Grand Haven, Michigan

Here, have a couple of panoramas from my recent trip to Michigan:

The original images the pans were created from were taken in Grand Haven, Michigan. I was walking on the South Pier, which is part of the boat channel where the Grand River empties into Lake Michigan. A pier and lighthouse have been there since the early 1800’s. Ships sailing the Great Lakes could reach as far inland as Grand Rapids, and timber and the products made from it often made their way down this waterway to the Lakes and then to Chicago and the rail roads there or more likely the Atlantic via the St. Lawrence Seaway and from there, well, they went everywhere. Products from Michigan’s glory days of Furniture and Timber can be found all over the globe even today.

The current lighthouse and foghorn building at the pier head were both built in 1905 and are a fixture of the Michigan shoreline. I spent a lot of my childhood and teen years there and have fond memories of the place.

This first pan is from the boardwalk looking North East up the Grand River boat channel. I love the sky in this picture. That big white building on the far side of the channel is the original Grand Haven Coast Guard boathouse, primarily a surf rescue station built nearly a century ago. It’s privately owned now and in need of repair. The new Coast Guard Station is down the channel a mile or so. The Coast Guard has a long and distinguished history on the Great Lakes and there are few Lake sailors who aren’t glad of their vigilance and dedication. Every year Grand Haven hosts the Coast Guard Festival in their honor. There’s a reason why so many Guardsmen come from the Great Lakes.

Grand Haven’s famous beach is to the right, out of frame.

The second pan is from the South Pier itself, just short of the pierhead (the end of the pier farthest into the lake) and the famous foghorn building. The pier juts out from the boardwalk in the previous picture, with the beach off to the right and the Grand River to the left. The iron walkway running down the center of the pier was used by the lightkeepers when the lighthouse and foghorn building were manned. Lake Michigan can be a very violent place during storms – the waves, containing giant chunks of ice during winter before the lake freezes, can and do wash completely over the pier, sometimes in walls of foaming white water ten feet high with hundreds of tons of force behind them. In the winter the pier and its facilities are often coated inches thick in ice and it’s worth your life to walk out there. Dozens have been swept to their death over the years. The walkway once ran all the way to the beach and was used to reach the lighthouse and foghorn building during such storms. The Light and Signal were automated in 1969 and the walkway became superfluous. When I was a kid, the wooden decking was still there, but it has since been removed and the iron framework sealed off from the public. The lighthouse itself is located mid-pier on a large concrete foundation. It is made from cast iron plate held together with large rivets. It was built by the American Bridge Company in 1905 and stands 51-feet tall at the light. The original 6th order glass Fresnel lens was given to the city of Grand Haven when the light was upgrade with a modern plastic lens.

This last picture is of the foghorn building at the head of the pier. The building itself is often mistaken for a lighthouse, this is incorrect. There is a pier head marking light and the red right channel marker, but the cupola on top was an observation deck and housed the original steam powered foghorn. The building itself was built to house the boilers that powered the horn, it is a wooden framed building covered in thick corrugated sheet metal. Fog is a major navigation hazard along the coast of the Great Lakes and signals like this are of vital importance to the lake traffic. In the days before GPS, and even today, the Grand Haven fog horn has guided countless vessels to safety when the the thick gray pea soup of Michigan fog covered the water like a cotton blanket and sailors could barely see the foredeck let alone the beach. Note the concrete breakwater and massive foundation the building sits on. See how the water facing portion rises up like the prow of a ship? It’s designed to break the waves that slam into the end of the pier during storms, breaking the force of the water so that it doesn’t rip the signal building off its foundation and fling it into the channel. The shear size of that battlement should give you an idea of the awesome power of the storms that form on this coast. Note in particular the damaged concrete along the base and the rim, ice does that, waves do that. Trust me, you don’t want to be out where I’m standing to take this picture when those storms hit.

The Grand Haven Light and the Foghorn Building are iconic symbols of Lake Michigan and Grand Haven, there are few Michiganders who don’t recognize them immediately. This has been true for nearly five generations. Both the Light and the Signal have marked the Grand Haven channel for over a hundred years and still faithfully guide the boats and ships of Lake Michigan to this very day.

As are all working US marine navigation signals, the Grand Haven Light and Foghorn are the responsibility of the United States Coast Guard.

But not for much longer.

The maintenance and operation of historic Lighthouses and signals are a major drain on the budget and manpower of the Coast Guard and eat up a significant amount of assets that could be better used to protect the public. This year both the lighthouse and the signal building are up for sale under the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation Act. When a buyer is found, the Light will finally go dark and the foghorn will sound for the last time. The pier with its light and signal will pass into private hands to be preserved for future generations. Oh, there will still be a Coast Guard Light and Signal where the Grand River empties into Lake Michigan, but they will be modern automated technology and far easier and cheaper to maintain and operate.

It was good to see the place one last time before it becomes nothing more than a historic landmark.

It saddens me that it should be so. It makes me feel old.

But truthfully, as sad as it is to see this piece of the Great Lakes pass into history, it is for the the best.

I’m hoping that someone, the city of Grand Haven itself, or more likely a historic preservation group, will buy the Light and the Signal Building and turn them into a museum – and finally open them for tours to the public. Because in all the years I’ve been coming here, the one thing I’ve always wanted to do was see the inside of both buildings.

Working signals are national assets and are rarely open to the public, the Coast Guard has never allowed the public inside the Grand Haven Light.

That may be about to change.

I’m Just A Cheeseburger In Paradise

I’m going to the VA this morning.

They just built a new VA medical clinic out here in the Valley and I’ve been assigned to it. This is a good thing, because it means that for routine medical stuff I don’t have to drive to Anchorage. The new clinic is five minutes from my house.

I went in there yesterday to get signed up. They told me I have to have lab work done to establish a baseline for my new provider.

Including a cholesterol test.

So, I’ve been “fasting” for the last twelve hours, but see, here’s the thing, prior to vacation I spent a month eating nothing but fat free yogurt and fruit and vegetables. However, for the last three weeks I’ve been living mostly on bacon, cheesy grits, country fried meat covered in cream gravy with a side of corn dogs and Whataburger chocolate malteds. There was a lot of French fries in there too. Plus a couple of funnel cakes and an order of fried pickles. There was a three day span where I ate nothing but steak. I did eat some squash, white, breaded and deep fried of course – and it was gooooood.

Basically, I’ve consumed the equivalent of a 55 drum of liquid Crisco over the last month.

Yeah, I can’t wait for this conversation:

Young Pretty Doctor with a total body fat of 1% (who probably runs marathons): Mr. Wright, according to our tests, you don’t in fact have any blood.

Me: I don’t? Well that’s good right?

Doctor: No. Not really. Frankly we’re somewhat baffled.

Me: Pass me another donut, would you? No, no, the one with custard filling and the chocolate frosting.

Doctor: We had trouble testing your blood samples, they keep distilling into bio-diesel in the centrifuge…

Me: Look! I’m Homer Simpson, doooonut! Mmmmmmm.

Doctor: Your arteries appear to be filled with a substance that most closely resembles two-week old McDonalds fryer grease.

Me: Ooooh, fries! With extra salt.

Doctor: sigh.

They really shouldn't have made me fast.

Things That Chap My Ass About Air Travel, Part 2

As I mentioned in Part 1, I hate air travel.

I hate damned near everything about it.

For a economy that’s supposed to be staggering drunkenly towards the cliff edge, there sure are a lot of people flying. I’ve never seen the airports and the airplanes more jam packed. The stores and shops in every terminal are filled to capacity with people buying souvenir hoodies that they’ll never wear, and commemorative shot glasses they’ll never drink out of, and boxes of genuine Hawaiian chocolate coated macadamia nuts that they’ll eat before they even get on the plane. The shitty airport restaurants are packed, with lines out the door despite the lousy service and outrageous prices (what is it about airport restaurants anyway? We ate at Bubba’s in the George Bush International airport in Houston, I do not believe that it would have been possible for the wait staff to give any less of a shit about their jobs. We got a coffee at the Starbucks, also at GBI, and again, I’m absolutely positive that the counter staff could not possibly have given less of a shit about what they were doing, though they did have customer contempt down to a fine art. Worst Starbucks I’ve ever had, hands down). The bathrooms are more crowded than a Wal-Mart on welfare check day, but maybe that’s because every other one is “closed for cleaning” though they never, ever seem to be clean in any sense of the word. Seriously, who are all these people?

As I mentioned in part one of this post, it’s my fellow passengers that really get to me – and in a way I guess I can understand the utter disdain that people in the airline industry have for the average air traveler. I swear I don’t understand why the flight attendants don’t just open the door and start throwing out passengers at 30,000 feet.

I’d like to give a special shout out to a few of the folks that made my last flight such a joy:

- First I’d like to thank The Crazy Guy. Thank you so very much for scaring the shit out of my kid. Just a special kind of idiot, aren’t you? Crazy Guy acts normal in the terminal and on the jetway and in the conga line down the aisle, right up until he gets in his seat – seat 23B, the middle seat directly across the aisle from us (us being my wife, my son, and me). Crazy guy then begins to sweat and act strangely. He grabs the flight attendant and asks for a glass of water, she tells him to wait until we’re actually in the air. Crazy Guy then proceeds to do his oh so subtle William Shatner impression from the original Nightmare at 20,000 Feet - except we’re currently at zero feet, having not yet actually left the ground. It takes about 45 minutes to fill a 757 (mostly because of a lack of general mathematical ability in the traveling public and the inability to sit when directed as detailed in Part 1 – that coupled to the the additional fun of a large number of Texans), since Crazy Guy was in the rear with us, he had about 40 of those 45 minutes to do something about his problem. Instead he waited until we were actually pushing back from the terminal onto the taxiway before coming unglued, jumping up, running to the front of the plane and demanding to be let off. So now, you know, it’s a security crisis. Is this guy Osama? Or just some candy-assed sissy 40 year old who’s pissing his underoos at the thought of flying? My money was on the squealing sissy. So, back to the terminal, back comes the jetway, and we bid farewell to Crazy Guy – we’ll only knew him for a short while, but he set the tone for the flight. It scared the shit out of my son. Way to go, Crazy Guy, way to go.

- Next I’d like to thank Mr. Indecision. “Headphones? Headphones?” The flight attendant comes down the aisle with a bag of headphones. Headphones, yours to keep for a dollar. See, most of Continental’s fleet is shiny new hi-tech Boeing aircraft, and as such their long haul birds have digital entertainment on-demand in every seat. A wide selection of movies, music, and games on an eight inch touch screen on the 757’s, the same and more with an in-seat remote game controller on the 767’s. Seriously, this is awesome. On the seven hour flight from Texas (Arg!) to Alaska, I watched Diamonds Are Forever (Sean Connery James Bond with Bond Girl Jill St. John. Rawr, down boy! Seriously, how could you pass that up?), The Borne Supremacy, and The Incredibles. I brought my own headphones, which I intended to use with my ZEN, but they worked just fine with Continental’s sound hookup. But for those who don’t have the foresight to bring their own, ten minutes after take off the flight attendants come down the aisle explaining the on-demand entertainment and passing out headphones. There’s always Mr. No-Thanks-I’m-Working who waits until the flight attendant is ten rows past to suddenly decide that he does indeed want the headphones after all. He either pipes up with “Excuse me, Miss, excuse me!” while waving a dollar bill like some pathetic white collar drone on lunch break at the Kit Kat Klub, or he chases her down the aisle “heh heh, I guess I’ll, uh, have a pair of those after all, thanks.” No really, thank you, Mr. Indecision,

- Next I like to give a warm sneeze of Stonekettle Station mucus to Lilac Granny, Perfume Lady, and Aftershave Boy. What is it with these people? The old lady I could understand, she kept going past me on the way to the john every half hour, leaving a cloying cloud of lilac and talcum powder – or as I call it, Grandmother Funk – she had to be about 90 and you gotta figure her smeller probably wasn’t working all that great any more. I was willing to cut her some slack. But what the hell is the deal with Aftershave Boy? This guy is what, 20 maybe? He has a nose. You figure he can smell. I mean he appears to be properly equipped for the sense, if you know what I mean. So what the hell is he wearing? The musky reek of Irish Spring Meets Agent Orange On The Floor Of A NYC Taxi Cab in the Sam’s Wholesale size? Every time this guy went past my eyes would water and I felt like I had feathers jammed up by dose! Then there was Perfume Lady, Liz Taylor on a Three Day Gin Bender I believe her alluring scent was. She’d parade down the aisle to the crapper leaving a trail of sneezing about once an hour.

- And speaking of charming smells, special mention goes to Shitty Lavatory Lady. Really, so nice to wait ten minutes outside the lavatory for you, then enter to find a big heap of giant steamers waiting in the bowl, nestled snuggly in a pile of tissue. What was that anyway? Bean burrito and saurkraut? Thanks, really. Next time you might try pushing the handle marked “Flush.”

- But the Grand Prize of Assholedom in the Air goes to…envelope, please…Texas! Yah! Let’s give them a big hand folks. Thanks for coming to Alaska, Texas. Sorry we don’t quite measure up to your standards. You are, of course, welcome to fuck right off back to the Lone Star State, take Sarah Palin with you, will ya’ll? Her and George the Lesser ought get along fine.

See, Continental uses the North Terminal at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. The North Terminal, as I might have mentioned somewhere before, is the original Anchorage International Terminal. It’s old. It’s shitty. Uncle Teddy doesn’t have his name on it, or his pork in it. There was a large contingent of Texans on our flight. They were easy to spot, Texans are the epitome of Buford T. Ugly American Abroad. Overfed, loud, obnoxious, and eager to tell you why nothing manages to compare to Texas, land of sand, hats, and horny toads. Everything is bigger in Texas, especially the assholes. These idiots, about twenty of them were first in line at the baggage claim. Oh, I don’t mean they got there first – I mean they pushed through the crowd of people already waiting, elbowing their way to the front as is their right of course. The guy next to me, let’s call him “Hal” shall we? (Short for Hal E. Toesis) begins to comment loudly in cloud of spearmint Redman chew that the Anchorage terminal isn’t very nice. It’s old, and shitty, and Uncle Teddy doesn’t seem to have his name on it – he wonders where all of Texas’ tax dollars went. He laments the fact that we Alaskans are taking his money, and this is the best we can do. Figuring to shut him up, I explain the actual situation, and that he can take the shuttle bus over to the new terminal and see it in all it’s porky glory. He says he’d rather walk (Texans don’t take shuttle buses apparently, perhaps they ride green broke stallions whooping and waving their large hats instead). Yeah, really have fun with that, especially the part where you cross eight lanes of major road.

In the North Terminal, the baggage handling system is old, unreliable, and dangerous. There are large signs attesting to this. All around the conveyor carousal, at a distance of about five feet is a thick yellow and black striped line painted on the floor. Every couple of feet is a sign that warns people to stay outside the line unless grabbing their luggage from the conveyor. Luggage comes out of a chute and slides down a stainless steel ramp at high speed and slams into a stop before sliding out onto the conveyor. Upon occasion, large and heavy items jump over the barrier and slam into the floor. It’s not a very good system and would never be installed today, but, as I’ve mentioned, this terminal has been around for a while and way back when it was built there were different standards (maiming random passengers was OK, apparently lawyers had not yet evolved). The airport knows that this is a dangerous situation, accordingly there is a VERY LARGE sign painted directly on the floor in front of the barricade surrounded by a large yellow and black warning line that specifically tells people not to stand there because of the possibility that they might be, you know, permanently fucked up by a 70 pound piece of Samsonite moving down the ramp at just below sonic speed. I watched incredulously as a grossly pregnant woman wearing a Houston Oilers sweatshirt and carrying a two year old child in her arms pushed her way past me and stopped directly on top of the warning sign and then proceeded to lean on the barrier while arguing about the color of their luggage with her husband. Bags were slamming into the barrier and if it had been only her I would have let the bitch get killed. But there were kids involved, so I said to her, “You need to move, you’re going to get hurt and so is your kid” and pointed to the warning sign. The look she gave me was probably the same one she reserves for the Mexican farm hands who work on her daddy’s ranch, and her husband piped up sarcastically, “Yehay, Honey, guess ya’ll better move along from there. It’s Alaska!” He rolled his eyes at me and snorted. I wonder if he would have been so sarcastically condescending if his very pregnant filly had taken a 60lb hardshell in the belly about then. But then again, Texans are apparently dropped on their heads as infants quite often, perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference to the fetus other than to dent his little belt buckle.

But the real prize goes to the crowd of pointy toed shitkickers who crowded right up the baggage conveyor, oblivious to the warning signs. They were talking loudly and excitedly and were completely ignoring the announcement blaring over their ten gallon heads – the announcement which said in loud irritated tones, “Everybody step outside the yellow and black line unless you are getting your bag off the belt. You need to be outside the line. If you do not step back IMMEDIATELY, I will stop the conveyor for safety reasons and the baggage claim process will not resume until everyone is clear of the belt. I repeat…” The Texans just kept talking louder and louder and louder and ignoring the announcement.

I couldn’t take it.

I was tired and irritated and we had an hour drive ahead of us. All I wanted to do was get my bags and get the hell out of there, go home and take a shower and sleep in my own damned bed.

And twenty ignorant, selfish, rude, obnoxious, inbred, loud, oblivious idiots were preventing that (Yes, yes, I could have just said Texans, it’s the same thing, sue me).

It pissed me off.

I put on my Chief Warrant Officer voice.

Pointing directly at the idiots, I yelled across the conveyor at the top of my lungs, “Hey! Step the hell back, right now! If you don’t step outside the yellow line, they will shut down the baggage conveyor and it’ll take all damned night to get our stuff. You people are screwing up the process for 400 other people, pull your heads out of your asses now.”

The Texans stared at me in shock.

They stepped back, one step maybe two.

But not far enough.

Obligingly, the airport baggage guy shut off the conveyor.

Appalled the Texans stepped back outside the line.

The baggage handler restarted the conveyor.

One of the ten gallon idiots, a woman, screamed at me, “How are we supposed to know?”

How are we supposed to know?

How. Are. We. Supposed. To. Know?

Try to guess what I said in response. Go on.

Yes, folks, I told her exactly how she was supposed to know. The signs. The announcement she had been ignoring for ten minutes. She looked away instead of meeting my pissed-off tirade. Her drugstore cowboy husband almost looked like he wanted to start something, instead he kept his mouth shut and looked for his luggage. Good choice on his part, actually. My son stood behind me and laughed out loud at him.

Hal, still standing next to me, brown teeth and all, indignantly piped up with, “We’re from Texas!”

“Yes,” I replied, “I recognized you from your description.”

Behind me a woman blurted out in offended superior tones, “Well! At least in Texas we’re not rude!”

“Excellent, why don’t you go back there right now?” I said.

“Well!”

“Rude? You want rude? There are two huge airliners off loading here. There are over 400 tired and angry people waiting to get their luggage and you idiots and your bullshit are interfering with that. That’s rude. Here being rude will earn you an ass kicking. So, welcome to Alaska, better get used to it.”

They shut up at that point.

My luggage dropped down the chute a moment later. The idiots got out of my way pretty damned fast and we headed out to the parking lot where a buddy of mine had left our truck earlier in the day (I should mention at this point that his wife is from Texas, and she’s one of my favorite people and she reads this blog, so, you know I guess not all Texans are idiots – and truthfully she’d have probably lit them up worse than me, knowing her).

Last I saw of them, they were standing quietly at the shuttle bus stop.

Seriously, I say we quit waiting for Texas to secede, I say we vote them off the island instead.

Who’s with me?

Post Vacation Question

Do you unpack immediately after a long trip?

Or do you just get out your toiletries kit and sort of live out of your suitcase for a couple of days because you're a lazy bastard?

Remember, the Internet knows if you're lying.

Busy

There will be a snarky blog post this evening, part two of things that piss me off about commericial air travel in general and Texans in particular. You will be highly entertained and possibly amused (or offended if you're a denizen of the Lone Star state).

However, the yard is literally knee deep in grass and gone to seed and I had to go to Anchorage this morning.

So, posting will be delayed until later.

Vacation clean-up don't you know.

More later.

Home Again, Home Again

Home again in Alaska.

Long, long flight - but not too terribly bad, except for the Texans. But, really, I should thank them because tomorrow's blog post practically writes itself.

Very, very tired. Need shower and sleep, in that order.

See you tomorrow, Electronic People.

Traveling

I'll be traveling all day Sunday.

By the end of the day we should be home.

Apologies to those of you in Michigan that I didn't manage to meet up with. We were only here for a couple of days and spent what little time we had with with family. Next time, I promise.

See you back in Alaska.

Making the Day Just a Little More Surreal…

Jim is on vacation in Michigan this week.  Besides giant killer deer, he is surrounded by corn. Acres and acres of corn. Square miles of corn. There are things, strange children, in the corn. I can hear them chanting at night.  Don't go into the corn. Just sayin'
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I'm at my parent's house.

They're farmers.

They're up early and gone to the farmer's market in Middleville to sell their produce this morning. They took their grandson with them.

I was sitting on the couch, reading the Internet, and drinking my coffee when I saw a car pull into the drive.

This is not unusual.  Cars pull in here all of the time, my parents are well known throughout south western Michigan for the quality of their produce. Up until last year they ran a very popular and highly visited farm stand in front of their house.  They're getting older though, and the stand was a lot of work every day, so this year they mostly just sell at the Friday Farmer's Market in Middleville.  However, they have attracted hundreds of loyal customers over the years, and if you stop by the house, they'll cheerfully sell you beans or asparagus or new potatoes or pickles or raspberries or just shoot the shit for a while. People stop by all of the time, dozens a day sometimes, at all hours.

So, a car in the driveway, not that unusual.

Except that it's Friday, and everybody knows that my folks are at market on Friday.

However, they leave the garage open, and if you need a couple pounds of green onions or a quart of strawberries you call ahead and my folks will leave your order in the garage and you can get it out of the produce cooler and put your money in the can.  So I figured that's who this was.

I heard a car door slam, then I saw a young woman approaching the front door.

Now that is unusual, regulars don't come to the front door and ring the bell, they shout through the screen door into the kitchen from the garage if they have a question, "Hey! Anybody home! I need yellow beans, got any? Hello?"  That's just how it is around here.

So, young, well dressed woman at the front door.

Hmmm, so I answer the door unshaven, in my sweats, coffee in hand. I’m a sexy monkey in the morning, I am.

Woman: "Hi!  I'm here to tell you how to survive the end of the world!"

Me: "Mmph?"

Woman: "I'm Katie and we're doing volunteer work here in the neighborhood and I'd like to talk to you about how to survive the end of the world!"

 

I don't like these people. 

I especially don't like brightly fervent cheerfully perky people who knock on my door and try to sell me the Jesus like some salesman hawking insurance or Rainbow vacuum cleaners before I've even finished my first cup of coffee.

Suddenly, I felt inspired.

 

Me: "End of the World?  What are you selling, bomb shelter plans?"

Woman: "Ahh ha ha, bomb shelter pla... No what I'd like...

Me: "Cause I could use me some good underground bomb shelter plans."

Woman: "No, I..."

Me: "Does your shelter plan have a place to store food and guns? Lots and lots of guns? Because when the Zombie Apocalypse comes you're going to need lots of guns...big ones. Are you selling guns?"

Woman: "I, uh...zombies?"

Me: "Hell yes, zombies.  They’ll come through the corn looking for brainz to feast on in an orgy of blood.  You have to blow their heads off to stop them. Well, technically all you have to do is sever the spinal cord at the base of the neck.  But most people can’t shoot that well.  So you need a big gun.  Or you could use a machete, but then you’d have to get in real close. And cutting the head off leaves you with a zombie head, you need to watch where you step, because zombie heads can still bite if something comes within range.  And you don’t wanna get bit, do you? But, you know that already, right? That’s what you do, right?”

Woman: “Wha…?”

Me: “Why, what were you talking about?”

Woman: “Um, see, um, Jesus, and, um…” [At this point she’s got this sort of stunned look and she’s waving some kind of glossy tract around in sort of a vague manner, the title on top says “How to Survive the End of the World.” It doesn’t say anything about zombies though, as far as I can see.]

Me: “Oh yeah, Jesus, talk about zombies. Rising from the dead and all that.  Some people in the zombie movement think he was the first zombie you know. Sort of like Dracula was the first vampire.”

Woman: [faintly] “Vampires?”

Me: “Vampires?  I don’t believe in vampires. Or werewolves either. What are you, some kind of nut? That’s just silly.  Sorry not interested.”

And I shut the door.

 

As I watched her pull out of the driveway I thought, serve the bitch right.  Damn silly woman, she won’t last ten minute when the zombie farm hands come shambling through the corn…

District 9

A while back I posted the trailer for the forthcoming Peter Jackson movie, District-9.

This movie and the concept behind it intrigues me. I saw the trailer for it at Terminator Salvation and wanted to see it, rather than the terminator movie I was at (though, I admit I did love TS. Loved it).

Jackson has just released an extended trailer with more detailed scenes of the aliens, their ship, weapons, and technology and a bit of the back story:

New district 9 trailer-HD
by rasterblaster

I find this fascinating on so many levels.

Tip of the alien antennae to Marty

Things That Chap My Ass About Air Travel, Part 1

Jim is on Vacation in Michigan this week. He is surrounded by vast armies of ridiculously large white tailed deer - seriously, these things are like terminator deer from some apocalyptic deer future with glowing red eyes and metal endo-skeletons and giant bulging Schwarzeneggeresque muscles…
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We made it to Michigan alive.

As usual, the flight was hell in a tin can with hell stuffing and brightly colored hell sprinkles on top with little wisps of hell smoke wafting hell like from the top of the steaming heap of hell.

Have I mentioned how much I despise commercial air travel? I haven't? Well, you're in for a treat then, aren't you?

I hate commercial air travel. I hate it with the fiery unbridled passion of a thousand Palin supporters defending yet another bizarre and incomprehensible decision from one of their republican demi-gods.

Crowded airports pushed beyond their maximum carrying capacity, never ending ubiquitous haphazard construction in every terminal, security regulations and processes smothered in incomprehensible bureaucracy and shy on common sense, over-sold and overcrowded flights, piss poor organization, airlines operating on the ragged edge of bankruptcy, old airplanes with overflowing toilets and stress fractures, surly employees afraid for their jobs and not particularly interested in them in the first place – a hundred million moving parts in random Brownian-motion, yeah, nothing to go wrong there. I could go on and on, the stupidity is just plain endless when it comes to the air travel process.

But today I’ll concentrate my ire on my fellow travelers.

Nothing says cud-chewing stupid like the average air traveler.

It starts before you even get on the plane, at security. Nowhere in the ridiculous goat-roping idiot-fest that is modern air travel is the stupidity of the average passenger more apparent than at the TSA security check point. How long have we had to put up with this bullshit? Since the week after 911? Eight goddamned years now? It’s not like it’s a new thing. It’s not like the rules aren’t posted online, on the tickets, on every damned wall and post and pillar and pylon and vertical flat surface in the airport. You’d think people would get a clue.

- Have your ticket and your identification ready. Ready like in your hand. There are four hundred angry and irritated people in line behind you and all of them are in a hurry – and I’m their leader. Have your shit ready. I don’t give a flying fig Newton if you hate the police state, pull your Guy Fawkes passive aggressive bullshit somewhere else. If I have to stand behind one more big haired bitch who who holds up the line while digging through her purse for her driver’s license I’m going to help the TSA goons beat the shit out of her.

- Remove the metal from your person and put it in the tub. Anybody who shows up with 400 metal studs and piercings and buckles and buttons and clips, zips, and pips needs to be beaten with a baton, pepper sprayed, fire-hosed, and then stripped and interrogated with the alien anal probe on a freezing metal table.

- Take your shoes off and put them on the belt. How goddamned hard is this? Pretty fucking hard when you wear combat boots laced to the neck like Harry Houdini wrapped in chains for a dunk in the Tank O Death. Get a clue, you Emo jackass, wear sandals or slip-ons or sneakers or something that you can take off without causing my blood pressure to trip security alarms in three adjoining terminals.

- Take your laptop out, put it in the tub, put the tub on the belt. Put your bag in a tub, put the tub on the belt. Step through the metal detector. Gather your tubs and move the fuck out of the way or I swear to God I’m going to scream and point at you and yell “Oh my God! He’s got a bottle of water and a pair of nail clippers!”

“We would now like to invite our passengers in rows 20-15 to board the aircraft…”

I think all airline passengers should be required to take a basic math test before buying a ticket, because it is patently obvious that the staggering majority cannot count.

- If they’re boarding rows 20-15 and you are in seat 12A, they’re not talking to you, you stupid bastard, sit your ass down and wait your turn.

- And just as bad are the dipshits who don’t go when called. “Yeah, yeah, I know they’re boarding rows 30-34 and I’m in 32, but I think I’ll just wait until they’re boarding row 10 and then stand behind the giant line of passengers and act all impatient and then when I finally do get to my seat I’ll bitch really loud that there’s no room left in the overhead, because chicks dig the the whole self-centered asshole routine…”

- Part of the problem here, of course, is the dumbassery inherent in the announcement, “we would like to invite… .” No. Sorry, but no. We’re talking a gaggle of mouth breathing idiots here, you need to be more specific, “We are now boarding rows 20-15, if you have a seat in rows 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, or 20 get your ass on the fucking plane now – otherwise your ass is staying here. If you approach the boarding gate and you don’t have a ticket with rows 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, or 20 printed on it, the ticket agent will kick you in the nuts and then taze your stupid ass, after which you will be stripped naked, wrapped in duct tape, loaded on a luggage cart, transported to the arrival apron, and unceremoniously dumped in the trunk of a taxi driven by a man with a giant moustache who speaks a language consisting primarily of clicking noises and glottal stops. What happens to you after that is not our problem and your credit card will be billed the full price of your fare plus an additional $14.95 for rental of the luggage cart. The taxi ride is on us. In other words, wait your turn, motherfucker.”

Carry on luggage. Look, I don’t give a shit if you have the assistance of the New York Fire Brigade, a hydraulic jack, and the jaws of life you cannot get a baby grand piano into the overhead luggage compartment – and don’t give me this bullshit about how “it fit on the other plane with no problems at at all.” It didn’t fit, you know it, I know it, the stewardess knows it, and pre-technology stone-aged jungle people from Mindanao Island know it. You’re not fooling anybody.

- There are two hundred people on the plane, all of them are trying to get their shit in the overhead. You. Are. Not. Any. More. Important. Than. Anybody. Else. You don’t get a whole bin to yourself. If your shit don’t fit, then all of us have to wait while they get a luggage handler and tag your bag and put it in the cargo hold where it should have been in the first place. Oh, and I put my bag in the bin and I put my hat and jacket on top of it. It you start shoving shit around and you crush my stuff into the corner – I am going to get up and I am going take you into the lavatory and I am going to introduce you to the blue water head first. You waited until the last minute, you’ve got too much shit, and you’re stupid – this is your problem, don’t make it mine.

- The 60lb backpack is NOT a purse, stop pretending that it is. You’re not fooling anybody.

Airlines need to start charging per pound of carry-on.

Sit down. I can not emphasize this enough. Get on the plane when called. Put your shit in the overhead or under the seat. And sit the fuck down. You’ve just had two hours in the waiting area to get out your book and your iPod and your knitting and your crossword puzzle book and your other bullshit. Now is not the time to go rooting through your carry-on. There are 200 hundred other idiots trying to get to their seats while your fat ass is blocking the aisle as you unzip pockets looking for your headphones. Heh heh, sorry, don’t mind me. Fuck you, I do mind. Get on the plane, sit down.

- And STAY sitting down. What the hell is the deal here? Sit down, buckle up, unbuckle, stand up, root through the overhead, sit down, stand up, back and forth – dude, seriously, they make medication for ADHD, get a prescription.

- Use the goddamned bathroom before getting on the plane. For crying out loud. Two hundred cud-chewers rooting through their shit in the aisle and there is always one dipshit who just has to get all the way to the back of the plane in order to use the lavatory. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me. I like to stretch and “accidentally” elbow these people in the bladder, oh excuse me, looks like you don’t need to go anymore, uh? Here’s my napkin, happy to help. Now sit down, dickhead.

- “The captain can’t push the plane back until everybody is in their seats. The captain can’t push the plane back until everybody is in their seats. The captain can’t… Who the fuck do you think they’re talking to? You, you stupid ignorant self-centered asshole, you. They’re talking to you. You’re the only one not sitting down. A multi-million dollar aircraft, millions of dollars worth of cargo and passengers, Captain and crew, complex air schedules, taxi plans, gate reservations, dozens of people working on the tarmac, baggage handlers, the guys with the little light wands, the guy who works the jetway, the ticket agents, the people in the tower, the people waiting on the other end - hundreds, maybe thousands, of people all waiting on you to sit the fuck down. But hey, Princess, take your time, the whole world can wait while you get out a stick of gum.

- Cell phones. Unless you’re sending the formula for the cancer cure, hang up and turn your phone off. Now. Or I swear to the Ghost of Alexander Graham Bell I am going to beat you to death with a $5 snack box.

A couple other points:

- Hygiene. You’re going to be packed into an aluminum can with two hundred other people for the next couple hours breathing recycled air, take a fucking shower first. Also, deodorant. Also take a Gasex – in fact, take two. Same goes for a breath mint.

- I’m going to be honest with you, I hate your children. I spend the entire flight secretly hoping they'll get sucked into a jet engine. Yes, I am a horrible person. See, here’s the thing – I’ve got a kid, he’s flown since he was little. We made him behave. We brought stuff for him to do. We kept him up the night before so he would sleep on the plane. If I’m not going to put up with shit from my own kid, what makes you think I’ll put up with it from yours? I don’t want to spend six hours listening to your kid scream, or having him blow snot bubbles over the seat at me, or kick my chair endlessly for duration of the flight. Here’s an idea, cough syrup. If you have kids, buy a bottle of codeine laced goodness and introduce the little hellions to better living through chemistry. One more point on this subject, because I see it a lot – four, five, six little kids riding with mom, dad sitting three rows back with head phones on, oblivious. Listen carefully, fucker, you had ‘em so you either help your wife deal with ‘em or I swear I am going to saw your balls off with the plastic spoon from my snack box. Savvy?

- The drink cart. It’s not a full service bar. “What do you have?” What the fuck do you think they have? They have the same shit they have on every goddamned drink cart on every goddamned airplane in every goddamned airline in the entire goddamned world. Soda, the brown kind and the clear kind and the diet kind. They’ve got juice, grape, apple, orange, and cranberry. They’ve got crappy coffee, and ice water. They’ve got some kind of shitty lite beer for four dollars and some kind of cheap wine, red and white. It is always the same. They’ve got it listed in the in-flight magazine, they announced it on the speaker, the guy in front of you asked the same question, so did the dipshit in front of him.

- Keep your ass out of my face. I don’t care if you die a prolonged and painful death from an embolism and blood clots, I don’t care if the doctor advises you to stretch your legs, I don’t care – keep your ass out of my face. If you have to stretch, go do it somewhere else, but keep your ass out of my face. I have a leaky ink pen, I’m not afraid to use it.

There’s more, oh there is so much more. But now, I have to go enjoy my vacation.

What chaps your ass about your fellow passengers? (we’ll discuss other aspects of commercial air travel at a future date).

At the Airport

Jim is on vacation in Florida Panhandle, he is tired, grumpy, and ready to be somewhere else. Fortunately for all parties involved, he gets his wish today (He's really just kidding, he had a great time)
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At the Pensacola airport waiting from my flight to Houston and then up to Michigan.

The wifi is free and that's a good thing because I wouldn't pay for it - it's an incredibly shitty Meraki installation. Meraki, who apparently thinks that it's acceptable to plaster a toolbar across the top of my browser screen. And not only a toolbar, but an utterly useless toolbar that does nothing but direct you to their website.

Attention Meraki, fuck you. Get the hell off my computer.

See you all in Michigan.

Meet the Three Loneliest People...

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, where Karaoke takes on a whole new, and deeply horrifying, meaning...
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...at the Milton, Florida 4th of July Celebration.













Let's just say President Obama doesn't have a lot of fans in this deeply religious Southern town - something about socialism, among other, uh, darker issues. They didn't sell a lot of T-shirts, but they had a good sense of humor about it. We talked about the Palin thing, they had a really good sense of humor about that too.

Other things:

- The 4th of July is a big deal around here. Despite the hard economic times, the whole town turned out on the boardwalk along the river as only a small Southern town can. People were having a lot of fun and enjoying themselves.

- At the center of the Riverwalk Park is a large pavilion. During celebrations like this, it's used for public Karaoke. Southerners are big on Karaoke. You haven't lived until you've heard The Doobie Brothers' China Grove sung by very, very drunk mulleted rednecks. Really, you haven't.

- Bobo the Balloon Clown sucked. Her main talent seemed to be making snakes and popping balloons. The kids didn't seem to mind.

- My mother-in-law mentioned that she liked funnel cake. I went to get her one. I stood in line. It took forever. The very large woman in front of me was eating a enormous plate of steak fries covered in thick gloppy cheese, sour cream, and bacon bits. She was making love to each potato slice, mmmm nom nom nom, then licking the greese off her fingers and making loud smaking sounds of satisfaction. When she got to the window, she ordered five funnel cakes - and one fork. She must have noticed my expression, because she turned to me and said, "Fuck you, I like funnel cake." Back off, Jabba, leave some for the rest of us, thanks.

- How to screw with Rednecks: The guy selling kabobs wouldn't leave me alone. He shouted across the walkway, "Hey! Best Kabobs in Town!" I shook my head, no. "What's the matter?" What's the matter that I don't want to eat room temperature meat on a stick out of a dirty cooler sold by some drunken goober and his beer buddies? "That's down right unAmerican!" OK, see know you've pissed me off, so I said, loudly, "Kabobs? Kabobs come from the Middle East, they're frickin' Arab food! I don't eat no Arab food on America's Birthday!" I left him with his friends looking suspiciously at him and one said, "Ah thought ya'll said ya'll got these at the Costco? Ah don want no fuckin' Ayerab food on America's Birthday..." and the reply, "Hey, you ate like twenty of 'em already, stupid!" "Ah didn't know they was Ayerab food!"

- The fireworks were pretty damned good.




















I hope you all enjoyed the Holiday.

We're off for one more family picnic today at the swimming hole.

Tomorrow we're up early, flying to to Michigan to see more family.

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Also, Continental's online check-in process sucks big hairy donkey balls. It's slow. No, it's just unbelievably slow. Then the bastards charged me for check-in luggage, which pisses me off. I think they should have to refund me for the ink and paper needed to print the stinking ads on the boarding passes. Instead of begin able to print a page with the six boarding passes I need, I have to print six pages with one boarding pass on each and a page of fucking advertising. Kiss my ass, Continental check-in process.

Good Bye Sarah Palin And Don't Let the Door Hit You In The Ass

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, he's pretty sure Sarah Palin pulled this stunt because he's out of town
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As an Alaskan I have no special insight into why Governor Palin abruptly resigned.

I could guess, but frankly I don't care.

As an Alaskan I'm perfectly happy to see her go, and the sooner the better. Alaska needs a governor whose mind and focus is on Alaska, not on some personal agenda. I'm sick of listening to her campaign, I'm sick of hearing about her Goddamned kids, I'm sick of hearing about who she's mad at this week or who offended her or what damned out of state hate rally she's headed off to this time.

The woman that leaves office at the end of this month is not the woman I voted for two years ago, that Sarah Palin promised to put Alaska and her duty to Alaskans first. And the Sarah Palin we elected did, for her first year in office anyway.

When John McCain selected her as his running mate, I was one of the very few non-conservative Alaskan bloggers who stuck up for her, and I took some serious heat for it too - I've still got the megabytes of hate mail. Despite having no intention of voting for another Goddamn Republican, ever, I urged people not to buy into the liberal hype, to judge Palin on her merits and her record here in Alaska. Unfortunately, for me anyway, Palin managed to prove every single one of her detractors correct in short order. Instead of sticking to the slightly right of center position she had established as Alaskan Governor, she jumped with both feet into shallow end of the batshit crazy conservative gene pool - leaving people like me looking the idiot.

Yes, yes, fool me once and so on. Well, she did fool me once - but once only.

It became obvious almost instantly that during the 2008 Presidential election, Palin represented the absolute worst of the Republican Party's neoconservatives, those blindly religious bigoted jingoist nationalists who rallied crowds of small minded and frightened people by pandering to hate and fear and xenophobia. It became obvious to me that Sarah Palin embodies absolutely everything I despise about the pinch-faced theocratic hypocritical bastards who have taken over the GOP.

After I wrote those favorable articles about her, Stonekettle Station regular Eric said that what he disliked about Palin the most was that she was small. Small in her vision, small in education, small in her hate, small in her fear (I'm paraphrasing here). I came to agree with that assessment and came to see how truly terrifying Palin's smallness was. If she had been elected to national office, she would have brought that smallness to a national level. It's one thing when that small minded fear and that small minded hatred and that small minded thirst for vengeance and lust for power is limited to the tiny stage of Wasilla or the limited governorship of a remote and sparsely populated state, it's another thing entirely when that small fear and hate and vengeful scorned beauty queen mentality is backed up with the power of the Executive - and if the last eight years have taught us anything at all, it has certainly taught us that.

When she returned to Alaska after the election I hoped Sarah Palin would return to the centrist we had elected. I hoped that she would again be content on the small stage of Alaska, and would remember her duty and remember why we had elected her in the first place and who paid her salary. I hoped that she would be humbled by her experience.

But, of course, that was impossible for somebody like Sarah Palin.

Suddenly she was somebody, famous for being famous. Famous for being the little beauty queen from the sticks who came this close to the brass ring. Six months after the election and nobody remembers John McCain, but they all remember Sarah Palin. Suddenly people would pay to hear her speak, even though she never said anything new, even though she kept telling the same jokes and spewing the same hysteria about the newly elected President. Her running mate had the class and grace to concede the race, Palin never did - and in fact turned on her erstwhile friend and the man who had brought her into the race in the first place, and while she was at it she turned on her former friends and mentors here in Alaska, brushing them aside just exactly as any spoiled self centered beauty queen does when she has a new boyfriend.

Two decades of military service teaches you a few things about people. For example, you never truly know somebody until you see them in combat. It is then, when the stresses are past redline, that you see their true colors, their true leadership ability, and whether or not they truly understand honor, courage, and duty. Palin came to office speaking of honor, of duty, of ethics and morality and taking the high road, of building bridges and representing all people. From the day she stepped onto the national stage however, she spent nearly every moment burning those bridges, choosing sides, slinging mud, spewing hatred and playing to small fears. She has spent her time since the election demonstrating to Alaskans that her ambitions are more important than we are and that she saw her duty elsewhere - whether or not she believed that is irrelevant, actions speak louder than words and leadership is about the image you project, and both her actions and her words and the image she projected left Alaskans like me less than impressed with her commitment to our state.

Yes, for others, both Alaskan and otherwise, Sarah Palin still walks on water. Those people are certainly entitled to their opinions. And now Palin is free to bask unfettered in their adulation. I wish her luck, maybe those people will buy her book.

More than anything, I hope that our new Governor remembers that his duty is to Alaska, first and foremost, and most especially to all Alaskans - those who voted for him and those who didn't.
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Updated:

And Sarah Palin fades quietly into the Alaskan sunset.... um, not so much. Guess I should be glad she hasn't threatened to sue me...yet.

First Things We Do...Is Shoot All the Lawyers

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, unfortunately even the isolation of Florida's pre-Cambrian swamps is not enough to insulate him from the stupidity of frivolous lawsuits...
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Despite having several close friends who are lawyers, there are days where I would cheerfully banish the entire breed to some remote island in the Aleutians.

The American Society of Composer, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP) filed a lawsuit against telecoms giant AT&T, in which it told a federal court that ringtones fell under the public perfomance Copyright Act.

Yes, that is correct, the lawyers of the ASCAP have filed suit for copyright violation and compensation, because - and yes they managed to say this with a straight face - they apparently consider ringtones a public performance.

We're not using Shemya anymore, it's small but with proper compression I'm sure we could get all the lawyers on it.

I’m Sorry, What Did You Say?

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, he’s surrounded by people who speak a bizarre and incomprehensible dialect, Southern Ultra Conservative. It’s OK, mostly he just pretends to be deaf, dumb, blind, and angry – so he fits right in…

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I spent yesterday afternoon on the beach.

I got sunburned – I was already sunburned a bit, and I was slathered in sunblock, but seriously the Florida sun is a killer. It actually sunburned the top of my head, this morning my hair hurts.

I got bruised ribs from the surf – the waves were running four to six feet and they were knocking the crap out of me.

I got ridiculed - the kids thought that watching Uncle Jim repeatedly falling off his surf board and being pounded into the bottom and dragged across the coarse sand was hysterically funny.

Still, I had a good time and despite the sun and sand and the giggling derision of small and terribly cute girls (nieces who will be getting something “educational” for Christmas) the afternoon was orders of magnitude better than the morning – which I spent with other relatives.

The other relatives being the Ultra Southern Christian Conservative relatives.

I learned something.

I learned that that otherwise perfectly normal people can harbor the most bizarre of delusions and cling to those delusions despite all evidence to the contrary, despite common sense, despite reason, despite logic.

(Just so you understand the situation, on the back of the couch was blanket carefully folded to show the presidential seal and the words “A gift from the George W. Bush Presidential Library Foundation.”)

Relative: So, what do you think of this, uh, guy, in the White House?

Me: I think he’s doing a pretty decent job so far, and I…

Relative [Aghast, Appalled, Outraged]: He’s not even an American citizen!

Me: Wha…?

Relative: He’s still hasn’t produced a valid birth certificate!

Me: Oh for crying out loud…

Relative: He can only produce a copy. A copy! Not the original!

Me: Wrong. The State of Hawaii has long since settled this issue…

Relative: It’s just a copy, not a real birth certificate! We need the original for examination!

Me: Who is we? Who, exactly, should be doing the examination? Because the State of Hawaii…

Relative: Those things are faked all of the time!

Me: You have proof of this, right? The State of Hawaii is conspiring to fake birth certificates so that foreign nationals can take over the government?

Other Relative: Our pastor said so, and he doesn’t lie.

Me: Ummm, ooookay. Just for the sake of conversation, what exactly do you think is wrong with the President? Other than he’s not an American, I mean?

Other Relative: Uh, SOCIALISM, duh!

Me: Oh for crying out … what exactly do you mean by that?

Other Relative [first relative is now pissed and won’t speak to me]: He bailed out the auto industry!

Me: So George Bush was a socialist too then?

OR: What? George Bush was a good Christian! (There no good Christian socialists, apparently).

Me: Well, Bush bailed out Wall Street…

OR: [in a change of logic simply breathtaking in scope] Obama is just using President Bush’s ideas and taking credit for them!

Me: Say, hot enough for ya?

I also learned that Canadians are bad, because they don’t sufficiently appreciate the awesomeness that is America. And that Sarah Palin is just the bestest thing ever (I, of course, being an Alaskan, don’t actually know anything about her. She’s just the best and they so hope she’s the next real President).

If you need me, I’ll be on the beach, pounding my head in the sand.

More Promises

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, he’s sporting a paint job best described as “boiled lobster” and “fish belly white” and he smells of coconut oil, aloe, and fried chicken – oddly, women don’t seem to find this an attractive combination…

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I know, I know.

I promised you pictures of airplanes and battleships.

Unfortunately, that’s going to have to wait until I get somewhere with, you know, actual bandwidth.

Until then, here’s a picture of yours truly standing on the deck of the submarine Drum, located in Battleship Park, Mobile, Alabama.

You should be impressed with this picture. My 12-year old son took it. Usually when he takes a picture what you get is the top of my head or a small piece of my sleeve and blue sky or grass taken at odd and incomprehensible angles. I thought he did a pretty good job centering this one. Also you’ll notice that none of his fingers are actually in view, I believe this is a first.

Sniff, they grow up so fast.

Promises, Promises

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle. He continues to be astounded that the armadillos, which are much like armored rats, don't simply cook in their shells like lobsters as they lumber across the 150 degree roads. Nature, it boggles the mind.
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I'm going to the beach again today.

I know, I know. I promised to wrestle a shark.

And if I see one, I swear I will.

However, if I am unable to locate a shark, I promise to wrestle - barehanded and wearing nothing but a loincloth and coconut oil - a large Whataburger chocolate malted. There may be fries involved.

Yes, there is no risk so insane that I won't take it for you, gentle reader.

Afterward, just for you, I might put a piece of pecan pie into a headlock.

Off to Alabama

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, he doesn't know what a grit is, but he sure likes them. Especially with bacon, but that just goes without sayin'
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My son and I are off to Mobile, Alabama this morning to visit the Battleship USS Alabama Museum.

I'll take pictures and as soon I get somewhere with enough bandwidth I'll show you those and the ones from the National Museum of Naval Aviation.

Enjoy your day.

She's a Brick House...

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle. After 25 years of visiting this place, he still doesn't understand the allure of boiled peanuts...
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Becky, showing off her melons at the family picnic...


























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Just so you all understand, this joke was hysterically funny at the family picnic. Just saying.

Vacation Blues (or Reds as it were)

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle where they don't have cockroaches, Sugar, them's palmetto bugs! (Palmetto is an ancient Seminole word meaning "big giant-assed cockroach...with wings!")
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Went to the beach again today.

Pensacola beach, which is better than Navarre, though much more crowded.

My son and I spent the day body surfing in what had to be 85 degree water. Perfect for sharks, of which there were plenty. They left us alone though. So, we had fun and left with the same number of limbs we arrived with.

Despite being slathered in 45 sunblock I got sunburned.

It's not bad, I don't look like a boiled lobster or anything, but I am red all over the chest and back. I'm liberally covered in after-sun aloe gel at the moment and smell like the inside of a desert plant.

Bring it on, Vacation, I can take it.

Things That Chap My Ass About The Beach

Jim is on vacation in the Florida Panhandle, he has sand in his shorts and a small mean crab that looked like Sarah Palin bit his toe…
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You know, I’ve never been a big fan of the beach.

I’ve just never given much of crap about getting a tan or baking in the sun. I don’t like volleyball or those stupid looking sun visors, and the smell of coconut oil does not fill me with either joy or nostalgia.

As has been mentioned elsewhere, I’m spending time on the gulf coast of Florida’s panhandle. This area is famous for Lite beer, boiled peanuts, white sandy beaches, and its somewhat particular denizens – hence the coast’s unofficial moniker, The Redneck Riviera.

We spent yesterday smack in the middle of it all, at Navarre Beach.

And it was there that I remembered all of the things I purely hate about going to the beach.

Like the sea, for example. Oh sure, I spent most of my life as a Sailor on the ocean, and I have a deep and abiding respect for it. There are days that I truly miss it and miss sailing upon it. But I miss the Ocean, the Deep Blue Sea, the Atlantic and the Pacific and the Indian and the Arctic. The Gulf? The Gulf is full of weird green water, the kind of green that comes from the outflow pipe of a Russian nuclear power plant or a combination of algae, lukewarm temperatures, and water that is at least 20% urine. Hey, it’s not just kids who pee in the pool, fish and whales and dolphins and sharks and sea urchins piss there too. So do jellyfish, just saying. Honestly, what did you think that smell was? Swimming in the Gulf is like bathing in warm whiz. And when fish aren’t relieving themselves, they’re busy biting at the hair on your legs like retarded piranhas.

Then there’s the Gulf Coast sun. Seriously, who dreamed this up? Slather yourself in oil like a red snapper fillet and slide into the ol’ skin cancer broiler. And speaking of such things, here’s something I don’t get – Tanning Shops. Yes, tanning shops here in Florida, there’s one in every strip mall. How does that work? You pay people to get a tan? In Florida? You pay people to get a tan. In Florida. I’m thinking of opening a sauna, if people in Florida will pay for ersatz sunshine they’ll cough up major beer money for artificial heat and humidity too. I won't even need a salon, they pay me and I'll swing by their house and turn off their air conditioner, that'll be $19.95, Bubba. No checks, cash only.

And sand, once you’re covered in saltwater and oil there’s nothing better than a nice coating of grit. Pack your ass crack full and take some home. You know what’s fun? Watching a baby with a slobber covered cookie sitting in the sand while his mother is talking on a cell phone and not paying attention. Sometimes they find extra stuff to put in their mouth while digging in the sand for the cookie they dropped. Cigarette butts are my favorite.

The Redneck Riviera has certain features not found on other beaches, like, oh, Rednecks. You really haven’t lived until you get to watch a sunburned bearded potbellied 24 year old Alabaman with a mullet and a beer helmet attempting to surf on a My Little Pony boogyboard while taking video of himself with a cell phone camera in an attempt to get on America's Funniest Retarded Videos. No you really haven’t lived until you’ve seen that, or until you’ve seen the waves yank the rear of his Dale Earnhardt commemorative swim trunks down around his ankles – then you wish you didn’t live at all.

While mullethead is out there in the surf shouting, “Dahamination ya’ll! Ah got salt water in my Bud Lite! Bitch! Beer me!” his relatives on the beach are laughing drunkenly at his antics, lighting one Marlboro off the other and shouting helpful suggestions. If you’re really lucky Bitty Lou is decked out in a thong - kind’ve like Jabba The Hut wrapped in a rubber band and a couple of Sponge Bob Squarepants BandAids – and when she bends over to bury the baby’s dirty diaper in the sand like secret pirate treasure, well, let’s just say that view of her special tattoo is a sight that will stay with you for a while.

It is inevitable that there will be at least one weird kid. Now I’m not talking good weird, I’m talking weird weird. I talking brain damaged devil monkey weird. Jeffry “I’d like mine rare” Dahmer weird. You know him. He’s the teenager who stands waist deep in the waves about three feet behind you and makes those odd manic noises. When you look at him, he grins and says something quaint and colloquial like “Mexican food makes my butt feel funny!” His hands are out of sight underwater near his swim trunks and he’s grinning madly and you hope he’s being poisoned by a jellyfish and not doing what you think he’s doing. Don’t make eye contact or he’ll be your new best friend and you’ll have to take him home with you.

Weird Kids grow up, get married to Bizarro Girls, and somehow nobody ever manages to tell them that they are just plain fucking weird and that their behavior isn’t acceptable – so they eventually become Lecherous Old Bastards. They wander down the beach in Bermuda shorts with their bellies hanging to their knees like a bloated dead walrus and giant mats of multi-colored hair clinging to their backs like a balding mange-ridden gorilla. And they haven’t changed, they’re still making those weird noises and talking to invisible friends. They stop three feet away and stare at your wife’s bikini clad bottom and talk to themselves like Bill Murray in Caddyshack, “aaaaah Mrs. Rabbit you nasty bunny, aaaah! I love Mexican food!, aaaaah! My butt feels funny!” and their hands are hidden under their bellies near their shorts and you hope they aren’t really doing what you think they’re doing. And when you give them the eye and encourage them to move the fuck along, well, they go about three feet and then pull out a camera. “Ahhhhh Mrs. Rabbit! Just something to remember me for! Aahhhh!”

But I guess what really chaps my ass is this:
























Navarre Beach is sandbar. Literally, it is a sandbar and nothing more. There are no rocks, no trees, no soil. It’s a fucking sandbar, about half a mile wide. You get there by taking a bridge over the inland waterway. Now, see that hotel marked with the red arrow? Prior to Ivan that was the only hotel on the beach. During Ivan that hotel got raped, literally, by 200 mile per hour winds and a storm surge that washed completely over the island in a wave 20 feet high. When we saw it right after the hurricane, that hotel was nothing but a concrete slab and a 3D line drawing of steel girders. Everything else, walls, ceilings, beds, desks, restaurant, fishing pier, and the all-you-can-eat catfish buffet ended up in the inland waterway a mile away on the other side of the sandbar.

What did we learn from this?

Well, it’s simple really – FEMA funds will build us a new hotel, plus a half dozen more even bigger ones, plus a couple of multimillion-dollar high-rise condos, on the same strip of sand (strip of sand, not strip of land, strip of sand).

And what’s really cool is that when the next hurricane hits, well the US taxpayers will get to fund their replacement too!

Ain’t life on the Riviera just grand?

Ask Stonekettle Station

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle. Speak up, he can't hear you over the sound of NASCAR engines...
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Stonekettle Station answers important Internet search queries:

Question: Can a member of Mensa like me be happily married to a non-Mensa member?

Answer: Like you? No.


You're welcome

Mensa, still proving that the top 2% are assholes.

The More Things Change...

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, send alligator repellent!
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The Air Force doesn't want any more F-22 Raptors.

The Pentagon doesn't want any more F-22 Raptors.

The Secretary of Defense doesn't want any more F-22 Raptors.

The President doesn't want any more F-22 Raptors.

As a tax payer, I don't want any more Goddamned F-22 Raptors. Don't get me wrong, it's a hell of an aircraft. The most advanced in the world. Watching it fly is an amazing experience. It was designed to counter the most sophisticated air defense the Soviets could field - and if there actually still was a Soviet Union, the F-22 would scare the collective Red commie bejebbers out of them.

Just one little problem, there isn't a Soviet Union any more. Hasn't been for quite some time as a matter of fact.

Unfortunately, down there in Jesusland where they teach Creationism and the special conservative bible history instead of, well you know, actual fact based reality, the Soviet Union is still going strong. Conservatives are convinced that we need those F-22's. They want to be ready in case Sarah Palin gives the alarm like a modern day Paul Revere from Alaska when the Rooskies surge enmasse across the Bearing Sea.

The Senate Armed Service Committee voted yesterday to add $1.75 billion to the defense budget in order to purchase another seven F-22's from Texas-based Lockheed-Martin. The committee didn't mention how these super cool and super expensive aircraft will help defuse roadside IED's, find insurgents hiding in caves, hunt down the actual emboldened purveyors of false populism who actually, you know, blew up the Twin Towers, or in any way help defeat the actual threats that soldiers face in the current war.

But hey, as long as it keeps good little Jesus humpin' conservatives employed, it's good for the nation. Right?

I'm curious though if any Conservative lawmaker actually knows the definition of the word hypocrisy. Especially those who screamed, and continue to scream, about the President's economic stimulus package as "full of pork." Funny how it's pork when it's money for roads and schools and bridges and poor people and such, but it's not pork when it's billions for airplanes designed to fight an enemy that does not exist and we don't need and nobody in the military actually wants. Funny how it's socialism when it's money to keep millions of American automaker employees in blue states afloat, but it's not socialist pork when it's money to keep a handful of Texans employed - Texans who keep mumbling sullenly about seceding from the Union by the way.

The President has threatened to veto the bill unless the F-22 and other unnecessary and unrequested funding is removed. Normally I'm not a fan of holding up the Defense Appropriations Bill. I can't tell you how many times those of us in the military have been screwed by Capital Hill shenannigans, going months without funding in the middle of a war without the gear or money we need to do our fucking jobs. But this time around I'm with the President. He needs to veto this bill, and keep vetoing it, until the dead bloated white elephant of the F-22 is removed.

It's about Goddamned time that people understand something: the Cold War is over.

Cold War spending should be over too.

From the Spam Folder

Anti-aging secret revealed!

It's...






Photoshop!

New Rule

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, pity him.
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In response to a number of recent moral failings by prominent republicans and culminating this week with South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford's marriage reinforcing dalliance with an Argentinian national, the Republican Party of Superior Moral Non-Hypocrisy Family Values has decided to change its anti-gay rallying cry to:

Marriage = 1 man + 1 woman + 1 hooker + 1 neighbor's daughter + 1 one congressional aide + 1 illegal alien nanny + 1 one campaign office secretary + 1 foreign intelligence operative + 1 farm animal of your choice + plus various guys you meet in public restrooms + 1 underage congressional page + 2 divorces + 3 episodes of alcoholism or drug abuse (with or without a secret homosexual liaison which doesn't count because God forgives you because you were high and you've been "rehabilitated") + 1 secret bastard child by a woman of a hyphenated-American race who was once your family's maid. But no Goddamned queer marriages because Jesus hates them and doesn't want them to be married because that would destroy traditional marriage and moral values. So there and let us pray.

They're having a little trouble fitting it on the bumper-stickers though.

Gah!

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, pity him.
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Today's recipe: Ice Tea (Southern Style)

1 gallon of water
1 small tea bag (optional)
1 GIANT FUCKING DUMP TRUCK of white sugar

Diabetes and lemon to taste

Trends

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, pity him.
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I've been here four days.

So far I've seen two cars on fire.

In one case the engine was burning. Flames were shooting four feet in the air. There were a bunch of rednecks all standing around in the road with the hood up watching it burn. Nobody, including the cop, made any effort whatsoever to do anything other than comment and point.

The other one, the interior of the car was burning merrily. The entire front passenger seat was on fire, black smoke was billowing out of the windows. There were a bunch of rednecks standing around in the road watching it burn. Nobody, including the cop, made any effort whatsoever to do anything other than comment and point.

Seriously, what the fuck?

You Know You’re in the Deep South When…

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, he still doesn't understand the attraction of boiled peanuts.
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…Every single car and truck has a GOD Bless America bumpersticker, and I mean every. single. one.

…Kilian’s Irish Red is whatcha call “That Fancy Imported Beer.” Real beer is the kind with its name printed on the side of NASCARs.

…You drive one block and count 25 “Pray for our Schools” campaign signs.

…You can’t buy alcohol on Sunday, and yet everybody seems to have plenty – usually in a cooler, in the front seat, right next to the driver.

…The number of churches and the number of bars are in equal balance – and the number of seats in both exceeds the local population by a factor of ten.

…It is so Goddamned hot that if I owned this place and hell, I’d rent out this place out and live in hell.

…There is nothing that can’t be breaded and fried. Nothing. Including a 3-speed manual transmission from a 1974 Ford F50, which you just happen to have two of sitting next to the front door, by the fridge.

…The high school parking lot is cracked and full of weeds, at least two windows are covered in plywood, and the paint is peeling, much of the hurricane damage from Ivan three years ago is still not fixed. The Baptist church next door, on the other hand, is a brand new shining multi-million dollar steel and glass temple of air conditioned splendor. Maybe the school needs a few more Pray for Our Schools signs out front.

…Willie Nelson is considered one of the greatest actors who has ever lived, he’s a pretty good singer or something too.

… and you see things like this:

See the part that’s circled? Yeah, see, that’s the phone line, attached to what was the top of the old telephone pole, the one destroyed in the last hurricane about three years ago. Apparently that couple of feet was OK. So you know, ya’ll’d be crazy to throw that out, even though it’s not actually supporting anything and is in fact only about four feet off the ground. Besides the two poles on either side are mostly OK. Mostly. Probably.

Odd how the phone service is intermittent though, the phone company can’t seem to figure it out…

The Perversity of Women

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, he has been outflanked by female relatives...
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Wife: Chairs
Me: Wha...?
Wife: (repeating statement, adding emphasis) Chairs. We need chairs.
Me: Wha...?
Wife (speaking slower and louder so that the stupid male will understand): We need to make sure we have enough chairs.
Me: Wha...?
Wife (Sounding exasperated at the obvious density of husband): We. Need. Chairs. For the 4th of July. For the fireworks.
Me: Uh...OK. Isn't there like...uh...ground people could sit on?
Wife (through gritted teeth): We need to make sure we have enough chairs for people to sit on. We're going to the park. To watch the fireworks. On the 4th.
Me: It's just fireworks in the park.
Wife: Things need to be planned out.
Me: OK. I'll go count chairs.

(Now you would think that any woman that would plan days in advance, at somebody else's house, to make sure we have enough chairs for people to sit on, despite the fact that the park is full of nice green grass and picnic tables and car trunks and etc, would plan everything down to the finest detail.)

Some time later:

Wife: Uh oh.
Me: la la la la lalalalalalalalaa.
Wife: I said uh oh.
Me: Damn. You know, it's not the heat so much as the humidity.
Wife: sigh
Me (relenting): Is this about the chairs. Are we short a couple?
Wife: I think I forgot the power cord for my work computer.
Me: You?
Wife: Shut. Up.
Me: Exactly, that's what I'm saying, it's the friggin humidity...


Sometime even later:

Me: Say, Jimmy and I are going to run over to the Aviation Museum. I think I'll go over the new Garcon Point bridge and through Gulf Breeze to Pensacola. Mind if I borrow your TomTom GPS thingie?
Wife: Sure. Here you go.
Me: Where's the car charger?
Wife: Well, see here's the thing...
Me: You didn't bring the car charger?
Wife: No. I figured I could charge it off the USB port on my computer.
Me: Your work computer?
Wife: Yes.
Me: The one you don't have an AC adapter for?
Wife: You're walking a very thin line here, Buster.
Me: Exactly. Does the humidity seem worse today? because it seems worse to me...

Sometime even more later:

Wife: You know, we need to make sure we have enough chairs.
Me: For the 4th of July. I hear ya. I picked up a couple extra at the Exchange when Jimmy and I were on the Navy Base today just to make sure we had enough. Because I love you.
Wife: I suppose we could just sit on the grass...

Sand, Alligators, and HEAT

Jim is on vacation in the swamps of the Florida Panhandle, pity him.
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I'm in the Florida panhandle.

I'm staying about 30 miles from the nearest internet access point, where I'm lucky to have air conditioning let alone intermittent access to the cellular network. Right now I'm logging into my sister-in-law's wireless DSL AP, which seems to be working pretty good, but I don't know how often I'll be over here - all of which is the long way around of saying, don't expect regular posting.

There may be a few pictures later this week. My son and I intend to visit the National Museum of Naval Aviation at the Pensacola Naval Air Station, which is an awesome place if you're into vintage military aircraft. We'll be sure to take a bunch of pictures, and maybe we'll stop by Fort Barrancus and the old lighthouse as long as we're on the base. I'm sure we'll hit the boardwalk at Pensacola Beach and Fort Walton Beach sometime here soon.

I swear though, I don't know how people live down here. The heat is damned near unbelievable, I got off the plane and it was like being hit in the face with an oven door. Despite having lived here for a number of years, and having spent a significant fraction of my life in the South American jungle and the Middle East, I have apparently lost all tolerance for heat and humidity.

Updates to follow.