One year ago today: July 28, 2015, the Lanai Kai Tunnel.
Five years ago today: July 28, 2011, a generic day.
Nine years ago today: July 28, 2007, a nothing day.
Random years ago today: July 28, 2008, Hummer golf cart.
MORNING
I’m no fan of sitting around, so how about I cook up more nonsense about the silver market? My goal here is prove I’m just as qualified as the experts to explain what is going on over there. Like all self-styled pundits, I have to point out only those times where I’ve taken reasonably close guesses in the past. And my pet theory is that the crooked New York bankers and stock people are desperately manipulating the price by flooding the reporting system with fake low-price trading. Why should I pay $20 for silver when millions of ounces are trading at $18?
See how the price was soaring until the NYMEX opened, but this time they could not plunge the price. They held it steady with their paper trading to just under $20 per ounce until closing time. But as soon as they quit and real silver started moving again, the price rose 50 cents an ounce. And my grand theory states that banks cannot sustain their silver certificate scam at prices above $17 per ounce.
You see, in certificate form, the banks have already sold all the silver in the world several times over, including the silver that has not been taken out of the ground yet. If even a fraction of those certificate holders asked for their metal, the banks would have to start buying it, and the price would soar to (another guess) $200 per ounce in a few days and $2,000 per ounce in a month or two. Let’s see, where would I stand if silver was $2,000 per ounce? Probably somewhere in east Texas overlooking my estate.
[Author’s note: while my silver story-line is pure fantasy, I point out that the underlying facts are entirely true. The banks have over-sold any amounts of silver they possess in the vaults. They expect to buy silver at the market rate should any significant number of investors attempt to redeem their certificates for real metal. The banks know that is only as likely to happen as, say, the bankruptcy of some southern European tin-hat country, a collapse of the dollar, or somebody they can’t buy getting into the White House. The banks are banking that those things never happen.]
Walnuts.
NOON
I revamped the ad for this place, stressing that I had a studio in here, and a small workshop, sort of the entrepreneur angle. There’s got to be someone out there who recognizes the advantage of this place as a place to operate out of. I’ll even counsel them on how to keep it a secret from the management, who have a policy against any home business, even if there is no way to tell from the outside. Like they didn’t like it when my buddies and I jammed music outside.
It’s a scorcher, I’m headed to the movies. Later, don’t bother with the movie, “The Kind Words”. The title is meaningless, the movie is gloomy throughout. Much of the movie is senseless to those who lack an unusually firm grip on Jewish customs. The whole production is droll and promotes the notion that Jewish suffering is much more acute. Because, as we’re recursively tutored from birth, they’ve done so, so much more of it.
Three Jewish kids discover their father is infertile and set out to find the inseminator, only to discover that, horrors, the guy is an Arab. All actors are as stereotyped as cinematically permissible and there are no attractive Caucasians shown in the entire footage, even in the distant backgrounds. I stayed for the air conditioning right to the semi-conclusive ending. In Hebrew with English sub-titles.
The fourth person you see in this photo and all the movie advertising is playing the role of the female star’s husband. This is so none of you Gentiles would ever think a nice Jewish girl would go out on her own to Paris or Marseilles. Or into a disco or stay in a hotel. The monolithic virtue of Jewish womanhood does not lapse in this movie.
Shigeru Watanabe: Psychology, 1995. Shiggy taught pigeons how to tell paintings by Picasso and Monet apart. Or was it the other way around? Seriously, honeybees have been taught the same.
Um, the tests also revealed that if Picasso paintings were hung upside down, a thorny real-life problem, the birds could still discriminate. But not so the Monets.
NIGHT
Too hot, I went to the Panera, a place I don’t care for. Noisy old men, crying babies, people yelling in Spanish, shouting into cell phones. But they’ve moved in two extra portable air conditioners and that was enough to get me in there. I had zipped across the road for some light groceries and spotted a tool, an apple corer. On the package, it also said it would core pears and tomatoes. Tomatoes? I’ve not seen that one before. I asked around and a little blonde cutie convinced me that tomatoes do have cores and her mother didn’t like them.
It not only works, the resulting tomato slices are better looking. They even looked easier to slice. I give in and now would like my tomatoes without the innards. It actually works pretty neat. We sliced up the lot and fed everybody. It’s the most healthy meal ever served in that club. Shown here are apples, pears and a cored tomato. You can just make out me holding the corer in the foreground.
I left when the overhead started covering a political convention, but not right away. You see, for the first hour, I did not spot it as a political event. It was a stream of preachers and police, and grieving parents, so much that I thought it was a benefit for those cops killed in Dallas. There was no pitch for politics, except that I picked up that these people were bashing Trump far more than they were promoting anything positive or offering any alternatives. Instead, I noticed that this was a production by somebody who had learned the effectiveness that Trump gained by inviting the families of victims.
Well, now I know it was the Democrat National Convention, of which I understand zero. But I sure know a staged circus when I see one. Some butchy broad up there getting people to sing clips of songs taken out of context and one bozo comparing Trump to Reagan, saying Reagan said tear down the wall. Yes, but that wall was built by the other side, you numbskull. In all, I saw a “convention” that was not pro-Hillary or pro-Democrat, but a jamboree designed to prey on people who knew only the media-generated anti-Trump version of everything.
ADDENDUM
The situation of two motorcycles here is potentially solved. The obvious solution was to load the scooter into the truck and follow JZ up there on the sidecar, but is there an alternative? I think so and in fact, I’ll spell out why I think so. The new place, 509, is 5-1/4 miles from the Winter Haven train station. Next week, I drive the batbike with trailer up there and park it. Then, I hitch a ride to the station and catch the 2:00 o’clock southbound back to Hollywood. From there, it is a city bus to my old front door. where my old red scooter is waiting.
The only unknown is getting from 509 to the station. After that, anyone who thinks I cannot navigate the Amtrak from Winter Haven to Hollywood has seriously not been paying attention since what, 2013? Nobody knows this, but my second choice after Lakeland was Perth, Australia. I mean, what have I got going for me here? And if Trump doesn’t get in, this place is a sewer and Miami is a worse sewer that it is already. I’m not being metaphorical by that much, Miami really is a human cesspool, the next Detroit. Don’t believe the newspapers, there are street gangs everywhere in full assimilation mode.
Before you ever travel to south Florida, you should know it is nothing but a tourist trap. Any sight-seeing other than sitting on a boat is hours away through city traffic. As for entertainment, like I said, it is touristy. Even then, make sure you are the sort of tourist who likes only to drink, over-eat, watch TV, and not much else. For tourist men, there are incredibly expensive stripper bars, for women, incredibly expensive shopping concourses. Sorry for anybody else who might have aspirations beyond that. Florida is an awful lot like America’s cousin Eddie. It just kind of sits there all day long scratching its belly with both hands.
Last Laugh
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