oceandoggy.com

Dry your crocodile tears, but I’m having a tough time with this.

We need to sell our sailboat and buy Carol a new car and the broker talked us into putting her up for sale on Ebay with no reserve to attract the maximum number of bidders. So we did. And we did. There are, at last count, 363 people lurking, watching, and waiting, biding their time.

For most of the last week I have been following the bidding activity, not really making the connection. I’m retarded that way.

And then, tonight, it hit me. Tomorrow night, one way or another, for whatever price, my Black Magic is gone. 

There is no going back, no saying no, no, wait a minute, I changed my mind.

She’s gone.

Sometimes it seems that maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right.

From time to time the city trots out a new advertising scheme to spin the tourist problem, hoping to get us locals to love our tourists.

And we do. 

Personally I love mine grilled with an aioli dipping sauce and hot buttered bread.

Now this is funny stuff.

Every weekend we load the boys into our 1983 Suburban for a ride around the neighborhood, mostly so Tug doesn’t completely freak when we go on trips. He’s big and yet dumb that way.

Mighty Whitey, our Suburban, is something like 600 cubic feet inside. It’s huge. No, bigger than huge, it’s BIG.

And the cluster is all around Miss Carol. 

I drive and I sing the happy songs.

We piled onto a pontoon boat and went to a waterside restaurant last night for appetizers and drinks. There was a bunch of us and baby it flowed.

But I noticed something that is creeping into me. I don’t have any friends anymore. I mean I have friends but not friends that I would call every day and hang out with.  

At one point I realized I was sitting by myself at the bar while Carol and her friends shot the shit and their husbands sat outside smoking cigars. I didn’t fit.

When I brought up my lack of friends with Carol tonight over dinner she cheerfully reminded me I’m a lonely fuck that never wants to do anything so I deserve it.

This is the way the rest of Oceandoggy’s household celebrated the hope, change, and golden dental floss streaming from the sky promised by our presidential candidates in their first debate.

I watched the first of the presidential debates last night between Mr. Maverick and THE CHANGE. Both candidates promised totally new government in Washington should they be elected and this is how they propose to get it done:

THE CHANGE and his Democrats are promising to save us downtrodden little people by eating the rich and bringing change to Washington. 

The Republicans and Mr. Maverick are promising that by keeping the rich wealthy we downtrodden little people will be saved when they bring change to Washington. 

New and freshy change all over again.

Once again this year we have a bumper crop of sandspurs infesting our yard. I’m sure they have an amazingly unpronounceable scientifically appropriate latin name urging their usefulness.

Around here we call them ##$%%^^& or sometimes &&&%##$%%. Or even %##$##$&.

We hate them.

Especially when we step on them in our barefeet at o’dark thirty in the morning when we’re going out to get the paper.

Then we pull them out of the ground, take pictures of their worthless lives, back over them with our truck, and set them on fire.

Not that I did that.

Today was one of those brutally beautiful beach days when the sky is so bright it crackles and the cool breeze blowing off the ocean is knife sharp salty. One of those days when you wish you could skirt responsibility and just sit in the warm sand with a cooler full of cold beer and a good book and bikini models. 

But it was not to be-like everybody else we had to work hard today so that the government(s) can take a third of our salaries to fund stupid wars, subsistence lifestyles for losers, and buyouts for huge corporations-but don’t get me started on that.

Sometimes it’s just better to breath deeply the breeze and watch the waves.

Today is Touron Hell.

All the Mister and Missus Tourons and all the Tiny Touron Trolls are gonna be stuck inside their Touron bungalows staring at one another and trying to figure out how to salvage vacation while fighting the rising panic that they have made a huge error. We have a cold front rolling through and the forecast is for blustery, chilly, wet weather until- you guessed it- the end of the week.

It’s all adding up to a not so good vacation at the beach for the cheapo Tourons trying to score a reduced rate holiday by coming down during the shoulder season instead of during the summer like everybody else. 

I know it makes me a small, hateful, person but it makes me giggle.