Crispy On the Outside

Outskirts, coastlines, shores I am sure of.  Bullseye, the middle seat, landlocked I'm shellshocked.

I love edges. The butt of the loaf. The disappearing/reappearing line in the sand that's stitch-scratched out by a shorebird. The perimeter of the dance floor, where there's more room to bust yer own dang moves. The sound of something Cocteau Twinned, blending like a raindrop into  a crazy, wavy sonic puddle. The points on a meezer, like Derrick's toasted circus-peanut ears. And of course, the golden-brown halo on a pancake, but I think you only get that if you use a real pan (non-stick, ick!) and real butter. 

(Groan. Better writing=less examples in that first paragraph, but which one would you have pulled?! I couldn't pick, so screw that!)

I'm not sure why I feel a gazillion times better on the edge than in the center, but it's like this perfect storm of a) being a natural outsider-type of person (not wired to, say, succeed on Family Feud), b) growing up in a seaside town, c) having childhood asthma (can always use more room to breathe) and c) a burning love for fried foods (which are inherently edge-y). 

Conversely, I feel a little woodgy-boodgy too far away from water's edge or without access to the exit, so you can imagine how worried I was about my business trip to Denver earlier this month. Based on my track record there, it's no surprise that visiting the Mile High City was on my short list of 'absolute worst anxiety-making things to do ever.' 

But you know what? I got through it more than OK (stay tuned for the deets in an upcoming post in which I compare it to my recent trip to Vegas), thanks to, oh, like everyone I whimpered about it to. And special thanks are also due to Rick James, whose  autobiography, Memoirs of a SUPER FREAK, helped set the tone for kicking some big, honkin' Rocky Mountain a$$. I leave you with an excerpt from the book, which was filled with cocaine-fueled comma placement and all kindsa crazy typos that I found utterly delightful (Barry Gordy! Like 100 times!). Moral of the story: Might as well jump:

The cancellation of the tour had crushed me and I went to Hawaii to think. While I was there I had dinner with Shep Gordon. An artist was there eating with us. He and Shep talked art and shit but my mind was in another place. The artist thought I had great lips, at least that's what he said. He asked me if he could sketch me, which he did, on a napkin. The artist was Salvador Dali, he handed me the napkin. Later that day I unthinkingly jumped in the ocean wearing the same clothes from dinner with the napkin and the portrait in my pocket.

Go 'round the outside…