12/27/04

sleepless in orlando

"Kirkley, what are you doing for Chrismas?"

"I don't have plans right now and I'm assuming you're asking me this for a reason?"

"Intuitive, Oh Great Bald One."

"Wanna go to see Frank and Penny?"

"You're kidding me. They don't want us there spoiling their holiday! Are you serious? Do you really think we could?"

"I'll ask Frank now," he says.

Five minutes later....

"Frank's all excited, he thinks I'm kidding him. Write him and tell him we're serious."

I write to Frank, and tell him that his two relationship-bankrupt friends are at loose ends for the holiday and are inviting themselves to Orlando for a quick visit and would Penny mind if we crashed their party? Of course she wouldn't mind, he assures me. Penny loves Ed and when are we going to be there do you mind sleeping on the sofa and can you handle a 10 hour car ride with Ed?

I assure him its all good and that if Ed bugs me too much I'll leave him at a rest stop.

Thursday morning I see my houseguest off to visit his family in another city, toss my backpack and sleeping bag into Gertrude and head over to Ed's pad. Ed is about the slowest mover I've ever met. Once he got in a footrace with a herd of turtles and came in last. Its 9am and he's just starting to pack.

"You're worse than any woman," I tell him.

"Love you too, baby. Did you see my new monitor?"

We head into his office, where all the picture editing magic happens. On his desk is the biggest damn flat screen monitor I've ever seen.

"And don't you dare drool on it. I just got it," he warns me.

"Cool! Go pack and I'm going to play on yer 'puter."

He lumbers off into his bedroom muttering to himself about shirts and what he needs to bring. Fifteen minutes later I walk into his bedroom. "Dude! Enough already. Can we go? That suitcase is full. You really ARE worse than a woman."

"Watchit, woman. I've got two bags with me," he announces to the floor as he squishes his clothes down into the grip. By 10am we are finally on the road staring in the dry eyeball face of an almost 11 hour drive to Orlando. Ed talks the whole way. Once he was quiet for...oh....5 minutes. I got worried and asked him if he was ok. "Fine. Ran out of things to talk about, but that reminds me....do you have earplugs with you?"

"No, why?

"I snore pretty loud."

"I'm sure its not that bad."

"Yeah-it is. We should stop and get some for you."

"I'll be fine," I assure him.

"Don't say I didn't warn you.

By about 10pm two lead butts and their respective owners are at Frank and Penny's house. I've talked to Frank online for years but have never met him in person. Ed is always telling me about how big Frank is. He wasn't lying. Frank is one big dude of the Scottish Highlander variety. He's about 6'-3", barrell chested and as bald as Ed. Both have facial hair. Ed looks remarkably like Frank's Mini-Me. He towers over his wife Penny, who I come to find out really is about the most laid back woman I've ever met. (I assure you that she is-anyone who could put up with Ed, Tab and Frank for an extended weekend and our nonstop b.s. is very cool.)

Fast forward to about 1am of the night of our arrival. Frank and Penny retire upstairs, Ed collapses on the airbed and I hit the sofa. Five minutes later Ed starts to snore. Loud. Louder than I've ever heard anyone snore before. And it doesn't stop. Ever. I try to sleep, but I can't escape the noise. I move to the loveseat in the far end of the room, thinking that the sound of the aquarium and the ceiling fan may help to drown him out. Not a chance. His snore-frequency cuts through it like the grade school bully into the lunchline.

At about 2:30 I push his arm and tell him to turn over. He mumbles an appology and rolls over with his lips up against the airbed. The noise that ensues sounds remarkably like a pack of wolves snarling at each other over a piece of choice roadkill. I'm laughing hysterically. Literally. As the night wears on, I try to match up his snore sounds to different animals. By 4am its not funny any more. I walk over to where he's sleeping and firmly tap his leg with my foot. It took everything in me to not turn the tap into a kick. "Roll OVER, dammit!"

"What baby? What? I'm sorry," he says to me, still asleep. Ed rolls back over and starts snoring again. I cram toilet paper in my ears and put a big pillow on my head. No use. Can't escape the snoring. Contemplate going to my car to sleep, but they have an alarm on their door, and I don't want to set it off. At some point, around dawn, I finally fell asleep in spite of the rock concert volume snoring. At noon they wake me up. Penny is telling Ed she could hear him snoring from upstairs. I mumble under my breath that the Big Rat in Disney probably heard Ed snore.

"I told you!" he laughs.

Know what the worst part is? This moron had earplugs in her purse from the last plane trip.

Pictures of our trip:

Bennigans on Christmas night

Frank and Blue

Frank and Ed, who have no shame. (I call Ed "budda-belly" sometimes....thats what inspired this picture. Sorry, boys-I just had to put it up.)

Frank and Ed having a WWF style Smackdown

Ed and his bald head at Bennigans

Ed and Penny

Frank

Frank telling me that I'm his new bestest friend in the whole world

Frank and Gertrude

Me after driving for 11 hours. And yes-I drove the whole way.

Penny and Frank. Don't ask me what Frank's doing with his hand. Ask Penny.

Penny and Frank

Ed in Relaxing Budda mode. Notice the ghetto band-aid on his finger.

More interesting tidbits from the Orlando trip soon!

12/15/04

confidential to cowtown

hurry home rugger - you are missed and merry part was so long ago.

12/13/04

weddings

There's nothing like watching your oldest girlfriend get married to a great guy...I've got no words other than that I'm so completely overjoyed for them. Burke & Jack-I love you both and wish you All Good Things! You are the best!

Jack and his best man waiting at the alter

Scooter the Flower Girl!

Natalia

Wedding party at the alter

John walking Burke down the aisle

Burke and Jack exchanging vows

Post Vows

Natalia, Burke and Scooter

Unc taking a pic

Burke and her mom

Unc (my date for the evening)

Robert and Lisa Jo

Unc and I

First Dance

More dancing

dancing

dancing!

John, Burke's brother and Burke (don't know the other two)

Burke enjoying the swing of a wedding dress

Heidi and her boyfriend pointing at Christi's butt

Burke and Heidi

Burke's footwear of choice-Ugg boots...

more dancing at the wedding

11/28/04

msy / dfw / slc pics

Aryan with my cap

Aryan on the floor at the Heber Valley Railroad

Aryan and me by the train

Mom and Aryan by the train

me on da twain

view of the reservoir from the open air car

view from the caboose after the train turned around for the trip back(this is my favorite pic from the train)

train crossing a bridge

coal burning stove in the train

another view from the open air car

caboose

Me at Gilgal Gardens...I think that's suposed to be Joseph Smith's head on the Sphinx-yes the place was weird.

Amber and I with "Gilgal" himself in a huge stone grotto.

Me acting a fool on UTATRAX

Nate removing a zillion pumpkin seeds from my mom's dishwasher drain - mom ditched a whole damned pumpkin down her disposal. (sorry mom, I had to put it up.) And yes-Shannon took this picture specifically for Nate's buttcrack. I have a closeup, but I'm not going to share that here. (Sorry Bro-in-law Nate. You do have a cute Plumber's Butt.)

Shannon karate kidlet

Shan on UTATRAX looking much cooler than her big sister

11/27/04

msy / dfw / slc continued

Visits with the family are always fun and never dull. Saturday, mom decided we should take a train ride through the mountains. We made the 1hr drive to Heber Valley. Its a chilly day so we wait in the depot, which is of course full of train related stuff for sale. My little bro browses the toys.

"Sister Tab! Come see!"

Mom rolls her eyes. I smile at her and walk over to where he is. He's holding a train bank. He looks at me conspiratorially. "I like this Sister Tab."

I glance over at mom who is shaking her head, then I return Aryan's look. "I tell you what, half-a-pint, if you're good, I'll get it for you."

"OK!" he promises.

This is my first time on a train. I've always been facinated with them but never had the opportunity to ride one. Its a 3 hr trip and the train takes us on a slow scenic journey around the mountains, around a reservoir and alongside a beautiful creek where men are flyfishing in hipboots. There's a coal burning stove in each of the passenger cars. The train also has an open air car, a canteen car and a caboose. Kid brother is as good as gold in anticipation of his prize which only sets me back 3 bucks and some change to put in the bank. After we get home and mom makes another one of her wonderful exotic dinners (tonight is Dorowat), she checks her purse for change to put in Aryan's bank.

"I thought I had several dollars in pennies and nickles."

We hear Aryan dropping money into his train bank.

"Oh, I guess I know where they went."

Wedensday she paicked me up in her little white mustang and we went to Lehi Mills to buy Christmas gifts. I purchased 8 pounds of cookie and brownie mixes and immediately realized I'd have to lug it all back to New Orleans. It's worth it though, Lehi Mills products are first class. We made small talk about cars and family and work on the way back to Sandy. At the point of a mountain near Draper, several people were paragliding and hanggliding off the top of a steep hill.

"Shan, if I make it back here this summer, I want to do that. I'd LOVE to feel that. It'd be like having wings."

"Tab, you have no fears, do you?"

I glance over at her, suddenly having lost my voice and I think to myself, sweet sister, if you only knew.

Another night Shan, Amber, Mom and I played Cranium. Shan had to "act" out Bill Clinton. She performed a PG13 visiual, with profuse appologies to our mother who guessed "Clinton" immediately. I was mortified. Amber looked at me and said, "Gee Tab, we're all adults here."

"I know that but thats our MOTHER!"

"Like she doesn't know what that is?" she replies.

Mom-"OK thats enough!"

Amber-"Did you hear there was a recall on Butterball turkies?"

"No," I reply, baffled at this sudden change in subject.

"Yeah, they forgot to butter the balls."

"Good Lord," I laugh.

Mother puts her head down in her hand. Shan is laughing.

"Mom, I think they need to be grounded," I whine .

Mom shakes her head and laughs. Shan's husband Nate walks in the kitchen and looks at me. "I told you she was wild!"

"Better keep her on a tight leash, baby, and while you're at it get one for Amber too," I mutter back at him.

11/26/04

msy / dfw / slc

7 o'clock flight out of New Orleans. Rather than driving home and then all the way back to Kenner, I have my boss's wife drop me off at the airport after work. I figure since I've got 2 hrs to kill, I'll scarf down some wonderful airport food and wash it down with a weak coffee. I check in at the self-checkin machine and head towards my terminal. The phone rings greensleeves; its Frank (sharper than a rat turd Frank).

"Hey Baby!" I answer.

"I sure would like to suck dem toes," he kids back.

We talk about work, his cockatiels and make vague promises to get together for a drink sometime in December. I work my way through the security checkpoint. The woman directly in front of me, who is wearing pj's and pink fuzzy slippers, gets pulled aside for further checking.

"Gurl....dis is unreal! I'm gonna miss mah flight!"

"Good luck, " I sympathize as they pass me through.

My stomach warns me that I really should eat soon. Its a long terminal, there should be plenty of stuff to choose from here. Wrong. The only thing open is a hotdog stand. Rather than braving the security checkpoint again I opt for the hotdog.

"What can I get ya, dawlin?" The old cashier asks.

"I'll take a Cajun dog," I answer, figuring that Cajun means the toppings, not the meat itself. Wrong again. Cajun means bad spicy pink meat in the airport.

"Kraut and mustard only please, mam."

The hot dog chef pulls out the longest piece of tube steak I've ever seen in my life. My jaw drops and I can't stop my fool self from asking the cashier, "What am I suposed to do with THAT thing?"

She smiles slyly at me, "Well, dawlin, ya suposed ta EAT it. We gotta give ya something for a $6.00 hot dawg."

I laugh. The weiner chef is loading down the center of the dog with kraut.

"Might want to spread that cabbage out a bit, baby. I don't think that bun is a structural member."

He laughs, spreads out the kraut, squeezes out a 2' long squiggly line of yellow mustard and passes me the collosal weiner. It's literally longer than my forearm. Embarassed by this weiner large enough to feed a family of four, I look for a quiet area where I can hide and eat without looking like a circus act. There's an area of about 100 seats where no one is sitting.

I plop down in the center of the area facing the wall and begin the task of choking down the hotdog. As I'm chewing my 3rd bite, a middle aged man sits down 3 seats away from me and smiles. He can't weigh an ounce under 400 pounds and is wearing a very thin button-down shirt that looks like it might have fit properly about 15 years ago. I give him my best go away glare. Its ineffective, but at least he doesn't try to talk to me. He flips open his cell and I hide behind my hotdog as I take another bite.

"Yup," he drawls into his phone, "back to Dallas. What? Thanksgiving is just a week away?"

A catty voice in my head silently answers, like you've ever forgotten a meal, much less Thanksgiving. At this point I've consumed about $2.00 worth of Frankenweiner. The catty voice comes back....and look at you with the 12 pound hotdog!

Horrified at my snootyness I wrap up the rest of the monster pink weiner, drop it in the trash and head for my gate.

After we board, the pilot warns us of a potentially rough flight due to a front. Misery. I laugh at myself thinking thats gonna hurt my weiner and then goodness, Tab, you are a 30 year old grown woman...start thinking like one already!

We take off. The yellow lit outline of the Mississippi River snakes under us and the plane banks to the left, giving me a view of Lake Ponchartrain and the Causeway bridge. A few more minutes of lights and we are in and out of the clouds. As promised, the ride is bumpy, but everything sits well. A short while later the clouds thin out and we are passing above a rainstorm. The clouds look like dark gray seafoam with orange fire underneath. I remember then why I love to fly at night. City lights look just like campfire embers from high up.

The plane decends through the cloudbank and taxies for what seems like forever. I disembark and step into the arms of one who knows and loves me in spite of myself. The irritating voice in my head reminds me to enjoy my time with the ones I love, because usually they are just so damned far away.

11/15/04

quick update

Sorry I've not updated as of late. I'm getting my act together here to go visit the family for Thanksgiving. Today and yesterday I've been sick (as a dog...wherever that saying comes from). Slept most of today and now I'm vegging out watching Animal Planet with Pickles. She really likes watching the tigers on tv. Can't figure out whats wrong with me-feels like a mix of flu and sinus....loads of fun. But enough of my bitching for now. I'll try to update the site from Utah with sure to be interesting Thanksgiving vacation stories. Hopefully there won't be any snow to shovel off the trampoline....

11/05/04

october photos

Horn Island

Joe with the Eagle Scout wing

Me

Joe napping (Ladies, this adoreable young bachelor is available.)

Great shot of Joe with his fire

Joe at the landing point with Richard and the Anadyr

Joe and the kids

SPCA Event

Brownie Girls - Me and Miss Cathy

Cris, Miss Cathy and Ainsey

Ainsey looking gorgeous

1974 Vintage Flamenco dancer calling the dogs back to run at her heels one more time

The Pickle Kitty

11/02/04

election insanity

Ralph Nader wins the election and if this prediction comes true I've decided to dye my hair pink and blue and get my nose pierced. I'm also going to have a gigantic seat belt tatooed across my butt. Hahaha.... Little Sista Amber, did you vote for Nader? Don't let me down. I really want to do this.

11/01/04

haunting horn island by kayak

5:30a.m. and still pitch black outside. I'm quietly putting the rest of my gear in the car, trying to not disturb my neighbors through the paper thin walls of the apartment complex. Most of the residents have their ac units humming to fight the humid late October heat, which also serves to mask my early morning activity. Joe pulls up in his big truck, perky, wide awake and chattering excitedly about the trip. We finish chucking all the gear in the car and load my QCC "Richard" and Joe's (so far) nameless Anadyr on top. I immediately forgive Joe his hyper happy morning attitude when he announces that he brought cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Before sunrise we are well on our way to Pascagoula to launch out to Horn Island to camp.

Joe navigates us to the boat launch, which is a new one for me. I usually go to the west side of Horn. This launch will put us on the east side, and we will skirt the east side of Singing River Island and Round Island on our way there. Joe and I talk about camping and Jethro Tull and rum as we drive. He's in an "Island" mood, so he pops on some Bob Marley for the last leg of our drive to the launch.

As we are unloading our supplies into the yaks, 7 other kayakers pull up. They are with the Mobile Kayaking Club and are also going to Horn for the night. One member, Larry, invites us to come over to their camp and enjoy a pot luck dinner with them. We thank him and shove off before their group, deciding that we want to enjoy the relative solitude of ourselves as opposed to hanging out with a bunch of people. As we paddle out, Joe asks, " You don't think they'll try to camp with us, do you?"

"No, they probably think we're lovers looking for a little peace and quiet. Lets leave 'em under that illusion."

He laughs. "They're all older anyway. They probably go to sleep early."

Now its my turn to laugh. "Those old kayakers would party our asses under the table! They've got more practice at it than me, and certainly more than you!"

We cross the first small ship channel next to the shipyard. Joe sets up his GPS and I monitor the compass at a bearing of 175. Horn becomes just barely visible on the horizon after we pass Round Island. Joe pulls ahead of me, being much stronger than I; I'm content to pace myself and save strength for a fast crossing of the ship channel near Horn. The wind is coming almost directly at us from the south at about 10 knots and there's a light chop on the Sound. Joe says we are averaging about 3 mph, which isn't bad considering the headwind. Along the way a few dolphins surface between us playing in the waves. No matter how many times I see them, my heart always leaps in my chest with joy. They are incredible to see so close and so wild.

At about noon we beach the yaks on the barren tip on the northeast side of Horn. Its not a particularly interesting spot so we paddle through a large cut which was more than likely formed when Ivan passed through, and find a good camping spot near some huge sand dunes on the south side. The waves are pretty large there - about 2' or so, and we surf the yaks to the beach to set up camp, laughing and hollering at the excitement of feeling the yaks ride the waves.

Joe, who really was an Eagle Scout, rigs a tarp to a stick and the kayaks for a sun shade. He says we shouldn't bother with the tents; we should just sleep under the tarp or the stars, as it doesn't look like it'll rain. Not wanting to sound like a wimp, I agree, but I'm worried about those rotten little toe biting crabs that plagued me last trip. I tell Joe he has to leave the Mag lite between us so I can smack any crab bold enough to get near my feet.

We snorkeled both sides of the island, but the water was too stirred up to see anything. Our fellow kayakers camped around the north side of Horn about 600 yards up the beach from us. Kayaker Larry came around and spoke with us but other than that we were left alone.

Later that evening the ghost crabs started to appear. I pointed one out to Joe.

"What did you call them?" he asks.

"GHOST crabs."

"AH HA! We can dress up like a giant ghost crab and go scare those old kayakers for Halloween!"

I start laughing uncontrolably at the brilliant sillyness of the idea. He outlines his plan with a stick in the white sand.

"See, if we both walk like this...we'd have to tie our torsos together....and we'll need a white sheet...(more crab-like scratches in the sand)...what'll we do for eyes?"

I'm laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face. "Joe, they'll just look at us like we're lunatics. Besides, we have no white sheet. Next year though-its ON!"

After a while, the king of all Eagle Scouts builds a roaring fire and 2 very hungry kayakers cook and eat dinner. Before the moon rises, the sky is full of the stars that you can't see in the city. Joe pulls out an incredible rum he picked up in Belize and we witness a huge red moon rise over the sand dunes in the east. Stars start winking out with the moon rise. We sit next to the fire and Joe recounts camping horror stories.

WOOSH! A huge wave washes most of our fire out to sea and half soaks me on my blanket. "So much for THAT," I laugh. We walk back to the boats to get ready for bed and notice a big rat checking our situation out. Joe chases it down the beach. The poor rat keeps stopping to look back to see if the menacing human is still chasing it. The rat retreats to the dunes probably figuring on reassessing the situation after said menacing humans are sleeping.

Since rain doesn't look to be likely, Joe takes down the Eagle Scout tarp and we set up our sleeping bags under the stars, Joe next to his kayak, and me sort of between the 2 kayaks. (and yes, the Mag lite stayed right near my hand.)

Do ya'll know that I'm 30 years old and I've never slept out in the complete open before? I've always had at least a tent between me and the outdoors. I fall asleep listening to Joe talk about his scouting years, and oddly enough I had one of the most restful nights I've ever had on a camping trip, with waves crashing on the beach just feet from us. Every now and again I would wake up, look at the moon overhead or roll over and watch the waves. The crabs saw the Mag lite and knew it for the warning that it was, so my feet made it through the night unassaulted.

Bright and early Halloween Day we shoved off with the wind at our backs and the same light chop on the Sound. We pack up and drive home to the sounds of Mississippi Delta Blues having made excellent time with the tailwind.

I can hardly wait to go back and visit Horn again.

10/26/04

blood red moon

Tomorrow night, folks. Full moon eclipse. My intention-to put the lights on the kayak and enjoy it from my "back yard" with the mosquitos. Sure to be glorious. If you can find any excuse to get outside tomorrow night, do it. This is what life is all about-sights like this you don't get every day.
So, let me tell ya'll a bit of whats been going on with me. Bare with me here-this isn't going to be one of my more gifted pieces, I'm just going to lay it out as I go along.

Friday evening shaped up great. Volunteered with Miss Cathy as a Brownie Girl at the SPCA Howling Success event. Had a GREAT time (Pictures will follow, with story...but thats for later.) Didn't feel like going in so I drove to Oscar's to see if Burke was working. She wasn't, so I made the loop back around to Bonnabel, and got flagged down by a very close friend who was driving up to the intersection. He gave me a bit of news that absolutely floored me, and threw me into an instant weekend pity party. Oddly enough, this news, which I'm not going to share here because its ugly, really doesn't directly affect me, but does affect my opinion of a couple of people who were quite close to me. People I honestly would have died for at one point in my life.

After some pep talks from Burke and Robbie and my Mom, I'm realizing that its not my problem any more. It doesn't affect me, if I don't let it. I am moving on, I am not looking back. The line that I've run between myself and these 2 people...its gone. I've erased it.

No more picking the wounds of the past.

No more.

So, been throwing myself into paddling. Went yaking yesterday with Joe. Planning a trip this weekend to go stare off at the edge of nothing via skinny longer boat. My soul needs a little nothing.

Went paddling today in Joe's little Necky whitewater boat. Wanted to see what it would do. Practiced skulling braces (easy in the Necky) and managed to completely flub a roll. I think it would have been easier to roll a sailboat than to roll that thing. (Yeah, Joe can roll it. He's good, dammit.) It felt like a bathtub to me but then again...I'm not the best at rolling yet. The time in the water was wonderful and I didn't want to go in so I went jogging. Enjoyed the incredible 75 degree New Orleans October weather, and a huge moon hanging in the east. Had a big green dragonfly land on my hand. I think it was Someone else's way of telling me its all good.

10/20/04

slackin

I swear to ya'll I will update the site soon...I'm trying my damndest to shove 50 pounds of kayaking into 10 pounds of days before the weather gets cooler and daylight savings time says goodbye for the winter. Besides, Richard is so much fun and the afternoons have been beautiful. Last thing I want to do is sit here on the computer. A girl's gotta go live, you know?

Thank goodness the girl is still looking back at herself in the mirror.

10/05/04

red ghosts

"Do you still have the Anadyr for sale?" the e-mail from Joe reads.

"No, I sold it to a man in Tampa a few weeks ago, but if you are interested in paddling, I've got two boats, and I'll be glad to take you out," I reply

That same week Joe and I meet at Bonnabel Boat launch. He's a 22 year old Loyola law student, compact, handsome and muscular. The "Boat Launch Crew" tease me mercilessly about my newest kayaking "victim," joking about how I just have to keep getting them younger and younger so that they'll keep up. They warn Joe that he may not come back.

"She's like a vampire," Gas Station Paul warns.

I'm so flustered by the time we leave out to paddle that my whole body is red.

Joe tells me its no big deal, but he seems a bit put off by their teasing.

We paddle near the shoreline and get to know each other a bit better. Joe, as it turns out, isn't exactly an inexperienced paddler. He own's a canoe and a whitewater boat, but has never sea kayaked before. After paddling in the lake for about an hour, he's decided he's hooked, and tells me that he's looking at used Anadyrs. We go back into the harbor to get more abuse from the "crew" (when ya gonna put a motah on dat little boat, dawlin? When ya gonna take me for a ride?) and make tenative plans to paddle again.

A few days later we go out again-this time he meets me at my apartment and we drag the boats over the levee. Its a much more peaceful paddle. Joe announces that he's found his next boat. Its in Tampa.

"No," I squeal."Thats my old boat!"

"Really? How cool! Well, is it worth it?"

"Heck yah, she's a great boat-and special to me. I'll be glad to see her back. Guess she just wasn't meant to leave New Orleans."

Fast forward a few days. Joe and I are out paddling again, this time with HIS/my old Red boat, taking the back way so we don't have to deal with the Boat Launch Abuse. I'm practicing my rolls. Joe, who doesn't roll, decides that he needs to try it, and damn if he doesn't stick his VERY FIRST ROLL in the Anadyr. I turn a vibrant shade of green. He's so psyched that he starts challenging me to wet exits. Turkey gets back in the boat faster than I do. So now thats just too much for me, and I have to show the "whippersnapper" up.

I promptly fall out of my boat several times making an ass of myself. Joe just laughs, and I start feeling like I'm getting snowed in a pool game at a bar.

"You SURE you haven't done this before?" I ask.

"I really haven't, Tab!"

I silently curse under my breath and vow to work out that much harder for next time.

A few days later and we are out again. This time there is enough water in a marshy cut, and I decide to get out of the yak there. Joe follows me in. The mud is REALLY soft, so I shimmy up the front of the boat and step onto a solid looking piece of ground and pull Richard up. Joe tries to do the same, makes some comment about "Pride before a fall" and then promptly sinks down to his knees in the mud. I laugh but he doesn't look so amused because he's about to loose a $70 pair of Chaco's. I offer to pull him out. He's too manly for that, so I ooch the Anadyr over so he can lean up against it and work his way out, quietly smiling to myself that this is my catchback for him showing me up with the Red boat. He gets out, covered in mud, with his sandals intact, and we walk the boats back over the levee to hose the 10 pounds of mud off of him and the boats and plan out our next kayaking day. Next time, I silently vow to myself, he ain't gonna show me up and I'm going to stick every roll no matter how sloppy.

9/29/04

erng boaty boat boat

The boat has been christened by friend Robbie-its name is Richard.

But the real reason I'm writing now is to tell ya'll that Richard ROLLS like a damned dream! I am SO happy! Really didn't think I'd be able to roll "him" on my first try, but it was so easy, it was almost as though I'd been doing it my whole life. Came out of the water pumping my fists laughing. THAT RULES. It really does. This boat is my kayaking dream come true. This weekend I'm not going paddling-I'm going rolling. HAA!!! YEAH!!! :->

9/27/04

midnight happy oasis

I've had this bizarre desire to see Bob Log III live ever since I first heard about him a few months ago on Fat Possum's website. He was scheduled to play in New Orleans on Saturday night at a place I'd never heard of - The Spellcaster Lodge. I called my most favorite person in the universe, Dutch, who is rather knowledgeable about local haunts. He'd never heard of the place, but said he'd get back to me after doing some research. A few days later he calls to see if I'm still on to go see Bob Log. He warns me its in the Hood and that the Spellcaster is apparetnly an underground bar, i.e. no sign on the door, no phone, no....whatever. Dutch doesn't seem to worried about it, so we decide its on.

He picks me up at about 10 and we head towards the 9th Ward. "This 'Bob Log' thing probably won't start til late, and I know this great place, Mimi's, near here. Wanna go?"

I'm always game to experience a new just about anywhere/anything, so he brings us to the nifty area that is home to Mimi's. Its a fantastic neighborhood type of establishment: brick walls partially exposed under parchment coloured plaster, huge windows all opened up to catch a sweet fleeting New Orleans breeze, a big wooden bar, and laid back easy going clientele. We sit at the end of the bar, gossip our way through a drink and go back to his truck to find the Spellcaster.

Just before we get in the truck, Dutch's phone rings; its George, an old friend of Dutch's whom I used to play music with years ago. Dutch invites him to go along with us to the Spellcaster.

"The what? I've never heard of the Burt Lancaster Lounge before. Where the hell is that?"

Dutch and I can't stop laughing. We haven't even found the place yet and George has given it a new name.

A few minutes later we pull up in front of the newly crowned Burt Lancaster Lounge. Its unmarked except for two red lights out front. Young, lost looking people are hanging around out front on bicycles. Dutch and I are puzzled as to where the entrance to this dump is, so I asked one of the bicycle kids if this is, in fact, the Spellcaster and how do we get in. They were apparently wondering the same thing.

There is a very skinny woman with a yellow asymmetrical hairdo on the porch upstairs so I ask her the same thing I asked the zombie kids on the bikes. She says to go down the side. Okay. I'm having serious second thoughts about this whole thing.

"Dutch, you ok with this?"

"How in the hell did YOU find out about this place, Tab? Didn't think you did the punk underground basement bar thing."

"Me neither, babe."

"This is starting to feel like a highschool punk rock show in someone's mom's house," he says.

"It feels like a halloween party gone wrong," I reply, glancing around at the people in the back yard of this house.

I'll give the Burt Lancaster one thing though-its interesting in a sick toy land graveyard sort of way. A Mardi Gras float reject purple horse body with a hat sits in the yard. Its about two times the size of a real horse and because it has no legs makes an excellent bench. Hanging behind the desk where a couple collects the 6 dollar cover charge is an old rocking horse and another red light. A couple of citronella tiki torches light a path strewn with leaf litter and dead vines. Dutch warns me to be ready to run from a brush fire. Beyond the fence that splits the yard in half are several benches made of cinder blocks and wood. Hollow eyed, sallow skinned kids glance up at us from their benches and cigs and bad beer and then look away as though we were ghosts passing through their sad realm. I glance over at Dutch.

"What are we here for again?"

"Bob freaking Log," he merrily replies in his permanantly happy Dutch way.

We wander in past a dust covered washer and dryer and two ominous looking shovels in a dark outer room. A large roach scurries across the concrete floor. We enter into the "bar" area, which is where Mister Spellcaster has obviously spent some thought, time and money. The bar is awesome, it looks like it came out of some 50's nautical dive in Pensicola or somewhere equally beachy. Its shaped like a boat and covered in blue print fabric. Its pristine. Dutch and I stare in awe at its coolness. Intrigued, we walk a bit further into the actual stage area. The walls are covered with red and white pinstriped fabric. An interesting automotive parts conglomeration is a keyboard stand for the first stage. Between it and stage two are tables and ancient "IBM" style office chairs made of fiberglass. There is no AC and absolutely no air moving through the room. The body odor and the heat drive us back outside where we sit until about 11:30. Mister Log is apparently nowhere near making an appearance so Dutch suggests we go to the Marigny district and catch some reggae. Cool-I'm anxious to leave.

The Marigny area is packed full of life; its a noisy relief to the depressing atmosphere of Burt Lancaster. We catch one reggae song at the bar and have to leave because I'm being hit on by some skinny, very loaded drunk woman. ("Dutch, we gotta move NOW!" He just gives me a funny smile, and we leave.)

Coco Robicheaux was playing across the street at the Applebarrel and we wandered over there to catch a few of his songs. Its so cool I contemplate asking Dutch if we can stay, but the sick part of me with the Bob Log facination shuts it up.

Back to the Burt Lancaster we go. The depressing croud is much thicker. Kids with dark makeup and "wings" made of pieces of plastic that look dug out of a dumpster walk back and forth through the crowd blessing the occasional freaky friend with their glitter scepters. I dub them "garbage faeries" and we share a weak laugh. Dutch tells me "Super Dutch" bicycling stories to keep the mood light. Its 2am. We look at each other. Still no Bob Log.

"Lets go," he says.

I jump up and we hustle out.

"Ok, lets go to my favorite bar then I'll bring you home."

Dutch's favorite bar is the Bacchus Lounge back in a quiet neighborhood in New Orleans East. The exterior is painted in three large purple, green and gold stripes which run around the building horizontally. Grape vines grow up strings that are attached to the roof.

"Any grapes?" I ask.

"Birds and drunks knock 'em all off," he laughs. "Wait'll you see this-its old people karaoke night!"

Sure enough there is a fossil chanting out "Summerwind" at the end of the bar. Not far past the barstool on which he's perched is the biggest, ugliest peach and pink paper mache tit I've ever seen. (I'm horrified to think they look that aweful magnified up to Mardi Gras Float size.) Bumper stickers proclaiming just about every political slogan and insult cover every inch of surface behind the bar. We get water and go sit outside to talk to Jim and Brenda, two very nonsober acquaintences of Dutch. Inside, an old broad takes the microphone and begins a surprisingly decent version of"Midnight Happy Oasis." I smile, light up a cigarette and get this weird time warp feeling while I'm listening to Dutch shoot the bull. Just before 3am, Dutch brings me home.

"Guess I've got to find the next Burt Lancaster to go to, huh?" he says.

"Yup, babe, I just hope you're better at it than I am!"

9/23/04

experiencing the new qcc

Humour me while I brag on my new boat. This is by far and away the most well made kayak I've ever seen. Fit and finish is incredible. (An anal retentive person must have built it and an even more obsessive person must have painted it...and believe me, I'm greatful.) The colours they chose are wonderful; I couldn't make up my mind what colours I wanted it painted, so I gave them a list to choose from and asked for a fade paint job. Someone over there chose an orange to yellow fade...and its just gorgeous. Damned boat's so pretty I'm intimidated by it. (wow-a self discovery moment...I don't feel good enough to paddle such a perfect yak.)

Its also super light-at least 10 pounds lighter than the Anadyr, which makes a big difference in how easy it is for me to move it around. I'm estimating its weight to be about 42-45 pounds fully rigged out as it is with the seat, lines, foot pegs and rudder. The kayak itself is Carbon Fiber, so its as light as a boat can be without being a "skin" boat.

So now for the moment of truth, actually getting it wet.

Lake Ponchartrain is a mess right now; the water is really high from "Ivan" making another appearance in the Gulf, and the winds are brisk, making about 3-4' waves in the lake. I go out to Bonnabel, fairly confident in my skills as a paddler, and having heard so much about the secondary stability of the craft, I figure the lake shouldn't be too hairy for me. The regular crew is hanging out at the boat launch. Paul helps me take the boat off Gertrude, at the cost of joking with me about my legs. Of course, I let him give me hell because I know he will look out for me and my car. Its a small price to pay, I guess. The Q is remarkably easy to enter and exit, because the cockpit is long. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to use the sprayskirt I brought with me because of this. (Big dummy-I should have checked!)

I put on my pfd and set off in the protected launch and paddle around to get used to the boat. The rudder is a new experience for me, and I decided to leave it up for now to just feel the hull. The wind was whipping at what felt like about 20 mph. Not the best condition to try a brand new boat...but I did get to see how she did in the wind, and it was quite admirable-even with the wind, she still went in the direction she was pointed in. I paddled up to the end of the jetty and looked at the waves-they were level with my forehead. I know I can paddle in these seas, I've done it before, but always in a boat I was thoroughly comfortable in. Every kayak feels different to me, and this is the most narrow, low decked boat I've ever been in. I'm so nervous that my stomach hurts, but I'm to hardheaded to turn around, so out I go. Immediately I have one of those "are you completely nuts?" moments when the first wave hits the nose of the boat. She bobs right over it, but feels a bit tippier than I'm used to...and I have a moment where I'm seriously wishing I would have remembered the other skirt...but I push forward in spite of my reservations. After about 15 minutes of paddling straight out into the waves, I figure I've had enough fun and that its time to face the music and let a following sea take me back into the jetty. The boat tracks so damned straight that I actually had trouble turning it in the waves. Had a few bad moments where the waves slammed into the side of the boat-took on a bit of water, but managed to turn around. At this point I'm ready to kick myself...my hands are shaking, heart beating in my throat, and then it starts to pour. Great. Way to go, dumb ass. Couldn't you have gone to Bayou St. John?? Nah, big bad Tabby is going in the lake. Alone. With a new boat. In 4' seas. With a skirt that doesn't fit. Death wish. Pea brain!!

I can see people standing on the jetty watching my dumb ass fight the wind and waves back in. The waves are the worst right at the entrance of the jetty, and one comes right under me, lifting the boat up and almost putting me in the drink. Every ounce of balance I have manages to keep me upright. Finally make it into the jetty, which is looking a little bit like my momma's arms at that moment. Too shaken up to stop paddling, I play around with the rudder in the jetty, getting a feel for it and how the boat carves turns. It performed wonderfully, and I'm quite impressed. I'm not impressed with my stupidity for going out in those conditions. An hour later and I'm still jittery. Hopefully Sunday I'll have a chance to try to roll it and spend some more time feeling it out in a calm sea. I guarantee I won't be going back out in wild conditions like this again until I've got a few more hours of that boat under my belt.

One thing is for sure though-this is a fantastic boat, and I know my skills are going to greatly improve paddling it. Just got to think of a good name to christen her with!

9/22/04

a few minutes later!!!

Here she is!!!

9/22/04

any minute now...

...my new "boaty boat boat" will be here. I can hardly wait....feeling a bit like a kid on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately I won't have time to take it out today, but tomorrow dammit, its on! I made room on the kayak rack in the apartment (Its going to go on the top spot-I moved the Seal down to the bottom.) I've got film loaded in my camera, I've got my tools out to take it out of the packaging, and I've been biting my nails for at least a half hour.

I'm ready. Now all I need to do is think up a new name (might enlist you all to help with that after you see a picture of her...or will this be a "him"? Naaaaa....I'ts a "her"....) and get a rag to clean my drool off of the hull. I also need to get a new "hood ornament"....have to think up a good one there too. In the meantime...here is one of the last goofy pictures of my other boats. (Blue one is the Shaman, the Red obviously being the Anadyr.)

Oh...I didn't tell ya'll what I actually got yet! Its a QCC 600! Custom paint job, full carbon layup....all the bells and whistles. After talking to folks who own a QCC, and folks who have the other boat I was looking at, I decided to go with the QCC. They stand behind their products 100%, the fit and finish is great, plus they are an American company. As soon as she's in the apartment, I'll post some cam pics of her.

9/20/04

gator hunting

6:00 a.m. ... beep beep beep beep... SLAP. groan.

Sleep fogged brain processes that I'm supposed to drive to Houma today to meet Wayne and have the alligator hunting adventure. Body protests,"its Saturday-I sleep late today."

Mind reminds body that it can sleep when its dead. Bladder forces body out of bed. Body grudgingly complies. Mind/bladder combination chalk up another victory.

Wayne hits me on the radio,"Where yat, Suncat?"

"Turning down Marina Drive now, Gator."

I park Gertrude, grab my camera and a bottle of water. Wayne steers me over to the big cooler to show me yesterday's haul. Several large gators lie cooling on the floor. I hear a boat coming down the channel.

"You about ready to go?" Wayne asks.

"Sounds like Ernie and Redneck are here."

"Redneck?"

"Yeah. Greg. We call him Redneck, no disrespect, you know."

He hustles me onto his flatboat as the other boat pulls up short at the dock. Introductions are made, and Ernie offers me a breakfast "sammich" and some orange juice from Mc Donalds. I decline, wondering if there's a Mickey D's somewhere back in the swamp thats only accessible by boat or something. Redneck lights up a smoke and gives me a troubled look.

As we pull out, Wayne tells me about Ernie, whom he grew up with and Recneck who is another friend of theirs and who works for Ernie.

"You ready for action? We should have a whole bunch of gators today."

"I'm as ready as I'm going to be. I'll just observe though," I say from behind my sunglasses.

Wayne chuckles. He knows I'm lying, even though I don't know it yet.

Ernie and Wayne decide to check Ernie's lines first. We check the lines and rebait the empty ones. Each nylon line is approximately 1,100 lb. test with a large hook (I believe he said 12 aught). The line is secured to a tree or a cypress knee and then run up a stick to a clothes pin. The line is hung from the pin to about 16" above the water. Each line is baited with a piece of chicken. Wayne explains to me that all of the alligator is used. He sells each gator by the foot to someone who sells the skin, meat and head. Virtually nothing is wasted.

All of Ernie's lines prove to be empty so we move on to Wayne's. The second line we come to has a 6' gator. Greg pulls it in, grabs its mouth and Ernie shoots it point blank behind the eyes. The alligator's natural response is to roll after being shot which this one does. When it is finished rolling, Greg and Ernie pull it onto the boat and break open a beer to celebrate the first catch of the day. I am offered a beer but politely decline, noting that there are no restrooms nearby. The men chuckle and remark on how lucky they are to be men. I smirk and roll my eyes, "Oh heeeere we go." More laughs.

We head to the next line in an area they refer to as the "Wagon Wheel" because of the way the channels branch off of it. Wayne slowly idles the boat down the channel and looks to the left. A huge grin spreads across his face and I follow his gaze. Up on the bank, the back of one of the biggest alligators I've ever seen is visible through the grass and shrubbery.

"Holy COW," I exclaim. (Actually I didn't say holy cow, I try not to cuss too much here so we'll just insert a bland holy cow for now.)

Wayne slowly pulls the boat right up to the back of the huge critter. "Knock on its back to see if its dead," he says.

"OH but NO....I ain't....there is NO way!"

"Its ok, just be ready to jump back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, its probably dead, Tab!"

"Ok," I say as I hurridly thump the gator's back with my fist and then jump back. No motion from the beast on the bank. Suddenly I realize that we are surrounded by a mighty funky stink, which I realize is coming from the gator in question. Ernie catches a whif, "Smells like a Bogalusa afternoon!" (Bogalusa is a local town with a paper mill and a constant stench.)

Wayne explains to me that the gator died on the line overnight most likely due to internal bleeding from the hook. He tells me that they mark the ones that die on the line so that they aren't used for meat.

Greg and Ernie manage to pull the huge carcass onto the boat, both of them bitterly complaining about the stench. They cover the gator with duckweed to keep it cool and shaded from the sun. More celebratory beers are broken open. I once again decline and we head off to take several more smaller gators off the lines.

After a short while we return to Wayne's dock to put the gators in the cooler. I finally break down and have a beer, figuring that its almost noon anyway and the coonasses and redneck are up on me by several. We head back out into the swamp.

As we start baiting out another line Greg tells us a story about his cousin who has an even stronger country accent than he does. Greg and his cousin were at a wedding and Greg asks his cousin where another particular family member is. His cousin says, "He wasn't feeling good, a lamb fell on his head."

"A LAMB?" says Greg.

"Yeah, a lamb fell outa tree and hit 'im in 'is head!"

Greg, clearly puzzled by this, "What the hell was a lamb doin' in a tree?"

The cousin, getting upset and not understanding why Greg doesn't understand him says, "A LAMB, a lamb, you know...they GROW on trees?"

We do our best to not fall out of the boat laughing and continue on to the next line. Slightly emboldened by the golden elixer from the silver can, I help haul in the next gator and hold it while Wayne shoots it behind the eyes. The Coonasses and the Redneck see this as progress on my part and Greg hands me another beer which I accept without comment.

The rest of the afternoon progresses in much the same manor, Wayne, Ernie and Greg joking, explaining the finer points of alligator hunting and swamp life, as we wind our way through often hyacinth choked channels through the swamp.

At 2 p.m. we arrive back at the dock and Greg uses the winch to bring the second haul of gators from the boat up to the door of the cooler. Wayne asks me if I'd like to see how to skin a gator and take home some meat. Lowering his voice so that only I can hear, he says, "Watch this, Ernie is going to skin this one. All we have to do is start, and ask him a question, then he'll jump in and we get to sit back and watch!"

So, Wayne starts to cut into the tail, working his way up separating skin from meat. He hands me a knife. Ernie gets a worried look on his face and starts to put on his rubber gloves. I inexpertly separate the meat from the hide. "Am I doing this right?"

Greg looks over and takes the knife from me without so much as a word. I blink at him with my best doe eyes.

"City Girl"

He smiles, "It's ok, darlin."

Wayne asks Ernie how to make the next cut. Ernie takes the knife from Wayne. Wayne gives me a sly look and we laugh. Before long the gator skinning is in full swing and Ernie is its captain. He explains the process as he works with each surgically precise cut. Two more young coonass men drive up having heard that Wayne had a woman on a gator hunt. A BAD joke is passed that I've heard more than once.

"Hey, you got some coonass in ya," says the bigger, better looking of the two.

I know whats coming next but I innocently reply, "None that I claim."

"Want some?"

More laughs, and a good natured slap on the back.

A bottle of whiskey is opened, country music is discussed, more jokes exchanged. At about 3:30 I beg out, citing my plans with Dutch to go to Tipitina's that evening. Greg makes me promise to come back and go frogging. "As if I'd miss that part of my coonass education," I reply.

Pics:

Ernie and Greg headed out

Wayne

chicken on the hook

small gator

Big gator on the bank

Greg and Ernie with "Bogalusa"

hooked

"Christmas Tree" (Gas well)

Greg and Ernie hauling a gator onto the boat

tagging the tail

Ernie holding a gator's head

me skinning the gator

skinning the gator

Ernie

Wayne

Ernie and Wayne skinning a gator

me

gators by the cooler; Greg

pulling in a big one

Ernie holding another gator's head

Ernie & Greg in the swamp

me pulling in a gator

me again

Wayne's dock

me

chatting at the dock

9/07/04

taking it back

If you have not already heard the reason as to why suncat.net has been down I'm going to tell you. I received a disturbing, way out of touch with reality e-mail from a man whom I encountered breifly on my jobsite on a couple of occasions. I certainly didn't tell this weirdo about my website-he "googled" my name, found suncat.net, read "all about Tab" for about 9 minutes and decided that I was "the one."

Nuts. As IF by two short meetings on a job and reading a few paragraphs that I've written makes anyone an authority on what kind of person I am. For all any of you reading this know, I might have canabilized my last lover and fed him to the cat. (So....what kind of skull did you say that was on your dresser, Tab??)

Anyway, the letter was strange enough to give me cause to wonder about just how safe I am, which made me even more anxious, which in turn caused me to take the site down and do some serious thinking.

Now I'm done thinking.

Now I'm pissed that once again I let the smell of fear escape my pores because of something a man has done. I am the only one responsible for my safety, and I am taking care of it, believe me, but I refuse to live in fear or let my fears keep me from doing the things that I want to do or from writing here. So today I borrowed a certain kissed fist gesture from a good friend of mine and released my fears back into the wild where they belong. There will be no more of this silly crap in my life. I am smart, I am strong, I kick ass and I am not afraid.

Personal note to Doctor Mike: A while ago you told me that you were disgusted to hear me say that I was scared of anything. Thank you for having the balls to say it. You can not imagine what that simple statement has done for me.

8/24/04

'da heat, dawlin

"It's cookin' out here, Sunshine," Chuck announces to me as he hands me a coke.

"Thanks. Thats an understatement," I reply, laying the sweating can against the side of my face.

A few minutes later Frank (...sharper than a rat turd Frank...) hits me on the radio.

"Is it hot enough for ya, Love-ah?"

Everyone is "Lover" to Frank. Man, woman-it matters not.

"Baby, its only 10am. Would you please not remind me?"

30 minutes later the radio beep-beeps again. Its Wayne.

"Where yat, Suncat? Hot, huh?"

"Guess you could say that Gator," I laugh. "Did ya order this heat or what? Bob Breck said it'll be like this all week."

Welcome to August in the subtropics. New Orleanians love to complain about the heat. Particularly those of us who make our living outdoors. Construction workers love to laugh at the folks with desk jobs who gripe about the heat who's only midday trek outside is from the office to the car. I suppose living here and paying a "Nawlins" AC bill entitles us all to bitch good naturedly about the wet blanket heat that wraps around us from May to September.

Wouldn't have it any other way, and I think many Southerners agree. Its not unusual to hear folks say that "its freezing" when we hit 50 degrees here, and no one does anything outside when it really does freeze. We just don't own the clothes for it.

The heat has its good side; when the day winds down it brings us together. We hang out with our neighbors on our porch stoop with a cold beer, watch some far away lightening storm and talk about the day. We dine alfresco and wash the conversation down with ice tea. We garden or boil seafood or walk. We watch the kids play, smell the fresh cut grass, feel the humidity, know the salty taste of sweat. We listen to life. We are smug in our Southern and most European of American towns. We deal with the heat and claim it as our own. Heat is part of life here and the two conspire to make New Orleanians a bunch of eccentric nuts. Thank the Lord that eccentricity and nuttiness are prized traits here. It makes life that much more interesting and the heat that much more tolerable.

8/10/04

tankcam live!

Here's a link to the tankcam live...but you need to e-mail me for the username and password. (yeah, I want to know who's looking at the cam live). It will not be "live" at all times (but how long can you really look at a fish?)

I may make the webcam live occasionally after Tank goes home. We'll see how that goes. Maybe a live "Miss Pickles" cam is in order.

8/09/04

fishsitting

One of my neighbors is going out of town, so I'm officially "fish sitting" this week, and I thought ya'll would enjoy seeing him (he's quite pretty). The fish's name is "Tank" and he's a male beta (I believe they are also known as Chineese fighting fish). Very pretty little fishy man and he really appears to be hamming it up for the camera. So, no "suncat cam" for now....just "tankcam" - enjoy!

8/01/04

Janautica Anadyr for sale

Yup-thats right-I'm selling the red kayak.Decided I need a smaller, tighter fitting boat. I'll tell you what I'm going to get after its a "done deal" but until then, its a secret.

As of now, the Anadyr is priced for a quick sale at $900.00 obo and I'll drive up to 500 miles to deliver it for another 50 bucks. Yeah, I'll be sorry to see her go, but as of now, I'm boat poor, and even boat storage poorer so I have no choice if I want to get into a new boat.

Also, I'll be selling my Wilderness Systems Shaman for $350.00 obo. Its in good shape -few scratches along the bottom, but nothing that hinders the safety of the boat. I haven't used the boat all summer and its just taking up ALOT of apartment space, so it has to go.

Anyone interested in these boats, email me at suncat26@hotmail.com.

7/27/04

horn island continued

Tom and I left the Mississippi shore in front of St. Andrew's golf course at about 10am on Saturday. Something that could just barely be referred to as a breeze stirred the hazy, hot, humid air that hung over the Sound. Horn Island was just a dark shadow on the horizon.

With about 150 pounds of gear stowed tightly in each kayak, we set off past a man who was casting a net for shrimp which wwere jumping out of the shallow water around our boats. Tom and I made small talk for a little while and then we drifted apart a few hundred feet. Sounds carry remarkably well over quit open water, and I could hear him calling out "Hi guys!" to the pelicans and dolphins that passed. Tom understands animals more than people and as educated and civilized as he is, even I think he's about as feral as a human can get while still being able to function somewhat in society.

Without having to discuss it, for safety we met back up when we got close to the Intercoastal Waterway and waited for two huge tugs pushing barges to pass and then continued on our way to Horn without incident.

After the 7 to 8 miles of paddling it takes to get across the Sound, we were glad to make a pit stop on the north shore of the island. The north shore has thousands of hermit crabs, and we walked down the beach a ways enjoying watching all of the "shells" moving about doing whatever it is that hermit crabs do in their charmed days on the beach. On our trek down the beach, a slight movement in the water caught my eye. I gasped and stopped short, staring into the water. "Oh crap, I hope that isn't what it looks like." About 6 feet off the shore in about 2 feet of water, something that looked very much like a hand was sticking out of the sand and the motion of the water was moving the "fingers" slightly back and forth.

"It's probably just a glove, Tab." Tom said, clearly not wanting to get involved with discovering a body.

"Do you think we should poke it and check?" I asked.

"Do YOU want to?" he asked me knowing full well what I was going to say.

"Hell no."

"Besides, whatever it is, you certainly aren't going to help it."

"Well, good point, but....damn!" I said, still a little stunned by what I thought I was looking at. I peered into the water for a few more seconds to reassure myself that "it" was a flesh colored glove. Tom laughed at me, "Its a glove, Tab. Lets go."

"Ooooooo-kay, ok" I muttered back, not fully convinced, and wracking my brain for any recent missing boater or person reports I'd heard about in the news. Couldn't come up with a single one.

We got back into the yaks and paddled around to the south shore of the island, arriving there and setting up camp at about 3:30pm. I pitched my new MSR Hubba Hubba tent about 75 feet away from Tom's camp and we made a little kitchen area between us with a fire from driftwood that I collected on the beach. I noticed several gloves washed up on the shore and realized that they mush have come off of fishing boats. Feeling slightly assured and knowing that I have an overactive imagination, I pushed the incident from my mind.

That evening, Tom cooked us hamburgers and we had a great salad while watching skimmers, pelicans and ghost crabs collect their evening meal. Thankfully, Tom believes in eating well on a camping trip, because if it would have been left up to me, we would have had pb&j for dinner with a side of cookies and gatorade. "Kid food" according to Tom. "Yuck."

"Yeah well, thats why you're cooking. To you I'm still a kid."

Close to sunset all of the boaters cleared out of the area we were camping on. We enjoyed the sunset and a beautiful half moon which lit up the quiet Gulf of Mexico making the water look like mercury. We were both tired and turned in around 9:30.

My tent is mostly mesh and I sprawled out looking up at the stars for what must have been an hour, and then started to nod off. Suddenly I felt a sharp pinch on my right foot, which had been leaning up against the side of the tent. I woke up cursing and rubbed my toes for a minute wondering what sort of monster bug had bit me through the tent and gradually fell back into a fitful sleep, being careful to not let any body parts touch the tent walls. A few hours later I was awakened again by brilliant flashes of heat lightning over the Gulf. It was one of the most beautiful storms I've ever seen because there were no city lights to distract from the show.

Sunday morning as Tom and I were breaking camp and talking about the lightning, I mentioned the bite I received on my foot by the mystery critter.

"It was a crab." Tom announced.

"Geez, I didn't even think about that but it sure makes sense."

There are tons of ghost crabs on the south beach, and some of them get quite large. Guess my toes looked appealing.

"So, did you see any zombies?" Tom quipped.

"Noooooooo" I drawled out childishly. As is typical for me on a camping trip, I slept like a soldier. I'm more concerned about living humans than dead ones.

By 11:30 I had made it back to the car, which was a very welcome site. Tom took his time paddling across the Sound and got in about a half hour after me.

Kayaks and gear stowed, we rode back to his place, AC on full blast, solving the problems of the universe. "You are going to remember that trip for the rest of your life." Tom said.

"Yeah. This is why I kayak."

7/26/04

horn island pics

I'm still mentally processing my trip to Horn...so I'm not going to write about it today. But I am going to share a few pics with ya'll.

Hermit crabs on the north shore of the island.

Dolphins about 15 feet from our kayaks.

Me with a hermit crab.

Our campsite on the south shore.

Oats

My camp.

Horn Island in the morning as seen from my 'yak.

Me

Me again

View off the boat

7/25/04

horn island revisited

Made it back today from a weekend camping trip to Horn Island with my friend Tom. Paddled about 15 miles yesterday, and 15 miles today. Too beat to write today, but I should post tomorrow. Hopefully pictures will follow within the next few days.

7/19/04

gaa-ron-teeed

to amuse and offend just about all political junkies in one fell swoop - jibjab.com (I highly recommend doing that every now and again...it keeps everyone on their toes. )

7/17/04

visiting

Mom's been in town from Salt Lake for the past three weeks which is part of the reason I've been so scarce lately. She left Friday for the long drive back. We stayed pretty busy while she was here; did the tourist thing in the French Quarter, had an uneventful and fairly boring trip to Avery Island to visit the Tabasco Factory (a highly overrated tour that I would not recommend to anyone...basically a two hour drive to go to their store.)

However, one jaunt in particular did stand out, and that was an airboat swamp tour provided by a friend of mine, Wayne, who owns Bayou Black Airboat Swamp Tours in Gibson, Louisiana. Wayne took Mom and I on a special 4 hour tour of some of the most beautiful swamp and marshland that I've ever seen. (heck...this was the very first time I'd seen "lowland" swamp...its the stuff you see in all of the postcards of South Louisiana...and its incredible in person. The pictures just don't do it justice.)

Gibson, which is right outside of Houma, is about a one hour ride from New Orleans down Highway 90. Mom was navigating, I was driving and we were both yaking at high speed so we did get lost once, but a quick phone call to Wayne set us back on track and officially in an airboat at about 10am. Power lover that I am, I was immediately enamored with the 427 engine that powers the carbon fiber blade that propels the boat over both land and water. Its LOUD, but we all had earmuffs to control the noise.

Wayne brought us through several different areas, both marsh and swamp, telling us about all of the wildlife and plants as we passed. He also took us on a tour of his camp, which is an incredible affair, having a diesel generator for all power, and a cistern for water. All supplies, including diesel have to be brought in by boat. It was at the camp that we were able to see gators up close and personal. Wayne called them by making this odd "OOOP" noise in the back of his throat. Within seconds two nice sized gators appeared, and Were rewarded with raw chicken parts. One of the gators was a "released" gator, having had two notches cut from the tail to show that it was harvested as a baby and released back into the wild as an adult in an effort to conserve the population.

After this Wayne brought us to his duck blind out in the marsh and then on another short trip to another marsh where thousands of birds were nesting. Most of the birds had finised nesting for the year, but the area was still full of birds like spoonbills, wood ducks, ibis and hawks. After we left this area we went to another area of marsh where he had rented his boats to a French film crew for a movie. It was here that he actually let me drive the airboat. I've decided that I need an airboat. My mother is of another opinion. Especially considering that they don't have brakes. Just go-left and right and let off the throttle to stop. I've never driven anything quite like that before, and I've driven some fairly interesting cars. Guess the coolest thing about it was that there is no difference in traveling over marsh or open water...it just goes over everything and it doesn't draw any water unless its just sitting there. I've got to say it; airboats rule, and Wayne's swamp tour rules. If you go on one with him, and you are REALLY nice he might even let you drive the boat. Enough of my blabbing, here are some pics.

Wayne and I

Gator eating chicken

Moi

Mom

Wayne and mom

anoter gator eating chicken

'nother gator

Wayne again

Lizzie, who helps Wayne out, and who does an excellent impression of dragsters

Me driving the airboat-Wayne telling me to give it more gas

Unc and I on the 4th with Gertrude Von Snackenburg

6/30/04

bum-a-ree-bra

Was a bit tired this afternoon when I got home. A friend of mine was suposed to go jogging with me, but backed out because of work. I really didn't feel like going back out in the heat anyway so I burned myself some cd's. Being in here makes me feel like a caged animal sometimes...and this afternoon the caged animal was in residence, so I figured I'd compromise with my bum-ass self and go for a walk.

Its been threatning to rain or actually raining every afternoon for weeks now here, and thats really starting to get to me. Being out on the water kaking is really overdue at this point. Once again it was looking dark out, but I popped in the new cd full of Stones and Steely Dan and set of for a walk on the levee behind my apartment. The area over the lake was crowded with purple martins flying in a zillion different directions and packing in wingtip to wingtip on the electric wires that power the lights at the Bonnable boat launch. I think of my grandpa; he loved the Martins. Plenty of people are walking the levee but no one seems to be looking up at the birds or around at the scenery. People look at the ground when they walk. I'll never understand that-being outside makes me feel so free it gives me goosebumps sometimes-I look every where...just can't help myself.

At Bonnable, I turn around and head back. The wind is coming from that direction, the direction of all the seafood restaurants. I'm hungry and the last thing I feel like smelling is fried seafood. Its been raining so much that there is no salt smell to the lake right now; its almost fresh now from what the fishermen say. To my right, in the southwest the moon is faintly glowing behind a thin veil of clouds. To the left, over the lake, yellow lightning is flashing in the sky a few miles away from where I am. It makes me feel alive but I still don't feel like running. Don't even feel like trying to collect my thoughts like I normally do when I walk alone. Its nice to let my mind "bum" because I don't seem to be able to let my body bum around. Heck, maybe I ought to do it more often...actually got off my butt and wrote something today.

6/23/04

the horse and new computer saga

A friend of mine is selling her 10 year old Quarter Horse gelding. He's a beautiful guy and is very easy going with her 11 year old daughter. If anyone is interested, drop me an e-mail and I'll put you in touch with her. He's up to date on his shots, is not currently shod, and has his Coggins. I'm also told he's sound.

In other news....

Ya'll know I got a new computer. Well, 6 days into ownership of my new "hotrod" I get home and nothing's working. Lights are on, but no nothing coming out of the tower. So, I call Sony and they tell me to bring it back to the place I purchased it from. 2 hours later I'm bringing home yet another new computer from Best Buy. As I'm taking it out of the box I drop it from waist high onto my bare foot. After numerous curses and a few tears of pain I hook it up. All's well....except my brand new modem appears to not be operating.

More four letter words escape my lips. I call Cox and my old bud Ryan comes out and informs me that my building was hit by lightening today and that several other folks in the complex have experienced similar problems. And oh, by the way, your modem is fried too. So I got REALLY luck that Best Buy didn't realize that lightnin' fried my stuff and took it back. And yes, I do have one of those back up boxes, and it is rated for this computer. Aparently they don't work worth a damn. So, once again-I'm back on line and set up. Hopefully I won't be experiencing this problem on a weekly basis...but it sure seems like the computer gods are frowning on me as of late!

6/20/04

settlin' in

Its been almost a month since I've bothered to update my site, and I swear I have lots of excuses. Some of them good, some not so good. Not long after moving in, my 7 year old Gateway bit the dust, so I had to go out and buy a new 'puter. Its amazing how fast the new 'puters are. Makes my old 350mhz Pentium II feel like the dinosaur it really is.

In true Tab fashion I'm easing into my new lifestyle at my new place. Most of you know or have figured out by now that Bruce and I are separated and that I'm living in my own place. Out of respect for our privacy, I'm not going to go into the reasons for our separation on this site. Oddly enough, the transition has been fairly stress free with the exception of my cat, Miss Pickles, who has become extreemly nocturnal because she can't wear herself out during the day playing in a big house any more. My apartment has taken a bit of getting used to, but it really is starting to feel like "home." Its a small one bedroom affair with a little kitchen, a little living room, a little dining room, a really little porch and a big closet. Thank GOD for the big closet. I even managed to fit one of my boats along the living room wall. The best thing about a small place is that it feels really "full" with the furniture I brought from the old house. Literally, I don't need a single thing more than what I have. My porch faces the levee of Lake Ponchartrain and is probably my favorite feature of the apartment. Being able to walk out my back door and be on the lake is incredible.

So, all this to say, I'll be getting down to some more serious writing soon now that I'm somewhat in the groove of my new lifestyle and not so prone to write anything depressing or trite. Yeah, I know today's post was light and trite...but I had ease myself back into this slowly.

5/23/04

moving day

Time for the shameless begging....I'll be moving this coming weekend (Saturday and Sunday). If anyone out there is bored out of their minds and wants to help me, I'd greatly appreciate it. Please contact me through my email address if you think you might have an hour or two to help. Also, I will not have computer access from Friday night until about the middle of next week when I get the 'puter set up in the new place. I really don't have too much to move-only a few awkward items which I'll need big help with. Mostly its light stuff-boxes, pictures, clothes and one declawed cat. Thank you in advance!

5/22/04

pawties and a picture

Happy Birthday, Bob! Had a great time at your Pawty last night (LJ and Robert, ya'll have a great party house and are such excellent hosts!)

Here's another "doctored" pic from The Great Budda Belly Edit entitled by his Greatness as "Squeezing a smile outa Frank" (Ed, my friend, keep 'em coming, they make my day)

5/20/04

bear paws

Its about 7:30 in the morning, cloudy and shaping up to be another hot New Orleans spring day. I'm sitting on a 30" concrete pipe underneath the old span of the Greater New Orleans Bridge which crosses the Mississippi River from New Orleans to Algiers. The men I'm watching are already breaking a sweat swinging 4000 pound pipes into a trench.

A late model silver Ford crew cab truck pulls up to the job. This particular truck and its owner are a common site on drainage jobs; the old man pretty much has all the catch basin and manhole jobs in the city wrapped up, and has had all the business for years. He's been involved in the building of damn near every drainage structure in the New Orleans area for decades. I've known him for about 5 years now and have always known him to be a good, fair and honest man.

Right now I watch him from behind my sunglasses and floppy hat. He's giving his crew their instructions for the day and talking to Frank, the pipe foreman. The first time I met Steve I was really taken with how imposing of a man he was. Tall men look up to him, he carried his weight in his shoulders and his arms and always walked straight and fast considering his age, which I'd placed then to be late 60's. We were introduced, and he shook my hand the way a man shakes another man's hand. Years of throwing bricks made for one hell of a grip...his hands seemed to be twice the size of mine, hard, rough and calloused. After he left that day I started referring to him as "Bear Paws Steve" because of his bone crushing grip.

Just about any older man on any pipe job has a story about Steve, and they are all worth hearing. They give you the impression that he's been some sort of modern day outlaw construction cowboy that everyone looks up to. A man's man. Someone who has something important to say when he speaks.

I watch him make his rounds amongst the men. Somehow he doesn't look as robust as he did the last time I saw him. He's a little stooped over and not walking quite as fast. The numbers are catching up with him. He makes his way over to where I'm sitting and shakes my hand. His grip is weak and his hands almost feel soft. It startles me and makes my heart skip a beat. "How ya doing, Steve? Its been a while since I've seen you.", I ask him. He looks me in the eye. "Everything's fine, baby. Just fine."

I want to stop time and ask him a million questions. He's one of those interesting people who should be allowed double the meager time span given to us as humans. We shoot the bull for a few minutes, bid each other a good day. He carefully walks back to his truck, shouting good natured curses back and forth with the men as he goes. My thoughts follow old Bear Paws as he drives away. I hope the next time I see him he has a good story for me.

5/14/04

Happy Birthdays

Dutch-happy birthday!!! (You are still my most favorite person...I love you!)

Vernon-Welcome to 30 my adopted brother!

And of course to my little brother Aryan, happy 5th birthday-sista Tab misses you.

5/12/04

:-)

Thanks to all of you who sent your positive energy and prayers my way the past few days. The home inspections seemed to go off well-no major problems were reported back to us, so the act of sale should go through as planned. Guess I was worried over nothing. In any event, I'll be moving on Memorial Day weekend, and will probably not have internet/email for several days during that period until I get all my stuff set up in the new place. I'm also going to BEG anyone who can to come help me move. I know that most of ya'll will be doing "out of town" type stuff that weekend, but if anyone is around and ain't got nothing to do, well-I'll feed you and get you at least partially drunk if you come help me. The more I look over everything, it isn't going to be too bad. A whole lot of books, but not too much heavy furniture. (The armoire in my bedroom is going to be the worst of it, all the other stuff is light enough that I can dang near move it myself-especially now that I've got all this "girly muscle" from working out so hard lately.)

So, I know this hasn't been the most interesting couple of posts lately...but I'm a bit preoccupied with all the stuff going on right now. It'll be interesting again soon, I promise.

5/10/04

prayers?

I'm asking ya'll to keep your fingers crossed for me...tomorrow is the inspections on the house. Should go well but this is the point at which we find out if our buyers will back out or seal the deal. I'm praying they seal it, and I'd appreciate it if you all would think of me when you say your prayers too. The whole process is too nerve wracking and drawn out to go through again!

5/05/04

cars

I am locked in the stripped bare trunk of a $130,000 Mercedes- Benz going 40mph down one of the roughest streets in New Orleans. Its 9pm and my workaholic husband wants me to see if I can discern the origin of a mysterious clunking noise coming from the rear of the car. He's already taken his turn back there and has his suspicions about what it is. My mind is racing as I try to keep my body relaxed and actually listen for the noise. The thought that my sanity may have slipped me for the last time crosses my mind briefly. I realize that the metal panel in front of me is the gas tank. My face is 6" away from it.

No out of the ordinary noises cross my ears, but then again I'm having trouble concentrating on noise anyway.

From the front of the car I hear Bruce's muffled voice call out "I'm going to hit that big bump at 45. You ready?" "I guess so." I lie back to him.

The car turns the corner. I am contemplating bracing myself, but decide against it. Twelve cylinders smoothly accelerate the car up to 45 almost instantly. It'd be an enjoyable feeling in the cab; its no fun in the crumple zone.

He hits the "bump" which is a manhole in the street sticking up about 3" above the grade. 140 pounds of girl slams into the trunk lid and then comes crashing down to the floor. The only noise I can positively identify in that instant is the sound of my own breath rapidly leaving my lungs.

"Did you hear that?" Bruce says. "No!" I laugh, realizing that nothing is broken and that I'll only be mildly bruised from this misadventure. "Ready to get out?" he says. "Very much so yes please definitely and I swear I'm never doing this again." I answer.

He pulls the car over by Tony Angelo's and pops the trunk. I emerge, startling a man walking down the street who stares at me, then quickly averts his gaze back down to the sidewalk. Smiling I shake my head at Bruce. "Right strut." he announces, oblivious to the man's confusion. He's almost never wrong in his diagnosis.

Bruce lets me drive the bad boy home, a much sweeter experience than the ride in the trunk.

Confidential to Dutch: Remember the "Chicken Shit Wine" that I bought? You were right. It tastes just like lighter fluid. I'm never buying wine that has a chicken on it again. I don't care HOW big and pretty the chicken looks.

5/03/04

update

Had a fantastic weekend, went kayaking on Saturday, Jazz Fest on Sunday AND got an offer on our house, which we accepted! Hopefully we'll have a done deal by no later than the middle of June, but if all goes as planned, we'll be moving out by the first of the month (at which time I will SHAMELESSLY BEG for help from all of my big strong friends. Food and beer will be provided as well as an entertaining commentary by Yours Truely on all the crap I have to move.)

But here's the next thing. I don't have a place to move to yet. If anyone knows of any great deals in a safe area in the "under 700" range that accepts a cat and has a secure yard or a big shed, please let me know. I'm officially on the market for a rental. I'd prefer to stay in Lakeview or Metaire, because of their closeness to my paddling areas, but will consider other places if the situation is right.

Also, the transfer of suncat.net is complete, but may not be without its glitches. If you go to the site, and it sends you to the "old" one (which now has advertisements on it, because I downgraded it to "free") you'll need to update your link in your "favorites." Also, you may have problems sending me email. Just use my hotmail account- suncat26@hotmail.com if so. Everything should be running smoothly within a few days.

4/30/04

seventeen years

It just doesn't seem like its been that long since my grandparents died. Actually had to get out a calculator and prove it to my myself. 1987. Went today to visit my mother's family tomb in the cemetary at the intersection of Canal and City Park. The actual tomb location is on Aloe and you can see it from Canal Boulevard. Its pretty typical of a New Orleans crypt. Grey unpolished marble, narrow and tall, a cross on top, a vase on a ledge in the front. The only colour on it, a bright blue-green, is a stain from the metal bolts which hold the slab on the front. The bones of fourteen souls are buried there. Ghergich, Fleming, Victory, Seely, St. Germain, Russo.

For some reason I prefer to go to the cemetary in the rain. Everything seems cleaner. The noise from the traffic more quiet. Today I was driving home, listening to my winshield wipers clicking back and forth, and it was almost as though a switch was suddenly thrown on in my head reminding me that it was this time more than half my life ago that my grandma Daisy, died - April 28th, 1987. My grandpa George followed her on May 20th. I don't think about their death as often as I used to because for as much pain as Amber and I endured as children from the hand of our father, she'd probably agree that nothing compares to the pain of loosing them. My grandpa was more of a father to us than our own has ever been. My mother, Amber, Shannon and I lived with them the last few years of their life, and without a doubt the happiest memories of my childhood were those years. Amber always clung to our grandma, and I was my grandpa's shadow. I can still remember how good he smelled. It just doesn't seem that long ago. His garden, his woodworking, the swing under the pecan tree in the back yard. My grandma and her weekly hair appointments to have her red touched up. The way she never really quite smiled for pictures because of the way it made her cheeks look puffy. Her long narrow pretty fingernails which were always painted.

Its taken me almost this long to finally appreciate the true example of family that they gave me. What it REALLY means to love each other. How people who love each other treat their family and their spouse. How to give . . . how real love and peace is worth more than all the money and nice things in the world and that true success has nothing to do with a dollar sign. From them I learned that the struggle is an important part of the journey, and that we all fall sometimes but if we get back up and keep trying we will not fail.

I honor the memory of my grandparents today. I will not think about their death. I burn my incense and reflect on how beautiful they were, how much they loved each other, how much they loved us, how good they were and how greatful I am that part of them is me.

Right now I can hear the church bells ringing out the noon hour from Saint Dominic's, where they went to church. How fitting.

How precious is our time.

Daisy Russo St. Germain and George St. Germain

4/27/04

sweet dreams?

"Louis, I had the best dream last night!" I said to my favorite Boh Brothers construction worker. Everyone in hearing distance perked up, thinking the construction inspector was going to reveal some odd fantasy involving strong men in hardhats.

"BBQ Ribs," I announced. "Big wonderful ribs. Thats what I fell asleep thinking about, and I dreamed I was eating ribs all night. It was absolutely fantastic." Loud groans from all around. "Awww, you're kidding me, right? You dreamed about RIBS?" Louis said. "What the hell kinda dream is that? We thought you had a GOOD dream!"

"It WAS a good dream, Louis! They were delicious and there were lots of them. With lots of really good BBQ sauce. Like the kind they make over at the Rib Shack. Have you ever eaten there?"

Louis: "Yes, but I don't DREAM about it, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't tell everyone!" "Well, you aren't 30 years old and watching your girlish figure." I said.

From here the conversation degenerates to Herb joking about everyone watching Louis's girlish figure, and the best ribs that money can buy in New Orleans.

Construction workers are such earthy people. I love my job. This is the kind of BS that goes on all day out there, and there's almost no way I could imagine wanting to trade my job for a stuffy office job even if it did come with a big pay raise and more prestige. Its nice to have found something I'm really suited to do.

This said, I'd go back to school in a heart beat if my student loans were paid off; and when I do go back it isn't going to be for a career change. This time its going to be strictly for knowledge sake. Something for me. No business, no computer. Something more archaic like the history of religion or anthropology or maybe even English for crying out loud, but this time it isn't going to be for money or for a job. (and if any of you hear me talking about going back to school for a "career change" I give you full permission to slap the heck out of me.)

In other news:

HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY BURKE!!! I LOVE YOU!

And of course, Happy Birthday to the Big D! (Mistaah Daaaniel Maaahhhsahhhlone)

4/25/04

other stuff

Right now I'm in the process of moving my domain name (www.suncat.net) to a different registrar so in the next few weeks you may experience problems reaching the site. When the domain name transfer is complete I'll be transfering over the actual hosting of my site, which may also cause some problems, but those should also be temporary and should only take a few hours to resolve. If you have any problems emailing me through the suncat.net website, just use my hotmail address which is suncat26@hotmail.com (where all mail for suncat.net goes to anyway.)

Bruce and I are also in the process of selling our house. If anyone is interested in seeing it drop me an email and I'll give you the link to our listing on Latter & Blum's website.

4/24/04

a little later

You know that rat from the "Charlotte's Web" cartoon? The one that eats his way through the State Fair while singing that smorgasbord song? (..."orgasboard, smmooooorrgasbord...hicup"..) Well, thats how I feel right now. So far I've had a cochon du lait poboy, a cuban, bbq oysters, vietnameese noodles with beef, a chocolate snowball, bread pudding, crawfish sac, oysters rockefeller and some of that wonderful strawberry lemonade (with a splash of contraband Makers Mark). All in 2 days no less. We've caught the Quamon Fowler Sextet, Jeremy Lyons and the Deltabilly Boys, Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen, Henry Butler, Little Freddie King Blues Band, Los Calientes, Snooks Eaglin and Raful Neal Jr. So far my vote for best act was Jon Cleary and Snooks (of course...but I just love Snooks-and did I mention that George Porter Jr. played with Snooks today?).

It was warm the past 2 days, but overcast a good half of the time, and we even had a few big raindrops, but not enough to spoil anything, just enough to cool things off a bit. The crowds were pretty typical of Jazzfest, which is not a bad thing. People who don't like crowds probably wouldn't mind a Jazzfest crowd. Jazzfest people are pretty sedate and courteous; the high price of tickets keep petty troublemakers out and there is security everywhere. I've never heard of a real problem or a fight at any Jazzfest. (not at all like Mardi Gras, which the ourists can absolutely HAVE in my opinion. I pretty much hate it; it attracts alot of nasty people who come to New Orleans to do things they wouldn't even think of doing in their own home towns. It also seems to be a good excuse for some locals to show their really crass sides....*gently stepping off THAT soapbox now*...)

To me, if you really want to see/hear/taste/smell/feel the BEST that New Orleans has to offer in one fell swoop, come to Jazz Fest, and don't forget about all the music that happens in our local clubs after the fairgrounds close for the evenings. Rock'n'Bowl is a good bet for post-fest music, food and drinks. If you are anything like me though, you're usually too pooped to move after you get home and wash the grannybeads off.

4/24/04

Jazzfest...

Rules! Will share more about the fest later...but if you are going today-my bet for best thing to eat is the BBQ Oysters on spinach with bleu cheese or of course the Cuban Sandwich. (Many thanks to Jimmy at Eastover for sending some comp tickets my way-I owe you several icy cold Guinness in frosty tall glasses.)

4/15/04

shipshape or kayakshape

My friend Joanie (who I'm steadily converting into a kayaker) turned me onto a small personalized gym on the Westbank that I've decided is the next best thing to kayaking. Arete Fitness is in the more historic area of Gretna on Derbigny Street. Arete is completely geared to the individual needs of each person that uses it. The trainer's (the AWESOME and completely cool Robbie Yellott) goal is to get you the results YOU want, and he's absolutely relentless in his persuit of your goals...in other words, he isn't going to let you slack. I'm not positive of this, but I don't think its a gym you can just go work out at by yourself like the "Y" or a place like that, which to me is wonderful, because I don't have to worry about how I look or feeling like I need to "dress up" or any crap like that when I'm there. I just go straight from work, change out of my Super Construction Inspectorwoman outfit, Robbie pushes me harder than I think I CAN go for an hour, and then I crawl out to my car and go home.

The best part? My results have been amazing. After 6 sessions, I can see a huge difference in the cut of my arms and stomach, my legs are thinner looking, my endurance has increased dramatically, and I feel stronger. Several people asked me this past weekend if I've lost weight...its that noticeable after just 6 sessions! (And I've not changed my diet at all; I'm still eating like I'd normally eat-but I do want to take things to the next level and start to eat a bit better than I regularly do.)

Robbie, who has a degree specifically geared to Personal Training, manages to make it all fun too. He plays good upbeat music, treats some of the exersizes like games (I love tossing the medicine ball combined with sit-ups), and he's got a contagious amount of energy and drive. Plus, he played rugby in college. How cool is that?

Parking is right out the front door, the neigborhood is safe, their hours are incredibly flexible, and their rates are quite reasonable considering you have the whole gym to yourself, and a personal trainer. They also offer tanning (spray on and beds) and have a smoothie bar.

So there-I'm totally sold on this place-they are "good people" and if you are looking for this sort of gym, then THIS is your place. It gets the Tab Seal of Approval.

Oh, next time you see me in person, ask me to "show my muscles," you'll make my day. :-) but heck...is this new? I've been "making biceps" since I was a kid.... i.e. 7 year old Tab: "Look Grandpa, I ate my spinach and now I can make a muscle."

4/13/04

Crawfish boiling over Easter weekend

Another successful crawfish boil down the tubes this past weekend. Pictures to be posted tonight (after I watch the presidential address....which should prove to be quite interesting.) We always get a big crowd, and this year was no exception. Between Bruce's family and a big group of our friends, we managed to serve about 60 people 250 pounds of crawfish, about 20 pounds of shrimp, 2 beef briskets and some great deserts and extras provided by our thoughtful guests. (Miss Cathy's chocolate cake and Jeannie's pies were big hits.) We also went through a heck of a lot of beer and cokes. Unfortunately no one was brave enough to try the white wine I bought (it had a really cute picture of a rooster on it and was dubbed "Chicken Shit Wine" by Dutch....I may crack it open this weekend and see if it really IS that bad....)

We only had one real incident of note and it didn't happen until after the boil was finished, everything was cleaned up and all of our guests gone for the evening. Bruce was downstairs in our newly remodeled "den/laundry area/man room" -hereafter refered to as the "man suite"- doing laundry and I had just finished up a soak in the new bathtub downstairs. I wrapped a towel around myself and walked into the newly improved "man suite" to chat with him about how wonderful everything had went. It was about 9pm, and plenty dark outside. As I was blabbering on about the afternoon, I happened to glance out the back door at a flicker of light that had caught my eye. After about 2 seconds it dawned on me that the flicker of light was a healthy fire next to Bruce's truck. It took about another 2 seconds for my tired beer fogged brain to send the words "Oh Shit, theres a fire in the back yard!" to my mouth.

Thankfully it didn't take Bruce that long to respond. He glanced in that direction and tore out the back door, grabbed the garden hose and started putting out the fire. When I first noticed the flames they were about 3' high. By the time he got out there they were well over 12'- almost high enough to catch our tree limbs (and only about a foot away from the side of Bruce's truck).

The cause of the blaze? Someone....I won't mention any names here....put lit coals from the barbeque pit into a cardboard box next to our trash. That same someone doused the coals with some water, but apparently not enough to put them out entirely. Less than one hour later they were "reborn" and if I hadn't happened to take that bath downstairs, and come into that room to talk to Bruce at that moment, the fire could very well have gone unnoticed which would have been a disaster. Either this house has a guardian angel or Bruce or I do....whatever the case I'm glad she had her eyes open. No damage was done, unless burnt garbage counts, and Bruce's truck came away unharmed. We learned a good lesson; never assume anything is out just because it's a little wet.

Onto better thoughts. Here are some pictures as promised:

Blake & Alyse (Big Big Big Bruce's daughter and her boyfriend)

Big Big Bruce (would YOU date THIS man's daughter after seeing this picture of him????

Bruce and his dad Bruce boiling crawfish....all of these Bruces are confusing. The youngest Bruce is my husband.

Carie

Carl "mah naibah", solving the pothole problem in our alley with ersta shells (and who was sweet enough to take all these great pictures for me!)

Carl and Gene

Me looking tired - I had only gotten a big 4 hours of sleep before our shindig.

Derrek and Julie

Dutch, who just defines "Cool"

Heather, our across the street "naibah"

Me again (proving that I do not define "cool"-yes that is a donut in my mouth)

Heidi

the Mano, Most Awesome Dog in the Universe

Mark who tolerates Bruce's crap at work (Francis, we missed you)

The beautiful Jeanne and her husband Doc Mike

Mike (my old boss at Lindsey Automotive) and moi

Molly Grace, 2nd daughter of our naibahs Heather and Phillip

Randy and his cousin, who has some very attractive arms :-)

Sarah and Daniel

Fantastic picture of Taylor and Ginger (Ginger NEVER takes bad pictures!)

baby Tequila shots wit da naibah

Unc

another of the Great Coonass Hunter in his crawfish headdress

4/05/04

Busy Squared

Quick note: I'm still alive....sorry about not responding to emails.....there are over 20 in my box I need to get to. Bruce and I have been putting in "overtime" on the house because we have set our deadline to this coming weekend to have it finished. I promise that ALL emails will be responded to eventually, but maybe not this week!!!

3/16/04

Unc's Hunting Trip

There ain't no doubt about it, my Unc is a coonass, and thats a wonderful damned thing. Mainly because it makes for a colourful family history and a great meal more often than not. Today's tale is more about colourful and less about a meal, though.

Unc has been semi-retired for a few years now. Every now and again he'll take an odd job for his cigarettes & Coors Light & going on a date money. Unfortunately, right after 9/11 most of the odd jobs Unc did dried up, but at the same time many of the refineries in our area started hireing extra security guards to patrol the facilities for terrorists and the like. Unc applied and was instantly hired as a nighttime guard at a large oil refinery near his home in Garyville. His job was to patrol the levee and the batcher (the wooded area between the levee and the Mississippi River). It would be a pretty easy job for a retiree-drive around in the pickup truck up and down the levee. The oil company provided him with a gun "just in case", but they didn't expect him to have to use it-his instructions were to radio for help if he saw something out of the ordinary.

Just a few days after he started working there, he noticed that the levee was infested with big beautiful rabbits. Being the opportunist and good cook that he is, he couldn't resist the thought of all those rabbits going to waste, and really, it seemed like a perfect situation: wide open space; loaded gun; no one around; nighttime; fat rabbits. Tomorrow's meal was as good as cooked.

What he didn't plan on was another security guard in the area having keen enough ears to hear the gunshots. That guard wasn't about to go investigate those sounds by himself either-he radioed the big boys up front, and in less than 5 minutes, plant security and the entire Garyville police force surrounded Unc's truck.

Apparently these plants take hunting on their property by their employees pretty seriously, because after listening to Unc's rabbit hunting story they escorted him to the front gate and told him not to bother to come back. They probably made a note in their files to not leave the security of the Nation in the hands of a bored coonass with a rifle, too.

After all this, you know what Unc was most upset about? Missing every single one of those rabbits he aimed at.

3/09/04

Litter or Accidental Genius?

One of our neighbors has taken to filling potholes in the alley that runs through the block with Mardi Gras beads. The beads have been in two large holes for over a week now, and are still holding-none are scattered outside the hole and surprisingly enough they still look rather colorful. (I can't help but laugh every time I see them there). It seems like a good solution to the pothole situation here-just about every house in this city has at least one garbage bag full of plastic beads in the attic. And lets face it, as soon as the last float of the season passes, Mardi Gras beads become instant junk, but we can't seem to part with them.

What are we saving them for you ask? Well...all New Orleanians who save beads secretly hope that one day they'll get around to rideing in a parade, at which point the beads will be "recycled" as our throws. For most of us, though, this never happens. We just store the beads in our attic until we croak, and then our cousins and Aunt-tee's fight over who will get to take our secretly hoarded treasure trove of trashy trinkets and put them in THEIR attic.

So, this solution seems almost too good to be true: reduce attic clutter, save on landfill space, fill a local pothole, enjoy colorful beads year-round, AND save your car's suspension. Maybe dem beads ain't junk after all, dawlin.

3/02/04

Paddling Honey Island Swamp

Tom and I shared the requisite pot of strong coffee as he caught up on the more trivial aspects of my life and I questioned him on the current direction of his art projects. Thats the pattern of our winter visits-hang out at his dining room table, drink coffee and talk.

"Why don't we take the tin-can out in the swamp in a bit?" Tom asked. I shrugged and grunted something that must have sounded relatively affermative, so we got up and went outside. It wasn't a day I would have picked to paddle - overcast, very humid and in the low 60's, but still, the weather was about as close to warm as any we've had in months and Bob Breck said it wouldn't rain until later that night.

Tom keeps the "tin-can," his big aluminum canoe, on the dock behind his house. When we went out back I noticed it was pulled up into the yard. Tom said, "Remember that I told you we wouldn't be doing any fishing today? Look at the river." Well damned if that was the understatement of the year. Porter's River is usually something of a big lazy stream, just as easy to paddle up as down. At that moment it was a flooded rush of brown water, completely covering the dock by a couple of feet. I was imagining all of the fish being swept downstream into the Gulf of Mexico by rainwater.

We entered the canoe and shoved off. "We're gonna go upstream first, huh?" I asked. "Nope-going downriver into the swamp, and then we'll cut back." he answered. We didn't have to do much work-the river pushed us down a ways and we entered into the swamp through some bushes. "This is one of the best times to see it," Tom said. "We can get all the way through when the water's this high."

Once again, he was absolutely right. There was no land at all in sight, just trees and palmettos sticking up out of the water. In the swamp, it was surprising to see that the water didn't seem to have any current, but the trees and plants are so very close together that we still had plenty of paddling and maneuvering to do with the canoe.

At first, everything seemed so dreary, the swamp still appeared to be in the skeletal clutches of winter. The gray sky certainly wasn't helping to lift that image. But then I started to notice that many of the trees were getting their first buds. Tom pointed out some Resurrection ferns, very much alive and clinging to the sides of many of the trees near the waterline. The only orchid that is native to Louisiana was in evidence in on several trees.

We paddled right up to a diamondback snake perched at eyelevel on a treelimb, so close I could have reached out and touched him. He managed to look rather tired - didn't so much as twitch the whole time we were there.

Ten more minutes of paddling into the swamp and I was as good as lost. Tom always thinks its funny that I get lost back there easily. We kept paddling and he steered us within about 15 feet of a large otter, who seemed to be rather undecided as to whether he should try to play with us or just swim off. In true otter fashion, he certainly wasn't going to sit still though, and after a minute or two of contemplating his situation, he ditched the fallen tree he was playing on and swam off. (He probably got sick of hearing that stupid woman in the silver floating thingy singing "Hiiii Misssterrrr Ot-ter, Hi Mister Otter!")

A few minutes later we encountered a beaver dam, complete with a whole contingent of fat (and much more wary) beavers who all went south the moment we got within about 25 feet of them. They were so frustrated looking-the whole lot of them sitting up on their flooded stick house. You got the feeling they were looking at us thinking-"Damn! Not only are we flooded out, now we have to go for a swim and brave the gators." Gators, according to Tom, think beavers make a fine meal.

Before the paddle was over, we were able to see a hawk, and oddly enough, a red-eared slider who must have been very recently deceased and was perched on a log as though he were sunning himself. I've never seen a dead turtle in the wild before, and it seemed like an inauspicious sign to me, especially knowing we had to paddle back across water that was looking more like the Colorado River than Porters River.

As we made our way out of the swamp we were watched by a large owl, who hooted as we passed. She was answered by another owl somewhere back in the swamp. I hooted back at her too, but it didn't come out very owl-like. She just blinked at me. Ain't going to tell you what I believe she was thinking about the owl impersonator in the canoe.

We paddled furiously back across the river to Tom's back yard. Back at his house, we sat at his table, had another pot of coffee and talked about life and all the paddling we'll do this summer.

2/26/04

To Write?

As of late, its been difficult for me to come up here in this room, sit down in front of this great bright buzzing box and write something. Anything. Difficult because it seems that all of the steps I take in life appear to be steps I've taken before. The little rat maze of wintertime life has very high walls indeed.

Seems as though I have also created something of a mental swamp for myself; thinking in circles and not wanting to say anything that doesn't seem important at the moment. I'll think for days, well on into weeks, about what I want to write about...only to paint the thought into a mental corner that makes no sense even to myself.

How frustrating.

So I have been reading instead. I read about "how" to write-how to be a good writer. And the things that I'm reading make little sense and confuse the flow of thought even more. One of the reoccuring themes of better writing is to "Write about What You Know." This would be fine if one was penning an instructional manual or a textbook, but to me - or should I say - for me, writing is about learning, self-discovery and connecting in some small way my thoughts to the world as I experience it.

Not to mention that I can't tell you what I know anymore, because I don't know very much about any one subject. 10 years ago I thought I was pretty damned smart. Somewhere along the way I apparently lost some brain cells or really, I've just been ignorant all along.

I used to think that I knew what Spirituality was....the older I get...the more exposure I have to nature....the more I realize that I know little except about that which lives within me - and even that small bit is in turmoil. I was positive that I knew at the difference between Good and Evil, but now I see vast seas of gray between two concepts set down by Man and His need micromanage his environment.

I can't even begin to write about what I know of love. Love is too confusing, has too many definitions and is, inevitably it seems, painful. (Where the heck would the Blues be without love? God, wherever You are, bless the souls of all Bluesmen.)

Could write about embankment and base course inspection...but that gets back to "instructional manual," and besides-its just plain boring. Here's something I do know; you'll always see Reality Shows about Cops or Doctors or Attorneys or Weirdos who will eat rotten unidentified handfulls of offal for money and "flash in the pan" fame (hmmm...the irony...isn't that part about the Weirdos the definition of what it means to be an Attorney anyway?), but you will NEVER see a primetime show about embankment and base course inspectors.

Ok-so maybe I do know something.

Now let me tell you something really good that I used to know. A sugarcoated little piece of New Orleans that, like so many other things is gone forever.

Long ago I knew what McKenzie's Buttermilk Drops tasted like. They were the most wonderful, fattening, calorie and cholesterol burdened round crumbly beautiful donut-like objects you could put in your mouth. A Buttermilk Drop paired with a big glass of ice-cold whole milk ... well - lets just say that to have that right now would be pretty darned close to heavenly. Probably not quite a spiritual experience, but a very near miss of one.

I also know that you don't miss simple blissful pleasures like that until they are gone forever.

And so, Boys and Girls, the thought circle, erratic as it may seem, is complete - and now it is written here for all to see.
About myself I have just "discovered" that I am: