Monthly Archives: October 2009

Daylight Savings Time.


Tomorrow is one of most favorite days of the year.


Because our blessed almighty Federal Government says tomorrow is 25 hours long instead of 24. I loves me some Federal Government.

Now, according to all the newspapers and the radio and the TV everybody’s supposed to set our clocks back one hour before we go to bed tonight and get an extra hour’s sleep. Puhleez. That’s about as much fun as gettin’ oral after you’ve passed out.

Not that that’s every happened to me.

Instead, why not wait until tomorrow and take your extra hour whenever you want and use it to do the things you love doing for an hour longer?

Here, let me show you:

Suppose you’re her and you’ve just baked up some of your unbelievably sinfully chocolatey treats but you’re worried it’s getting too close to The Husband’s dinner time for a taste test. Not a prob. Just turn back the clock and start shovelin’ ’em in, sister.

Or perhaps you’re this chick and you’re slapping silly a bear hunter in a bar in Aruba for using the f-bomb and it’s getting late but your hand isn’t tired yet. Just get B to turn back the hands of time and keep slappin’ away, baby.

Or maybe you’re him and you’re just chillin’ on the beach soaking up some fall sunshine and swilling coldies and staring at the horizon like it’s gonna change and you don’t really want to limp back home yet and walk your dogs who just wrenched your back out AGAIN. Simple. Reset your watch and grab an extra hour, gimpy boy, and drink and drool on yourself.

Or, hey, use it to get more sleep.


Mea Culpa?


I apologize for yesterday’s post. In a fit of weirdness I wrote three hundred words about a clock that doesn’t work.

But what’s weird is that that’s not the weird part.

What’s weird is what spawned it. Like most everything it was symptomatic of something else completely unrelated.

Last weekend a couple of our nephews and his girlfriend and friend stayed with us and helped me paint Casa Oceandoggy. We got a bunch done and turned the corner so at least from the street it looks all nice and new and freshy. Bling baby.

But that wasn’t the weirdness that made me write about  a broken clock. The weirdness started with the delivery of something I’m going to roll out soon with them there and then with other friends stopping by and Miss Carol showing off the something which became something else entirely and before I knew it I had close friends and family reading my blog.

I was outed.

And it totally weirded me out.

It’s one thing writing anonymously, broadcasting to strangers and quite another watching your nephew’s girlfriend reading your shit on her laptop. Kinda like the difference  between throwing up in the alone darkness of the beach and vomiting on your buddy’s shirt while he’s wearing it.

Hence the clock story- a reaction enfeebled.

It took me a couple days to come to grips with this whole bold new frontier. To realize from here on out it’s only gonna get worse in that I’m gonna have more and more people I actually know knowing about

It’s weird.



Crazy time.


Ever have one of those days where you’re fishing in really shallow waters, knowing your chances are slim to none of catching anything worthwhile? And yet, you keep it up hoping on hope that something will come of it?

This is one of those days. Slackness masquerading as substance.

We have a clock mounted on the bulkhead between our kitchen and dining room that we call crazy time and I actually took a picture of it for this post before realizing how unbelievably lame it was.

The picture- not the crazy time clock, but maybe this post.

The clock was given to us by one of Miss Carol’s brothers when he came to visit. It’s hip and cool and very contemporary, with loads of textures and gobs of happy colors. It’s onliest problem is that it doesn’t keep time in the linear, accepted, sense, choosing instead to keep time in a more abstract and contemporary fashion.

I’ve fixed it a couple of times but it’s stubborn, which is fine, meaning I finally just succumbed and gave up. You gotta pick your fights and there’s lots you’re not gonna win and this was one.

Instead, Miss Carol and me have accepted and embraced our crazy time. The clock’s hands freely spin at their own speed, whenever they want, at a rate known only to them, and we’re just constantly entertained by whatever time it gives us.

Hoo boy, can laziness pirouette?


Missin’ Miss Carol.


Me and the boys are alone tonight and tomorrow and tomorrow night.

Miss Carol’s out of town on business for a couple of days so Cutter and Tug sit and stare relentlessly at the horizon waiting for her jeep to come around the corner and bring her home.

Hour after hour, just waiting and hoping.

Their fierce devotion to Miss Carol always makes me glad somehow, while at the same time maybe just a tad envious.



A couple of months ago (ok more than a couple) a Trader Joe’s opened in our part of the planet. We had always heard great things about Trader Joe’s from Miss Carol’s littlest seester who loves in California and knows about these things first hand, so we decided to go once the furor had died down somewhat. (The place was PACKED when it first opened)

A couple of weeks ago we remembered that a Trader Joe’s had opened and resolved to go and see what all the hubbub was about.

A couple of days ago we finally went.

I really don’t know what I was expecting, I mean it’s just a grocery store right?

Wrongo to the nth degree.

It’s more like a religion or a way of life or, or something. Trader Joe’s is to grocery chains what the Greatful Dead was to bands. Something you have to commit to and become a part of and embrace as you travel the magical aisles of all-naturalness with your fellow shoppers.

Who, by the way, are the same happily smug, self satisfied, birkenstock shod rainbow warriors that you see at a Greatful Dead show. Coincidence? I don’t think so. There they all are pushing their cute little red shopping carts jammed full of bottles of economically responsible Two Buck Chuck (which is very good by the way), dolphin friendly edamame, and free range peanut butter, feeling very superior to the likes of, well, me.

And the whole time they’re shopping, they’re reading every single ingredient on every single label of every single thing they’re thinking about purchasing, making sure that the foodstuff they’re considering has not in some way broken one of the gentle live and let live tenets which guide and nourish them on their path to nirvana.

Once your cart is filled with earth saving goodies you proceed to the checkout which deserves a visit in and of itself. No long conveyor belts expediting the checkout process here. No, no, no. One by one, each item has to be handed to the cashier so that she can scan it (whoops, they DO have scanners, I guess all the mechanical cash registers have been taken to museums or dumps) and then place it on the tiny little counter where someone else (a cashier assistant?) takes it places it in your special Trader Joe’s thematically approved, recycled paper bag.

And the whole time this is taking place both cashier people want to talk. I don’t mean the incidental small talk you usually exchange with cashiers, I mean in depth discussions about your purchases. I swear I aged months.

Honestly, though, if you can put up with the good natured snootiness of all the other hippies, the foods are really good and the prices are great so pull your tie-dyed t-shirt and birkenstocks out of the back of the closet and visit a Trader Joe’s near you.

It’s a hoot.




Cutely spastic and gangly beyond all reason but a killer nonetheless.

Fresh crab blood is coursing through his veins and a keener look has come to his eye, a newly bolder swagger to his stride.

In the past Cutter has always sprinted up the beach pausing only to plunge his nose into each and every sand crab hole snuffling deeply his disappointment at not catching one.

We laughed and thought it funny until last week. It’s all funny until somebody gets hurt.

Miss Carol had to go into the hospital on Saturday to do some programming so we were walking the beach earlier than usual and as usual Tug was loping along waiting for his next biscuit and Cutter was crab hole sniffing.

Same old, same old, until we saw him corner a crab away from the security of it’s hole, darting in and out snapping at it. The crab had it’s claws out, scurrying back and forth, and I was just waiting for it to lock onto Cutters face, thinking that would be the end of this nonsense  when all of the sudden Cutter juked and jived and came up with the crab in his mouth and flung it, trotting away.

Miss Carol was worried that maybe the crab had been hurt so I trotted up just in time to see it’s little legs feebly kicking their last. Sorry bud.

Miss Carol was not happy.

Then, on the way back up the beach to home, Cutter cornered another bigger crab and without wasting any time at all snapped it in half and spit it out before we or it could do anything and moved on seemingly uncaringly.

That’s my boy.

A cold blooded remorseless killer with crab breath.

We’re baaaaaacck.


I finally drove Mighty Whitey home the other day.

What  an oddly, absurdly, lengthy, stupid story.

Back in history, back in the day, a company, a guy, gave me a quote to totally restore my Suburban. He promised me the world- everything would be new and freshy and I trembled in anticipation and threw money at him.

What began as a three week project, tops, slowly ground into months and months of endless visits to his garage hoping to keep the project moving forward and seeing that it wasn’t moving forward at all and then finding out that he does this.

All the time.

Come to find out, there are some cars on his lot that have been there, unfinished, for YEARS.


So I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna have to ride shotgun with a shotgun and have Mighty Whitey towed out of there but something about my personality and good looks convinced dickhead to at least get the body work and  paint done and he did and so I picked her up and drove her home on Friday.

She’s not the perfect restoration that I was wanting and hoping for but she’s to the point that I can finish.

And she’s home.

Yet again.


Another touron tragedy and yet another solid reason to stay away from the beach and the ocean.

Once again a touron did something stupid, something that he may have been forgiven for in another place or time but not in this time or place. Nature can be a bear, or in this instance, a shark.

Mr. Snead was a 60 yr old man prolly just out having a good time on vacation- checkin’ out the babes, maybe sippin’ some coldies. But he forgot the biggie and inserted himself as the weakest link in the food chain by swimming at night in the ocean.

C’mon dude. Did you not watch JAWS?

Sharks feed at night and in the dark hours before dawn. I feel for him. I can’t imagine a more horrible death than quietly paddling about and feeling the brush of something big and circling and wanting.

But, c’mon dude.