August 17, 2025

Yesteryear
One year ago today: August 17, 2024,eBay is screwball.
Five years ago today: August 17, 2020, ugly plumbing.
Nine years ago today: August 17, 2016, the engineer’s job.
Random years ago today: August 17, 2004, a snarky post, anyway.

           A whirlwind look at the news shows the glitch I encountered a couple months ago is now affecting the worldwide credit card system. While the banks have not officially said anything, I first saw this glitch decades ago when Ivan Boesky was convicted. See addendum. Now that retail and convenience stores have cleared out of bad areas, the thieves are not hitting gas stations. It looks like the lower orders will re-establish apartheid by their own economic methods. Grandpa red cardinal is back, and worse for wear. I did not know their color could fade.

           He is also slower and had trouble landing on the special feeder. I wish there was a way to help but it is probably wiser to not mess with Nature. The missus does show up more often, but they don’t feed in turns like they used to. They also eat around 20% less than before. What’s this photo? Not another box! Except this design is from 1840. Why, I recognize that, even the rope handles. We did find some adventure today. This is at a State park I never heard of out near Wachaula.
           Not much has changed in the box-building trade, I see. We did squeeze some adventure out of today. First stop was Wal*mart in town. I used my Florida rule to never buy the last of anything on the shelf, and they had one jigsaw. I passed, but picked up the adhesive for the peeling shelf counter. Feeling I deserved that tool, I finally drove the 25 miles and looked around Wachaula. Not a bad hideout, I’d say. All the tools, even the displays, were locked inside the cases, give you an idea of the ethnic mix. But they had the jigsaw and it’s home here with me.

           I’ve never been in Wachaula except that once I bought some pickles—and the store is now boarded up. I drove around for ten minutes, it’s another Ft. Meade. A town that was once something. The west end must have been very prosperous. The houses are mini-mansions that look from the 1890s. Big two-story affairs. But like the others, the surrounding area does not seem it could ever have supported that situation. No industry, no mills, but there are some abandoned mines in the area. I saw only one orchard, and it was in dire recovery mode from some blight, shown here. Most of the trees are inside plastic shrouds.
           But that is one small operation. True, the big orchards make oodles of money selling each pear and orange for 30 cents apiece. There were no orchards nearby and most of the surrounding land is weedy and overgrown. So I took the side roads back, starting with Heard Bridge Road back to Bowling Green. It was along this route I passed Payne’s Creek Historic Park. Any relation to Payne’s Prairie, I dunno. Admission was $3 so I drove to where the map said the fort was.

           The park is tiny and you quickly learn why it was abandoned after a year. Mosquito swamp in every direction, so I ducked into the visitor’s center. It was vacant but air-conditioned and I sat through the 15 minute video. This is Seminole country. I learned the biggest Indian wars were not the Apaches or Commanches, but right around here. In 1812 the local commander sent a request for 4,000 troops. About half the US Army at the time. The plan was a string of forts across the state to pen the Seminoles into the Everglades.

           This fort was built on a huge sand bar, the highest tround nearby. This part of Florida is the old shoreline from eons ago when the sea level was higher. It’s a white powdery sand that grows weed-like shrubs and cactii. What a gawd-forsaken place, apparently 170 of the 240 soldiers contracted malaria. Several times driving past this town, I see the “Bone Valley Tavern” pop up on the GPS. It’s a hot summer day and the de Lorme says it is just west of town. I got two miles down the road to find it closed.

           Last evening I had Wilford go over my “smart” phone looking for two settings. One is the screen timeout. Set it for ten minutes. He did, but alas, it sets itself back to 20 seconds every time. Second is the pics I receive by text or take with the phone. There is no command to get them off the phone without opening a Google account. Not bloody likely. There were four other patrons who should know this stuff (being power users on a daily basis) that took a look. Nope, there is no USB transfer icon on this phone that can be located easily.
           There is a Bluetooth setting, but it does not locate any of my devices. Maybe I’ll take it to Miami next trip and let Agt. M have a go. I see the final two pics of Jeepee are on the phone and I want them. I must allow for the possibility tonight that I was in a room with five “experts” who knew less about the phone than I do. I did find the setting to turn on the flashlight, and no, it is not in the instructions. Duh. Another one of those things you are “supposed to know”, I guess.
           I’m still seeking a suitably derogatory term for websites that have never been updated. You know the ones, full of now and trendy staff, but not one has the IQ to go into the site and update little gems like business hours, prices, and inventory.

Picture of the day.
Icelandic sneaker wave.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.

           The only real artifact at the museum was this cannon, a six-pounder in perfect condition. It is clearly in working order. That’s why the ammunition boxes are all empty. The whole unit, including the limber and horse drawbar is a good forty feet long. This odd angle makes the wheels look funny, but my camera was acting up again. There were lots of metal parts and flanges that had no explanation. The ammo box behind the breech is also the bench for the crew to sit on, a full crew was up to nine men.

           I wanted to see the fort, but had not picked up all the literature was past tense. The for was built in 1949 and was located 300 yards away and was made of imported logs. But it was not there. Just an empty plot with three signposts. Thanks a lot, Florida.

           That’s when I noticed the GPS was still on Bone Valley Tavern and showing a back road into the place. Following west from Ft. Meade and then south, I see the entrance is one I turned around months ago because it said Streamsong Private Property. One of those chintzy signs you see out west on logging or oil roads. This was a total of 17 miles out of my way so I was thirsty enough to drive on in. Interesting, the map shows the whole area as a massive set of old strip mining ditches and piles. But it has been all planted to look like a good old bayou. Here, in the middle of nowhere.
           Somebody has actually carved a luxury golf resort out of the terrain and done a good job of it. Beautiful, but I wanted a cold beer and a place this swank had to have entertainment. But the valet said the maps are all wrong, the “clubhouse” he called it is another ten miles down a narrow road. I was thirsty. Away I went, right to the far end and sure enough. I got millennialized. A closed sign 17 miles from the actual entrance. And they wonder why nobody likes them.

           Outwardly, the whole affair looks nice, my kind of place. And just 22 miles from here. I may give it another chance. The two on-line photos show it to be more of a dining room, but there is a row of stools along one wall.

           My usual pattern is a direct dash home, but being in the middle of the swamp, I was on the road another hour. So I listened to more of “No One Cares”. By now, I’m just here to see how bad it can get with these bat-guano crazy women. Have sex for fifteen minutes and spend the next 36 hours talking about it. We get it, she is still hung up on her ex, and the plot has to now make him some form of innocent victim. And no way a famous writer falls for a dweeby broad who can’t hold her liquor.

           Um, it’s hard to tell if it is funny or sad, but there are an increasing number of ads for husbands by single mothers with black kids. They must be getting nowhere, judging by the replies. Makes sense, since I’ve always said there is enough trouble in this life, there is no need to go looking for it. The few ads I’ve seen follow a pattern, they do go on about being good mothers and oh-so Christian. However, they get a zero rating from me because they all specify they want only White husbands. That is, some idiot to pay the bills. So, here is a slightly redacted list of common replies.

Once you go black, nobody wants you back.
Once you go black, expect an attack.
Once you go black, so do your eyes.
One thing black and white guys agree on: we aren’t raising any black kids.

           How was your Sunday, August 17, in 2025?

ADDENDUM
           Boesky was convicted of insider trading, stealing $100 million and getting only three years prison. His enduring motto is “Greed Is Good”. Like many immigrants, once arriving in America he was shocked how open and trusting the place is. Instead of appreciating the freedom, these lower orders see it as a weakness to be exploited. The glitch in called ‘arbitage”, it is the tiny differences in price caused by an imperfect market. For example, the London Exchange closes at a different time than New York, the rest you can figure out. It does not take financial genius to take advantage of this, just a crook. The problem today is that the West has recently let in 38 million crooks, all over Europe and the USA.
           What’s happening is somebody buys something on a credit card in Germany. Computers or not, it takes some time for that transaction to arrive at Visa headquarters and by then the exchange rate has moved. Now, couple this with the millennial mind-set. If it moves in their favor, they ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Nor do they pause to consider that over time, the differences balance out. Sooner or later they get the brain-fart that they will only accept the ups but not the downs. When enough money is involved, that’s where the greed comes in.
           It’s rumor only but it seems outfits like Paypal are getting the gears from Visa. Despite having no control over the market, Paypal is told by that Visa will only accept currency changes that favor themselves. Millennial-think at its finest. Careful here, I am NOT saying they are wrong. I’m saying I don’t like it just like they don’t like how I’ve categorized and defined it. And I’m warning they are bringing a third-world disaster down upon themselves for that greed.
           Take this A.I. bubble. Trust me, I warned five years ago it is not real A.I. and somebody is about to lose an incredible amount of money. It serves them right. While there has been some money made over A.I., it is a mirage overall and will not increase wealth in general. But, the real thing is on the way, probably by the middle of the next decade with qubit computing.

Last Laugh