*"Brass Monkey" comes on the radio*

Me: I wonder what music was like before the Beastie Boys?

Maggie: I don't know, sucky?

I remember watching the dawn break on Mt. Olympus, far above Litichoro and the sea. As I stood in the gray light of early morning, watching the mists roll over the mountain, I understood a little better the presence of the dawn in the mind of the poet, and the presence of the divine on Mt. Olympus. Truly, the blushing bride of the sun, the virgin innocent who blushes fiercely and beautiully when she is seen at her bath, the girl who comes quietly through your window in the morning and brushes her warm fingers across your face and chest and thighs. . . truly, she was there. . .

In my mind's eye, when I view the dawn I am looking through a keyhole at a young woman bathing in her room, which is richly furnished in dark wood, draped in fabrics with warm hues of orange and red. She may sing to herself, or hum, as she slowly and joyously washes in the deep waters about her, the colours reflecting in the ripples where the waters meet her skin. At length, she rises from the bath, the waters dripping from her bosom in the many colours of the morning, and though she is alone she blushes a deep and soft blush, the colours radiating out from her skin. . . but this vision does not last for more than a the most fleeting of moments, for in a fluid motion she draws forth a cloth that covers her nakedness, walks swiftly across the room and throws open the window to the blinding light of the sun.

In another vision, I see the cool, grey mists of morning enter through my open window. Coming close on the heels of the mists, the dawn rests her fingers upon my window ledge, warming it and drawing colour to it. She then creeps over the sill, gazing down upon me in my slumber, and rests her hand upon my brow, lightly warming me with the warmth of her own touch. Her fingers trail across my face, brushing my hair behind my ear, touching my eyelids, and trailing across my lips and down my neck. Her fingers pass over my chest and stomach, warming them and drawing the first sigh of the morning from my body. She paints the room in fiery colours, drawing pinks, reds, and vibrant oranges across earth and sky. It is this gloriously painted heaven and earth that I view when I open my eyes and find her already gone, though I can still feel her touch and see the joy with which she has painted my world.

This experience occurred in March of 2001, when my friend Mitty, his brother Randy, and I ran away to Key West for a week. At least, that was the plan. We ended up driving from Columbus to Key West, sleeping in a pile in the back of the Mittyvan at a rest stop in south Georgia the first night, and spending the night at Camp Sawyer the second night. Yes, the picture at right is the place we stayed. . . and it looked very much like that, except that we had the whole campground to ourselves.

This isn't so much a description of our six hours in Key West, the coconuts we picked from the palm tree that morning for breakfast, the lovely German girl who took my picture on the beach, or the free parking we located on Eaton St, though. This is about an amazing cheeseburger and a strong mango margarita I was drinking an hour before noon that day.

The thing is, I wasn't much of a Parrothead back then: I'd heard some of the music, but by no means had I even begun to grasp the entire catalogue as I have more recently. I still misunderstood the lyrics of a popular song and believed that they referred to a "mean" kosher pickle, which gave me an interesting idea of what I should be eating.

The thing is, though, that the margarita, the medium rare burger, and the atmosphere in the café at 11 AM blended together beautifully, making my memory of the experience a sweet, soft joy in the back of my head. I recall so much about the experience, from the waitress with her soft voice and lovely hair to the smell of the sea air rolling down Duvall Street.

What I remember most, though, is the instant "My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don't Love Jesus" came on over the sound system, the joy that lit up my friend Mitty's face, and his shout, "This is awesome! No one plays this song!"

Though I daresay that he might have been even more pleased with "Please Take Your Drunken Fifteen-Year-Old Girlfriend Home."

I was somewhat excited to see a Cheeseburger in Paradise restaurant had opened up here in Columbus. I was happy to go support Jimmy with my hard-earned dollars (not that my 19 legally-purchased copies of the song "Margaritaville" aren't doing enough), and by now I'd created the Jimmy Buffett ritual (which is still talked about in various circles within ADF), and so I made a trip up with my girlfriend and we sat down to eat after waiting briefly.

In contrast to what I remember about the experience in Key West, my primary memory of Cheeseburger in Paradise is of the menu. It was like an alcoholic's wet dream (forgive the pun, please), involving more ways to get drunk than there were food items on the menu. It was a bright, garish blue with odd yellows and oranges and reds thrown in for accents. It was several pages before I managed to locate the food.

Yes, there's something about gettin' rip-roarin' drunk in Buffett's music (okay, a lot), but the focus is never on the drinking (even in that most prominent of bar jukebox songs, "Why Don't We Get Drunk [and Screw]"), but rather on relationships, the joy of life, and (though few believe me) personal responsibility that leads to an easy lifestyle and brings joy to a responsible person. Even in WDWGDAS, the singer is looking for something more than a hooker and is trying to get to know the other person. . . granted, with alcohol helping, and perhaps I'm willing to read more than I ought, but the singer doesn't come from a state of "I don't care," so much as "I don't think that's true."

So when I was confronted by this menu, I was a bit lost. I mean, what the hell was I, a light drinker at best, to do with such a thing? Still, I ordered my cheeseburger and waited, listening to the Radio Margaritaville-style musical mix (mostly Buffett and Coral Reefer side-projects, with some Bob Marley thrown in for good measure). When the burger arrived, though, I was pretty disappointed: it was small, came with few fries, and (perhaps the worst crime) tasted unforgettably common.

I admit to being pretty disappointed. I suppose I would only have been more disappointed in the place if it had served manatee burgers. Can we say "not getting the concept?" Well, I could. Funny thing is, I'm pretty sure that Jimmy was rather involved in this concept, so I guess it's really just me.

Obtaining a Job Interviewed For

When Lugh came to the gate, he was challenged:
 "What art do you practice, what skill do you bring?"
Said Lugh, "A wright am I, a fixer of wheels."
 "A fixer of wheels we have, we need you not."

Said Lugh, "A smith am I, a worker of steel."
 "A worker of steel we have, we need you not."
Said Lugh, "A warrior am I, a champion famed."
 "A champion famed we have, we need you not."

Said Lugh, "A harper am I, a singer of tunes."
 "A singer of tunes we have, we need you not."
Said Lugh, "A hero am I, a man of great might."
 "A man of great might we have, we need you not."

Said Lugh, "A wizard am I, a sorcerous man."
 "A sorcerer we have, we need you not."
Said Lugh, "A leech am I, a knower of herbs."
 "A knower of herbs we have, we need you not."

Said Lugh, "A bearer am I, who carries the cup."
 "A cup bearer we have, we need you not."
Said Lugh, "A brazier I am, a worker of brass."
 "A worker of brass we have, we need you not."

Said Lugh, "Is there one who knows every art you need,
 One who is ideally fit for all things you want?"
Said the gatekeeper, "A man like that we have not,"
 And he heralded Lugh to the king, and brought him inside.

Lugh of the long arm, many skilled and deeply talented,
 Who interviewed at the door, and was granted the king's seat:
I raise my voice in praise to you and seek your favour.

 Let it be known that none other can do what I can.
 Let it be known that none other fits in this place.
 Let it be known that none other has all my skills.
 Let it be known that none other they have interviewed
   is better able to do all the tasks that are required.

Lugh, shining god with the long arm,
 This I pray to you.

1. No, you don't have to be self-conscious anymore, even though you have frames on your face. You do not need to remove them in order to speak with someone. These are not your 1980's glasses, so get over yourself and start being okay with them.


2. New glasses ≠ sunglasses. Just because you have frames on your face does not mean that girls cannot see where your eyes are going.

MJD, grade 4

red_sput

whitmanschild

withak53

chronarchy

Yep, that's what they look like today.

• They pretty much looked like that, gunk-wise, when I got to OSU my freshman year (1997). By then, they were already at least three years old, possibly as much as five years old.
• I lost a variety of screws (not that kind) the first three years of college, replacing them on occasion, but rarely from necessity: more out of a sick desire to keep the glasses limping along.
• The paperclip was the first thing to be added, in 2000. The screw was stripped out, and so replacement wasn't an option. I bent the crap out of a paperclip and chopped it down to size in the OSU's Fencing armoury using some of the handy tools there.
• The other leg went in 2003. That leg just flat out broke, leaving me with no way of repairing it short of getting new frames. But I was a Boy Scout, and so went through my workbench looking for some way to do a round lashing, but thread wouldn't cut it. So electrical tape it was, and to maintain the length, I used a toothpick as a splint.
• Finally, one night while watching Garbage on PBS' Soundstage, (July 6, 2006) the right lens finally popped out. The screw stripped, I tried soldering it back into place a couple of times, but settled on fishing wire as the best bet. This particular break pissed me off, because Shirley Manson is feckin' hot, and thus I naturally really wanted to hear and see the television.

"You may not approach a woman in her menses"

Dawn breaks over the sea looking down from Olympus

Here in the sun, gazing down Olympus to Litichoro and the sea far below, gazing down the same paths Far-Seeing Zeus gazed down from his throne. After six hours of hiking from the parking lot at Prionia, through occasional 2.5 foot deep snow drifts, I am in love with this mountain. The winds and the air and the sunlight all are simply amazing.

And here I sit, my offering to Zeus beside me, knowing that I need to offer for his favour. The weather is only part of it. There is also the fact that cortigiana nor I fell and died.

Now, it's six hours down, so it's time to offer and head back down.

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Throne of Zeus: First Glimpse | The far peaks of Olympus | Throne of Zeus: Closer      

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      Far peaks | The Throne of Zeus | Throne of Zeus

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  First snow encounter | How deep is it? | It's Mazi-crotch deep!

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      Vampire goats! | See him staring? | A bird at the shelter
We saw some wildlife, and even a Yeti! I swear!

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Throne from the shelterhouse | View down from the shelterhouse | View to Litichoro and the sea
This is what far-seeing Zeus sees from his throne. . .