Ocean doesn't want me

It was a beautiful day in the 'Nog so decided to hit the beach for the first time this year. But my friends, who fancy themselves indiginous amatuer oceanographers persuaded me that it'd be too cold. So we headed to the mountains, where the water is even colder. Fuzzy logic. I walked barefoot up a stream bed, letting out little yelps as I stepped into deeper patches. Sat awhile on the bank with Michael, French tam-tam player extraordinaire, dipping our feet and chatting about la vie simple. After a half hour or so, I realized that I'd long forgotten the water's coldness. The body is amazing in its coping skills. Or perhaps it was the trees, brillant yellow against the flawless blue sky. There's not a single piece of art in any museum in the world which can compare. Maybe an art historian can tell me why the color of spring trees is more vivid than in the fall.

Down the hill at Aloe Cafe for a cuppa. Out back, the usual pugs were running about. A steady stream of other pug owners seemed to come from nowhere, as if bringing their charges to a family reunion. The combined ugliness of the dogs was art in itself. Some guy brought a mini dachshund and it was immediately harassed. Welcome to my world, dawg.

On the way home, I stopped to buy some spag for tonight's Writerpalooza. I caught a 40ish woman smirking at the strange English on my T-shirt, but then I noticed her own, with F*** written in huge letters like it were a college or something. (Today I refuse to write the F-word since it's Sunday and my dear Nana may be reading.)

(As I write this, Nicole shows up with a new stash of CDs in hand, O thru ? this time. So I suppose I'm livebloggin'. And she'll get to read this here at its place of origin.)

On the turntable: The Who, "The Who Sell Out"
On the nighttable: E.F.C. Ludowyke, "The Footprint of the Buddha"