For a great number of years, more than I care to count, I filled my down time with training. I was always training for some new grail: marathons, triathlons, adventure races, mud runs, and on. I wasn't a professional, so the hours couldn't always be justified and more than once led to a major-major-major fight with Callie. But training was my jam.
I don't know any black sailors. I'm not talking historically, when man o' wars were regularly crewed by men of many races. I'm talking about your average posh marina crowd. Not saying there are no such men or women, because I'm sure there are die-hard black sailors here in America who can't wait to unfurl the spinnaker. I salute all of you.
I can't imagine a better demonstration of civil liberty than police allowing demonstrators armed with loaded automatic weapons to rally on the capitol steps in an attempt to intimidate legislators. Any other country on earth would throw them in a gulag, level their homes, and salt the earth. Ironically, they are demonstrating over their lack of civil liberties.
Wags and Wiggles, the local doggie day care, reopened this week — and not a moment too soon. Django was getting the same cabin fever as the rest of us, despite more trips to the dog park than he'd ever experienced. He's a hound and alert barker, with a propensity for taking personal responsibility for our safety and well-being, patrolling the backyard and howling at any perceived threats. Having us around the house 24-7 put him on high alert. He's adorable but anxious, and finally getting the chance to once again hang out with a bunch of dogs all day has calmed him down a bunch.
A long time ago, on an overnight flight back in the days when in-flight entertainment was limited to one movie and a few random channels of music options, I wrestled with a sleepless moment in a darkened United cabin and searched for music that would help me shut my eyes for a few hours. I settled on opera, believing that songs performed in a language I did not know would help me shut out the world.
Someone, somewhere, is injecting bleach. Just saying. There's always one. I cannot currently splurge on a night out at Hanna's steakhouse here in RSM. There's takeout, but it's not the same. There are also takeout cocktails in mason jars, which is interesting because the cocktail is such an easy DIY thing. I think the fact that this exists speaks to the normalcy we all crave, where a steady handed bartender crafts a concoction of this and that before your very eyes.
