Friday, September 24, 2004
I went to a Korean restaurant for lunch because Jonny raves about their food. The woman running the place, a military wife, tried to get me to pick the BeBimBop but I wanted the more traditional cold noodles and vegetables. "You like hot?" she asked. "Well, yeah, moderately hot." I replied.
Four little bowls of pickled thingys came first. One was a bland sprouty thing. Blech. The second was slivers of radish. Not my style. The thinly sliced zuchini in pepper sauce- nice. The kimchee looked like nasty cabbage and tasted like nasty salty cabbage. Not a fan of that, I'm afraid (but then I don't really care for cabbage anyway). The main dish came, oh geez it was a huge platter. It was really good, but as I sucked down the noodles (I had to ask for a fork, I'm lame with the chopsticks) it began to get hotter and hotter. My lips swelled up to Courtney Love size. Finally I had to stop, as my throat began to burn as well. "Next time you try it not so hot." she said as I paid.
I'd spent the morning at Fort Huachuca, looking through old photos. Jimbo called me on the way there, asking when I was coming to DC. I haven't ironed the details out yet, but hopefully mid-to-late October. After finding the necessary photos I wandered down to the old mule barns, built in 1916. I'm writing a history of them, the army wants to tear some of them down.
Inside one of the barns.
Afterwards I took the long way back, traveling down State Route 82 between Sierra Vista and Nogales. The scenery was lovely, the sides of the road had bunches of wild sunflowers pushing six or eight or ten feet in the air.
Nearby cattle grazed next to a mountain range.
I had walked across the cattle guard and wasn't surprised to see a sign alerting people that cattle might wander out into the road.
I thought MAK would like this one.
I was in a good mood, a condition that lasted until I drove past the Border Patrol checkpoint and saw the dozen or more young Mexican men sitting on the ground, surrounded by officers. I wondered how many dreams had just been dashed, how much money wasted. The border between Arizona and Mexico has become such a death trap that the Border Patrol has even changed the way they count the dead (no skeletal remains get counted anymore) to try and pretty up the numbers. Of course it can take only a couple of days for a dead migrant to be skeletonized by coyotes and vultures, but that sweetly makes that individual uncountable.
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Four little bowls of pickled thingys came first. One was a bland sprouty thing. Blech. The second was slivers of radish. Not my style. The thinly sliced zuchini in pepper sauce- nice. The kimchee looked like nasty cabbage and tasted like nasty salty cabbage. Not a fan of that, I'm afraid (but then I don't really care for cabbage anyway). The main dish came, oh geez it was a huge platter. It was really good, but as I sucked down the noodles (I had to ask for a fork, I'm lame with the chopsticks) it began to get hotter and hotter. My lips swelled up to Courtney Love size. Finally I had to stop, as my throat began to burn as well. "Next time you try it not so hot." she said as I paid.
I'd spent the morning at Fort Huachuca, looking through old photos. Jimbo called me on the way there, asking when I was coming to DC. I haven't ironed the details out yet, but hopefully mid-to-late October. After finding the necessary photos I wandered down to the old mule barns, built in 1916. I'm writing a history of them, the army wants to tear some of them down.
Inside one of the barns.
Afterwards I took the long way back, traveling down State Route 82 between Sierra Vista and Nogales. The scenery was lovely, the sides of the road had bunches of wild sunflowers pushing six or eight or ten feet in the air.
Nearby cattle grazed next to a mountain range.
I had walked across the cattle guard and wasn't surprised to see a sign alerting people that cattle might wander out into the road.
I thought MAK would like this one.
I was in a good mood, a condition that lasted until I drove past the Border Patrol checkpoint and saw the dozen or more young Mexican men sitting on the ground, surrounded by officers. I wondered how many dreams had just been dashed, how much money wasted. The border between Arizona and Mexico has become such a death trap that the Border Patrol has even changed the way they count the dead (no skeletal remains get counted anymore) to try and pretty up the numbers. Of course it can take only a couple of days for a dead migrant to be skeletonized by coyotes and vultures, but that sweetly makes that individual uncountable.
