Mr. C. Cow was on the phone yesterday and all I could hear him talk about was “the craft scene”. I wasn’t trying to listen in or anything. He sometimes makes it hard to not overhear his conversations because he’s a loud telephone talker. What was a “craft scene”? Is that where all the hip kids go to knit hats and do the origami thing? Why am I always the last to know about something neato?
It wasn’t until later on during the day that I found out “the craft scene” had nothing to do with making throw pillows or boxes out of popsicle sticks. Mr. C. Cow was talking about craft beer. I should have known better because the last time Mr. C. used glue he got his hoofs stuck together.
Mr. C. Cow’s telephone conversation got me thinking about combining crafts with craft beer. Make marionette puppets out of cardboard tubes while having a pint. Maybe sip on a stout while making a solar system out of styrofoam balls. (Crafty and educational!) As long as we make sure Mr. C. doesn’t glue his hoofs to a beer glass it might be entertaining!
Next time we go to a brewery I’m taking my arts and crafts kit with us. Maybe others would appreciate making yarn dolls.
I’ve been to a lot of different kinds of bars before. Cocktail bars. Salad bars. I’ve even tasted a candy bar at the risk of losing my girlish otter figure. Mr. C. Cow has decided to “raise the bar” by finding us one that involves nachos.
When I think of a nacho bar, I keep picturing a bunch of cheesy tortilla chips kicking back, having a beer, discussing the pros and cons of jalapeños. I know this can’t be true as tortilla chips prefer to discuss the market price of tomatoes.
Mr. C. Cow, being smart in the food department, knows I’m just being silly and informs me that a nacho bar just involves the opportunity to make as many nachos as possible. If you want to eat fifty plates of nachos that are only covered in lettuce and salsa then knock yourself out. I don’t know how one could eat fifty plates but Mr. C. has goals.
I do have a bit of a nacho problem as I want to try all of the toppings but can’t seem to fit them onto one plate. Mr. C. Cow suggested I skip the tiny plates and use a hubcap from the camper instead. I don’t feel like washing cheese off of a hubcap so I’ll just skip the whole process. He can partake in the all you can eat while I find the type of bar that serves craft beers.
After I had a few libations, I felt it was time to call it a day. The camper was parked for the evening and I just wanted to go to bed. Mr. C. Cow wasn’t done making nachos so he decided to use a surfboard to carry his creations back to the camper. A surfboard is almost as ridiculous as a hubcap plate but a little more awkward due to length. How was he going to get it in the camper? How many nachos does it take to fill a surfboard? Is it safe to try to walk down stairs with a nacho surfboard?
To combat the stairs he kinda nacho surfed the board down, carefully, not losing a single jalapeño or chip. We should start a nacho surfing competition. Give out prizes for style. Points lost if you lose a topping.
On that note, I bid you all a good day but before I finish today’s postcard I want to leave you with a joke.
What do you call cheese that isn’t yours? Nacho cheese!
Mr. C. Cow came up to me the other day with his front hoofs shaking away. It was like he was waving at me with both hoofs in a jolly, yet strange manner. When Mr. C. informed me that he had the “jazz hoofs”, I started to dial for a doctor. “Jazz hoofs” sounded contagious. I was afraid that he would shake so much that a body part might fall off and I would find myself in a similar situation. To my surprise, Mr. C. Cow took the phone from me, hung it up, and told me it wasn’t some sort of weird disease. Must say that I was mighty relieved!
The reason for the rhythmic hoof shaking was the many hours we had spent listening to Big Band music. Maybe we overdid it a wee bit while driving down the highway. Twelve hours of swinging music would cause anyone to do a jazz hoof thing. After extensive research we decided that the only way to cure “jazz hoofs” (without a doctor) was to visit a jazz club.
Leave it to Mr. C. Cow to find the only jazz club on the planet (possibly the universe) that employed a dragon as a bartender.
Usually you see a dragon employed as a gym instructor or motivational speaker. This just goes to show that you should never judge anyone based on color/gender/species. Frank, the dragon bartender, informed us that his parents wanted him to find work as a cardio workout instructor but he felt more inclined to light cocktails on fire. Who can blame him? Lighting drinks on fire sounds like a great way to make some cash. As long as you remind everyone to blow out their drink before sipping your good to go.
To alleviate the “jazz hoof” shaking that Mr. C. Cow had going on he made his way to the front of the dance floor. Swaying to the beautiful moo-sic was not only therapeutic but also fun to watch. If you’ve never watched a cow dance to the beat of a trumpet then you’re missing out on life. After a while, a snow leopard offered to be his dance partner. Together they proved to be more than adequate at the Charleston.
Hoofs shaking to the musical beat has taught us a few things today. We’ve learned that a doctor is not needed when you get a case of the “jazz hoofs”. To cure this, all you need is a good jazz club with great music and amazing company. When you first meet someone you should never judge them based on looks or background. Every individual is unique and that is what makes the world a wonderful place to live.
One last thing that we’ve learned today….It’s important to blow out a fire on a flaming cocktail so you don’t catch your face on fire.
Mr. C. Cow and I have been making our way back home for the past few days. Bishop had a really great idea for a new business to open next to the equipment company (Not telling you yet!) and needed some help moving stuff around. I’m pretty good at hanging things on walls BUT only if Mr. C. lets me stand on his back. If I don’t then the stuff gets hung halfway up the wall. Knowing this fact Bishop still asked us to help. He’s nice like that.
On our way home the road became a bit too slick and the rain too heavy for us to travel any farther till it let up.
We ended up parked in some sort of alley next to the garbage from the local businesses. Not the nicest of smelling places to park a camper but, when you have no choice, you sometimes end up parking in unfortunate areas.
We were lucky, as it was really late, that there was at least one joint open to grab a bit to eat (and maybe a cocktail) before the rain went away. Their open sign was like some sort of lighthouse beacon saying “Come out of the rain and into a dry martini” or whatever a lighthouse beacon would say if it was attached to a bar.
Now…I’m more then happy to dry my giant hair and enjoy a cocktail. Mr. C. Cow likes neon signs and was happy to stare at them inside the bar while waiting. What we didn’t expect while doing this whole happy/dry/cocktail/neon sign thing was a bartender that just happened to be a mime. How does a mime bartend? Wouldn’t he get stuck in some box behind the bar? How does he answer a question about the beer selection if he doesn’t speak?
We were lucky that we didn’t have any questions about the menu or drink selection because he did a lot of hand jive wall climbing action instead of speaking. I shouldn’t really say anything mean and I won’t because he was a wonderful bartender. Efficient in his drink pouring and service. I guess mimes need to work because a mimes got to eat.
The rain was steady and didn’t look like it was going anywhere for a while. Mr. C. Cow was happy to count the number of neon signs the bar offered and I was just fine to eat cocktail peanuts and watch him shake it on the dance floor. (A cow can’t live on neon sign counting alone. Sometimes you have to shake it on the dance floor).
Hopefully the rain will let up soon. Bishop needs us!
(Part 1 is right here of our 2 part time EXPLOSION!)
I don’t know if knew this but being sucked into a time-nado swirly thing kinda does a number on your stomach. It’s like being on a boat and getting sea sick then getting sucked into a whirlpool. Minus the being wet part. I’m really bad at trying to give a good “sucked up into who knows where time” description. What I do know is that we were swirling and whirling and time jumping like we were some sort of alien with two hearts.
At first we ended up in some sort of 1950s sock hop/lots of flamingo decor era. Since we hadn’t eaten breakfast the 50s gave us the perfect opportunity to go to a diner. One should never forget to eat during a time warp crisis. Pancakes are a cure-all.
As soon as we paid our bill we were sucked up, once again, by that weird swirling time-nado thing. I wish it would have, at least, waited for our breakfast to settle. Mr. C. Cow and I were thrown out the other side looking a little greener than usual.
Ahh…the roaring 20s. Or is this the 30s? 40s? It didn’t really matter as we could hear the sound of jazz music through the doors of some place called the “Calendar Club”. I’m not one to pass up good jazz and the opportunity for an old-fashioned cocktail. Mr. C. Cow isn’t the type to pass up the opportunity to wear a top hat. If we were going to be stuck somewhere back in time what better way to spend it then at some sort of speakeasy. Hopefully we’ll be here for a long while then, somehow, find our way home.
Oh…come on! Not another time-nado! But…I would like another cocktail!
We landed next to a pile of chairs on fire. Who does that kinda thing? Chairs are supposed to be for sitting not for burning. I have a feeling that there is a SERIOUS amount of fire code violations going on here.
Wait…where are we? No cars? Horse drawn carriages? Industrial revolution?
We really needed to get back to our own time! At this rate we were going to end up getting eaten by a dinosaur. The 50s diner was great for breakfast. The Calendar Club was great for cocktails. The…late 1800s/early 1900s had us afraid that we would freeze to death on cobblestone streets. Neither one of us had brought a coat and Mr. C. Cow was starting to cry.
Cow tears are not tiny. When cow tears start they start big and have a hard time stopping. When he cries I start to cry. I can’t help myself. We sat on a street corner and cried as the snow kept coming down on us. We cried as the horse dung guy cleaned up the streets. We cried till we ran out of tears, recharged them, then cried some more. Hope was starting to slip away as another time-nado decided to suck us back up. This time we didn’t care. We just wanted to go home.
Wait…where are we? A lab? A LAB!
Somehow we had found ourselves back where we started. The lab was still a mess and the clock said that no minutes had passed. How did we get back? How did we end up going through time in the first place? What kind of crazy scientist thinks it’s a good idea to drink a couple of bottles of liquor and let loose the science of time?
Neither Mr. C. Cow or I felt like figuring out how this was even possible. We didn’t even want to clean up the bottles lying around on the floor. (Although I was sorely tempted to do so. I hate to see stuff laying around like that!) Any sane person would turn around and run out of that building not looking back. We are some pretty sane individuals so we did just that.
I think that Mr. C. Cow is going to need to write a strongly worded email to his scientist friend about the state of her laboratory as well as the numerous safety violations going on. I think that I am going to have to write an email to some sort of government agency or man in a blue box or something telling them about the rips in time.
Since it’s Summer Mr. C. Cow and I decided that we needed to find a beach to plant our tushes on and provided us with the essential items like sun, drinks, and pizza. Ok. Pizza was not on our list of things the Summer needs but we actually found a beach that had a wood fired pizza oven. Mr. C. Cow thought it would be a good idea to take the idea of Summer and put it onto a pizza. His idea of a Pizza Summer consists of pineapple, fresh grass clippings, and squash. I’m not too partial to the idea of a freshly mowed lawn on my pizza so I picked zucchini, tomato, and basil.
After our pizzas we decided to wait an hour before venturing out into the water. Is this really a thing? Do you actually have to wait an hour after eating to go swimming? As an otter most of us kinda eat while swimming. We’ll just be on the safe side and wait. I don’t want to have to rescue a cow because he got cramps while swimming. I’m also a little leery of getting into water that has a sign informing me that it’s really deep. I’m not that tall so water that might go up to most peoples waist kinda goes over my head. Yes. I know. I’m an otter. I just don’t like to get my beehive wet.
Mr. C. Cow now wants me to put a pizza oven in the camper. I’m thinking we can just come back here for a bit of the beach pizza. I don’t think a stone oven rolling around with us in a camper is a safe idea.
Today we wandered into a small seaside town that looked like it stepped straight out of someones costal town fantasy. Quaint houses along the water and small little shops that you would think would only come out of some perfect New England imagination. They even had a guy selling fish out of a little stall. He kept telling Mr. C. Cow about the “biggest fish seen around these parts” and something about a mermaid with large “something or others.”. I didn’t even let the old fish seller finish his mermaid tale because I was ushering Mr. C. Cow away from the stall. He enjoyed the old mans stories but I thought that part of it seemed a bit too fishy to be real.
We stopped in at a bakery across the street from Mr. Tall Tale Fish Man and had some coffee and a pastry before moving on. The guy just kept staring at us from his fish stall through the bakery window. Take a sip of coffee and turn to see him looking at you. Take a bite of a pastry and turn to see him still peeking at you from a distance at his stall. Mr. C. Cow didn’t seem to care but I was mighty freaked out. I think the man might have had a wee bit too much mead from the local pub where the people were probably also tired of listening to his sea stories. I guess an idealistic perfect costal town wouldn’t be complete without some crazy old fisherman with this exaggerations and fishy smell.