September, 2009:

Beed⋅li⋅cious

/bɪdˈlɪʃəs/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [beed-lish-uhs] Show IPA
–adjective
1. highly pleasing to the senses, esp. to taste or smell: a beedlicious dinner; a beedlicious aroma.
2. very pleasing; delightful: a beedlicious sense of humor.
–noun
3. (initial capital letter) a red or yellow variety of apple, cultivated in the U.S.

So, I’m on the phone the other day with my daughter. She is Beed. This is to say of course that like all things that find their way into my kernel, she has a nickname. Her’s comes from two things. One – the fact that she was just this tiny precious beed of a toddler. Another had to do with what she did with an actual beed, and her nose, and her brother. For details you can ask him.

Well, as I was saying before the backstory, I called Beed the other day just to find out how she was doin. The conversation went somthing like this:  Me: “Hi, how ya doin?”   Beed: “Hi DD! – I am fine, how are you?”   Me: “I’m fine.” (pause)  Me: “Whatcha doin”   Beed: “Bakin a chocolate cake”   Me: “Mmmmm, boy I sure wish I had a piece of it”   Beed: “OK DD, I will mail you one”.

Let there be no further doubt about the significance of genetics. Further, there can be no doubt about the sense of humor is inherited. My room mate came into the house last night after a high holy days marathon (he is a singer in LA) and handed me a box. He looked at it, then at me, then at it. Reading the inscription thereupon he queried: “Who is Beed Warrick?” At that point, I offered him the same explanation I offer you.

Wondering what the box might contain, I carefully opened it….to reveal…..a piece of chocolate cake.  And it was Beedlicious.

It is at little moments like these that you realize what a precious gift you have been given.

Love you Beed. Happy 21st Burday!

DD

On one level, everything has a point of reference. Every thought comes from another. An instance, a pinprick in time.

Then there are sea gulls. They are like watching toddlers at the beach. I know it is their instinct that fuels their movement. This appears to make them even more human.

They wait on the beach, first ahead of the waves, not wanting to get their feet wet.

When a wave recedes, they move forward and grub for sea goodies. Its all in the timing.

They work quickly, but the next wave inevitably rushes back in at them, threatening to wet their feet. They turn and run back up the beach. Chased by the sea. Their little legs looking like a 3 year old running down the isle at the grocery store.

The laughter this causes is out of time. It has no reference. Just a deep seated union.

Watching Seagulls is just funny. No ticket required.

Earnest Hemingway just ran by. He looked like some Greek Neptune – Chiseled. Granite. Solid. Even his features were mythic. He skated across my canvas.

Behind him, gentle swells rise and fall. Sea air charges him.

He’s tethered to a mystical animal by some sort of umbilicus.

This odd vision of a God tethered to a dog running laboriously in the sand. You could feel the footfall. A statement about how solid and fragile we are all at the same time.

Somewhere down the beach this odd pair shuffles forward. Miles from here by now. Penned by other authors and playwrights.

Sung to the tune of “It’s too Darn Hot” from Kiss Me Kate (yes, Bur and Red – an homage for you). Just flew in from Arizona and boy are my arms tired.

The grass seems greener on the other side of the hill. I can remember standing in the shivering cold of a number of states that I have lived in post California and thinking to myself: “Ya know, I really don’t mind the heat much. Especially because it is that d – r – y heat.

I lied.

When it is 112 degrees Fahrenheit, everyone minds the heat. In fact, I am quite certain that post modern science would consider this tantamount to cooking someone in a convection oven. Which we know, is just frowned upon.

Despite the surgeon general’s warning I sallied forth through the desert in Uber Murtle (I promise to explain in the post script) to Phoenix Arizona to see my sister Lin and hubby Frank (Doug’s namesake) and niece Shay.

In our latest edition of Mr. D’s travelogue and recipe guide to the stars; many were the wonders we saw. Astounding were the miracles we witnessed. I offer as evidence…

Flying pigs. Yes, flying pigs. Apparently in Arizona they have genetically altered povines to self-refrigerate. They are everywhere. Good for the pigs. Bad for any chance of using the old adage “When pigs fly”. But I digress…

Oh yes, Phoenix has a ball team. My brotha FrankyG (his rap name of course) took us to see the Phoenix Rattle Snakes, or Rasor humps, or Diamondbacks – yea, that’s it. A fun day at the ballpark. The last time FrankyG and I went to a ballgame it was the world series at Dodger Stadium during my yooot. FrankyG – you da man.

Now, technology has come a long way at the ol ballpark. Imagine if you will an LCD screen the size of a moving van. I want one.

Then, as twilight purpled the desert sky we returned home to Newfoundland. Or at least that’s where these monster critters come from. Say hello to Sam and Holly. They are Frank and Lin’s ponies. Dogs like this in Phoenix are basically equivalent to down hill skiing in Ecuador. Somebody – get the hose.

Stay tuned for more updates from the road. Next up: The Fishmonger.