Wherein My Beach Attacks Me!

I just don't listen.

I thought all the talk about the Red Tide was because 'Bama was in town. Everywhere. In front of MY car. Slacking and yakking and driving pitifully because they don't know where their GPS is pointing to. They swerve and dodge the locals as they talk on their phones or argue with their navigator.

Anyway, my favorite weatherman at Fresh Bilge sent a warning flare my way about today. Wind and waves? I've seen 'em. High tides? I lived through Frances, thank you.

But just an hour ago, PepperDog and I went to Porpoise Point. Besides the fact that I couldn't open my car door against the nor'easter winds--seriously--the towering waves and whitecaps extended as far as I could see. The seaweed on the beach was knee-deep, and jagged troughs were cut into to shore making steep banks on an already steep beach.

We walked down anyway, happy to be outside. Hmmm....dead fish, aw, so pretty, too. Another, and another. Some folks were swimming, but Pepper and I trudged through sand that had lost all structural integrity, giving way beneath each step. We went maybe a quarter of a mile with the wind to our backs, near the shore so our skin wouldn't be flayed from our bones by the sand. We saw the local news photographer out there, taking pics of dead fishies.

"Stay out of the water," he offers. "Red Tide."

"Yeah, I see it's drifted south, then," I counter.

"Yes, and it's starting to hurt my eyes and nose," he says.

We decide to turn back, into the fury of the sunny windstorm of ocean moisture. Within two minutes both the dog and I are coughing and gagging from the salt and the Red Tide's influence. Weird. We sputter our way back to the car. Poor doggie dear has tears running from her eyes! I look in the mirror and see a real Ghost Story! I look no better. I'm still coughing, my lungs, eyes, and nose still burn.

Think I'll stay in for the rest of the week. Ack!

I console myself knowing that I have my own weather forecaster, who also happens to be an excellent writer. Thanks, Alan!

Van the Man

Raglan Road:

Yoinked from One Cosmos, which, btw, Kicks Donkey Butt like no other.

Daily Dose

I just love Whiskey River, but you have to capture things there before they fade away. Here's one of my favorites:

"Each one of you is perfect the way you are and you can use a little improvement."
- Shunryu Suzuki

That is all. Go back to your Friday night. Don't mind me.

Note to self:

Please stop blogging on your lunch hour. Friday night rewrites after 6:00pm and a nice cuba libre are fine, as far as that goes, but I think all five of your readers worry you're actually pro-Hillary. Gotta work on the lunchtime snark. Time to head over to Doggette's place for a remedial course. She certainly is the Mistress of Snarkasm.

[side note to my note to myself: stop splitting infinitives. -ed]

Also, keep a sharp eye on Erica. She's trying to get on your good side, but I think she's up to something and I think it involves mud on the riverbanks of Helen. Why else would she nominate me for something so prestigious as this?

Thanks, Erica! See you in Helen...

Updated Link-love: to the Gunslinger. She packs heat with both hands and with her keyboard. That her blog kicks is a given.

And another thing. When there are bloggers who write stuff like this, why do I even bother?

While dropping my son off at a homecoming football game this weekend, Chris rolled his window down and advised him, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

As Devon was walking into the crowd of people in line, he retorted over his shoulder, "And where would I do that? The bleachers?"

He never learns.

I rolled down the passenger window and screamed, "If it was good enough for me and your father, it's good enough for you!"

Poor kid. He simply has no choice but to be dazzling in order to to survive high school with a mother like me.

You could just scroll and scroll through her posts reading one gem after another until you awake from your self-hating reverie to realize you are in front of your blogger dashboard with the screen popup saying, "delete your blog?"

Thank You Note to Hillary

Dear Hillary,

Just today I realized that I haven't really had to hear much about Nancy Pelosi in the news. Oh, the obligatory screech here or there, as she regurgitates the Democrats' talking points to her hungry media brood, but that's to be expected.

100 days have come and gone, and a misguided trip to the Mideast, and it would seem she's disappeared from the radar screen. Thank you so much!

You did this, didn't you? I know it was you! She was getting on everyone's nerves, playing at being an Alpha and making all sorts of horrid faux pas. It all was painful enough for someone to finally step forward and give the nod. A word here, a secret sign there, a phone call or two to folks who can make things happen. I'd swear you were from my little pirate town. Still, I miss Vince Foster, don't you?

It must be hard for Nancy to be upstaged as you soar to the forefront of the Democratic HouseParty while she foolishly holds onto her Dhimmitude creds. Credentials that you encouraged her and oh-so-many others to adopt even as you seek to distance yourself from such over-the-top moon-battery! I love what you've done with the place!

I simply must thank you for a wonderful political time!

All the best,

-J o A

P.S. No, dear, I'm not voting for you. Just because you're amusing in a grim sort of way doesn't mean I'm ready to hand my wallet over to you "for the common good."

An Incurious Group of Slackers. My Readers.

Yes, faithful Slackers, I've dropped hints and said many an inscrutable thing in this blog. Of course, my normal state of consciousness teeters a bit on the unbalanced side, so perhaps you're not incurious as much as you are reticent about shattering my fragile state of being. But that would mean you have to care. Not bloody likely.

So in my continued fantastical state of mind, I'm going to assume you are all dying to know things, but are just too damn lazy to ask.

Well, if you must know, this is what 10 tons of marble looks like.

Hmmm...it looks an awful lot like Elisson.

Now, about those parachutes...

Enemies of Slack

The bad news is that the 2008 Marketing report that was due next Monday got rescheduled for today by 5:00. The good news is that it's done.

Time-compression plays to my strong suit, and while I may bitch and moan and stress in the clutch of it, I work really well that way. And now, I have more time in the next few days to start planning for the next panic.

Which is also scheduled to arrive next Monday.

Not to worry, though. I needed to find two really large parachutes before Monday--the fun never ends!-- before 10 tons of marble arrives. Yesterday, in between number-crunching, I googled 'em up, and in 5 minutes had ordered them. They arrive tomorrow. Sweet!

Have to work Saturday, though, to make up for time I'll miss going to Helen on the 12th. But, The Slack is sweeter after the crush of responsibility is over.

Now, to think about a whole new line of greeting cards!

Inappropriate Thank-you Notes

Just a little idea I'm kicking around, to keep my mind off of spreadsheets, outlines, market projections, and 10 tons of Carerra marble arriving next Monday.

You know, it would be so inappropriate to send a thank-you card to Chavez, Castro, Ack!Madeenijad, (but I'm sure it's the Hollywood thing to do!) or an old boy/girl friend, or your former mortgage-holder-overpaid-CEO who is renovating his $15 million mansion, or former spouse, in-laws, etc.

A fun little escapist fantasy to keep the right side of my brain mildly placated until I can play there again. Sigh.

Man Law: Draft Beer, Satellite Hookup, Chrome

Don't want a sailboat? Don't have a Ferrari? Here's a whole new way to slack with the Slick Set. From the Guy Gear link on the left, Uncrate has a way for you tailgate in style. Behold, The Most Marvelous Object in the World.

You know you want one. Fourteen large will get you one.

Ooooh Update! Scroll down at that link for "Costume T-Shirts"!


Meanwhile, back to my marketing report. Sigh.

Tuned Out

Just slackin' away.

Anarchy and Other Sports

One of the ghost stories I tell involves privateers and pirates. Much is made of the sticky distinction between privateer and pirate in this town's dialogue, and has to do with British or Spanish extractions within the populace. I find that little has changed from the time of my stories to today. Anarchy isn't all it's cracked up to be, but it sure is interesting.

What would you think of a woman who convinced a bunch of her friends to go in with her on buying a house in the lucrative historic district, only to sell it to her stepson and his wife, taking monthly cash payments in order to pay back (or not) her investors? And each of the investors was listed as a lienholder on the title. And that some mortgage banker conveniently forgot to verify a title search. And that the unsuspecting couple with a new baby thought they were making an investment in their own future, only to find they were supporting an evil stepmom and several lienholders. And they only found out about it when trying to get an equity loan for improvements on the old house. I'm not saying anyone here ever did such a thing, but wouldn't that just be outrageous?

My little town is still up for whatever it can get away with. Not quite anarchy, but I suspect it has a price list of "public services" available to the right person. Just be sure not to become my next ghost story, should you ever decide to set up shop here.

I must remember to tell you about my secret mission to a Carribbean island ruled by a heartless dictator, or the years spent in Mexico City. It makes for a good contrast between drab, lifeless totalitarianism and inventive, self-interested anarchy. (Plus, I learned all the ways that rum can be smuggled out of a distillery. That's gotta be useful some day.)

Emmm....

I can't feel the finfertips in my left haned to typd.

Yhat's what i get for ptacticing my guitar for Vlobtoberfesrt.

"Ghostgh Riders in fhe Sky" is good for sgrumming pradtice, but i'fe losgt the callouses on my left pqw...dammit!.. hand.

nest up is, "one vud wisetr'. Oucgh!

Important Update!

HOLD THE BUS! Woohoo! I must have some peeps out there using Typepad, because I'm now proud to inform that I've bested that media whore
(I keed!) Dave Barry's Blog on this! I'm No. 1!!
Thanks to my homies!

In your face, Dave Barry, No. 3! North Florida rulz. Miami droolz!

Untitled Post for Saturday Morning

Roshi
I never really understood
what he said
but every now and then
I find myself
barking with the dog
or bending with the irises
or helping out
in other little ways
- Leonard Cohen


h/t Whiskey River


For more doggie goodness get on board the Ark!

Forfeit to The Slack

Many a workday when I lived in Orange Park, I'd find myself jockeying my old Corolla for the inside rail on U.S. Hwy 17, only to slow down the car and stay put just long enough to enjoy the sunrise over the St. Johns River. And maybe even snap a pic or two. The header picture is such a one, where I decided to turn at the marina and park for a pic or two.

The Slack was calling to me, even though I was living west of I-95 at that time.

But the heartbreaker there at the marina was all the beautiful boats sitting there, unused. The Jolly Roger and I frequently enjoyed strolling around those docks in the evening, wishfully thinking of sailing away, and verbally abusing the absent owners of such magnificent vessels.

"They should be forced to forfeit these things to folks who can appreciated them," was our somewhat envious proclamation.

The point here is that, this really is the only life you get. If you've been graced with the talents or reserves to buy big toys and never use them, well, bless your heart. Now get out there and enjoy them, dammit! Or move over and let me show you how to live!

Here in Florida there's a glut of such toys: beautiful cars that folks can't drive one mote over the speed limit lest that fiery red Ferrari attract negative attention. Cabriolets that roll around with the top UP because it's too hot, too cool, too humid, too breezy.

There's fleets of beautiful boats that sit in their slips, untouched for months and years. I know because I've walked past them many a fine evening. High-pressure atmosphere, sunny skies, fair winds and... parked sailboats. Sigh.

The owners are doing what, exactly, that is more important than enjoying the fruits of their labors?

I think those of us who scrimp and save and enjoy a little bit of wine on the narrow deck of a 24' sloop at midnight, anchored out in the St. Johns River, under the full moon and under the influence, are doing the right thing with our money.

Ruth Marie Miller Goff did the right thing with hers. Bless her heart.

A.I. -- Bringing the Fun!

Even Better Update! I'm the fifth entry for "Bodies in My Backyard"!

I worry, however, that people are googling such a thing. Still, if I had any real peeps, they'd go out and make me No.1!

**********

I'm so proud! I'm the ninth entry on searches for "Neck Exerciser".

The serendipity-do-dah of Googling things is a source of fascination for me, if only because the vaunted Artificial Intelligence of search engines truly relies on the human searcher's intelligence to make any sense.

The Singularity, when it arrives, is sure to be funny.

More "SpaceBalls," less Borg.

Talk Like A Physicist Day! It could happen...

I like to be considered a cool cat, so I read the Vodka Pundit. He turned me on to Cocktail Party Physics, and this amazing blog was immediately installed on the roll, right there, under "Beret".

Not only does she sport a must-have accessory, she has the chops to fill that beret with the snappy patter that only those given over to a lonely lifetime of geekdom can muster. Oh go over and tell her she's pretty. Geeks need to hear it once in a while. But I'd bet she hears it quite often. Today's post is tons o' fun if you can keep up.

Other links from my wanderings today:

Gagdad Bob has a killer Jazz Set at the bottom of today's post. Just go there, click on the player, and then go peruse the interblogs while it plays. Awesome. Won't hurt ya a bit to read his blog, either, you existentialists, you!

Yes, we have no bananas, and neither does Erica. What she does have is leg cramps. Go give her some mysterious traditional remedies you got from your Bulgarian grandma.

Scott Ott needs no link-love from me, but he really zings 'em so fast and accurately you'd think he's related to Mel Ott. Go see his latest about Ahm' A' Dinnerjacket.

Gail, over at Scribal Terror links to some good advice if you're ever near a newly-arrived meteorite, or a Jawja blogger. Plus, don't put live rattlesnakes in your mouth. She's a font of wisdom, I tell ya!

Oh, also, don't sneeze and drive.

Best of all, go here and build your own VW GTI, and let me take you for a test-drive. Oh, just pretend she's me, all right? What a fun website VW has created, not taking itself too seriously.

That'll probably keep you busy until I can crawl outta this Tropical Depression.

Growing Gills - Tropical Depression Blues

Update: remember the Harsh Marsh pics in this post? Go look, I'll wait. That's what I've got now, and this farookin' storm doesn't even have a name. Not even a "TD" designation. And the water at the base of the condo? About twice what's in that pic. Yee haw!

Update II: the rain has been absolutely pelting my windows for four full days. Enough! This isn't Britain, for the love of marmite! Sheesh!

Yes, that's a High Wind Advisory.

Quack, already! Damn!

It's been here, hanging around (sat loop) for about 4 days, with another 7 forcasted. I'd rather have a hurricane that would just blow through here and be done with us. Not since that blackguard, Jerry, a few years back, have we had such a sit-n-spin system tormenting North Florida. Argghh!

The poor Pepper Dog is desconsolate as she sits in the downstairs foyer with her nose to the wall. "The lightning can't hurt me if I actively ignore it!" she thinks. Neuroses of several kinds are populating her doggie brain, poor dear.

Five more inches of rain today, and more tomorrow. Blast it all!

But other than the rain, the heat, bugs, gators, and Yankee transplants, it's a veritable paradise.

9/20: Soggy Zombies!! Blue skies this morning! Folks are emerging from their condos and surveying their surroundings as if they fell to earth. They squint at the brightness--it burns! They feel around for the door handle of their cars... they drive off to other, more zombie-friendly venues. Like work.

So, You Wanna Talk Like a Pirate?

Or do you wanna be a pirate?

Tomorrow is the dubious and celebrated,
"International Talk Like a Pirate Day".

Talk is cheap, sez I.

Got pirate creds? List 'em.

We'll hoist them up the mast and see who salutes your rank deeds as most pirate-like. Or we'll hoist your rank longjohns on the foc'sl and keep them downwind of us.

Either way, if you read my blog, you'll know what kind of competition you have.

Meanwhile, I have no idea who this wench is. She wouldn't give a name and was all but ready to have m'liver for breakfast when I snapped this shot. Don't mess with her!

THIS JUST IN from the poopdeck: Elisson is doing Pirate Stand-up. One day only folks!

His Master's Voice? Woofers!

In an unwitting homage to RCA's mascot perhaps?

C'mon girls. If you walked into a guy's place and he had speakers like these "woofers," wouldn't you just run out the door dialing a cab?

From UnCrate. Scroll down for less disturbing guy stuff. Like the barbeque grill that mounts onto your SUV.

Six out of 10 Britons would rather die than exercise

Headline says it all.

"For many people, exercise has become an ugly word, something to avoid at all costs - but you'd be amazed how easy it is to up the tempo of your heartbeat.

"Just 30 minutes a day will do you and your heart the world of good. The BHF is trying to show people that it can be fun too."

A silly article really. Of course, if you have to choose between going to a gym (and you look the like the devil's lumpy stepchild in your exercise outfit), or risking your life on the streets-- unable to carry mace, pepper spray, or any other sort of self-protection, your only other choice is to stay home figure out how to exercise without knocking against the walls or ceiling of your flat...

Well, they did recommend dance classes as a way to get the heart rate up.

Yeah, I'd rather die, too.

Why Guys Way Are Cooler Than Chicks

(I mean, "why guys are WAY cooler than chicks." Dyslexics of the world Untie!)

"You okay, man?"
The feigned concern for bodily damage is so cute!

Happy Birthday Harvey!

This post accomplishes three things, I think. First of all, it's more of my art, as promised.

Second, it's my virgin attempt at trackbacking.

Third, it introduces me to Harvey and Harvey to you. Go wish him a happy belated birthday. He said he wanted boobs, but I don't think he was referring to my blogroll, so here's some artistic ones:
(click to embiggen)

Oh, and for those who wanted to see more of my art, click here and take a look around.

n.b.: I am NOT a photographer by any stretch of the imagination. Most of my pics are for the Muse. For excellent photography, go Slack over at Motel Zero.

Humble Thanks

I suppose this shall be the last I'll say about the good Captain. I fear my bloggy attentions to his book are an embarassment to a man of such stature. Still, true to his gracious word, he really did send me a copy of his book, (signed to me, not my alter ego that bores you with this blog.) A bolder and more carefully crafted signature than before, where every letter is legible and intense. I'm so very thankful!

If you've never read about all the truly good things Mr. H. is doing for Haiti, go here and read a snippet. Of course, if you know anything about Haiti at all, you'll understand what a feat of human will and patience it requires to make anything good happen there. Where governments have failed, he seems to have succeeded. It's the work of someone who values what others have given up on, and if that's not God's own work in this life, I don't know what else could be.

And yet, he is a bona-fide, credentialed stunt man, so I figure he has a sense of the "dramatic overstatement." (That would be a great sub-title for this blog, btw: Dramatic Overstatements) That also makes him a candidate for the Blown-eyed Blogtoberfest in Helen, GA next month.

Lord knows there'll be mayhem.

Hit Parade

10/27/2001

The three of us, having sung together before in a Jazz Ensemble, found ourselves in a small studio with a portable digital track recorder. We were each handed a set of headphones, sheet music, and told to stand close to the enormous RCA microphone. We grinned stupidly at each other, sang timidly, fussed and chided, and generally were shy and overwhelmed. We can sing to an audience, but this-- this was intimidating beyond what we expected.

More than an hour had passed when we started to find our place together. Then we became perfectionists. “No, we can do it better!” we’d protest. Singing alive, three girls on one microphone. I’m told to move in closer, trade places, get into the mike…LET GO, GIRL! So we fight to find the blend and balance and intensity—and there it is!! And we soar and swoop and hold off on the vibrato until we can bend together on the vowel-dipthong change. We rock and sway and mug each other with silly looks. We hang on the Mad Bulgarian’s facial expressions. Ah, he’s not happy yet. “C’mon Boril, give us an entrance, we can do this!”

And then, as though the sun itself decided to shine on us in blessed splendor, Boril smiles, the mix master smiles, the sound man shakes his head in disbelief at the beauty we just created…and we grin like little girls who just discovered the ocean for the first time.

Simple Gestures

I like this 60-second gesture I did a few years ago. Stumbled upon it again tonight. I like what it conveys to me and what the model may or may not have meant to convey.

The intent is what may be hard to discover after the fact, so all that remains is what is. What the model intended, what the artist intended, what the viewer receives are secondary to the moment. The separation is the mystery and the wonder of art, for me, at least.

Except for the most pedantic and straightforward renderings, it really doesn't matter what the artist intended. What is received in the sensitive soul is more than likely what went into the art. That may have started with the observed object or person and moved faithfully through to the end-viewer, or it may have been filtered through the artist's feelings, known or unknown, at the moment of capture.

Only by doing--drawing and drawing and returning back to the canvas over and over does the miracle of the moment occur. Discipline brings such freedom of movement, such joy of creation, and distillation of movement and form. Then the expression is more freely conveyed.

The art of gesture says so much in what it leaves silent.

Slacking In Daytona Beach

Sometimes my day job requires me to suffer through "events" wherein I must represent the interests of my employer. Tonight I had to drive 80 minutes south on I-95 for a soiree of sorts in Daytona Beach. I stayed an hour, smiled and chatted, and then hopped into my sweet red convertible, dropped the top (on the car you pervs!), and cruised back up A1A on one of the last honest-ta-gawd stretches of Old Florida on the East Coast.

Lon Chaney's famous quote seems apt as I drive through the deserted main drag that parallels the world-famous beach of Daytona. "A clown at midnight," is exactly how it strikes me tonight just before the twilight descends. Sad and almost scary, filled with the icons of speed, auto performance shops, tattoo parlors, bars and old hotels with names like "Argosy" and "Corvette" and "Sun Deck." The empty town is still lit up like a bar-fly at last call, hoping someone will notice her and think, "what the hell..."

Slipping away in the twilight behind me, Daytona and Ormond give way to the sweetest thing you can imagine: miles of road running north with nothing but a sea of dark green palmettos on your left, and to the right, dark waves with luminescent tops not fifty feet away from the rocker panels of my Solara. It's almost like sailing. Not quite, but close enough for a work day. The sun peeks out under some lightning-strewn clouds and the day seems reluctant to leave me just yet.

Country chick music is on my CD player. Shut up, you, it's fun driving music: Gretchen Wilson, Bonnie Raitt, Trisha Yearwood. I belt out, "One Bud Wiser" as I cruise along, my hair flying around because I forgot a barrette. People stare and I don't care, I'll never see 'em again, and it feels good to have a voice again.

Low sand dunes seem blue in the gloaming moments just before the road takes a more sensible route a bit further from the coast and now it's all darkness and headlights and traffic and tired neon scribbles advertising seafood or rooms with AC.

But for 40 minutes or so, The Slack has never been so sweet, so good for the soul, so...mine.

Well, Nobody Said, "No," Exactly...

I had a silly poll up last week and you folks, bless your pea-pickin' little hearts, gave a resounding thumbs-up in favor of my continuance here. With the choices given, not one single person picked the nasty, "Gah, get it off the Internet!" choice. A few questioned my sanity, and most everyone, including the incomparable Mr. Hardberger, approved. The deuce, you say! Yes, I say.

But really. I almost hate this thing I've created. It owns me. I was all happy until the Puppy Blendin' Capricious Extender of Blog-Blessings looked down from his ancient ensconcement and breathed life into this blog. And it became a living thing.

Now, I'm chary to submit much information about my home life here on the Internet. And my day job is with such a high-profile name brand recognition in this town and around the world that I daren't breathe a word about work. My ghost gig is slow right now because the turistas ya se fueron, so really, what the heck are all you folks doing here? I mean you're welcome and all that.

Aw... heck, pull up a barstool and let me tell you that I showed my evil-town essays to my friend who has been harshly victimized by the locals, and she loved them. Laughed herself silly and then told me some high-powered New York lawyers with serious connections are taking on the pirates, and it should be a fine appetizer for the newspapers and...

When do you people work?

Speaking of which... gotta run. TTFN.

The Bodies In My Backyard

They're all here, folks. The answers are all here, in my little town. It's such an evil little manipulating, back-stabbing, corrupt stew of players that you can actually trace all the reasons, the money, ingenious plots and missing persons conundrums of recent memory to Right Here.

Nicole Simpson's real murderer? Here. We exacted a bit of Pirate Justice on his ass, and after the garrotting, we took his body to the Santa Maria Restaurant, where you can "feed the fish while you dine!" Seriously. Ya'll leave O.J. alone. Update: nevermind.

You wonder where Osama is and why Bush can't catch him any more than Billy Clinton could? Wonder no longer. He's here. My little town captured him, killed him, and served him up like a trussed pig on British Watch Night three years ago. We have our reasons. Old Moorish Revival reasons, that go back centuries. Imported those reasons here with Menendez. First dibs. Sorry.

Sasquatch? Here. We tossed his carcass out onto Fish Island after Hurricane Frances. He was fun to have around, a great party guest; he would keep posing for pictures, hogging the camera everywhere. He crossed the line, however, when he wanted to run for City Council. This caused such a jealous rage from the Yetis already sitting in the council that we had to off him. But ya'll go ahead and keep looking.

D.B. Cooper? See his pic, there? He was running a local fishing charter here for years. He's not dead yet, but wasting away quite happily at Scarlett O'Hara's, regaling the bikers with his outlandish getaway story. He's a local hero, of course, welcomed here with quiet winks and knowing smiles when we found out who he was. The alcohol content of this town acts as a preservative, so ol' Coop (we call him that) may just be around for a while longer.

If you can think of others, just ask me there, in the comments. I'll check around and see who knows what. The Russian Mafia here has all the money connections. And they know things. The Patel Hotel Cartel can stow and transfer people from room to room around this city for years. I'm not saying they do, just saying they could. The Menorcans can sell some little something at the local Giant Flea Market faster and quieter than a Chicago Teamster. The 400+ year inbred families of the Spanish settlers, well, they're not much for brain power, but they know how to make things happen, and they're mighty patient.

What? You haven't read about any of this in the News? I'm shocked.

Update: Yes, Jimmy Hoffa, too. Long story...

Update: Nevermind. THIS JUST IN! Fidel Castro's carcass was just discovered at the foot of the Bridge Of Lions. Well, there's no lions there just now, just a lyin' S.O.B. who was found stashed behind one of the construction barges. Seems like he welshed on a guarantee to supply cheap diesel fuel for the bridge renovation project. Bet ya'll didn't know that Cuba has oil wells, huh? Well, it does. Insert conspiracy theories here:

It's Official - Max Hardberger is The Man

Look, I'd love to get all giggly about Fred! Thompson. I like his take on the debates and his moxie; we'll see how he manages a campaign, however, before we let him run the country. Duncan Hunter talks great smack, but really, it remains to be seen if he can take unruly peers and make them see things his way. Rudy is a man of action in the trenches but his politics in the office are undesirable. And really, since Ike, I don't think any major military leader will ever get elected in this country again.

No, what we need is a man who has stacked his bets on his own hand, kept his aces up his sleeve, and has proven himself in the only arena that matters--that great leveler of egos: the Sea.

I'll admit to overplaying my admiration, but don't let it detract from the essence of his book, Freighter Captain. Others can give you the technical details and bore you with their book-reviewing expertise. I can only tell you what I experienced and thought and enjoyed about it. You want excerpts? Go here.

First: it's clean, chronological, and concrete. No guessing on time lines or events. This reads as orderly as any captain's log. For me, that's a big plus in pacing. It keeps me moving through the events without having to back up or re-read some passages. You can tell that Captain Max runs a tight ship on his keyboard. This, to me, is what makes it more of a real-time adventure; it's not cluttered with flashbacks or character development. It just happens. And what happens is gripping enough, believe me. Nothing like watching your ship bend in the middle while in the troughs of a rough sea to teach you to focus!

Second: it doesn't insult my intelligence. A moment of thankful silence to the literary gods for that tender mercy, please. No tedious explanations of how shipping, freighting, stevedores and unions, and charters work. It all becomes evident quite naturally, without clever stylings or leading you by the hand. Charterers are in it for themselves. Governments are corrupt. Owners want to make a profit. Captain and crew want to live to see a paycheck. Simple. And yet, the intricate choreography of seafarer tradition and rank make for creative solutions and crafty workarounds to any problem.

Third: it lets the story lead, not the personal thoughts or emotions of the author. Actually, by the end of the book you only know the author as he is defined by his decisions and daring. What man could want more? A few moments of wry observation are cast about here and there, a few missteps observed and reported. But no emotional second-thoughts or hand-wringing: I got my gun. I hid the cash in my underwear. A face was smashed in. The Cubans aimed their canons. The Coasties never suspected a thing. Damn, but it's a fine adventure as-is; full of real action! Why pad that with wordy self-consciousness?

Mostly, what I liked about it was the microcosm of shipboard life combined with old-fashioned capitalism, dealing with corrupt politicians, moral expediency, promises kept, and the pratical art of bluffing. Along with a healthy dose of "fair seas and pretty girls," it goes a good way towards being a bit of a North Star in our own uncertain skies and gathering storms.

You can't ask much more from a book, or a man.

Tomato Soup, Cap'n Morgan, & Capt. Max

Tomato soup. Good for the soul. Not sure if it's gonna cure this flu/cold/ninja virus, but it's warm influence on my innards seems to be the ticket out of this malaise.

Or, that could be the rum talking.

Meanwhile, I've finished reading Freighter Captain. Go read an excellent excerpt here, and you'll have an idea of what I've been through. I feel like I've been sleep-deprived for five months. When do freighter guys ever catch up on sleep?

Can't write about it yet. I've lived it for a few days and it was engrossing to the point that I still need to let it all settle in my mind. It was so good and seemed over too quick--

But I know what I'm buying next: The Sea Bitch .

Torn

"Inadvertent," or "Unintentional"?

Two words from diverse etymological backgrounds. They mean the same thing. Look up one, it means the other. The, "intendere" of stretching toward, aiming at-- and all the words that spring from that ancient term, or the younger, "advertere" of causing to turn toward something.

And they both mean, in a sense, missing the mark. But we use them in an exculpatory sense most of the time in a way that means, "What mark? I wasn't aiming there!"

And so you now you see why blogging is hard for perfectionistic personality types. We can spend all day wondering whether or not to use "inadvertent" or "unintentional." The best writers solve this problem by applying an uninhibitor which kicks the restrictor plate out of those sort of wordsmith conundrums and just lets the words flow out and flood the blogosphere.

So, I'm gonna wait for the sun to cross the yardarm somewhere before I blog anymore today. Just needed to push the other post down on the page, too.

Reproach

Is there any other creature that can pierce the disinclined heart of man quite like a good dog? Cats are special, sure. They should have their own special bus, too. But there's nothing like the baleful look of a faithful, friendly dog to tell you when you've seriously missed the mark.

"Take me for a walk, pleeeeze?! I'm so cute and I need sunshine and squirrels and birds and sand and waves and what's that, food?! Did someone just walk by the door? I hear a car! Take me outside!! Oh please, oh please, oh puh-leeeeze!"

I tried to wheeze a few coughs out, to make her understand that I was still sick, and not up for a beach-walk. "No," she insisted, "it's been over a week and the beach is there, I know it is!!! There's BIRDS that need to be chased!!! Oh c'mon, c'mon!!!"

So, fairly sure that this flu is really strep and the stress of walking in the famously deep, fluffy sand of Porpoise Point would send the infection to my heart, I resigned to my fate. Pepper-Dog pointed out that I had spent the day stressing at work and so if I was gonna die, I might as well make her happy before I go. And maybe cook dinner, too, while I was at it. It was hard to argue with her logic.

She sits up front in the car and decides to let me drive. But not without her close attention. Like Rain Man, she is an excellent driver. She sits bolt-upright in the passenger seat and looks straight ahead as though divining the road conditions, the traffic patterns and the occasional BIRD! as we drive. If I stop at a crossing, she breaks her concentration to look left, then right. Then, she rears back to the right, raises her left paw, and gives me a high four, as if to say, "this.is.so.cool!" We start off from the intersection and she resumes her control-freakish attention to the road.

We get to the beach in 5 minutes. She is so stoked that she would cut off her own tail right there and then just out of gratitude. Not necessary, I assure her.

Big, honking waves and skinny surfer dudes saying, "cool dog!" as we walk by. Birds are chased, wind blows, waves tumble her around and... it's not enough. But, we have to go back home.

Worst of all, this damn dog is such an adjunct conscience, she knows that when I go to the kitchen there is hope for a snack, but when I start pouring a glass of rum and coke, all of her hopes of further interaction are fruitless for the next 40 minutes or so. With a sigh and kerplunck! she slides down the wall and lays on the floor like--like a dead dog.

There's no making her happy.

Censored! By My Own Body!

I put in another half-day at work, but I'm still fending off this flu. When you work in a tourist town, you get first crack at whatever new bird-cow-pig-world-flu is going around. I haven't been this sick since I flew back from London with a plane full of holiday-ers and their sick, wailing, bratty children. So many kids on a Virgin flight! Anyway...

I lost my voice. To the delight of so many, I might add.

A croak, a squeek, or high-pitched yodeling attempt at communication only brings about so much tut-tutting and the conversation lapses into office talk about the tourist diseases we are so prone to. We keep big bottles of hand sanitizer nearby at all times, but everything we touch has been touched by thousands of folks from the hinterlands of Dog Breath, Slobovia, or some such.

If you folks just knew how virulent the childhood diseases are in other countries, you'd plotz. We let in especially healthy strains of the MMR's with almost every border crossing. Yeah," if it doesn't kill us, yada, yada, yada." But the mumps can do some serious shit on a grown man and make him wish he was dead. Oh, you've been vaccinated? How nice. I bet your vaccine doesn't speak Spanish.

Heh. I can't talk, but I can still type, you sorry bastards. Get back to work!

(Sorry! Didn't mean to cuss. I've been absorbing Freighter Captain, so it just kinda has that influence.)

Harshin' My Mellow Marsh

1st pic: the normal view from my living room. (click on it, it's purty!)

2nd pic: the view when tropical storms sit off the coast and spin. Think: Ophelia, 2 years ago.

3rd pic: today, at the base of the condo building. The Atlantic Ocean is literally lapping up against my building, yet again!

This explains it.

Computer models show it heading right for us here. Imagine my joy! I've got almost two inches of water at the bulkhead of my building as it is.

Stay tuned for more weather panic!

Update: here's a satellite loop. Even the nice dry air to the north isn't daunting the storm's need to start cirulating. It's supposed to form a bit further southeast and then do a slow rumba up the coast of Florida.

Update to the update: Nevermind!

Neck Exerciser

Uncrate is not a paying advertiser here. Nobody is. I just like their stuff. Today's bookcase is a lovely and appetizingly asymetrical thing. However, when I imagined it in my living room, looking at the different books, I realized that I would be cranking my head from one side to the other like some yoga instructor.

Maybe there are folks who use conventional shelves and still stack their books willy-nilly, but for the most part, book manufacturers want to assure that you have a cramp in only one side of your neck. I'm just not sure if the Quad is making a fitness statement or an artistic one.

For $1800, I'll just take my books straight up, thanks.

Captain Max Update

Max Hardberger's book, Freighter Captain, is very, very good. No overwrought flowery crap to wade through, either. Just the facts. And why not? When the facts are so riveting, the challenges unending, and the outcome so in doubt, you just keep turning pages to see if welds will hold and if Coast Guardies will suspect that the oily water separator is a jury-rigged fantasy. Fast-paced and crammed with geeky engineering details and astute government workarounds; it just sails along and pretty soon you're in Haiti.

The good captain offered to send me my very own copy, and I am grateful for the offer. But I just couldn't wait any longer to start reading. So there I am, propped up in bed and coughing my head off, peering into the valuable book I bought from some online pirate, trying not to crack the spine. Doesn't matter. I'm off in a wonderful adventure that's so much fun, I almost forgot to refresh the "cough medicine".

More later, ya landlubbers.

This Just In...

There is no cure for the common cold crud I'm experiencing right now. However, I find that Stoli vodka and grapefruit juice certainly knock this cold on its ass.

I feel lower than Michael Vick. Bleh.

Update: (like youse guys care) Still pretty sick. Slept pretty well, got up and went into work. Bad decision. Boss asks me how I feel. "Like crap on a cracker," I respond. After a few hours of hearing me cough everyone pretty much was in agreement about me taking my germs back home.

Update 2: Grapefruit juice and Bacardi Orange go pretty damn well together. Stopped the coughing for a bit, anyway.

Freedom

Damn and blast!

I started to care about something in the post below. I'm over it, now.

As a mind-cleansing agent, and slacking atonement I present,
"S/V Freedom".

Freedom is an authentic replica of a 19th century blockade runner. She is a 72', double masted, gaff-rigged, topsail schooner. She was built in Norfolk, VA in 1982 by famed Naval architect Merritt Walters, the first of his many Rover schooners.

Blockade running sounds like good, clean fun. But the sunset cruise on this is likely the most fun you can have in my little town. And no, I don't work for them, but they are the nicest, non-pirate folks you'd ever want to meet.

Looks like they're hiring, btw. Just sayin'.

Political Derangement Syndrome

Mark Levin and Mark Steyn are two reasons why I don't post much about politics. Why stumble around like an amateur when you can read Levin's slam-dunk in NRO?

There is indeed a culture of corruption, and it extends well beyond any single politician. It swirls around big government. It always has and it always will. It has become institutionalized in many ways. And that culture of corruption celebrates clever word games used by unelected judges to exercise power they don’t have as they rewrite the Constitution; it demeans people of faith who speak out against the culture of corruption and for — dare I say — family values; it undermines and seeks to demoralize Americans in uniform as they fight a horrible enemy on the battlefield; it demonizes entrepreneurs and successful enterprises; it uses race, age, religion, gender, and whatever works to balkanize Americans; and so on. This is the real culture of corruption. Let’s call it what it is — modern liberalism. And its impact on our society is far worse than the disorderly-conduct misdemeanor to which Larry Craig pled guilty and for which he has now resigned.

It wouldn't matter what "answer" any party devises, Corruption is King.

The cultural agur in which such corruption has been allowed to spread is the real problem. The catalyst for its rapid growth is the Mainstream Media and the pernicious agenda they've willingly assigned themselves: moral puppet-masters.

For an industry that's read in black and white, the gray fog of our political climate most powerfully eminates from the MSM. They've usurped any Higher Power as a moral compass, replacing it with one of their own design, their own bias.

You think they did this for free? That money doesn't drive their Holy Agenda? That the Media are the only bona fide altruists?

Why should we not cast a weather-eye on anyone who reveres as Holy Truth anything spouted by the MSM-gods, as being anything other than dangerously fundamentalist and steeped in the corrupting influence of money?

Political Derangement Syndrome. The Media may not have started it, but they sure as hell approve of it.

Will new Internet laws assure that the old media heirarchy will maintain its control of the so-called freedom of the press?

When You're Buff Like This...

...folks will let ya walk around nekkid!

The almost real deal, in Buena Park, CA.

Wikipedia says this:

One famous full-sized replica is located at the Movieland Wax Museum in Buena Park, California. This magnificent reproduction of David standing in the Movieland courtyard was carved from ONE piece of flawless Carrara marble taken from Michelangelo's own quarry near Pietrasanta, Italy. It stands 18 feet high, weighs 10 tons and took two years to complete. This reproduction was created by David Sollazzini and Sons, Florence, in 1965

It's not much closer in Buena Park than going to Italy, the way I figure it.

I've seen the works of Diego Rivera in the Palacio Nacional, and as a matter of course driven past Freida K's house in Mexico City many times. I've sat down and wept at the unbelieveable chance to find myself alone with my thoughts in the National Museum in London. I think I'd collapse in sheer joy to be in Italy. Heck, I haven't even been to our own National Museum here in the U.S.

Sigh.

*shuffling off to put more money in my savings account*

30-day Sand-Blogging

Maybe it's time to start a new trend.

Let's dedicate a server on Blogger or some such site that allows you to knock out your best effort for 30 days, only to delete it forever.

Like some sort of Sand Mandala from Tibetan Monks, let your life and words flow and swirl, blend and then drift into the cyber-wind. No pressure for hits, links, or recognition.

Maybe something like PostSecret, but for folks with a bunch of whatever they need to scream or whisper, laugh or pray into the universe. And then, on the last day of each month, all the blogs disappear. No amount of "Wait! I wasn't done with that!" would salvage the blog. A cold, unmanaged script of code would say, "buh-bye!" and you'd be free to move on. Or start a permanent blog, or laugh at yourself, or just feel... healed.

It would be similar to the fate of many blogs already, but would save the blogger from himself and his lesser angels.

It may even inspire something worth saving from out of a life half-lived.

He's Alive!

Because Elisson had to debase some fine art, I was reminded to go check on Patrick Hughes and see if he was still alive. (Warning! Both sites are rated NSFW or any other civilized society!)

Patrick is alive and kicking I'm glad to say. If you've never checked out his "Diary of Indignities" well, hitch up yer britches*ahem* and get over there. He has the same kinda weird family as you do.

This picture was shamelessly stolen from his site for the purpose of research at my job. Seriously.

Shazzaaamm!!

See that little purple triangle that signifies tornadic rotation?

Pepper Dog and I survived it. And as a weather-junkie I must say even I was impressed to the point of forgetting my camera was right next to me.

I counted up to 40 lightning flashes per minute for at least the last fifteen minutes. Which just can't be.

Damnation!

If it ever calms down, we'll go out for a look and see if the condo complex survived.

River Rat Slack

In my blood, I guess. Long hours of reading books during the still of the hot afternoons gave way to fishing and crabbing on the backside of the clock; only after another good dunk in the Weekie Wachie River. It was the best investment my parents ever made, a weekend retreat on the Gulf Coast.

Next morning we'd be in the little ski boat, headed out to the Gulf for some scallops or Black Rock Bass. Then, back home to check the lone little crab line. One chicken bone and a single-minded little girl with a stealthy net yielded dinner for all.

It's not that I like fishing so much as I like catching.

And yes, I learned to clean 'em at about that age.

Other afternoons, I'd jump into the wooden row-boat and take myself as far upriver as my arms could manage, just for the joy of drifting back. The peace and quiet--the craved-for solitude was a bonus for the last child of eight.

"Just lay low," my little inner self would say, "and they'll forget about you and find other things to torture."

A Clean Shaven Man

For Velociman's Saturday Morning Cartoon viewing:



It took many years, but I finally convinced the Jolly Roger to shave his 'stache. There's a whole list of reasons--none of which I'll post here--why it makes us happy, guys.