Crabs

We didn't catch these. We bought them off the dock from some hardcore old crabbers¹ on the way back to town. Crabs are probably on my list of top three favorite foods, and these were the most spectacular crabs I'd ever seen.²

1 As an armchair sociologist, briefly hanging out with these guys was absolutely fascinating: just an hour from town but a world apart, out past the levee system, guys who go out into the saltwater and make their living from what they find there, a lifetime spent in this end-of-the-earth marsh-and-gulf world.^a

a And the people who inhabit that world are not like you and me. Did you see Beasts of the Southern Wild? These guys (and ladies) could have played extras as occupants of "The Bathtub". (I realize I sound like a hopeless urbanite. Fair enough. I spent my years in rural Virginia, but this is not that. And I am undeniably first and foremost a city boy. Maybe it also sounds condescending. I don't mean it too. The skill and back-breaking work they bring to this dangerous^b and fickle profession: seriously impressive.)

b The oldest of the old timers told us the story — in a near incomprehensible accent — of his neighbor in the next boat over who lost his hand a while back but now wore a prosthetic hatchet-hand and could still "work like the best of them".

2 Except for the couple dozen beautiful specimens we bought off of them, their haul was destined for Baltimore — harvested in battered old boats, packed into shiny containers, and whisked away by jet to be consumed as delicacies in the far off establishments of the East Coast.

Sunrise Over the Marsh

Went fishing. There are many fine things about fishing (including catching fish (and then eating them)),  but slinging through the waterways of far south Louisiana, in early dawn, as the sun climbs over the horizon, changing the world from gray to yellow-orange to vivid blue and and yellow and green (to sweltering white-blinding hot), is perhaps one of the finest.

Groggy Morning Poetry: Coffee Is Fine

Coffee is fine.
Coffee is yummy.
Down the hatch
And into my tummy.
 Tickles my nerves,
Brightens my brain.
 A new day rises.
 It's sunny again.

Meteorological Musings: Flicker-Flashing

I like lightning. I like it when it rumbles close at hand. And I like it now, when some evening summer storm cell drifts by somewhere to the north, tens of miles away, making not a sound, but flicker-flashing the far sky, for a moment illuminating its roiling clouds. I like that.

Memorial Shindig

There's a big block party going on outside: the street packed with parked cars, folks rolling in looking sharp, a dee-jay spinning all the block party classics. I strolled Floyd past and then saw the memorial flowers (and memorial t-shirts). Oh. And what better reason to have a huge blow out? If I have the good fortune — at some distant and appropriate time — to die in New Orleans, one of my few regrets will be that I can't attend my own memorial shindig. You all'd better throw me a good one.

Loud and Grumbly

I would argue that five-thirty in the morning is too early to be loud and grumbly, though I'm not going to share that opinion with the loud grumbly man on the porch across the way. He's got a lot of opinions on a lot of things, and they're mostly not favorable, and they're mostly expressed with a whole effin' lot of f-bombs. (I can't see him; he's talking to somebody, but the other person has little to say and says those few things comparatively quietly.) I'm not complaining. He's loud, but he's too far away to be loud for me. (The wind catches and blows away every other foul-mouthed word or so.) And he's grumbly, but he is adding some entertainment value to my morning. (A free-effin'-associative string of grumbly effin' grumps can be pretty effin' funny.) I just think he should cheer up. It's a nice morning. He probably needs a hug (though I'm not volunteering).

Floral Shirt

Haggard

I'm not sure what this guys deal is, but he looks like he's had a rough time of it. The word "haggard" comes to mind.¹

1 And I'm not talking about "Merle Haggard", though he may very well spend his free time drowning sorrows while listening to Merle's sadder tunes.

Ahh! Summer

One of the pesky things about stumbling into adulthood is that we (most of us, at least) no longer get summer breaks. But as a parent, one can experience a sort of second hand summer liberation. This is the first week of the kids' break, and though yeah, I've still got to go to my job (pesky thing), there are suddenly no complex morning carpools, no evening homework routines. The sun suddenly feels a little brighter, the air purer.¹ Ahh! summer.

1 "Purer", doesn't quite seem like it should be a word. Purer. Purer.

Floyd and His Loveys

I say "Loveys",  but there is, in a sense, only one true Lovey, of which these are merely various incarnations (in varying states of dismemberment).

"I Am Not..!"

Me (slightly exasperated): "June, I wish you weren't always so argumentative..."

June: "I am not argumentative!"¹

1 June did not find it funny that we found this funny.

Guy in Blue Sweater

I'm not sure what I think of this guy. He weirds me out a bit, I think because he looks a bit like me. If I cover up the bottom half of the picture, it's pretty close to a (mopey eyed, depressive) self-portrait. But his mouth and chin are somebody else's. And that outfit is an absolute violation of the uniform.¹ Dunno. Just weird.

1 The iteration of the uniform described in that post is slightly out of date. The uniform is subject to periodic and unexpected updates. (I don't choose the uniform. It chooses me.) But the essentials are still the same.

Lovey

Floyd has a stuffed animal. We call it Lovey because he loves it so much. It started off life looking like a trippy cartoon horse (sort of), a cheap thing bought at the grocery store. It has a poofy stuffed spherical torso and rope arms and legs and a poofy head and poofy feet. Well, had. They've been severed by Floyd's rough love¹, leaving only the spherical torso and rope limb-stumps. This could be dehumanizing (or de-trippy-horse-ifying), but Lovey's lovable persona somehow remains intact, adored as ever by Floyd.

Actually Floyd has two Lovey's. We bought him various other dog toys: fancy ones from the pet store. He ignored them. Only the cheap Lovey captured his affection. So when the first one was disfigured, we bought him a second. Soon it too was headless and half-limbless. But he loved his second Lovey just as much as the first, prancing around with the one or the other, interchangeably.

Actually he has four Lovey's. Realizing that only the Loveys captured Floyd's attention, last time I was at the store, I stocked up, bought a two more, their whole available supply.² These are thus far unmaimed. (Floyd having so many options, they've yet to receive his full loving abuse.) Lovey, Lovey, Lovey, Lovey.

1 Floyd loves to play tough-of-war with his Lovey. One by one, the extremities gave way.

2 As I checked out, the sullen bagging girl paused, held one in each hand, for a few long seconds looking back and forth at them with blank curiosity, I suppose wondering what was up with these trippy horses and why this man was buying two of them, then went on with her business.

Posts

Mouses

The little rodent is a "mouse". A plurality of them is "mice." The thing attached to your computer that moves the cursor around is a "mouse." A plurality of them is... well, it's got to be "mouses". (If you received a shipment of them, what would you say?) Hmm.

Beardo

Delilah