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Outspoken Podcasting Chef, Sustainability Advocate and Farmer.

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Home » April 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Fuck if I know



It isn't even 7:30 AM and already I have seen the baseness of the human condition.
Normally the ferry commute to town is an orderly thing. First come, first serve. We are all neighbors. We meet and chat before the ferry arrives, climb in our vehicles and one by one drive on the boat like well behaved kindergarten children getting their juice and cookie.
This morning not all was well. One player in this of life's most mundane games had a major burr up his ass. Parked just in front of me was Fuck. No joke--that's what many of us call him because that appears to be the only word he knows. Doesn't matter who he's talking to, or what the situation is, that is how he expresses himself.

Now I have disliked Fuck from day one. Not only does his limited vocabulary impede normal communications, but his "stupid is as stupid does" way of going about things makes him impossible to be around. Surprisingly enough though he has many friends (if by friends you mean people who tolerate him to smoke his weed or drink his Hamms or coerce him to finish the work they've begun with him).

Now I am not too sure how Fuck get's his money. A long suffering wife I suppose. Now, now, stop trying to draw comparisons to me right now! Fuck lack the economy of scale--he just looks after one small boy. Thank God the genes didn't get spread more. . . . Nevertheless, and no matter what day I go to the mainland (and I only go once every 2 weeks) Fuck is in the ferry line. He likes to go to the mainland as often as possible, which can be expensive for a man who doesn't work much.

Fuck is loud and has a temper. Even with his limited vocabulary his conversations can be heard for miles. Me this and Me that and watch your Me-ing step buddy. . . .all over the place. This morning he was in fine fettle. But the bell rang, we got into our vehicles and proceeded to head to the ferry. However, Fuck--who was in front of me--decided things weren't going fast enough for him, so he pulled out of line and drove around the two vehicles and cut back in front of them. Oh Fuck, I said. No one liked you before. They'll like you even less now. We should have known you would pull a stunt like this. And a stunt like this would land anyone else on the Fecal Roster of the Island--you would become a social pariah. Believe me it takes less to be ostracized by this bunch. But I suppose because Fuck is Fuck he'll get away with it because no one likes him anyway. Or cares.

Now from this you might imagine that Fuck is a bully or something. Far from it. Any one could take him down. He isn't as intimidating as he thinks I am sure. People only back away from him because or his smoke-um-if-you-got-em chimney ways, loud self Proclamations and occasional days when the acrid wastes of the nation's brewery system exude from his every pore.

Now in his defense, Fuck has never been convicted of breaking any laws. So he must have some smart to keep from being caught. He is older than I am and so perhaps he has internal problems which lead him to cut line and race ahead. Perhaps one more minute in line would have left his seat permanently stained. As I drove on the ferry I did see him running up the stairs to the main deck. . . . He wasn't driving his usual truck so perhaps there was a wasp nest in the cab, or mice, or, or, some other vermin which bit his verminous ass and he was racing to seek medical attention. All of this makes me think I should go check on him to see if he's alright. And to thank him for providing me with this blog post and not just being any old Fuck.

posted by: ChefNeal at April 29, 2006 08:28 | link | comments |
island life, mainland, ferry travel

Sunday, April 16, 2006
Happy Easter

From the wind swept, egg strewn Isle--

HAPPY EASTER!

posted by: ChefNeal at April 16, 2006 06:25 | link | comments (2) |
easter

Monday, April 03, 2006
Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jig

I was so tired yesterday I'm posting this today:
I'm on the ferry on my way home from the IACP conference in Seattle. This is my second attempt to get home today. My first fraught with misery.

When I got to my lodging late last night, barely cognitive and desperately in need to drain myself of all the champagne, wine and coffee a Gala Dinner can fill you with, I raced up the two flights of outdoor steps leading to the main level of the house and the front door.  The mail caught my eye as I unlocked the door. It was sitting in the letter box above the doorbell and as my friends were gone for the rest of the weekend I decided I'd better bring it in for them. Between the driving force of my bladder and concentration on my postal do-gooding I managed to unlock the deadbolt and enter the darkened house. I balanced the mail on the Craftsman Style newel post and tugged at the key so I could close the door and finish my mission. The key was stuck. I danced around and tried different positions of the key, activating the lock from inside and out. Had I inserted it upside down? Did I bend it? No, but I was in risk of bending it now.

I stopped what I was doing. Turned on a few lights and went to the loo. As I sat there I contemplated calling the locksmith--an expensive option. Could I camp out at the door all night to make sure no one opened it and phone my friends for instructions in the morning? I decided that no matter what the lock was in trouble and if I broke the key off in the lock, I could at least set the bolt and there wouldn't be a key in the outside of the door for a nerdowell to fumble with in the wee-er and smaller hours of what was now becoming morning.

I headed to the basement and rummaged around in a tool box at the base of the stairs. I hated to rummage at all. I am not the least bit curious about anything in the empty and silent house. I might find something I didn't ever want to know about my friends. Best not to poke about. But of necessity I fumbled through a cabinet of tools and went back to the tool box which contained a large pair of pincers. The sort you envision a Blacksmith to have at the forge. If that didn't solve my problem it would at least create new, different ones. Perhaps ones which would let me go to sleep.

I attacked the key with the magnificent nippers and twisted gently this way and that tugging as I rotated. Finally a soft snap, a click and a turn--the key popped out un-harmed, the deadbolt working fine again. There was a slight nick in the key upon close inspection. Probably where one of the other keys on the ring had crammed against it in my pocket. It must have misaligned a tumbler and been the source of my midnight angst.

When I awoke this morning, the sun was shining into the cold basement where I was staying. I purposefully hadn't set the alarm. My nights have been late and mornings early during the conference and the added driving from my friend's house outside the city all made for an exhausting week. I needed the rest, my mind was beginning to be addled and thought processes slowed. However, the day was an hour later than I needed it to be. Daylight savings had added to my morning, but stolen my ability to lay in just a bit longer.

I raced to put my accommodations in order and hit the road. On the way out of the neighborhood I stopped for coffee and danish. That was the mornings first mistake. I got lost as I searched out the freeway. I had begun heading back into the city on a long, one-way avenue. I finally got turned around, still not sure what time it was and feeling all a bit dazed. Twenty years ago I was used to that feeling and often embraced it, but not today. I wanted to be home with my girls after a week of being away.

The freeway finally welcomed me as I merged into its arterial flow. Like a corpuscle returning to the aorta (ventriicle/) I moved along toward home. Once I was back in the countryI stopped to buy chicken feed and to buy lunch and a few groceries and treats for my sweeties. I was beginning to be more awake and I was finally gaining control over my time-consciousness. If I moved fast I could catch the 12:05 PM ferry instead of one three hours later. I pressed on. Time was tight. I missed buying a few things--so the dog won't have his favorite brand of peanut butter, big deal. I passed up local, fresh, live crab--a rarity when the fishermen sell it off their boats in the marina on the way to the ferry terminal.  I pressed on. At 11:53 I pulled into the ticket booth, stated where I was going and rendered over my ticket. I was just pulling away from the booth, when as an afterthought, the ticket seller shouted to me the 12:05 is cancelled, the ferry is broken, you can catch the 3:40.

posted by: ChefNeal at April 03, 2006 06:59 | link | comments (2) |
travel, iacp, seattle, ferries, ferry travel