Pterodactyl/Lincoln's Wedding Weekend Observations
Maria Bamford can be hazardous to one's health, should one listen to her while driving home from the coast after a weekend of drinking a lot and not sleeping so much. Just youtube "Maria Bamford Pterodactyl" and I'm sure you'll know what I mean.
Rockport is exactly what I imagined it would be: a sleepy seaside town, equal parts picturesque and crumbling. It is weather-worn. It is straight out of a Jimmy Buffett song. It reminds me a little of Florida, and I had Patty Griffin's "Florida" stuck in my head most of the weekend. Lincoln's mom's house is gorgeous, all open spaces and stained concrete and and raw wood, an odd mix of Japanese and Italian architecture that resolves its dissonances like good jazz.. The balcony of the apartment we stayed in had a beautiful view of the coast on one side and the courtyard of the house on the other. Monica was an extremely hospitable, relaxed hostess and she told us to come back any time and soon.
I drank too much of Lincoln's homebrew, which for me is apparently three servings, which in normal-beer terms is not a lot to drink. But this stuff is potent. Three beers and two mixed drinks spaced out over five hours, on a stomach full of the exquisite cuisine of Phil's Ice House, I might add, and I was drunkety drunk mcdrunkerson, stumbling and staggering and waking up the next day with a terrible headache that just got worse as the morning wore on. I took it very easy the rest of the weekend. Still managed to maybe break my toe, which had nothing to do with intoxication and everything to do with being in a hurry and barefoot and not looking where I was going.
Oddly enough, even drinking like a horse and chainsmoking, Jeremy's sleep apnea is noticeably better in Rockport.
Driving the sunset down through the hill country, I can imagine the great kudzu-choked vegetation standing in fields conceal some gigantic prehistoric beast, strangled, wrestled and tethered to the ground by the pernicious vine. Were you to hack away the leaves you wound find the carcass of the massive creature still intact inside, an expression of confusion and terror on its face, pathetic and undignified to look upon. How could such mighty life be choked out by ivy with delusions of grandeur?
Well, now that I've waxed poetic about kudzu, I guess it's time for me to go to work.
Rockport is exactly what I imagined it would be: a sleepy seaside town, equal parts picturesque and crumbling. It is weather-worn. It is straight out of a Jimmy Buffett song. It reminds me a little of Florida, and I had Patty Griffin's "Florida" stuck in my head most of the weekend. Lincoln's mom's house is gorgeous, all open spaces and stained concrete and and raw wood, an odd mix of Japanese and Italian architecture that resolves its dissonances like good jazz.. The balcony of the apartment we stayed in had a beautiful view of the coast on one side and the courtyard of the house on the other. Monica was an extremely hospitable, relaxed hostess and she told us to come back any time and soon.
I drank too much of Lincoln's homebrew, which for me is apparently three servings, which in normal-beer terms is not a lot to drink. But this stuff is potent. Three beers and two mixed drinks spaced out over five hours, on a stomach full of the exquisite cuisine of Phil's Ice House, I might add, and I was drunkety drunk mcdrunkerson, stumbling and staggering and waking up the next day with a terrible headache that just got worse as the morning wore on. I took it very easy the rest of the weekend. Still managed to maybe break my toe, which had nothing to do with intoxication and everything to do with being in a hurry and barefoot and not looking where I was going.
Oddly enough, even drinking like a horse and chainsmoking, Jeremy's sleep apnea is noticeably better in Rockport.
Driving the sunset down through the hill country, I can imagine the great kudzu-choked vegetation standing in fields conceal some gigantic prehistoric beast, strangled, wrestled and tethered to the ground by the pernicious vine. Were you to hack away the leaves you wound find the carcass of the massive creature still intact inside, an expression of confusion and terror on its face, pathetic and undignified to look upon. How could such mighty life be choked out by ivy with delusions of grandeur?
Well, now that I've waxed poetic about kudzu, I guess it's time for me to go to work.