On the Banks

The Outer Banks is a place of silence inducing landscapes and the tendency to describe those landscapes in  the most windbag-erific terms possible.  A recent account of a beach horseback ride by a geezer in the local  standard bearer included the visual "my steed's salt-flecked mane".  Yes, we are also in the land serving as the backdrop and well spring of Nicky Sparks and his blood-and-guts beach romance novels meant to convey the possibility of mildly tawdry affairs between middle class white people, which are to be consumed by middle class white people on beaches not unlike those described in the novels.  The truth is, the place is gorgeous.  For those not familiar, the long stretch of barrier islands point out into the Atlantic and so are a place of very extreme sea currents.  Sandwiched on either side by the nakedness of the ocean and the calm, unfolding stretch of the bay, there's rarely not a loin-quivering view to be found somewhere. We read, we write.  We go to the beach and sit and contemplate and commiserate and kibbitz.  A quick dip pool side, then on to cocktails and the dinner making.  Don't worry about us, we're managing to get by.  Just think of us on occasion.......(Hillary wanted it to be known there's also a lot of bugs, which is true.  We saw our pasty neighbors making a dash over the rise separating our house from the beach like it was D-Day at Omaha.)
   Everything changes. (Wait for it:  Kevin's inner windbag is stealing upon the scene) Next week will find us somewhere else.  But for right meow, we are very content.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwouIbYEHmE
     Also, the only consolation in the Jet's bungling of any fourth quarter comeback is knowing they have an ass-chewing and "snack" waiting for them today.

Books read: "That Old Cape Magic" - Richard Russo