One year ago today: May 24, 2015, New Smyrna beach.
Five years ago today: May 24, 2011, mostly speculation.
Nine years ago today: May 24, 2007, “mitnicking”.
Random years ago today: May 24, 2010, chocolate-dipped strawberry.
MORNING
Here’s a nice shady lane this morning, note the palm trees. These are not going to be part of the flora in my new digs. Palm trees can’t survive even the odd frost, and I’ve discovered the frost line is only one inch deep near Lakeland. Don’t anyone be confusing the way I use “frost line” in two different ways. Talking ground, I mean the depth to which ground water can freeze in cold weather, but on the motorycle, I mean the “thermocline” you hit traveling north.
That’s cause for hesitation, since it is now known once I own a tool, it tends to go into long-term storage in case I ever need it again. But a decent table saw is almost a given. I’ve already let Agt. M know there is a good chance the welding machine will be leaving with me. If it stays, it will be mainly because the new property has 220V service. And room for a real compressor.
Don’t worry, down time here is not wasted time. I see the banksters have mustered forces and pulled silver down over a dollar. That’s fine, now that I no longer have to sock money away for a place to live, I can reactivate my “buy” software, this time calculating to the penny what I can afford. I’ve said it takes five years to get rich, but I did not say you would like the changes you have to make to do it. The major concession to going from poor to rich is that unless you already have rich friends, you are on your own.
Your old friends just will not do. They’ll complain you’ve changed. They become a strange bunch who cannot help you and will not help you. They relax by drinking or toking, their opinions come from television, so they can tell you what they feel about things, but not what they think about them. Because being poor is a different kind of thinking, one where you get over-concerned with completely the wrong things in life. And that myth is perpetuated everywhere--that poor people are, by and large, happier than rich people. Bullshit.
Pope Nick's watching you.
NOON
Here are pics of my "cabin". Now, if anybody ever asks you if you have ever seen any pictures of a winter cabin in Florida sitting on the back sidecar of a Russian motorcycle, you can say, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I have.”
There you go, me sparing no expense to get you one-of-a-kind photos, all private stock. Because of the trees, real photos of the place like these are impossible. The last photo is of just the kitchen living room section. You know, it took me ten long, long years of hard work to pay for that house. Oops! Did I say ten years? Pardon me, I meant ten minutes. BWAAAAAAAaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha.
For an interesting peek at how long I’ve been considering buying a fixer-upper, or even building a place of my own, look back to August 1, 2003. When I first saw this place, I was already imagining the effect of adding a porch.
Dr. Paul Bosland: Biology, 1999. Paul has selectively bred the world’s first spiceless chili pepper. It is nice to know that grant research money is backing such splendid work. One has to wonder if Paul is the one behind the donut with no hole and unisex anything.
AFTERNOON
I read the Business Monday article on the outcome of the Seminole purchase of the Hard Rock chain some years ago. Back in the mid-80s when I lived in Thailand, some German tourists talked me into sharing a taxi up to one of the original Hard Rock establishments in Pattaya Beach. There was gambling, but I don’t know if it was official or simply ignored as do the police in that area for a price. My first impression of the place is that it had nothing to do with rock, or music, or a café. It was, by local standards, an outrageously expensive tourist attraction.
Nor did I care for the clientele, the food, or the floor show. It was nice, but American tacky. Gamblers have always appeared to me to be the shallowest-minded people who still have enough money to go waste it. They have no real character and as for the actual activity of gambling, boy, you talk about boring. It’s the old situation where although everybody is an individual, as a group, they are all the same.
There was also a code of conduct I didn’t care for. The poker players had their little routines which I knew from watching cowboy movies as a child. The roulette players from watching James Bond. And the pretty girls thick as maggots when the $100 bills appeared, whether the man was winning or losing. So more than twenty years later, when the Seminoles came along, I was already weary of the concept. You know, the concept that if you hang guitars on the wall, operate a hotel next door, and put on the odd rock concert, that you are anything but a gambling establishment.
What’s my theory on that? Simple. If all they did was the guitars, hotels, and concerts, they way they do things they would be losing money. Go figure.
Then I stopped at Burger King for a Whopper Dog. Hmmm, it is okay but a new low in fast food. It replaces the slider as the low-end menu option when you are really, really broke. If you don’t know what I mean, then don’t bother criticizing my outlook on certain matters. And in the big picture, south Florida is broke. Put it this way, it is one thing to believe Murphy’s Law but another to base large segments of your economy on the fact that same law applies to others.
It’s like the roads. Florida is a road builders dream. No hills, no valleys. But they build them so if you break down, it’s a $150 tow job to get off the shoulder or a $200 ticket if you don’t.
Here we go again, America, with another celebrity bust. This time, the bureaucrats seek to get their names in the media by prosecuting 78-year-old Bill Cosby. Folks, this is why the country needs stronger statutory limitation laws. The one thing these women have in common, not just with Cosby, but everywhere is that the man now has something to lose and they don’t. Without saying Cosby is blameless, the question remains if the woman was so hurt, why did she wait 10 years to say something?
His accuser, is a massage therapist, the true oldest occupation, heavily tattooed, is claiming her waltz up to his private mansion back in ’04 was in pure innocence. Like all the others, she only vividly remembers the parts that support her claims, all else is fuzzy. I haven’t heard, but I’ll bet she has no recollection whatsoever about what was said or discussed before she went to his place alone at night. She was trying to play old Bill for everything she could get.
There was also media mention that Cosby tried to hide hush payments to former lovers from his wife, and I’m like, okay, and? Anyway, here is a picture of Constand, who looks about like any other leftover you’d find in some east end bar. Maybe it is a case of mistaken identity, Cosby thought she was a horse and was trying to mount up for a test ride.
And as for these women claiming he gave them pills? Oh no, that is so shocking it offends the public ear. Who ever heard of women taking pills from men to get high? Why, that is so astonishing that we just know that sweet little Andrea would never do anything of the kind. But my question remains—why would a rich and famous star have to waste his time playing a sleaze like that one of all he wanted to do was get his end wet. It doesn’t add up. He could have had something younger and prettier any time.
Like her contention in her police report, saying, “I can’t even talk, Mr. Cosby.” That seems like a precisely worded statement for someone who can’t even talk and she had the presence of mind to address him formally. Her memory is crystal clear on that point. We are undoubtedly dealing with the Monica Lewinsky syndrome on this one. She can’t remember what she did, only what the man did. And so vividly, as well.
Folks, only a skank would have found herself in the situation she describes, and that is that. Anybody who has ever put the squeeze on some middle aged broad knows that she either went to his place avidly seeking sex, or only after an immense amount of preliminary negotiations. Unless she can prove they went there to play tiddley-winks (my favorite trivialization), that’s consent up to the time the door closed, and nobody’s business after that—unless the police were called at the first opportunity. They weren’t.
Don’t get me wrong, even a slut has a right not to be violated. Same as you have a right not to be mugged. So when it does happen, it makes all the difference in the world whether or not you contributed to the situation. Rights don’t protect people who think they can go around doing as they please.
As for her claim that she felt dizzy and could not think? That’s about the only believable part of her statement. But it does not specify how often she feels that way or why, if what she says is true, her testimony is considered fact. Of course, what she was wearing and how she was acting is not allowed as evidence, and it goes without saying the Judge is a woman. It’s a speculative trial, to see what turns up. A show trial to delight the masses, nothing else.
Food stamps and kangaroo court, the Liberal bread and circuses.
ADDENDUM
You know what works? Those Vick’s inhalers. I don’t know if it is real medicine, but as long as you can get the vapor aroma out of the tube, it is worth keeping. I have one that is at least fifteen years old and has been through the wash. It will still clear up congestion if you ask me. Even if only an illusion, I have no intention of throwing it away. Just you watch, now that I’ve reported it, Vicks will change the formula to make it go stale after three months.
I’m at odds whether to insure the new property. It would only be a threat until I’m 65, at which point if anything happens, I’ll just do a California or a Louisiana. Go on TV and say, “I know it was an Act of God, but I never thought God would do such a mean thing.”
And this was one disappointing “documentary” on titanium. It is hardly about the metal, but all about queer London designers using it for jewelry and mod-art. They include a plug for the titanium credit card, the ultimate expression of third generation irresponsibility.
Last Laugh
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