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I really wish they would stop making a big deal out of Death Valley. The word Death should tell people a lot. Death Valley is approximately an hour's drive from my desert home town. We feel for the families of these people that choose to go into Death Valley in the 'summer', but it is stupid to go to Death Valley with no experience, especially in the summer. What few businesses that are even out there, are closed during the summer months. 120 to 130 is normal in the summer in Death Valley.
Sad to say, but when flat landers go where they have no idea, have no experience, in deserts, mountains, or even swamp/bayou, they risk death.
For them to say world records, when they know most will never do the research themselves to find out that they either don't know what they are talking about, or flat out lying.
Still too hot for me. I am definitely not going to retire anywhere down that way. At one point I thought Seattle was cool but they've been having a rough time there with storms and heat as well.
I'm happy here in New York even with the smoke from Canada and the current warmer temps.
Even though my desert hometown could get 110+ heat in the summer, here in southern Louisiana, the humidity is horrible. If I had choice, I'd take dry heat any day.
Be careful, smoke is not healthy for anyone. Maybe a good air filter in your house, with extra filters?
It's one of my favorite and simplest dishes: Turkey Thighs. They usually come in a package of two, I pick the smaller ones which are just right for one hungry person each. Usually I put them in a plastic cooking bag, shake them up with a package of dry onion soup mix and then put them in a 350F oven for an hour an a half. The meat ends up melting in your mouth. Add a big salad and some starchy stuff if needed - mashed potatoes are heaven with the juices from the bag.
What with the heat got me thinking I should try doing this stovetop instead of the oven. It worked much the same. Salt, pepper and brown the pieces on both sides in a dutch oven type pot, toss the thighs in the onion soup mix and add just enough water to cover the bottom, then cover and turn down the heat to a low simmer for an hour and a half, works just as well as in the oven.
A simple Red rounds out a satisfying dinner. try it sometime!
This reminded me of a post here: https://www.vox.com/culture/23811186/how-to-john-wilson-season-3-review
One of the many stories of The City. rings a bell. Thanks for the link.
Another City, another story:
Mid morning, I get dropped off at the hotel, sign in and change to civvies. I am determined to spend my last day in Thailand exploring Bangkok and did I ever!
Outside a gang of samlor guys all quote the same outrageous prices, all except one who undercuts them. However, that includes a side trip to the PX, he has a long shopping list? I wander off down the block to a regular taxi stand.
eeJAA, that's what it sounds like ... never could figure out how to write his name ... eeJAA sees me coming, we bond at first sight and he insists on taking me On the Town: Buddhas, shrines, temples, hidden gardens, night life, the works ...
Somewhere in there is the Snake Farm .... you've got to see this he said ... with pits of writhing snakes just like in a horror movie.
They want to take a picture of me posing in front of a backdrop. With a snake, a boa? Turns out I have to pay them for a Polaroid instead of them paying me. OK I say and am instructed to kneel just this way and hold my right hand out just that way.
Here come two men hauling a huge boa constrictor, one in front and one at the tail end. They proceed to drape a ton of snake around my shoulders.
I can't even.
The guy in front gently places the head of the snake in the palm of my hand.
Ok, got it.
They take the load off my shoulder. No sooner do they have it off me than the snake voids. You'd be amazed how much a well-fed boa produces. The two hurry off with the beast before it refuels with another tourist.
You were lucky says the photographer while looking for someone to clean the mess.
I wish I still had that Polaroid, can't find it anywhere. I think one of my exes took off with it. In any case, the below is actually a good facsimile of what it looked like. Except the snake was larger and of course I do have better looking hands.
"Hey, you're that actor! you're that jackson guy on tv aren't you?" I usually just wave and smile, hiding behind my shades. It's always a different name she comes up with.
She is very enthusiastic, habitually runs up to passing strangers, grabs their hands and compliments them on their jeans or on the dress someone is wearing. Her husband smiles as they walk hand in hand when she's in her Lolita outfit or when she glides down the center of the street fair in a simple wedding dress.
At one point I made the mistake of acknowledging that I did indeed act in a play sometime in the past. Today she comes running with her hands outstretched: "Are you working?" I wave at her and get rescued by a passing group of grade schoolers on an outing. She loves kids, her husband barely manages to restrain her from grabbing one of them.
I'm thinking pork chops tonight but at the neighborhood market another EVR, Lotta, is getting things together for her August in the Catskills as she has done for the past 20, 30 years I am sure. She has taken all the pork chops and is busy separating them into individual baggies in front of the cashier.
People try not the stare. I'm not sure about her sexuality but she's a tall lady, proper hose, sensible heels and fur even now in this heat. Something went terribly wrong with her face many years ago, I'm guessing at a botched plastic surgery, mostly hidden by hats with varying lengths of veils.
I get two split chicken breasts and pass the money over the mound of chops.
"Why don't they wrap these individually, she says, they used to! I freeze them. Perhaps this young man will help? ... Oh, he's gone already."
The young man is out the door and makes it home, safe.
It watched a few minutes of a championship on tv the other day and rate it just above Cornhole? It's not for me but I can relate to neighbors complaining about the constant whop whop, whop whop! much like the noise level around my old haunts.
It was the time of Living Dead roaming the neighborhood, waiting for the iceman who announced his arrival by shouting DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO IT! up and down the street, making sure everyone knew where he was at. During the crack epidemic in the 80's the patrons, Residents, of the men's shelter on the block were a constant source of irritation. First it was the slap slap, slap slap of handball against a neighbor's wall which he did manage to get stopped. Then they came with boom boxes in the yard, there was a sigh of relief when that was no longer allowed. Now about the guys playing dominos during hot summer nights? Please don't slam the tiles? Midnight: click, click, click click echoes down the block.
One EVR stood on the corner getting ready for his Klingon role. Several times a minute he would slap his forehead, hard, SLAP, bouncing off the walls. Once I saw him up close with a thick callus on his forehead. He definitely was ready to be an extra on Star Trek but I think he lasted only one season on the street.
When a bar opened downstairs we knew it was time to relocate.
"Hello dear," she says when she sees me on the street as if she really knew me, and smiles at me in her theater after announcing the plays. We've been neighbors since the beginnings of La Mama, I watched her hair turn from black to the mop of gray she has now.
She is being lionized in today's New York Times. Speaking From the Capital of the Global East Village, traces her career from the time a half century ago when she was about to be arrested for prostitution after complaints about white men visiting a Negress. The men turned out to be actors dropping in for rehearsals at her theater.
Ellen Stewart and her La Mama have been fostering new playwrights and difficult productions all these years and continues adding to a long glorious list of names she helped along the way: Sam Shepard, Harold Pinter, Lanford Wilson, Eugène Ionesco, Philip Glass, Robert Wilson, Jerzy Grotowski, Jean-Claude Van Italie, Joseph Chaikin.
I think the case can be made that there wouldn't be today's East Village if she hadn't been here to start it.