Yikes! I have been firewalled out of all the links on this site... I may not be able to read anyone else's blogs at school. Lunch just won't be the same.

Off the regular theme of lies, I have accidently been collecting "recipes" for crawfish eating/serving tables. So far, random conversations have yielded four completely different designs, usually based on some family tradition, that range from portable and disposable, to deluxe.

Portable: You cover a round table with three layers of butcher paper, tape a consecutive series of garbage bags around the perimeter, pour the steaming crawfish in the middle, and have at it. When you're done, you wad the whole thing up and throw it away.

Deluxe: One Lafayette family has 45 eight foot wooden tables with slanted sheet metal chutes to slide the shells down into a metal, drawer-like removable bin under the surface. The sheet metal chute is trough-like, and surrounds a steam tray that runs down the center of the table, and holds 15 pounds of crawfish.

I'm fixin' to interrogate my work comrades here in La Marque. Got one of your own?

For those of you still suffering from my last abysmal pack of lies, my advice:

Cut Up at the Nail Shop!
Boys and girls, screw the haircut, go for a pedicure.
The day after the H4 Campout, I carefully detached my lacerated legs (this part's more or less true, to wit - Wet Spot's photo) from the bedsheets, and went to work. Worked my ass off. Deserved Something Better... Went down to my local nail shop, which is conveniently wedged between Ben and Jerry's and a gay bar on the seawall. I got a scoop of vanilla - the kind with the bean specks showing, drowned it in a shot of Priscilla's Ouzo, and stepped into the incense and acetate.
One stop shopping.

For any virgins: the workers are always Vietnamese. They always say "can I help you?" before the door closes and you are surrounded by air conditioning. Then they look at the Madame(don't call her that, I made it up), who speaks English and will carry out the rest of the transaction. "Pedicure, please". "Okay, you pick your color." The wall is alive with half filled or topped off bottles of every garish and Sunday-go-to-Meetin' color of nail lacquer, occurring naturally on the planet or not. I always go for Perriwinkle (yes, Heartache, that's how it's spelled). It bleaches to thundercloud blue in the Galveston sun.

Fellas, you should thank Bob Dobbs for the fact there ain't no Sports Nails places, all hung up with TVs and John Madden. The last thing you want to do is distract yourself from the nimble and soothing hands of the pedicure Sensei (don't call her that, I made it up). She may be anywhere from 16 to 60, or she may be a man so call ahead and request a female technician - the men are less generous with their touch. This is not a job, it's a calling.

So this particular day, I wondered what the young woman looking up from my feet thought of my multiple wounds. She didn't blink an eye, until time for the massage. There is always a massage. After you soak in a foot Jacuzzi, and the necessary cuticles and nails are cut, cleaned and buffed, after the Sensei shaves the dead cells from your calluses into a little pile of curled skin on the floor, and uses a synthetic pumice to smooth out the rest, she squirts a copious serving of House Lotion on your shins, and works you over from the knees to the toes for any where from 3 to 15 minutes. This is where the real fun begins when you're all hashed up.

The initial sting of the lotion gives way to an overall burning sensation that stays with you the rest of the day. Typically, the Sensei pulls your feet (or hands, if it's a manicure) close enough to frotage her chest... I always wonder if this is intentional, and try to pretend I don't notice. It happens every time. She looks up to see if you like the massage. "Does this hurt?" She queries inoccently, knowing that the lotion is diving into my open cuts. "How you get this?" I tell her I'm a fugitive. Has she seen my picture? She has no idea what I am talking about, and scours my legs clean with sea salt, while she asks about the Buddhist tattoo on my thigh. Excruciating Karma. "It's the Tibetan symbol for (AAGH) Om(mm-my God!)" Glad I had the Ouzo.

Now if I were a guy, I'd forego the Perriwinkle, and just ask for a buff job. Yep. She will take a fine-grained paste and place a little on each toenail. Then she'll rub each one briskly with a chamois covered bar. They will pique to a high-gloss, polish free. The Sensei will put your shoes on... on you, that is. She'll discretely take your credit card, allow you private time to write your tip, and wish you a wonderful day and the other Senseis will say in unison, like sirens from the rocks, "Please Come back!" and you will feel they are sincere. As you leave, the ubiquitous fat Buddha, garnished with real fruit and burning incense, smiles "On-on."

I had Mexican food for lunch today, then went to see the following movie... Thanks for the inspiration, Brit!

Snyder Leather Days
I used to live in Boston while I was between colleges, and I worked in this place that was like a factory. The building stood in the middle of the bridge that linked the Puerto Rican section of town to Southie, where the Irish live. The water below the bridge was Aim-blue and opaque, and it was dangerous to cross to the "other" side, depending on your accent.

The other workers and I climbed six flights of stairs to meet a freight elevator that delivered an endless supply of boxed, smashed leather coats from China. The freight elevator was strictly for freight. We stretched the car coats, blazers, dusters, bombers, and motorcycle jackets over bedraggled cloth manekins that inflated with steam at the press of a pedal. I only worked there three days before I got third degree burns. Then, like my coworkers, I took up the practice of bandaging my hands before work each morning, and wearing boots to protect my legs from the hot jets that shot out of the holes in the manekins. We arrived at seven a.m. in the winter dark, avoiding the deep, icy puddles. We knew what it was like to work all day in wet boots. There were no breaks at that job.

I used to think no one talked there because we spoke different languages, unless you counted the two brothers who worked next to each other, and sang along with the constant, almost inaudible Latin radio. My Spanish wasn't too good when I started, but after a few months, I began to notice that the boys (they might have been 18 or so) weren't singing the same words as the songs. In fact, what they were singing didn't even rhyme, and didn't repeat with any sort of chorus. By summer, I could tell they weren't singing at all. They were holding coversations. One Friday, I decided to join in.

I took their stunned expressions as surprise and delight that I could speak their language - that's usually the response I got when I'd attempt my fledgling Spanish. They answered my bubbly questions about Puerto Rico in clipped, one word answers, and in low tones. I started to get a different read on their acceptance of me. I quit talking to them, and went back to my punishing manekin, feeling shut out. That day marked the onset of the summer heat, and sweatshop (a word I'd thought arcane) became the way I described my work.

The following week, another woman started work there. Her name was Isabel, and she was from Brooklyn. She was Puerto Rican as well, but spoke English. We laughed and shared bagels and dried mangos the rest of the morning, and I actually got more coats steamed into shape as a result, enjoying the respite from tedium.

That afternoon, Leon came back from the loading dock, where he had checked in our most recent shipment - 4000 women's and men's trench coats in brown and black. He was our superviser, as well as the shipping clerk. An older man with dark eyes, thick plastic glasses on the end of his nose, and a gray crewcut, Leon was quiet to the point of sullen. He read German newspapers, and ate his lunch alone. He dressed no better than the rest of us, and kept his head low when Marty Snyder was around. Marty was the big boss, with radio commercials announcing his wares in his own whining voice.

Leon heard Isabel and I laughing and mimicking Marty's ad, "Hello. This is Ma-a-wty from Snydah Leathah..." He approached like a cat who suddenly advances on its prey, with increasing speed. "Vat eez all zees talking?", he whispered, barely holding back spit as his lips trembled. Isabel and I giggled nervously, still not understanding how serious Leon meant to sound. He actually seemed strangely terrified. He got closer to me, an inch or two from my face. "Anozah eenceedent like zees and you are fired!"

Fired. I couldn't get fired. I'd have to move home, and even my meager urban existence beat life at my parents' house in the deep south, with no seedy clubs or good beer. The day, the week, and the long summer stretched out in front of me like a bed of coals. The brown, half-opened windows behind my manekin revealed a half sunken barge, and hid the Boston skyline. I had never felt more isolated.

The temperature of the sixth floor loft increased each day, and the steam mixed with the smoggy humidity. The Puerto Rican boys cut their twin afros, and Isabel and I came early and traded French braiding and hand-bandaging in the morning while we could still chat a little. She had to pick up her son each day after work, and Leon had effectively curtailed any daytime conversations. He came to work in stained old tee shirts now, tucked tightly into his shabby pants. Leon kept his nervous distance, but his hawking scrutiny never wavered.

One Friday, I stayed to clean up a bit before meeting some friends for pints. I changed into my clean, carefully torn vintage dress and added a fresh layer of duct tape to my winter-worn cowboy boots. I rung up my eyes in the black liner that was standard for my peer group, and decided to sneak down the freight elevator. After a long day on the concrete floors, my toes dreaded the pounding of six flights down as much as the seven a.m. six flight climb. The whole place was silent, and I could actually see the pink panorama of Boston harbor and Southie through the cage as I sank past the fifth, fourth, and third floor windows. Then the motor stopped. I stood stiff while the great horizontal doors opened, and Leon's silhouette emerged between their jaws in front of the second floor lights. He stepped into the elevator, carrying his dog-eared newspaper and leftovers.

We rode in silence, and he stood ahead of me, pointedley ignoring my presence, just as if we were strangers in some high rise office building. I scanned him carefully. He shifted his folded newspaper, and I saw the tattoo for the first time - not some trendy design or military memento, but a series of digits on the inside of his forearm. I'm not sure how big the number was now - more than the average person could memorize at a glance. More than a million.

This one's reallly long, but I had 15 minutes to kill, and it's been days since I wrote. Well, this could have happened to someone, I guess...

The phone rang about 2:30 on Saturday afternoon. It was Aunt Lily, stirring me from poolside and 80's rock. The usual guilt set in, since she lived just four blocks away, I didn't visit enough, and she had been old forever. I was in junior high (nearly a woman in my mind), but she still talked to me like I was six. "Why don'tcha come on down for some pound cake?," she cooed. "I got some sweet tea!"

I decided to walk, and immediately regretted cutting through the orange groves. It was 95 degrees, according to the Tan Report on Q105. Two of the sullen, skinny kids from over by the railroad tressel were hanging out under the trees, kicking rotten oranges around and stirring up the fruit flies. I knew they had already picked me out as a target, 'cause they got real quiet as I approached, then the one with the hairlip started snickering. I tried to keep my stride, but the dark sand was deep and sifted into my flip flops, seering my feet. I felt like a giraffe at the watering hole.

Donny Mesgers threw the first orange. Missed! Then the second shot knicked my shoulder and gooed up my hair. Donny's little brother was winding up, and I knew it was time. I ran under the next tree and grabbed an orange that partially disintigrated in my hand, and let it fly. It fell apart, but sprayed fermented pulp over my assailants. That really pissed 'em off. I kicked off my shoes and ran, trying to hover over the burning dirt. I could hear their sneakers sinking into the ground behind me, getting nearer.

Evasive action was useless, but at least when Donny caught me by my hair, I was in the shade. I grabbed Donny's shirt, and yanked him near to grab the hand that held my hair. I pulled until I was able to connect my forehead with his nose. The blood poured out, dark and hot all down my arm, and his hand grew slippery. I held on as long as I could, but he pulled away. Luckily his accomplices had run off, and when he realized he was alone, he cursed me a couple of times, and stomped away. As he sunk over the next small rise, his image wavered in the heat. It looked as if he was walking on the water of the lake in the distance. I noticed something in my hand, sticky with Donny's blood.

It was a ring. It said, "Auburndale Bloodhouds 1937" on one side, and "Football" on the other. Not realizing it was probably alos made of gold, I threw the nasty evidence to the gournd. "Asshole," I muttered, and walked on to my aunt's house.

I was covered in pulp, bugs, and blood, and she said, "Baby doll! You look precious!". You could give my Aunt Lily an empty box for Christmas, and she would nearly cry form joy, telling you it's just waht she wanted. I ate pound cake, and drank tea, listening to her tell eery stories about the dark side of the family that she only told to me. She wrapped my blistered feet in chewing tobacco poltices, and said some little versus I couldn't understand. I was in no hurry to head out into the heat, even though I wasn't too scared of the Boys anymore.

About twilight, I stepped into the grove again. The sand had cooled, and all kinds of small animal tracks ran between the dusty trees. I was nearly home before I heard the footsteps behaind me, near the splattered orange that got my hair pulled. It was Donny. He was covered in dirt and blood, as if he had not been home yet. We stared each other down. Then his houlders fell. "That was my granddad's ring," he said. He sounded like he was gonna cry, and I told him so. Still, I said I'd help him look.

As we circled the tree where we'd fought, we smelled something putrid. A long-dead cow (judging by how flat it was)laid in a nearby drainage ditch. "Gross," Donny said, and picked up a stick to poke it with. As we got nearer, the cow's stomach began to move in great waves. I screamed and Donny jumped back. The rest of the cow was stiff and decomposed, but the leathery stomach rolled like the ocean. Suddenly, a small dark face appeared between the cow's teeth! Then a long, wide body emerged, with it's scaly rattish tail. It was an armadillo, quickly followed by a mate. They scurried out, covered in whatever the cow at last, and ran straight toward us. One glittered slightly around it's snout. "My ring!" Donny yelled, and tackled the second armadillo. The first leaped in to the air in attack, and scratched my arm from elbow to wrist. Donny rolled around with the first and came up worse for the wear, but victorious, with the ring. We slapped high fives, and went to his house to drink his Dad's beer.

"Does your blog bite"? "No, my blog does not bite".

My new friend, Parthenia, whom I have never met, spoke to me via a stranger's cell phone over the gulf between Mississippi and Galveston last night. A voice of sanity amidst the din at O'Whoever's. She said she lives her life by the Golden Rule, and caused me to consider this for myself. You know, Do Unto Others, etc. So with all the lies I've been writing, I fully expect a great deal of original BS coming my way in the future. Please don't let me down, and remember, a true lie must always be useless.

"Hey, I thought you said your blog did not bite?" "That was not my blog."

But that reminds me of another story...
One day in Graham, North Carolina (just cuz I'm from Graham don't make me a cracker) I was busy breaking up with my ex and updating my new internet dating profile, when I got an IM from my future cousin. This guy in Atlanta liked my photo. His was strangely familiar, but kinda cheesy, and long distance is frustrating, ain't it? We e-chatted awhile under our mutual aliases, and I went out running, expecting that to be the end of it.

Next time he wrote, I got his first name, Malcolm. Shortly after that, he emailed his phone number and sir name - hmmm, the same one my Mom was researching for her massive and tedious geniology project. She once mailed me a 17x12 foot family tree in size 10 type. I called Malcolm to joke that we might be cousins, but it was okay to pursue this, since Georgia is Like That. He said his family, the Bradts, had a big fat geniology book. Did mine? Well, yes, mine did, too. Was it blue? About seven pounds? Yes... What was my name?

He found me on page 674, under seven generations of grandparents (the Bangermorphs married the Bradts back in 1856), and along side six first cousins and siblings, and a hamster. I was intrigued - I hadn't dated a cousin since Sunday school. We saw each other itinerately for about six months, wierding out our friends, and comparing Georgia and North Carolina barbecue. But eventually the novelty wore off. We really had nothing in common except a blood line. Our paths grew apart when he became a vegetarian. Last year, Malcolm moved to a hollow in Tennessee, and married a pig. He wrote recently to say that they had moved in with his wife's family and named their new daughter Pearl (among swine), and she can be found on page455, under Bradt, Malcolm: offspring.

I was going to write about my friend Verle with eyes the size of pinballs who almost got one of them sucked out by a snake in his sleep on a camping trip, but woke up just in time to detach it by prying its jaws apart with his leatherman using his good eye and rearview mirror as the snake dangled and fought back, and was left with a shiner that lasted three weeks, but since it's a true story and he's not a Hasher (yet), it doesn't qualify for this blog.

Now then.
Ah, what a relaxing weekend... It seemed to last forever. Stayed at work late Friday, decided to forego happy hour, and curled up with a wholesome book. Got a great night's sleep Saturday, too, after a sensible day of sun at the beach, slathered from head to toe with my ol' 45 to prevent an otherwise spectacular sunburn - damn, I can almost imagine it. I reset my clock at exactly midnight, and went to bed, ignoring all those text messages to go to the Balinese Room for reggae which probably would have made me stay up late for a Whataburger breakfast.

Sunday I cleaned my house 'til it squeaked, and got to the Hash early 'cause of all my intricate planning. I was in perfect health, after weeks of regular 10-K runs, a diet of macrobiotic "food", and extreme sobriety. Came in as FRB at the Hash, then drove straight home at 60 mph to finally download and organize all my Hash pix from Christmas. I called my parents, and was asleep by 8 p.m. I woke up thinking, "I can't wait to get to work!" Right? Right. Happy Monday. Ouch.