Thursday, November 29, 2012

Island Sand

Fishin’—Every day on this island I see fishermen fishing for fish.  Some days I think that I too will grab a rod and go after some mullet, red fish, sea trout, or snook.   The urge itches now and now but I never scratch.  Why?   

At one time I loved to fish, lived to fish; could not imagine a life without fish.  Now?   Boom.  Nothing.   Nada.  Zada.  Zilch.  Zarcon.  Why?  Two reasons.

1) I am a vegetarian.  Even if one does not eat fish, fish have a nasty way of dying if they are hooked deep, if they swallow a hook or if they are injured in the struggle or handled roughly.

2) No challenge.  Man v. fish?  Come on now, really.  Last time I looked I had a healthy IQ.  Last time I looked even the smartest fish was a few points lower than mine.  That, pilgrim, just like America attacking one stone age country after another, is a mighty unfair contest where I come from and it did dawn on me one day as my arm got tired from reeling in one trout after another that a fish was not wily or elusive or strategic or playing any games or locked into some sort of war of wits with me as I tried to catch him; no, the fish, with a brain the size of a atom, was just trying to put food on the table.  That took the starch out of me and I never fished again.

And so, every time I think I might go get a line, then go get a pole, then go down to the crawdad hole, I give it a few seconds of reflection and think not.  I must admit, however, that before I had such a cerebral epiphany about fair contests and such, fishin’ was sure a passel of phun.

Image—Everyone is into the image makeover shtick.   I won’t go into the obvious , i.e., women and face lifts, nose jobs, botox, breast enhancement, etc.   No, I’m talking makeovers by drug dealers who throw on “Just Say NO To Drugs” t-shirts and burglars who plaster on a truck bumper a yellow ribbon and an American flag and who wear baseball caps reading  “Neighborhood Crime Watch” (yes, they are “watching" alright—watching the crime being committed).  Motorcycle gangs long ago got into the annual “toys for tots” ride.  Good for business.  Change the negative (but accurate) public image of them as doped up, bar fighting, gang-raping, pathetic losers. 

Recently, locally, curiously, there was a “Pub crawl” by local louts to support a local food bank to conquer local child hunger.  That takes some brass, I think.  What next?  A march by drug dealers to spread awareness of breast cancer?  Registered sex offenders in a benefit walk for child cancer victims?  In this dog-eat-dog world everyone is rooting and grubbing at the image trough, looking for any edge, working every angle to get a leg up on the next dog.  I’m sure the biker bozos above have created a lot of good will with the community and cops and bet me many of them have slid right on through when bagged in a random highway check for drunk drivers.  Pub crawl?  That is the lamest excuse to get tanked I have ever heard of but should a hi-po pull one of these tiki bar sots over you just gotta know that the five-times-over-the-legal-limit-drunk will beg out with a “But occifer, I wuz jus at a (hic) good cause.  We wuz helping little kids do something or rather.  Give me a break, occifer, give me a break for them (hic) for them little kids that has cancer or whatever.”  Not a Clancey, O’Malley or Muldoon could resist that pitch.

Closer to home, I know a certain ex-law enforcement agent (above) who sports a certain bumper sticker that proclaims her great love for a certain law enforcement agency but which is really just a gambit to simply save some shekels should she be stopped for speeding, which has worked in the past and will, no doubt, work in the future.

Merry Christmas—Two kids were walking through a mine field the other day at Christmas—say what?—Christmas, as in the town where it’s Christmas every friggen day of the year, Christmas, Florida.  Actually, it was not literally a mine field per se et tu brute, but close.  Kids found some old hand grenades laying around in a field and what would any normal kid do in a nation that lives, breathes and sleeps war, War, WAR?—why, they would play “war,” natch.  Fortunately for these two potential cannon fodder candidates in some future American attack on yet another stone age country that can’t defend itself, the grenades did not go off and it looks like the kids might grow up with all their arms, hands and trigger fingers in tact. 

The Next Sound You Hear--Ever been sauntering down the street on a nice QUIET day without a care in the world  when one of those ghetto blasting stereos go by and the vibration and noise nearly knock your noodle out of its brain box?  And after experiencing such a blast, ever had the urge to just pick up an RPG or bazooka that happens to just be laying around and transform that lo-rider vibrating car and its so-called human occupants inside into nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground?  Well, one chap here in Florida, 45-year-old Mike Dunn, was nearly blown into another zip code when he walked from a Jacksonville Quick Trip and was greeted by the ugly sound (his comb-over was actually blasted over to the other side by the boom). The vibration from such crap actually rattles windows and doors, even one’s dentures, and it truly interferes with our ability to think clearly.  Perhaps that was why Mike became pretty darned enraged; perhaps that’s why Mike told the idiot sitting inside the car to turn it down a might; perhaps that’s why Mike pulled out a thug duster when said idiot inside said car gave him the bird and called him a “mf’ing white cracka ass;” perhaps that’s why, with the sound throbbing and blasting and rattling Mike’s brain, perhaps that’s why Mike squeezed off some rounds and did some ghetto blasting of his own.  And, of course, that is why Mike is now in jail on a murder rap.  I feel like chunking into a bucket the first $100 for the Free Michael Dunn NOW Committee.

As for the “victim,” sorry . . . Maybe if I knew him it would be different but I don't know him, so. . . . I’ll save my tears for eaten animals and abused kids, not for useless garbage like the deceased who probably never once thought of anybody or anything but himself.  This gang-banger's days of car bumpin’ and “beatin’ up the block” with rap sonic boom is dun over.  Good riddance.

Caricature of the Day