29th May, 2003

I had to harvest four pounds of nettle tops for BrookLodge in Aughrim, a fancy resort and spa hotel in the Wicklow Mountains. They wanted to make fancy nettle top soup.

I waded through a field of stinging nettles about 4 feet high, pinching off their tops. I quite enjoy the sting now. The tingle is shocking and then pleasant with heat lingering in the skin for a long while after. I do have some raised and red ugly looking bumps all up and down my arm, but there also is that giddy heat!

I wonder if stinging nettles are used in Ben Gay or a product like that? Were they ever used in right of passage ceremonies? Could that tingle go to your brain if you, say, brewed beer with them? They hurt and they’re annoying, but they feel so good. What a strange plant.

I realized it was Chris’ birthday today. We’d been friends since high school and he was no off on his own journey- somewhere in the Persian Gulf, operating radios for whatever unit he got attached to. He is one of the very few friends whose birthday I have memorized, and I hope he gets out of this stupid pointless war ok.

After I got my four pounds of nettle tops (and if you think that’s easy, weigh a bag of leaves next time you rake!) Bryan told Denis he wanted to bring me with him to BrookLodge to help him.

Drink.

I mean, what else? We pulled into this fancy, lovely place, gave the chef his bags of nettle tops, and then went straight into the spacious and well appointed bar for a “liquid lunch.”

We “talked politics,” which, as it does about half the time, meant we complained a lot. I guess it was fun. I did approach real rage at the stupid wars and Bryan told me to run for President. Which actually would be cool. I’d be amused to cut military spending and increase domestic aid.

I lost the rest of the day in a drunken daydreamy haze. It was nice, but in the evening, I felt this ridiculous pressure about not having achieved enough that day and an equally ridiculous resolution to be more productive tomorrow.

Heh, President. Relax.