Over the weekend I've had a great insight into Seattle courtesy of three cool people, the hoover rolling Ann Craig who just relocated here two weeks ago, Jeannie whom Kevin Marks hooked me up with, and Ann's friend Todd.

Together we explored a Russian submarine that's moored in the harbour on Saturday - claiming that we were actually there to reclaim it for our soon to be re-born Soviet Union motherland - and yes, I was the irrepressible Sean Connery character of the troupe : "Gentlemen, we shail into hishtory...", and then we had a great BBQ at Todd's place where over some fine steak and beers, I was introduced to an awesomely funny book I will definitely be ordering, Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, whom I'd never heard of before - and we had some readings from it, this is the beginning of one of them, very, very funny...

When I was young, my father was transferred, and our family moved from western New York State to Raleigh, North Carolina. IBM had relocated a great many northerners, and, together, we made relentless fun of our new neighbors and their poky, backward way of life. Rumors circulated that locals ran stills out of their toolsheds and referred to their house cats as "good eatin'." Our parents coached us never to use the titles ma'am or sir when speaking to a teacher or shopkeeper. Tobacco was acceptable in the form of a cigarette, but should any of us experiment with plug or snuff, we would be automatically disinherited. Mountain Dew was forbidden, and our speech was monitored for the slightest hint of a Raleigh accent. Use the word y'all and, before you knew it, you'd find yourself in a haystack french-kissing an underage goat. Along with grits and hush puppies, the abbreviated form of "you all" was a dangerous step on an insidious path leading straight to the doors of the Baptist church.

Great times.