I think I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree

I’m unhip to any script with more buzz than a bee

I ‘ve never seen an eagle that was bald-faced as a lie

Nor was any essay I have spied as bright as fireflies

No one ever wrote a note as well-read as a beet is

No rumor’s near as scorching as August’s brutal heat is

No volumes of prehistory appear in pouches upon wallabies

Or Newsweeks in the yellow beaks of any birds of paradise

I don’t believe that sailors speak any saltier than a clam

And nary a bear was e’er compared to a lover’s candy-gram

I’ve never found a frescoe as sumptuous as a feast

Or met a metaphor sans flaws; the end, to say the least.

Iran has declared its intention to sue Hollywood over what they claim are unfair depictions of their country. Among the movies that have aroused the country's ire are Argo*, 300 Spartans, The Wrestler(??), and "Not Without My Daughter".

The lawyer representing Iran will be French attorney Isabelle Coutant Peyre, who has in the past represented Carlos the Jackal (Ilich Ramirez Sanchez), the imprisoned terrorist whom she has since married. Other clients include a serial murderer jailed for life in Thailand, Zacharias Moussaui, the so-called 20th 9/11 bomber (life in prison), and Roger Garaudy, a Muslim convert who denies the Holocaust as well as Israel's right to exist (240,000 fr fine and a suspended sentence).

I guess Iran isn't in this to win.

Stories like this make me want to do atrocious things to images of their prophet, just to see the apoplectic faces in the inevitable crowd reaction shots. I don't want to do this out of pure meanness; or just to rattle cages, although both are factors. I don't want to immerse a Mohammed figurine in a tall glass of HE'BREW beer, Photoshop a pic of him carrying his young bride's books to elementary school, or with six-pointed stars tattooed on his arms and bared chest, I don't want to do these things because I hate Islam, I don't. Islam has been the fount of many ideas and acts that have benefited the world. Most Muslims just live their lives in the same manner as Americans, they work, marry, provide for their families, and hope for economic stability.

The image we have of Islam is that of the most media-hungry factions, the America-haters, the Jew-haters, the haters of their own fellow muslims who worship the same God in a slightly different fashion My modest goal is to make the head of those hard-core radical muslims explode, their blood vessels bursting in righteous, ideologically pure fury. So sue me.

Iran, I'm sorry, you only speak through your attorney? Very well; Mme. Peyre, would ask your client why, if they don't like our movies, do they watch them? Why don't make their own? Why did you marry a terrorist? Have you ever won a case? Have you no shame? Would you be interested in defending Tom Delay in his appeals process? 

 

 

* Up for an award as the Clumsiest Phrase of the Month

Getting in The 'Now'

 

Alienation is my normal state. Everywhere I go, I see people who are engaged, full of life, in tune with each other. At least, it seems that way from the outside. I suppose I look the same to them; a with-it guy, who makes trends instead of following them.

I wish.

Most summer days, I throw a frisbee with a friend, Ray. Ray's tan is even and dark, he looks like a lifeguard on Baywatch. I burn and peel, even though I use a sunscreen, a product Ray swears causes cancer and refuses to apply. Unless a girl comes along and watches us do our tricks. Then Ray will borrow my bottle, and ask the bikinied teen to put some lotion on his back. Before the cream has disappeared into his skin, they are laughing and know each other's names. Then they either trade phone numbers, or just disappear between two beach houses to smoke a blunt. i don't smoke, maybe I should, but I get all quiet and withdrawn. Actually, I just become more aware of my withdrawnness. Girls like guys that are confident, guys like Ray, who don't withdraw, but laugh easy and touch their shoulder right when it is called for. Quite often, I am looking for a new frisbee partner a few minutes after Ray turns on the charm.

I saw Joanie, Ray's conquest of the day before, at Swank's beachside bar around noon. She was sipping a wine cooler. I was nursing a grudge; the doorman had let the group in front of me inside without paying the cover charge. They seemed like old friends, even though i had seen them pile out of a car with Kentucky plates. I closed the gap, and tried to laugh my way into the bar with the group. The bouncer caught my arm. "Two dollar cover charge, man."

"You didn't charge them.'

"I know them. Don't know you. Two dollars, you're holding up the line."

"I come here every day. Me and Ray Willets. We play frisbee out back..."

"Is Ray coming today?"

"Uh, most likely, he's already here..."

The doorman, his name was Jonas, let me by. "Tell Ray he owes me one."

"One what, and why?' I thought,  "For letting his little buddy in for free?"

I pulled four bucks out of my back pocket. "Here's my two, and two for Ray, if he doesn't come in the VIP door." I stuffed them in his pocket, never taking my eyes from his. I could feel the girls in line behind me checking me out, liking the 'tude I did exude...

No, that's not how it went down. I walked past him into the dark foyer that opened into an over-sized tiki hut full of with it people whose clothes either fit perfectly, or their casual looseness looked right on them. Behind me, I heard Jonas laughing with the next bunch in line. I looked back, and they were all looking at me with big stupid grins.

I was standing at the corner of the bar, waiting for the bartender to decide it was time to take my order, when I saw Joanie. She was wearing the same almost-string bikini from yesterday. I remembered with a pang how good that butt looked walking away with Ray. They never came back.

"Hi, Joanie." I had to tap her on the shoulder to get her to look at me. She started, as if stung by a gnat.

"Oh, Hi." It was obvious she did not remember me.

"Dick. We met yesterday". She didn't look at me until I mentioned Ray's name.

"Is he here?"

"Not yet. Can i buy you a drink?."

She raised her glass to chest-level. I am so stupid.

"I'm waiting for Ray, too."

Then a surfer-type nudged his way between us. "You ready for another?"

His gaze passed over me. I wanted to walk away, but didn't.

"Friend of yours?"

She dismissed me with a quick shake of the head. "No, met him yesterday."

Thanks, bitch. "Well, it was good seeing you again, Janie." She did not even notice that I had deliberately mispronounced her name.

I took a swig of my beer as I walked away from the pair. naturally, some spilled down my chest. I was ready to throw the plastic glass at the wall and leave, maybe go next door to LandLubber's, maybe to friggin' New Guinea.

"Dick! Over here!". It was Ray, and he was talking to two gals at the high end of his age specs where chicks were concerned, Twenty-nine to thirty-one, i pegged them.

"This is my good friend Dick. Dick this is Amy, and this, this is Darlene." He put his arm around her as he said her name.

"Nobody wears cut-offs any more.'Amy said.

"I do, I get twice the life out of a pair of pants." Ray laughed.

So did Amy. Then she and Darlene excused themselves. We watched them as they headed for the restrooms.

"Nice," Ray opined. "Even yours."

"Mine?" I felt defensive all of a sudden.

Yeah, I been chatting you up, chum. We can score with these two. They might even play with each other a bit. I have a sense about gals that munch carpet, you know..."

"Ray, I don't need you to get laid."

He popped me on the head with his frisbee. "Yes, you do, Mr. Jones. you need all the help you can get."

He leaned in and in a whisper, he said "She's a nice girl, Amy. Smart, reads. But she's like you, too obsessed with her self-image to relax and enjoy life."

I started to protest, and took another frisbee-slap. Someone laughed, I know it was me they thought was funny.

"Darlene is giving her this same speech right now, doofus. You just talk to Amy, don't worry about whether or not you are gonna see those ta-ta's, and you just might. I think she likes you already."

"Really? How..."

"She laughed at your joke , not you." He saw the girls making their way through the crowd.

"Here they come. One more beer, a swim, and then you tell them you've had enough sun. Darlene, or Amy, if you've done your share of talking, will then suggest that we get a drink up in their room." You offer to drive Amy, And I will go with Darlene. the rest is up to you."

"Damn, I can't do this, I thought. And suddenly the girls were a few steps away, and Darlene whispered some final instruction in Amy's ear.

"I wanna watch you guys throw the frisbee" Amy told me. Her friend and mine were studiously ignoring our interaction.

"Sure, if you want, I can teach you to throw."

"Cool, I am ready to learn something new. Let's go."

While I racked my brain for a comeback, we followed the other two outside.

I gave up, and took Amy's hand, she gave mine a sqeeze. It was going to be a good day after all.

If I don't screw it up.

Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered Weak and Weary,
a niche magazine, like Fishing Lake Erie
or the urologist's rag, Peeing Clearly
They come monthly, along with others,
Bus Boy Journal, and Prison Mothers
I should unsubscribe, but it's so hard
remembering to send the enclosed card
Thus, Tire Review and Commercial Lights
Go unread, until the day I have free nights.
My copies of Line Dance and Weave and Loom
Would fill nine or ten doctors' waiting rooms
Don't become like me, with all this mail
crammed into your box daily, without fail.
Please write deceased on the cover of each
copy of Reptile Retail, and Medical Leech
Foist stacks on old friends and boarders
Or risk accusations of being a hoarder.

 

This unfinished story just re-surfaced during a perusal of old forgotten files. I forget where I was going with this tale, but if I get enough encouragement, I will attempt to finish it.....

 

 

The end came faster than I wanted, but not as fast as I needed. Like a once-brightly shining nova, my luster dimmed until I was just another star in the night sky. I speak, of course, about the crazy years, the lost years spent in the studios of the best photographers, the crazy parties that lasted until we were dragged from the trendiest clubs in the most Now locales. The money that flowed through my hands, never reaching my pocket or bank account. But what did I care? I could always make more; I was a star, a commodity, my assets were a gold mine without apparent end, such was....

My Life As An Ass-Model

Never heard of an ass-model? Neither had I. Oh, hand models made a small splash in the fashion world, and there was more work for a hand model, it's true. Look how many products need an attractive hand to hold them; not too many advertised items benefit from being clenched between buns, no matter how fine. And mine were fine, that's not bragging, just fact.

No, ass models were more like stand-ins, substitute butts for the actors and actresses who leveraged their brand by appearing in ads for their own perfume, or line of clothing. Many actors and actresses can emote on cue, but surprisingly few have rear ends that can display arrogance, friskiness, sublime sensuality, or insouciance at the drop of a director's megaphone. Mine could do this, and more, all within the space of a 1-minute intro for the latest exercise-machine infomercial.

My ass had attitude, was how Phillippe put it. Phillippe was my agent; he discovered my ass, and saw its potential right away. "Zose bun-muffins, in my hands, zey weel become legend." This was not the kind of talk one looks forward to hearing in the shower room of a Detroit jail, where I was facing nine months and a day for stealing a pizza. I would have gotten away from the cops, I was a competitive runner and broad-jumper in high school, But the pizza-box was an aerodynamic drag. I could have thrown the pie away and made a clean getaway, but I wanted that damn pizza, a double-pepperoni with olives and onions, and some rookie cop managed to catch me as I scrambled over an alley fence that, sans 16-inch box, I could have sailed right over. Damn cops ate the evidence right in front of me as we drove back to the station house.

"How about I make you a legend right now?" I said as I whirled one hundred eighty degrees, fists out, ready to defend my as yet unsullied honor. Phillippe blinked, but I stopped my fist just short of his hawklike nose; he wore his towel over his shoulder, and I saw immediately that his interest was not prurient. 

"Magnifique, tres bon." He stepped back made a square with his hands through which he looked at me. "Can you you do zat again, zis time right-to-left?" By zis, I mean this time, the men under the other shower heads were watching our interaction. One suggested that not hitting the little frenchman would be a sign of weakness, though he put it in less delicate terms. I knew he was right, but Phillippe was talking fast now. "Le fighting move. Can you do eet from either direction?"

"What is your game, man?" I was thinking the guy maybe liked rough trade, and that wasn't my game.

"Phillippe, I am called", He stuck out his hand, which I declined to shake, mindful that some bad characters were waiting to see how this was going to play out.

Then realization dawned on him. "Perhaps ees not best place to discuss rump" he says. "Szhust meet me in cafeteria, later. What's to lose?"

He had me there, I had 270 more days staring me in the face; might as well hear him out. "Okay." I said. "We'll do lunch. but you had better leave with me, or it'll be your ass that gets talked about.

Over soggy fish sticks and mushy broccoli, Phillippe explained himself. He had been caught trying to take a jay of kind-bud on the 9:40 Air France Flight to Montreal, and given ten days in the hoosegow. He had been eyeing my backside for the last three days without my being aware of the surveillance.

"I am sorry eef I was too forward, but I did not want to get out before offering you a zhob, no, a career."

"As what?", I asked around a mouthful of stale biscuit.

And he made the pitch for work that would be my ticket off the mean streets. I never thought that listening to another man describe my rear end would get me excited, but I had never before heard of ass-modeling, either.

"From every angle ees ass of yours perfect. Needs tan, but zat ees all." He asked me to describe my exercise regimen.

"Shit, I just survive, you know. I live in a 10th floor walk-up no elevator, but that gig is over now, me being  a week late with the rent."

He was writing on a pad. I read pretty good upside down, and saw the word 'stairmaster'. "I snatch purses, do dash-and-grabs at department stores with a couple of black guys I know. He wrote "treadmill" after a 2 surrounded by parentheses.

"And you eat..." Yes dumb-ass, I do, I started to say before realizing he was asking me what I eat.

"The stores throw out their old veggies around midnight Tuesday, before the trucks bring in the weeks fresh produce."

"You cook zese? You fry, saute, bake..."

"Raw, mostly". He dutifully jotted that down on his pad. Then looked up at me. "How about bread, pasta, rice."

"I like brown rice sometimes, never liked sandwiches, I just eat the patty out of a hamburger, Dad told me that noodles were made from worms, and that ruined me for any pasta.

"Starch goes straight to make ass bumpy like cheap white cheese. No salt, water retained go straight to derriere."

"Ees good, you stay on low-carb diet", he said, as he took the biscuit from its place on my tray.

"You go before judge tomorrow afternoon, non? I get out in morning. I make phone talk, you agree work for me, is places we go like never you dream of."

And he went on and on, until the guards chased us out. He was a scout for a modeling agency. Several, in fact, he freelanced. He wanted to be an agent, and he felt that I, at least, part of me, would be Phillippe's ticket into the hoity-toity world of high-fashion.

"We start little. Model for art classes. We get portfolio started, is little job on movie set. No, not porn movie. Is lead actor let himself go a bit, cottage fromage on cheeks, lack definition. Say yes."

I did. Phillippe was true to his word. A lawyer I could not afford came to get me in the morning; he brought me a suit of clothes that smelled expensive. They fit me like they were tailored. Phillippe had a good eye.

In court, the lawyer testified as to my good character, although he had trouble remembering my name. Phillippe showed the judge the contract I had signed on the walk from the jail to the courthouse. The judge motioned me forward; when Phillippe stared towards the bench, she stopped him with a glare and a growled "Mr. Nivennes, you may not approach the bench!"

In a whisper that I could barely hear, the lady judge asked me, "Did you read this document before you signed it?"

"No, your honor."

Well, you should have. But I've seen your record, and I don't care what sort of business deals you make, as long as they don't include Detroit, and you don't ever come in front of me again." 

I started to thank her. "Don't thank me, just turn around slowly, nice and slowly. Walk back to your seat, slowly, not too slowly, though, and flaunt what you got on the way."

I felt cheap, used, but I complied. I head her mutter a 'damnfine' under her breath.

"Time served", she banged her gavel. "Court dismissed" , And Phillippe and the nameless lawyer escorted me out the side door to  the 'processing:out' window.

 

 

Yes, Congress has declared a new national holiday, Sequester, to be celebrated not on a particular date, nor on the 1st-7th Sun-Sat of Jan-Dec., but whenever common sense and the need for all concerned representatives to come together, for America’s sake, and leave theirs and their party’s interests in the locker room. Yes, whenever these vectors reach a pre-set tipping point, Congress goes home, and advises all Americans to stay in theirs.  Word of festivities will spread like wildfires, which will spread like there is no money available to hire anyone to fight them.

The origins of the Holiday are murky. In an uncommon spirit of generosity, Democrats and Republicans each give the other Party credit, when the truth is that both organizations worked equally hard to make this  most memorable event a reality. 

The excitement really starts to build after the Weather bureau lays off its workforce, and winter storms surprise delighted Mid-Westerners with their unforeseen ferocity and length. Sad news for the kiddies; the FEMA parades that pass through disaster-stricken towns have been largely canceled. But hey, there is always time to play in the choleric mud puddles, and see which of your pals can make his tummy growl loudest.

As usual, The President and First Lady will preside over the Budget Cut Roll on the White House lawn. It is always a fun time, watching the amusing antics of the lobbyists, laughing as they fight over the pre-allocated funds spilling out of the pork barrel, bouncing and bumping its way downhill.

Across the nation, policemen, firefighters, garbagemen, and their families are all eagerly planning what to do with their unplanned, open-ended vacation time. Do they go to Grandma’s house? Take the family to the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Europe even? Or do they get involved in stay-at-home family-oriented activities and games, such as Stretch The Dollar, Life Without Cable, and, if Congress keeps it promise to ‘make every day Sequester day”, Bungee Dumpster.

But the serious side of the Holiday should not be forgotten, The nightly vigil, the silent gathering of Americans who scan the horizon, hoping to be the first to spot The Great Non-Partisan, who, they say, will unite the political parties, the houses of the Senate and Congress, and the Executive Branch into a waste-fighting, efficiency-oriented machine with the common goals of paying down the national debt in a responsible manner, then going forward with a sensible budget that is forward-looking and visionary, yet grounded in solid financial reality.Not everybody believes that such a being exists, although everybody wants him to be real. 

And so, we wait, with friends and extended family, standing around the cooking fire, knowing Dad will navigate the crowded streets with their darkened traffic lights and uncleared wrecks blocking lanes. and bring us whatever food he could afford, wondering when the holiday will end,  or whether Congress will make every day SEQUESTER DAY!

 

The woods were quiet yesterday morning, as if the denizens were stilled stunned by the savage rain of the night before

 

 

 

It was windy and cool, no one was fishing

 The Econfina was swollen, running hard

Spanish moss clings to life on an oak tree, which is all it ever does

Little steams leading to the river were rampaging torrents compared to their usual brooklet selves

 

 Star Anise, a bottom-land, understory plant

 Fungi break down dead wood, return it to the soil from whence it came

Witches Butter(Tremella mesenterica), is an edible fungus

 

A final look down into the ravine. Soon, Spring's greenery will fill in the blank spaces, and this vista will disappear until next winter

My site is littered with unfinished posts and even shorter pieces that were ideas meant to be fleshed out at a later date. While perusing some of these half-baked ideas (insert 4/20 joke here), I came upon this, from 2009.....

 

A Muscovite mime named Mame memoed me the meme 'Hmong-mama in a mu-mu'. Oh man, a Montagnard-Moscow semi-mute melee!

Then Thayer over there threw up on the Thelonius thirty-three and a third, that thrilled the throng.

But Benjy beat the bar he bellied by imbibing Bab's best bourbon via brimmed beer-bong.

Pre-appearance of the precinct police, Pop's party is plainly a polite preliminary, portending a Paradise, placing a premium on peace. 

 

First off, I do not remember writing this, a common occurrence anymore. That is usually a good thing, as I can read my own work as others do, with a sense of wonder and anticipation. 

I googled this stuff to see if it was something I copied from elsewhere, but no one is taking the blame. I don't know if this was going to be a poem, or just a random collection of alliterative lines, sans narrative.

So, I'm tacking this on the telephone pole on the corner, handing out fliers, printing it on the side of milk cartons, "Have You Read ME?". If anyone recognizes it as their own, knows the author, or has a idea WTF  I was up to, let me know. 

 

----------------------------------------

It's true, the Constitution makes it clear

We cannot kill a suspect sans voir dire

The rules of war were written long ago, son

The citizenry simply can't be shot

But if someone needs assassination

We take 'em out

Habeas corpus and innocence's presumption

are luxuries unaffordable in war

and if the target's file reads 'American'

Take 'im out

Take 'em out, take'em out

All's fair in love and war

From the sky soldiers drop

Or a drone destroys their car

Though each move  is  highly orchestrated

we're imperfect, every one of  us

In short, sometimes we miss

the appropriate terrorist

and we not-so-smartly bomb a wedding 

or a  kindergarten bus

 

secret ops secret ops

they're black and wet,  against the  law

But hey, with secret ops

I can deny them all

I never admit knowledge a priori

unless the mission happens to go right

In short, it's all about 

taking the  bad guys  out

by the technically extra-legal means 

That we call secret ops

 

Would I really rather live naked in the woods, feeding on grubs and roots, shivering in the cold rain, slapping at gnats in the summer heat, risking death by predator, disease, or starvation every day, than deal with the systemic menus, unconscionable delays, and the heavily-accented voices of people who are unable to help me in the end, that is modern-day customer service?

Gimme a minute, I'm thinking!

The morning sky hinted at the bad weather to come....

The wind flags snapped in the morning breeze, the usual crowd of seagulls was feeding on whatever our wheelwash brought to the surface.

Then the gulls were joined by a few stray ducks

My old camera was incapable of taking a shot like this; the wings would have been a blur

 

 

 

Then we met two of Christopher Columbus' three ships, The Nina and the Pinta...

 

 

 

 Apparently, the Dauphin Island Bridge is the work of a Pre-Columbian civilization

 

I am considering going into the Witness Protection Program. It may be the only way to stay off the boats, by preventing my former boss from calling with sob stories and pleas of 'just one week'. 

Anyway, I am on the m/v Chelsea for a period of time, until Jim gets better, and it ain't so bad. The crew is decent, and we are running east instead of west. Plus, I get to take more pictures from the unique perspective of a working tugboat, in places not seen from any touring bus, not featured in any brochure, but just as much a part of New Orleans as the Superdome or Audubon Park. And, from the city itself, sunrise views are nowhere near this spectacular....

 

Eastern New Orleans is the industrial side of the city, and the following pictures were taken on the Industrial Canal, which runs north and south from the L&N Railroad Bridge to Lake Ponchartrain, about two miles.

That is the 1-10 overpass looming above the RR bridge. And in the near distance...

...is the Hwy 90 bridge. For those viewers with a literary bent, the Industrial canal is the site of the fictional clothing factory where Ignatius Reilly, the main character in A Confederacy of Dunces, was temporarily employed, in a building similar to....

This one.....

As you can see, industry in New Orleans has seen healthier days

 

"That's all fine and dandy," You say,  "but where are the Pelican pics you promised?" Oh, my impatient viewers!

Very well, then...

And now, the action shots....

Peek-a-boo!

That blur is part of his wing. He was so close to me that I could not get all of the bird in focus

 

 

 

 

 

About ten years ago, our boat was holding up for weather, alongside another of the company boats in Theodore, Alabama. I had just come back from a week at home, and made up my bunk and took a nap in the afternoon. I woke up a few hours later,  dressed, and walked downstairs into a galley full of rowdy sailors. Someone had bought adult beverages, two half-gallons of Canadian whiskey, and a brisk taste-test was in full swing. I proceeded to join in the judging, and soon we were all singing to an AC/DC concert DVD one of the deckhands had thoughtfully provided. However, that I held my own with some world-class imbibers isn't the point of pride to which the title refers.

At some point, an arm-wrestling contest started. Clint, the captain from the other boat was taking all comers. Aside from me, He was the oldest present, at 49. He put my captain down first, then Carl, the deckhand on my watch. That surprised me, as our deckhands are a fit bunch, but Clint has some shoulders on him, and arms like Popeye's. Then the captain's son, who is the youngest on either boat at 29, tried Clint. I just knew it was over for Clint, but down went John's arm in short order.

It was up to me to save our boat's honor. Now, I occasionally help tighten down ratcheted wires on the barges that we push, but a bad rotator cuff in my right arm had kept me off deck for a few months, now, so I begged off. "Hell, let's go left-handed" Clint urged. So I sat down across from him, and we clasped hands. Everyone gathered around, Peanut adjusted my arm, placing my elbow closer to my opponent's, and stepped back. The theme from "High Noon" played quietly in the background (not really, but it should have). We tensed, and on the count of three, went at it.

Clint started to put me down, but I brought us back to neutral, and there we sat, red-faced and straining while my guys cheered me on. My arm was quivering, and I could feel Clint waver, but neither gained advantage for what seemed like minutes. Then we both relaxed simultaneously;  Clint looked at me with new respect. We rested for ten seconds, still in position. I said "Are you ready?". he said "Go! And this time there was no mercy. We grunted, we groaned, the  crowd went wild. I pulled up my last ounce of strength, and brought his arm down to a 45-degree angle, and he gave in.

If we had been outside, I think I would have been hoisted onto shoulders and ticker-tape would have miraculously started falling from the sky. I was back-patted, hugged and praised. I told Clint that on a different day, with his own cheering section,  he would have won, but he was having none of that. He said it was fair and square, and we hugged like boxers.  Indeed, I felt like Rocky Balboa. The drinking resumed, and I got to sit in the captain's chair the rest of the night. It was definitely my greatest athletic moment, and the thrill lasted through the next day's hangover.

Note: the picture is from that night, but it is of Carl versus Craig, Clint's deckhand. Craig won.  Later, Craig and I went at it, until a draw was declared.

 

Although we started early......

  

 

...he was ready for our arrival, whatever it brought

 

"Damn! Too late to leave, they've seen my car !

Bob Burgess has lived a full life several times over. he was one of the first, if not the first to study the phenomenon known as the Bermuda Triangle. He served in Italy in WW2, then stayed in Europe to continue his education. He worked as a stringer for several magazines, and covered the American movie stars who hung out in Spain, befriending many. He has made thousands of deep-sea dives, and salvaged old wrecks. These and other adventures are the subject of over a dozen books that he has written. 

Seriously, we wait here until invited into his yard. You don't get on his lawn without permission.

30 minutes, and they won't go away....ahh, just get it over with......

Your humble blogger, Our Host, our entertainment

 

 

 

 

Bob accompanied us to lunch, a  very good seafood diner, then we checked out some spots on Lake Seminole...

...and some of its denizens, such as these Coots

..and those ducks in the other picture

Bob, Ron, and Hoppy. Which man has a Wikipedia entry? Who was featured in Chopper? Which two have been in Florida Sportsmen countless times because which guy is an editor for the rag?

Lotsa land here, hopefully off limits to development

Both cool guys, but which one is preternaturally chilly?

Jim Woodruff Lock and Dam, one lock I never traversed

 

Bob showed us some spots on the lake where he used to anchor his sailboat and fish for whiting, bream. and trout. He gave us some history of the area, and took us to a nice park where I found some blewits, a tasty and pretty mushroom...

 

It was a good day, a typical day in my retired life so far; now let's see what day four brings.