....which is why I haven't been on Xanga as much as I would like.  Please forgive me.

Check out what I've been busy doing....AND before you leave the site, be sure and sign my guestbook!!!

http://www.punksurferlovescutegirl.com/indx.cfm

Love,

Steph

ps...also, check out my good friend (and great photographer!!), Julie Knight's, blog.  I promise that you'll get to see me in a bikini!!  hee

http://k2images.wordpress.com/2009/06/29/eddie-stephanie/

I laughed until I started crying when I saw this video.  Man, you've got to be talented.  AND have a lot of time on your hands!!!!

http://wimp.com/sheeplight/

I haven't ever re-posted something before...but I was reading some old entries and came across this one.  I've really been missing the island lately, and this story is set in a restaurant that no longer exists since Ike.  Hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed re-living it again when I read it!

Most people don't realize it, but I have PERFECT aim.

Perfect aim, much like perfect pitch (which I also happen to have) is not something that can be developed.  You either have it when you are born, or you don't.  It is a skill that is invoked subconciously...which can lead to some interesting encounters.

Unlike perfect pitch, which really comes in handy as as musician, perfect aim, at least in my case, doesn't always make me more socially acceptable.  With perfect pitch, I can almost immediately correct minute errors in my playing, raising my skill level to that above my peers (or at least the people sitting directly around me in the orchestra).  It provides a way for me to fit in to the group I am playing with.  Perfect pitch among players is a highly desired gift.  In this way, I am veiwed as something special, a "super musician" if you will.

Perfect aim, on the other hand, doesn't usually help me make any new friends.

Here is one of two of the most recent examples of "my gift:"

As I've mentioned in previous posts, one of my favorite places to eat in Galveston is The Cajun Greek Restaurant.  It is a serious hole-in-the-wall kind of place that only the locals really know about.  But the food is amazing.  I'm not sure what they put in their spicy crabs, but I often see the cooks in the back swigging beer while mixing large vats of something.  Maybe it's the beer, maybe not.  Just trust me:  you won't get better food on the island anywhere else.

The Greek (as it is affectionately known) has concrete floors, old vinyl chairs and formica tables.  In the middle of the restaurant, is a huge boat-shaped bar.  Behind that bar, on most days, stands the owner, John. 

John is a fairly big guy, with curly hair and a mouth that is very rarely without a cigarette.  He's the kind of guy that might pretend to smile at you, but you can tell he is always sizing you up.   I've been told by some of the local surfers that John is always grumpy because he's always hung over (I guess it comes from hanging out with his cooks);  but whatever the reason, on this particular occasion he seemed even more anti-social than usual.  Being in a great mood from a day spent in the water, I waved at John, said hello and sat my butt on one of the stools at the bar, right next to one of my favorite guys,  Rusty.

Rusty is something of a local celebrity in the surfing community on Galveston because he can shape a good surf board for a decent price, and deliver it within a reasonable amount of time.  He had in front of him on that day the largest pile of spicy crabs I have ever seen in my life.  Because it had been such a good day for me, I decided that it might be fun to finally learn how to break open those spicy critters and learn to eat crabs how they are supposed to be eaten.

Eating crabs, as I was soon to learn, is an art form.  You have to know exactly how to break them apart in order to get the most amount of meat out of them.  It seems like alot of work for very little gratification, but in the case of these crabs (cooked by the somewhat intoxicated chefs in the back), it is totally worth the effort.  Rusty, after I explained what I wanted, was happy to to teah me the necessary skills.

"You see here this little @#$%&'s  body?  Well, you want to turn it over and break it in half, right along the    @#$%# middle.  Then you start working on the legs," explained my colorful-languaged friend.

I did what he told me to do and ended up with two sizable portions of spicy-coated crab pieces.  (Just for the record, those spices, when hot, are almost intoxicating.  My mouth is watering just thinking about them right now!)  So, so far, so good in learning how to eat crabs.

"Now you want to twist off the @#$%&'s legs, starting with the smallest at the top.  You want to pull out with your @#$%&ing teeth the meat that's going to be on the inside portion of the @#$%&ing leg."

By this time, I was getting a little dizzy with hunger (and with the striking mutilation of the English language), so I gave that first little crab leg a big twist.  Nothing happened.  The leg refused to come off. 

 Rusty and I just looked at each other for a minute.  A smile started to creep up on his face, and I was sure that some foul comment about my ability (or lack thereof) to remove crab legs was going to spill out of his mouth.  So, I gave the leg another twist and a big pull.

That's when it happened.  My sense of perfect aim decided to kick in.

For some weird, unexplained reason, the large crab piece suddenly flew out of my hand, using the force of my pull, and flew half-way across the restaurant....

....right in to the back of John, the owners, big curly hair!

I couldn't have made that shot if I had been trying;  but somehow, due to a phenomenal freak of nature, that crab hit the ONE target that no one in the restaurant would want to hit.

I could feel my eyes get huge in my head as John slowly begin to turn around.  When I looked at Rusty, I realized that he looked exactly the same way.  But there was no where to run (or hide for that matter), and to make matters worse, I was still holding the guilty crab leg that had decided to release at the most inappropriate moment.  I quickly stuck it behind my back.

John looked at both of us, a giant of a man deciding which underling to pounce on first.  He sucked deeply on his cigarette and then pronounced his verdict.

"Rusty, how many times have I @#$%&ing told you not to throw food in my restaurant?"  he said.

"HEY!!!  I didn't throw anything!  She did it!"  Rusty protested loudly.

John eyed me up and down for a long moment.

"Yeah, right,"  he said.  "Rusty,  I'm warning you:  if you throw anymore food ever again, I'll make sure you never eat in my restaurant."  With that, he turned back around and picked up his conversation with one of the waitresses.  End of discussion.

Rusty wouldn't even talk to me after that.  And I assumed that that was the end of me learning how to eat crabs.

But the good news is that I still get to eat at The Cajun Greek.  Although, I could swear that John keeps his eye on me everytime I go in there now. 

Like I said, this is not a gift that helps me make any new friends.