faded graphics, transparent yellowing fabric and numerous rips give me some sense of comfort. As soon as I'm feeling better, I'll pack it away again, and feel safe knowing it will be there for me the next time...
As promised, I have resurrected the camera. Behold, the power of digital technology!!!! (And behold my new vehicle, too!)
A lovely little Suzuki Vitara. 2000, 87K miles, 5 speed, 4WD, PW/PL and all the other acronyms you can throw in a classified ad. Though it's a small SUV, the interior is quite roomy.
For instance, Tom can sit inside (in the passenger seat only, of course!) and his head isn't even close to hitting the roof. The back seats fold down for extra cargo space, though I don't think I'll be able to move a refrigerator in this vehicle.
For scale, this is how tall the vehicle is:
Tom is 6'5". This is the sort of vehicle you step into, as opposed to sitting down. I am now level with drive through windows. I feel powerful and mighty as I cruise down the road towering over puny cars (well, as powerful and mighty as one can feel with a four-cylinder engine).
And on a side note: I'm getting sick. Coming down with something nasty. I can feel it. Not good. I'm a baby when I get sick. Pretty soon I'll be drifting about the cabin, hoarsely proclaiming, "I'm dying!" to anyone who will listen. It's probably better to avoid me entirely until I recover.
You'd think that since I got my digital camera back I'd be snapping and blogging much more frequently. Yeah, you'd think that....
The picture above was taken at the Morocco workshop, featuring once again the lovely Joanna. Her loving, trusting (and foolish) husband stayed in Anchorage while she came to Fairbanks for a few days of dancing. At the end of the workshop, I did, in fact, quit my dance troupe. Scary new territory - I'm trying to develop a troupe of my own. In the end, though, Rachel Brice was right: I need to be true to myself and let go of a situation that was no longer working. For now I've got four other dancers who are working with me to develop the troupe and see where tribal fusion fits in Fairbanks.
Despite all our big talk in the past, it has become clear that Tom and I are not destined to be a one-car family. I mean, he's
unemployed a freelance journalist, and we still can't hack having just one car. I'll pick up the check from the bank today, and get my new car this weekend. Pictures to come. I promise.
New trail since the deck covers the old one? Done.
Having Tom home to do lots of work? Priceless.