I am writing this from Kensington, MD, just North of DC, in Dave's house, from one of the graphite iMacs. Dave, his dad, and I have just returned from the hilly wilds of West Virginia, where God riddled the land with a vast network of subterranean bliss. This was only the second time I've ever been caving, and if anything, it was even sweeter than the first, which, you must understand, was decidedly sweet. Note that I may revise this entry when I feel that I have a little more time on my hands, ie when I'm back home tomorrow. I'll just leave you with a brief summary: Skoal, That Woman, bats, more bats, bat in my face, delight over bat in my face, wound, concern over bat guano in wound, mud, water, rock flowers, crystals, stalagwhatevers, rooms, tunnels, more mud, squeezing, wriggling, slipping, enjoying (immensely). Ok, more to come.
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Ok, I'm back. My adventures began Saturday at high noon when I picked up my ticket at the train station in New Haven and got on the Acela regional headed down to Washington. The Acela lines are the new Amtrak bullet trains (new since the last time I took the train, probably 4 years ago or so), and I was looking forward to an experience comparable to the TGV in France or the Japanese Shinkansen. Unfortunately, the Acela lines are just new engines with the same old cars. I mean, they were a step up from the Metro-North cars, but they were pretty shabby compared to he other bullet trains I've been on. Damn you, American hatred of public transportation! I got to see the Manhattan skylines sans twin towers, but I couldn't really say where they should have been, so blah. I saw Philly for the first time (it looks nice, from the train tracks at least). Didn't see much cool graffiti. Got into Union Station around 5:30, walked by Dave a few times before he grabbed me, found the nearest hole in the wall which had no objections to being filled with urine, and then hopped in the van with Dave and his mom, toured around the capital area, and ate dinner at a BBQ joint Dave actually approves of, O'Brien's. Apparently the Irish are the only folk to have gotten BBQ right in the DC area, at least by Dave's high, arbitrary standards. It was certainly good, but nothing could possibly induce the kind of euphoria one might expect from Dave's description.
Dave lives in Kensington, just north of DC, one of the most crowded places I've ever visited in America. It's the kind of suburbia from which lesser suburbia sprawls. Dave's interaction with his family is . . . amusing. Imagine the normal jocular banter, nonsense, and play you might normally expect between three siblings on speaking terms, then multiply it by about 2 billion, then multiple by the ratio (Ticehurst children's respect for parental authority / normal respect for the same). They're pretty nuts.
But the point of this whole trip was caving. Not just waltzing around on some stupid little tour with walkways and pretty lights, but real, messy, wet, dark caving. We almost didn't go, because our guide took a bad fall the day before we were scheduled to go, badly injuring his face and hands. However, he recommended another cave (Organ Cave), Dave called, set up a trip, and we were off with the dawn the next morning down to the wilds of West Virginia. The woman who owns the entrance assured us that our trip would require no repailing. It took us a sec to realize we were considerably further below the Mason-Dixon line that usual, and that she was talking about repelling. Our guide was Jeff, a tobacco chewin' rodeo clown who had been wandering Organ Cave since he was a kid, and he knew about as much about the cave as anyone. Jeff was really cool, and pointed out lots of things I wouldn't have noticed, and of course, kept us from getting hopelessly lost and dead. The cave itself had all sorts of cool stuff. Bats, for instance. They were hibernating on the ceiling here and there, and they took no notice of us, so I could get up close and have a good look. White ones and black ones. One even flew in my face. Lots of cool rock formations too, from huge columns and toothy spikes to tiny little crystal formations and weird, organic looking things that looked like flowers and roots. Made me wish I knew half a jot about geology. There was plenty of crawling and wading and climbing to be done, which I suppose might turn off those averse to being soaked and covered in mud in a dark little tunnel so tight you can’t turn your head. But for those of your who aren't, let me assure you, it was a blast.
a guy | 2002-03-29 18:28:59 EST
my friend, i believe you misstated the formulation in the above random. if my logic is not mistaken wouldn't it in fact be the reverse of the ratio (Ticehurst children's respect for parental authority / normal respect for the same). presumably you are implying that the ticehurst children do not in fact display any respect for parental authority, for were they to do so, your equation would be meaningless in a hahaha sort of way. so by reversing the ratio to (normal respect for parental authority/Ticehurst children's respect for parental authority) you are producing presumably an astronomically high multiplier and thus jocular banter product, which is, again presumably, what you were intending to do in the first place. however, maybe i just misread.
nonetheless, london was great. i look forward to seeing you all in mere days. meanwhile i am doing all sorts of noxious things to your doorknobs and outdoorswear.
love,
andy
yup | ken-ichi | 2002-03-29 21:20:21 EST
They don't call me the Dumb Ueda for nuthin'.
