ten great things in life

     1.  food

     2.  sex*

     3.  chocolate

     4.  alcohol

     5.  sunshine

     6.  beach

     7.  water

     8.  sugar

     9.  spice

     10. everything nice**


     *drugs and rock and roll

     **including the perfect cast

     **and blackjack

super bowl

     the ravens will win...

gun violence

     there is no quick solution to the problem of gun violence in this country - there is only the possibility of alleviation of the factors which allow it to take place.  the government cannot confiscate all guns - think of the field day criminals would then have - and there are too many guns in circulation - plus the second amendment - for a "ban" to be effective.   christ, the government can't even keep track of its own guns - i give you "fast and furious" - let alone yours and mine.

     one good start to correcting the problem would be to have a national list of prohibited persons and households - to include criminals [obviously], the mentally deranged and their households. it would be a relatively easy list to create - and update - in this modern, computer driven age.

     i'll tell you a story about home armament.  the loaded pump shotgun [by one's bedside] is the most effective home invasion deterrent there is.  i wouldn't suggest a shell in the chamber - but for this reason alone:  the "snick, snick" of an action loading a round is terrifying to the invader.  i know this to be true because there was much grumbling in the local police force when its members were required to "upgrade" from pump guns to automatics...there is no "snick, snick" with an automatic.  the officers' claim, when challenged, was that felons trooped out of hiding, hands in the air, about a quarter of the time upon hearing "snick, snick".

     guess what's by my bed.

trust

     "trust your mother...but cut the cards...."  anon.







     with thanks to bernie goldberg

the newtown murders

      CRAZY...that's what adam lanza was...and the fort hood murderer, CRAZY...and the aurora  "joker" murderer, CRAZY.

anyone who would shoot a sleeping person four times in the head is crazy [or out for revenge]...and then go on to shoot twenty innocents to death - not to mention their brave teachers - is crazy.  i'll bet you that when they finish lanza's dna examination the verdict comes back: CRAZY.

his mother must have been a little nutty too.  to have two pistols and an assault rifle in the home of a crazy person is idiotic and asking for trouble - particularly when that crazy person does nothing but play violent video games all day, locked in a basement room.

by the way - where's his father in all this?

"odd," "removed," "socially awkward" - yeah, and dangerous and CRAZY.  all you had to do was look at the son of a bitch's picture for the alarm bells to start jangling.

i've owned and been around guns all my life and never had the inclination to shoot a person - punch him maybe, but never shoot him - but that's because i'm not CRAZY.  get a better handle on these nut cases - such as a national registry of prohibited persons - and you'll go a long way towards saving lives in the future.  this will happen again.

a quote

    "diapers and politicians should be changed frequently - usually for the same reasons...."





with thanks to jim harker

fancy pheasants

     tiger and i killed thirty eight one day - most walked up over dogs, some driven out of the crops planted on his chester county property.  we'd always set fifty as our goal, but never achieved it.  that sounds like a lot of birds - and it is - but not when compared to driven pheasants in the u.k.

i had the good fortune  to be invited - by people i didn't really know, but came to like immensely - to join a line of eight guns for a week's driven pheasant shooting - one day of grouse thrown in - for two successive years, shooting from birdsall house in north yorkshire, the home of lord and lady middleton - michael and janet.

after my enthusiastic acceptance i learned it was to be a formal occasion - i.e  black tie dinners and double guns only.  i didn't own one, let alone two, of the afore mentioned, but was lucky enough to win a rather grand sum at the dice tables in the summer before my first trip, purchased a pair of beretta over and unders [barely acceptable]...and arrived in yorkshire so armed.

birdsall house was a grand old victorian pile set in the netherlands of north yorkshire. upon arrival we were presented with a schedule for the week:  "arrival at birdsall & tea - 2000 [hrs.] dinner at birdsall" etc. and what i particularly enjoyed [in classic british understatement] "please be punctual as the daylight hours for shooting are few at this time of year and we should be prompt."  being seated on her ladyship's right at the table for twenty was an honor only muted by the fact i couldn't stir until she did.  "dressing" for dinner proved not the chore i expected - after all one had to wear something after a day's shooting and a hot bath....

i made a few mistakes in my two years' shooting at birdsall - which, i suspect had something to do with my not being asked back.  on the first drive in the first year i killed a pheasant, which my host - next to me - had "pricked" [another expression i love], behind him.  he glared at me.  "not done," he said.  "not done," he repeated.  the next year i refused an invitation to a piano recital pleading family obligations whereupon my brother, in front of all my shooting friends, arrived to pick me up in an old, balky austin motorcar which we had to push down the hill to get started once he'd said his hellos.  after that i had the good [?] fortune on one drive to kill as high a pheasant as i think possible which fell in the midst of his lordship's prized charolais cattle causing them to moo in horror and semi stampede. there was also considerable murmuring amongst the beaters and gamekeeping staff.  lastly, in what was probably the high point of my shooting career, with my host's wife at my elbow for verification, i killed seventeen pheasants with seventeen cartridges at a reasonably difficult stand [the birds came circling from right to left just below the brow of a little hill in front of me] on the last drive of the day, in the gloaming.

i guess the lesson learned is don't ever show up your host.  oh, and on our high day we killed 259 - not great but well in excess of tiger's and my longstanding target.

we

had that dinner...it was delicious.  i ate the remaining caviar for breakfast on boxing day.  we drank, at different times - champagne, vodka [chilled], whiskey, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, and port.  we also toasted absent friends and fell into bed, slightly - but not terribly - drunk.

christmas dinner

     silver polished...check,  table set...check, candles ready for lighting...check.

     caviar...blinis for sally [sour cream?]...a mother of pearl spoon for me...8 ounces is  a lot, but what the hell. once a year, and all that.  it's paddlefish as i can't afford the osetra any more - still awfully good...veuve cliquot [yellow label] in tall flutes.

     standing rib roast...medium rare...the fat crackly and the meat tender.

     green beans...cooked just a little so they crunch a bit as you chew.

     scalloped potatoes...the top of the dish all chestnut brown from the oven's heat.

     sally likes a soft red wine - not too much tannen.  i don't - the reds don't agree with me so i'll have bit of water, or maybe a little sauvignon blanc.

      a lovely piece of christmas chocolate as a sweet.

     vintage port.

     merry christmas and a happy new year!

boom

     boom came to my hospital room after my horrendous car wreck as i lay recovering from a broken jaw.  my mother was there when he arrived, sports magazines clutched in his massive paw.  boom was an ex vikings linebacker, big, solid and hard as nails.  he was a bouncer in one of the gin mills i frequented in those days.

"here. these are for you," he mumbled, pushing the pulp into my lap.  "you need anything, you call boom.  hear."

with that he retreated.

like some of my other guests he frightened my ma.

aerostar

     i had a friend who owned an aerostar - a sleek, twin engined, very fast, prop plane.  we used to fly to atlantic city, to gamble, some evenings after work.  it took twenty minutes from new castle county airport, where he kept her, to bader field on great island, just west of the resort.  there was a small administration building where we checked in...outside there was  usually a cab idling to take us to the casino of our choice.

     one night we flew over but on arrival things seemed quiet - the "office" was dark and no cabs were sitting at the exit door.  we hadn't known, or realized, that the city had closed bader so had to make our way to the boardwalk on foot...it took us longer to get to the craps tables than the duration of our flight.  i also remember on our return, taking off into a light north east breeze, that the air conditioners atop the trump tower seemed very close to our landing gear.

     the last time i made the trip we ran into snow on our way home.  in the landing lights, at a hundred plus miles an hour, the flakes were enormous, beautiful, and slightly ominous.  when we arrived at new castle county airport the main runways had been plowed - but not the taxiways.  as a consequence, when we turned off to head for the administration building we immediately foundered and sat, stuck in the snow, until a plow arrived to tow us, slowly, to safety.

i don't remember whether we won or lost - but i suspect the latter.

goddamn

the warmongers....they are beating their drums again.

  think of the travesty of iraq.  god knows how much of our nation's treasure spent , how little gained, and the fiscal cost... for naught.  the country is in turmoil yet...turmoil of our making.  and afghanistan...what a disaster and a lesson not learned.  the brits couldn't tame it - the russians left with their tails between their legs, and we have been pounded for ten years - and counting.

  now comes syria with all the possibilities of mayhem it represents - and the drums are sounding.  we CANNOT put troops on  the ground there...even if our ally, israel, is attacked.  materiel support...okay - naval blockades...okay - drones...okay, but keep our service men and women out of harm's way!

  this is a changed, and ever changing, world...we'd better learn well that religion and tribal affiliation are key to the upheaval we are currently experiencing - and will continue to be so for the foreseeable future.

  i am not optimistic.

caviar, smoked salmon, and oysters

     caviar...twice a year - a mother of pearl spoon - birthday and christmas...sancerre...or champagne if you prefer....

     smoked salmon...quarterly - toast points, diced onions, capers, and a lemon...chilean sauvignon blanc....

     oysters...monthly - plump and salty, in mid afternoon...a little vodka, and bed....

chokoloskee

     swan and i went to chokoloskee one fall to fish for snook with gil drake, our key west friend and tarpon guide.  ed watson's ghost stalked us the whole time we were there.  we had both read peter matthiessen's novel KILLING MISTER WATSON and part of our interest in the fishing had to do with visiting the scene of the killing - which actually took place in front of ted smallwood's store, not far from where gil docked his boat.

edgar, ed, e.j., jack watson - call him what you may - was a formidable character in southwest florida in the early years of the twentieth century.  he came to that part of the country via south carolina and oklahoma - where it is said he had killed belle star.  he farmed - successfully - an old indian mound at chatham bend just south of chokoloskee and, rather than pay them at the close of harvest season, killed several of his farm hands. some number of other murders or disappearances were attributed to him as well.  he so terrified the locals that, at last, they shot him down in a group as he was coming ashore to purchase supplies.  much murkiness surrounds his killing - certainly enough to support his ghostly presence. 

the people of chokoloskee are not particularly friendly - especially to yankee fishermen and i suppose that helped with our feeling of dread.  gil took us by the chatham bend homestead - nothing remained, he said, but the cistern.  i knew from my reading that the government, when it created the park had burned down all man made structures within its boundaries but that did nothing to dispel the willies.  i felt like a kid on his first halloween.

we didn't catch many snook - though we both developed bursitis in our casting shoulders skittering our flies in under the mangroves hour after hour.  we certainly felt mister watson's presence, menacing even today, a hundred years later.    

a useful phrase

    


          "...i'll warm your biscuits...."


as in, "if you don't stop that, i'll warm your BISCUITS...."

                                     or

         "you can bet i'll warm YOUR biscuits...."



use it any way you'd like, just give me credit, please....ANON.

garissa

     the little town in northeastern kenya was hot and dusty as we pulled in from the south in july of 1971.  the main street, the only street, was quiet in the midday heat, the odd mongrel dog peering at us from the meager shade of a storefront overhang - a rooster scratching hither and yon, cackling loudly as our three vehicle entourage pulled to a stop in front of patel's general store.

the day before we'd flown from nairobi to malindi on kenya's east coast, occasionally idling on one wing over tsavo's elephant herds - "that's what we're after boys - a big tusker," shouted glen over the engine's clamor.  at malindi we joined the trucks for the trip north to cross to the tana river's east bank at garissa.

we passed through garsen, heading north to galole where we planned to fly camp - sleep under the stars - before pushing on.  in the morning we kicked aside the thorn boma surrounding our beds [to keep the lions at bay], had a quick coffee and were on our way.  rumbling through numerous little villages with names like makere, wenje, and bili [swahili for two], we eventually arrived at mr. patel's establishment.  after gassing up, swallowing some of mr. patel's sweet indian chai and whistling up the boys [some of whom had gone to get their backs straightened at the local whore house] we  swung east, crossed  the tana and turned south - our objective was hunting block 16a - elephant territory.

i tell this tale because garissa has lately been in the news...as the center of a somali/kenyan war.  the territory we hunted - east of the tana - has long been  disputed.  the somals claim it as theirs - the kenyans likewise.  i don't know why either would want it, it is godforsaken - dry and flat, bush covered with only the odd water hole breaking the hard desert country.  a few somali bomas dot the area.  nothing else but elephant and a gaunt lion or two populate the place.  the elephant gave rise to poaching gangs of deadly efficiency in the late 70s and shifta, somali thugs, ran raids in the old days into kenya - and mr. patel's store [as he so fervently swore] -  from time to time.

now there is a full  fledged war raging and garissa is at its center.  at the moment kenya holds the advantage, but if al qaeda sees a reason to enter on the side of the somals things may change.  god help mr. patel and his chickens should that occur.

007

     i went to argentina 25 years ago because i heard the dove and duck shooting was terrific.  it was, and buenos aires  was the most european city - outside europe - i had ever experienced.  unfortunately, i forgot one thing - i spoke no spanish - which came to plague me when i found myself alone in an airport far from buenos aires and my flight was cancelled.  happily i found a local traveler in the same predicament and he delivered me to an alternative flight source.  i did, during our 45 minute car ride, consider, briefly, the possibility he was kidnapping me - but i wasn't worth much so i put that thought away quickly.

before that hiccup i had wonderful shooting and one funny experience in a local casino.  we were moving from doves to ducks which required an overnight in a small town en route.  i wanted dinner and some gambling at the local house of ill repute and was soon sitting before the roulette wheel.  being a believer in mechanics and their shortcomings i began  to record the spins and their results...until a large, dark complected gentleman inserted himself between me and the wheel - shouting loudly and waving his arms aggressively.  i called out for carlos, my host, who quickly relieved tensions.

from there it was on to the baccarat table.

i flopped down between two gamblers, bought some chips, and, as they say, began to play.  my first wager amounted to fifty bucks - on bank.  the hands were dealt - one for "player" and one for "bank".  "banco," murmured the dealer.  i had won!  "let it ride," i said as i waved off the chips pushed my way.  won again.  now there was two hundred in the betting block.  the gambler to my right shifted in his seat.  "senor..." he said as i indicated to the dealer to let it stand. third time's a charm.  now there was four hundred at risk.

"senor," he said again.  "it  is not wise to make this wager."  he stuck out his hand.  "i am alberto.  what is your name?"

i looked him over and replied, "bond.  james bond."

a burst of laughter came from the small crowd which had gathered behind us.  then, a small ripple of applause.

he was right.  i lost the bet.

  

post election 2012

     okay - i was wrong...please, some deity save us.

on a limb

     okay, i'm going out on one - five days before the election...

mitt romney will win - big, and here's why:
     obama fails because of the following:

1.  23 million people out of work - with no coherent plan to put them back to work.

2. big government failed - i offer you solyndra, etc.

3. bowing to arabs?

4. failure to recognize radical muslimism is a true and very dangerous enemy.

5. arrogance as witnessed in the debates.

6. empty suit - fine orator, no intellectual engagement with the nation's problems.

7. [and this is small-minded] too many rounds of golf, appearances on the late night shows, too much shopping by spouse via air force 2, too many vacations at the public's expense, and of course, joe biden [a fucking small deal].

the list goes on...and it's a killer for re-election

a picket fence

     that's what the picture in the news journal looked like.  it was taken south of indian river inlet, looking north from 3rs road - the beach access dune break.  the "fence" was, of course, made up of surf rods stuck in the sand in front of myriad, ugly suv snouts.

back in the 50s, 60s, and 70s we used to trek to the beach each fall to surf fish for a couple of weeks.  at first we fished from a little subaru station wagon, then from an old land rover, and finally from a chevy suburban.  in every case we were the only ones on the beach during the week - and one of two or three others on weekends.

the fishing was sometimes great, usually good, but never bad.  we'd catch mostly blues - sometimes 75 or more in a day - kingfish, sand perch, sharks, skates, and now and then a small puppy drum or rockfish.  when the north easters piled the surf up on the rocks at indian river inlet we'd cackle with glee as the blues gathered in the south side lee and butchered our freshly caught mullet.  i can still hear the waves slithering across the rocks, hissing like a snake, as the tide rose higher and higher, finally forcing us off the beach.  once i was ordered - in the middle of a blue fish blitz - to leave by a harried game warden, he and i the only two souls on the ghostly wind driven shore.  "hurricane coming.  governor's orders," he said.  "fuck him.  he's not a fisherman," i said in reply, reeling in another victim. he fingered his handcuffs ominously and i relented.  "...and i won't vote for him next time."

god knows what it's like down there these days, what with mothers sunning, urchins screeching, and papa tangled with his next door neighbor.  i'll bet  the blues - at least the self respecting ones - steer way clear of what used to be a fine fishing spot.

things ain't what they used to be.