Board Walk Eye Candy

Damn if Cayucos isn't made for looking.  Eye-candy to fit proclivities of all kinds and tendencies.  What you like? Huh? What?

Well, its here in Cayucos. Today was incredible. The weather perfect, you couldn't get better. An offshore wind blew this morning on the waves. It made them rise and spray whips of whitewater behind them on their march to the sand. Surfers glistened seal-black in rubber suits made sleek with foamy ocean water. They bobbed on boards for a wave to ride, like sea birds that sat nearby.

Families came to celebrate the day. Dogs, kids, teenagers, young, old, and all wonderful. All so happy as well as us. Prince Albert and I enjoyed an early morning walk, breakfast followed by hanging at the beach house and then another walk on the shore to town. We had a pitcher of beer before walking back to the rental. Wally spent some morning time outside watching the parade of beach goers. We had bloody-Mary's, French-Apple sausage with mouth-watering fresh peach waffles and cantaloupe. He really enjoyed his time in the sun overlooking the beach. It's a beautiful view, you can't see anything bad. Morro Rock to the left, and the town's lights at night on the right. And then there are the sunsets. Incredible.

Today is our last full day and then it's back to L.A. Maybe so, but we too will be back here as well.

Life Is A Beach

Envision a classic beach house. A kind of sophisticated shanty, where sand and wood meet. There is a fireplace in the center of the living room, on both sides of the fire are large tinted windows that show a completely unobstructed view of the sea and sand.  And at night, the twinkle of village lights from Cayucos, on the other, Morro Rock jutting so high from the beach it has it own micro-climate. A cloud of mist encircles the top of the great rock with blue sky all around.

The sliding glass door is open allowing a cool ocean breeze in. It mixes well with the sound of its serf, a fireplace keeps us warm, comfortable and brings the magic back of of days as a teenager huddled around a fire pit at the beach with friends toasting marsh-mellows on sticks.

A writer's retreat, a dacha, where you can't do much of anything else except walk on the beach and write your thoughts upon return. I haven't walked on the beach yet, but I sure plan too. And that's the rub. How do you fit a lifetime of leisure into a week? There are no phones to answer, no mail to read or garden to tend. There is the beach, the fireplace and a view. Life is a beach.

Writer's Retreat At Seaside

The mini-van is gassed up and ready to go. On Sunday morning, if all goes well, we will be heading for the central coast for a week at the beach at a seaside home.  I can't wait, and Wally is doing much better. He had a problem two weeks ago, I think pneumonia and so did the Urgent Care doctor but he showed a possible bladder infection. In either event, the anti-biotic they gave him killed the grass beneath his feet it was so strong.

He is doing better than he has in months, he is breathing better, walking better and more awake. The doctor, and she was a beaut, and real sharp, said to put some Gator-aid in his water. It helped a lot with his awareness of things, he was low in certain electrolytes and the Gator-aid has helped with that. Then we both had our bi-annual skin burn. Liquid Nitrogen applied freely on every area of our body that sees daylight. That's due to white skin. Why people want to be born white I have no idea, because when you age, that white skin molds. Seriously, that's why cave dwellers stay in caves, they can't take the sun and they're all white.

But a week at the beach to write and read and read and write. Take walks, go to the local tavern and find some chit-chat with a villager, it all sounds delightful and fun. More later on our great adventure.   

Vatican States People Hump

Amazing, and all along I thought everybody did it. The variety of sex alone would make you think everybody does it. Hell, you don't need another person to do it. Just a private moment and Whoopee, a moment's pleasure--a mischief.

I don't get it. God, for those who believe in Santa Claus and other fables, is so controlling that he can't let a creature have a little pleasure? And yet, among other animals, besides ourselves, sex with something happens constantly. Like Spot humping his Master's leg. It's a fact that among living creatures like ourselves, there is more sex and more variety of sex that occurs. Yet God wants you to, 'save it' for that special moment when only you and another 'save it' person meet, and by powers vested in rituals, can now unite and have sex. I guess Beth and Bud get up after fucking themselves sick and shoot Spot for humping the furniture.

I mean, do these people really exist? Ever? Because that alone would put Darwin into jeopardy. They should be extinct long ago if, in fact, there are people who are virgins waiting around for magic rituals so they can fuck. It's kookoo.

Now, what about the nuns? What about those clits waiting, ever pure, married to a god? That's heavy. Does the Holy Father want to go there? What do you do with all the nuns who lust of carnal knowledge?  They've whipped themselves, scrubbed floors to rid themselves of clit pleasure. It didn't work of course and now the male hierarchy will discuss, not only penis pleasure but clits as well.

It's a new day and a new sheriff is town. If you value your life, when a preacher comes a knockin', run for your life. The greatest lie ever told is about gods and that they are real. 

Gumbo Feeds Gaza

With temperatures hitting triple digits, tomatoes in Gaza have ripened to perfection. Prince Albert proclaimed he would feed the kingdom with shrimp gumbo. A trip to the store for crab, shrimp, spices and okra while a pot full of tomatoes cooked on the outdoor stove, made the whole hood crazy with the aroma of Cajun cooking. The Muslim Brotherhood next door, the  Jews in Little Israel on our other side, had to deal with the flavors of good home cooking going on in Gaza.

This comes after their feast days of Ramadan and Rosh  Hashana. And of course they're pissed. Once the smells of cajun gumbo float by, there is no going back to mutton and garbanzo beans. It's a known fact that Cajun food will turn you into a shrimp lovin', crab eating heretic of Middle Eastern foods. 

We filled our bowls with rice, then ladled over mouth-watering cajun sauce brimming with creole sausage, crab meat and shrimp. With warm crusty French bread to sop up the juices, the bellies of Gazans filled out to plump tightly stretched barrels. 

Tomorrow, chili verde with fresh tomatillos will stew until tender. It is enough to make a rabbi want to eat bacon after smelling tender pork pieces simmering in homemade chili verde. Let alone send a burka-bitch on a quest for pig meat disguised as goat.