Nothing cooking tonight.
I took some boudin to work today and grossed-out people who didn't know what casings really were. Afterwards, I picked up a computer in unknown state from Michael's house, left there by well-meaning Sid Hartha. It wouldn't boot. Michael's daughter showed up from the road with 5 friends and a couple of dogs, all obviously needing a shower after a summer of hopping freights and hitching rides, but the shower was broken.
Michael was distracted, feeling both a fatherly obligation and olfactory urgency to repair his home's human/canine cleansing system, but still feeling the crippling effects of the sciatica. He limped painfully to my car as I carried his lent box out, and even opened the trunk for me. Mosquitoes bred in the stingy trickle we're getting from Isadore swarmed about, singing West Nile ditties. At home, in comfort, I soon discovered the problem was simply that the computer's 110/220 switch got bumped in transit, sic gloria, my head was too overwhelmed to follow instincts in the moment of earlier confusion.
That casing thing bothered me for maybe an hour at work - anger at having a gourmet offering become an object of insensitive puking gestures forced me into a period of "roll with the punches!" and "what did you expect?" self-lectures which was necessary but unproductive. I healed by admiring the tact of others who may not have found this concoction attractive, but simply passed on it...and those who sampled found it as righteous as I did in my initial taste. Philosophically, the question arose as to why the loudest, least informed, most insensitive, and most histrionic opinion always appears to dominate in matters of taste.
The little pearl in all this swill is "appears". Your ear drums can get straight-out pegged right into yer auditory nerve by decibels, but that is only a momentary distraction to the other 4 or 5 senses. Like taste. It's not Britney's undulating crotch and telemarketer headset amplified to infinity and projected onto Imax engulfing photons. It is simply flavor. Texture. And, okay, the boudin didn't look all that good, appearance.
It was good to see an unexpected appearance by Liz tonight. Her car has been disassembled down to the molecular level to replace some sorta belt plated with dollar signs that controls heating, timing, air-conditioning, gas flow, radio tuning, and how you're allowed to vote in Florida. She didn't think it would be ready until next Monday. Now she has wheels and we had a couple happy beers despite her transportation-driven, almost but not-quite-crazy cabin fever. She was still well enough not to completely understand my boudin story, shrugging it off and saying, "you mean they didn't know sausages are stuffed into casings?"
Now I await an update from Sid, to see if it's okay to overwrite what's on this computer he either loaned or gave to Michael. Like Nixon wrote to his mother, "Your Loving Dog..." Arf.
8:10:52 PM 
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