Norwegian Dreamin'

Sorry for the delay.  Wish I could say that we had been some place neat these past ten days and . . . 

. . . wish I could say that we have just returned from Malta, Malaga, Malmo, or even Montreal, but nay, nay, nay, and nay.  Me, just hunkered down on this hot island working on a book and Michelle, just back from two days in St. Pete.  The only place we have been together recently was beautiful Bermuda, and that for a whole three days.  Nope.  No excuses.  Just me, this computer, and that large chain around my leg.  That's it.  Anywhat. . . . 

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Narco Notes From a Narco State

 

1) Now that the heat here in south Florida is really bearing down, the Flam Fjord of Norway (above) is looking better and better and heavener and heavener.  Hint, Michelle, hint. 

2) Whew!  Another orgy of flag-waving and mindless moralizing has passed, thank god, and the next patriotic war fest—the Grandest Goombah of all Military Mania--is a full month away, thank god again.  As Mark twain said, "Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect."  No truer words spoken than on Memory Hole Day in ‘Merica. 

3) Actually saw an iguana galloping along a street in downtown Englewood today like a chicken (anyone who has ever seen an iguana scratch gravel knows what I mean by “galloping”). 

4) Also, saw my first squashed baby turtle of the season just down this beach road, dammit. The poor little sucker was pointed the wrong way, probably because some dolt left their outdoor light on and the baby thought east was west and that the lamp light was his guiding light, the moon. 

5) And, of course, two squashed armadillos on Beach Road showing to all the world that it is still impossible for one of these harmless, brainless little creatures to cross the road.  Truly, automobiles are the Great Satan of the animal world.  

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Not Again! 

Yet another Mark Twain/Will Rogers/Andy Rooney wanna-be in our local “Letters-to-the-Editor.  Yet another bore trying to be a wit.  Yep, this is what happens when pretty damned dull men retire and have zippo to do.  Most, fortunately, turn to fishing.  Some, misfortunately, some turn to the arts and pretty quick—say, in an hour or so—most fancy themselves “artists.”  Be it wood carving, painting, or, god forbid, writing, many crazy old coots buy the BS their wives and grown kids are selling.  I give you our most recent cure for insomnia. . . .

Editor:

One of the simple joys of old age is a good cracker.  Yes, a good cracker!  Good news that we live in a time of the perfection of the cracker.  Don’t believe me?  Just take a stroll down the cracker aisle at the supermarket.  Go slow.  And look.  You will be amazed at the assortment and the quality of the crackers calling for your attention.

Sometime ago, I decided on my favorite type of cracker.  I like a crunchy, wheaty cracker.  It has a strong woven texture that made me feel healthy when I crunched into it.  It also happily welcomed a glob of peanut butter.  And then there were the cheeses.

I was not alone in choosing this cracker.  The baker noticed its popularity because it soon became available with different ingredients.  In quick succession, they made my favorites with tomato and basil, then rice, red bean, red pepper, sweet potato and roasted sweet onion.  They got carried away. They cracked up over crackers!  Tried several but none was really as good as the original.

Now in the midst of this new abundance and varieties of richness, I am left with one major problem.  I can’t find the original, simple plain cracker!  Crunch?

Roy C. Nile

Punta Gorda

Damn!  This fellow ain’t just batz; he is unbearably, amazingly batz.  He reminds me of the other poor idiots I have blogged about going on about smells (“Nothing But News,” 2.3.12) and other such arresting subjects which I am already just too bored to look up.  He also reminds me of an old-timer I once knew who, when the conversation over wine lagged a bit, out of the blue in he chirped with, “You know, one of the things I like is a pencil . . . a good lead pencil!”

Nuclear annihilation looming, Florida drug addicts about as numerous as Florida fire ants, pitbull attacks by the galore, illegal aliens flooding the nation, drones watching us, drones killing us, rape, murder, mutilations, child abuse, animal abuse, crime, corruption, homelessness, hunger, hatred, torture, war, War, WAR . . . and yet, here we have old Roy rambling on all day, like some idiot gibbering by the roadside, about his favorite cracker! 

Do not people like Roy have waaaaay too much time on their hands?  Should we not find them jobs to keep them busy?  Would it not be beneficial to all concerned—especially to the trees who provide the paper for such insipid stupidity--if we forced upon these folks some taxing labor, some labor like slaving all day in a salt mine somewhere deep in the earth or some labor like loading large logs all night in a lumber mill, day, night, day, night, day, night, sun up, sun down, up, down, up, down, until we sweat all this crazy senility out of them?  Wouldn’t it be better to work these bores so hard in some geezer gulag system that they will be too tired to worry about becoming “artists” and too tuckered to plague us with such nonsense about crackers or smells or peach preserves or whatever their crazy thought process can conjure?