I have two favorite meals that have never failed to please me (when done right): hamburgers, and chicken wings. Now, the chicken wings I speak of are really Buffalo wings: little wings glazed in a spicy hot sauce. Buffalo is about an hour and a half from where I live, and it holds an honored place in my heart for chicken wings. I have boasted my abilities to withstand the fires of almost any hot sauce. However, one of y'alls (Quia), and maybe more (Captain Oblivious, Ry?) have been so bold as to challenge my rightful claim as King of Hotness (as far as Chicken wings go, I mean!). Now, if any wish to stand by their boast, I shall arrange a contest for August.
I shall purchase several dozen of the spiciest chicken wings known to New York: Country Sweet super hot wings with their special sauce: think Jalisco's Super Hot Sauce! All contestants shall begin eating Chicken wings at the same time. Each person shall be disqualified by a sip from his glass of pop (tr. soda, tr. coke, tr. pepsi, tr. whatever cola). The winner shall be duly hailed King (or Queen) of Hotness (of chicken wings of course!). I am looking forward to the challenge, and to keep my rights to the throne!
On a sadder note.....................................................................
The clouds are so bright and blue here. I would almost say that they look different from the clouds in Virginia. There's a bridge on Rt. 15 crossing from Pennsylvania to New York. Once you're over that bridge, you're back home. It feels like home. When you've crossed it you know that the land is New York. And I don't mean I know it by looking at the Welcome to New York sign. It's just a feeling you get in your bones. You look at the soil, you see the trees, feel the wind, smell the air, and everything tells you this is New York. It's something as old as the Dutch settlers that settled it, and even as old as the Iroquois nations that roamed the territory long ago. you see these old farmhouses, and it wouldn't seem out of place, if a farmer came out of the woods with a musket slung over his shoulder, and some coonskin hides slung over his shoulder.
The epic job search continues. There's a waterpark that is looking for 200 new employees. It's not the greatest job in the world, but it sounds darn good to me. So I'll apply. Some job is better than no job. John C. is still looking for a job, I hear. Maybe after college, I'll move to Ireland, work there for a few years, and come back to the States with a fistful of euros, and as an accomplished Irish musician!
So, I'm back to looking at my gorgeous lake. I feel like Stephen in Braveheart. It's my island, only it's my lake. I'd love to post a picture, but I don't know how, and my service provider blocks the site that gives me directions on how to do it.