Idiot cashiers and slack-jawed yokels

So I pull into this truck stop/restaurant/store place to get gas, coffee and some anti-freeze for the Mystery Machine the other day, and the cashier forgets to remove the tag on the anti-freeze bottle that triggers the alarm when you try to take one out of the store without paying for it. So having paid, I walk out, and the alarm bell sounds, a light flashes, and everyone in the store turns to look at me. Of course I figured out quick what had happened, as did the cashier, who just waves me on. "It's ok, hon...You're all set."

No apology or admission of stupidity, I noticed. And about two dozen people are still staring at me. I cannot resist.

"OK, folks, show's over. nothing more to see here," I loudly announce. "But I'll be here all week and the next show's at 1:30. Be sure to try the veal and don't forget to tip your waitress. Big smile!" Then I wave to everyone and exit with a flourish.

If you can't get out of a place without being noticed, at least make sure that they remember you for a while.

Not dead yet!

I'm not. It's just that Lagniappe and I have been in the wind for a bit, and not able to access a computer to post updates. But I've got one now, and while I can't upload any of the really great pictures I'm tsking--or even the crummy ones--I can at least keep you informed as to what dog and I have been about.

Last week, we spent some nice time in St. Augustine, Florida. I'd forgotten how nice it is there, especially in the historic old town. St. Augustine is known as "America's Oldest City", having been founded by the Spanish in 1565. It was attacked by the British several times over the ensuing decades, but never completely taken. Finally it was ceded to the British at the conclusion of the French-Indian war in 1763. At that time, the city was 197 years old, and new nation that would come to be known as "The United States of America" wasn't even on the drawing board yet, but when it was finally recognized by the Treaty of Paris in 1783, Florida wasn't a part of it; we rather short-sightedly gave it back to Spain as a token of gratitude for their help in our war of Independence. Spain controlled Florida until 1821, when they finally just let us have it because they were too busy dealing with Napoleon to administer it. Eventually it became a place where the wealthy came to build some pretty spectacular winter mansions, many of which are still there today. Also still there: A pretty solid Spanish fort, the Castillo de San Marcos, which is now a National Monument. Lagniappe and I have studied the fort's defensive line and we're convinced that we could occupy and hold it against all comers, especially if we had some firepower a bit more modern than the black powder cannon and mortars that are on display there now. We just need to recruit an army of Amazon women warriors to man the defenses and lay in an ample stock of beer, and we'll be set.

We had dinner there at a nice restaraunt specializing in Louisiana cuisine: Harry's Seafood, Bar and Grille in the old town. They had patio dining and not only did they allow Lagniappe to sit there with me during dinner, but they gave him plenty of water and even offered him a nice helping of Mahi that someone else didn't want. (Damned dog had a pricier meal than I did...I only got Catfish.) The food was good, the staff were polite and friendly and the prices were more than reasonable. We give it two thumbs and two paws up.

That night, after drinks, an after-dinner coffee, and a bit of wandering around, Lagniappe and I retired to our faithful camper van for the night. I thought I'd found a nice out-of-the-way spot to sleep behind a bed-and-breakfast that was empty and undergoing renovation, but we were awakened at 0730 by some old guy who came along and knocked on the window. I don't know who he was or what he wanted because Lagniappe responded first and gave him a typical German Shepherd morning greeting the likes of which I doubt he's gotten in some time. I thought Lagniappe was going to break the window, he slammed into it so hard. By the time I got up front, the old guy was scurrying away. Oh well...it was breakfast time anyway. I turned they key and we rolled out. Good dog. :-)

A lucky find

Offsetting my dumb camping move was a lucky purchase that I made a few weeks ago from an on-line seller of out-of-print used books. I found a copy of "Tonya", a fiction book written in 1960 by World War Two Marine Corps fighter ace Col. Greg "Pappy" Boyington. I got the book for twelve dollars, and packed it for this trip that I knew Lagniappe and I would be taking.

Well when I picked up the book to read it, I opened the cover and found much to my surprise that it was inscribed and autographed by Boyington himself! Big score. I'm betting that if the seller had known what he had, I'd have not gotten it so cheaply.

I'm about half way through it right now, and while it's obviously never going to win any literary prizes, it's interesting to see how the plot and the characters in Boyington's "fictional" story mirror his real-life experiences with the Flying Tigers just before the beginning of the war. As one who has researched Boyington a bit--and read his autobiography and other books about the Flying Tigers, it's not hard to figure out who he's talking about as he weaves the story around the "fictional" characters, one resembling himself included. Granted, Boyington's tales of his time with the Flying Tigers--both auotbiographical and fictional--bear scant resemblance to any other historical works on the Tigers, but it's fun reading nonetheless.

Best twelve bucks I've spent in a while, even without the really clear signature of Colonel Boyington.

Now if only the seller hadn't put his store's sticky label on the back cover of the book in such a way that it won't come off without damaging the cover. Thanks, asshole!

A lack of snow...and the stupidity fairy pays a visit.

So right now, much of the northeastern US is getting walloped with massive snow. The Lair itself will probably see between two and three feet before it's over.

Fortunately, Lagniappe and I missed it because we aren't there. In fact, we spent last night sleeping on a beach, listening to the ocean waves come onto the shore.

Now before you get too jealous, I need to refer to my oft-stated maxim here when it comes to poor decisions and the cost of being stupid--it's supposed to leave a mark. Sooner or later, the stupid fairy pays a visit on every one of us and we do something that we wish later we had not done. I'm not exempt by any measure, and last night was my night to regret a bad decision. It all began with the decision to drive my (non-4WD) van onto the beach late at night in search of a secluded and free campsite.

All went well for a while and we drove along the beach, Lagniappe and I. We found a great parking spot and settled in. But then when I went to re-position the van to lessen a wind that was making just a bit too much noise, the drive wheel dug in and we were stuck.

Oh, I gave it a hell of an effort to get out. I dug, I graded, I moved a ton of sand, but with every attempt to rock out, the van just settled lower, until finally it was just resting on it's frame. Damn. Finally, I accepted defeat and hiked up to a nearby house that had some lights on and asked for help. They gave my the number of the local towing service that specializes in extracting stuck vehicles from the sand and I called them; they were willing to come out, but their rate was ridiculous.

The man there told me that their night rate was about double their daylight rate. "Fine," I told him. Let's make an appointment for your earliest day-rate time. Just come out in the morning. I'll still be here." I then went back to the half-buried van and made myself comfortable, drinking beer and watching a movie on my DVD player before finally calling it a night and hitting the hay.

And at 0730 in the AM, I got a wake-up call as Lagniappe alerted on an approaching vehicle, letting me know that the tow truck was on scene. Five minutes later, I was back on my way down the beach towards town again, having paid out about what I'd have spent on a night in a (cheap) motel room for the extrication. And the tow-truck driver had let me know that beach-driving is typically done successfully only by people with four-wheel-drive vehicles, lest I be tempted to give it another whack.

Ah well... I'm lighter in the wallet because I didn't think but at least I got to fall asleep under the stars to the sound of the ocean and Lagniappe got to chase seagulls all over the place for a while. Motel Six has got nothing on that.

Traveling

Sorry for the dearth of postings. Lagniappe and I have turned the lair over to a housesitter and gone walkabout.

But I promise that there will be updates when I can. we're both having way too much fun not to boast about it.

68 years later...

This is the Battleship West Virginia, BB-48. She was in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii on that peaceful Sunday morning 68 years ago. She was sunk during that cowardly unprovoked sneak attack launched by the Japanese on December 7th, 1941. 106 of her crew were killed, many still in their bunks.

The West Virginia was only one of the ships that was sunk or damaged just after sunrise on that tranquil Sunday morning. Everyone knows the Arizona, and hers is a story worth knowing to be sure. But the Arizona's was not the only story on that morning. The West Virginia had a story, too. And so did every other ship moored in Pearl Harbor that day.

It's easy to forget these days. Our media proves that every year. They didn't used to when I was young, but back then, I suspect that more of the news outlets were being run by people who actually remembered. Now they're run by people born later who view America as the chief villain on the world stage. Bill Keller, Editor and head scumbag at the New York Times, was born in 1949, too late to be remember the days when better Americans fought and died to save the world from Nazis and assorted Italian and Japanese facists. 2,200 better men than Bill Keller died at Pearl Harbor 68 years ago today. And as expected, there is no mention of it in his newspaper.

But it's mentioned here. And it will be every year. The Liberals may have forgotten the sacrifices of their betters, but Lagniappe and I won't.

SNEAUX!!!

We got sneaux!! (That's "snow" to you Yankees from north of the I-10).


And "sneaux" means "Happy Lagniappe".

One more Darwin Award nominee

Darrell Dunafon gets this nomination. He and two idiot friends began the night by committing a felony when they broke into a cell phone tower site in Arizona. They apparently thought that it would be fun to climb the tower and skydive from it--something known as BASE jumping. BASE stands for Building Antenna, Spans, Earth. It's a form of skydiving where the adventurous types try to jump from things and places--usually things and places that do not belong to them and which are not set up for jumping from. It usually entails a criminal act like trespassing, and it involves significant risk even if done right. Well Dunafon didn't do it right.

CASA GRANDE, Ariz. (AP) - Authorities say a Tucson man has died after parachuting from a cell phone tower at night and hitting high-voltage power lines.

Pinal County sheriff's Lt. Tamatha Villar says 23-year-old Darrell Dunafon and two friends broke into a cell tower site about 30 miles south of Phoenix on Friday night and were parachuting off the approximately 400-foot-tall antennae.

Dunafon's parachute became tangled in nearby 12,000-volt power lines and he was shocked with a live wire.

Villar says the two friends called for help, and rescue crews turned off the power and cut Dunafon down. He had a slight pulse but was pronounced dead at a hospital in the nearby town of Casa Grande.

Dunafon was a Tucson resident who recently moved to the southeast Phoenix suburb of Queen Creek.

Shocking.

Way to go, moron. All you had to do was respect the signs that said "Danger--Keep Out." and you'd likely still be alive today. But no...you had to go out doing a human bug-zapper act.

Here's hoping that at least a few people will think before doing something dopey. You only have one life; don't end it just for kicks.

What a difference a year makes.

Is anyone else paying attention to how the media coverage of the war has changed in a year?

When Bush was president, the media fought to cover the return of us casualties and deceased service members' caskets, and it demanded entry into Walter Reed and other hospitals to show the horrors. Everk wee or so, most of the big papers had full-page color photos and bios or every American killed overseas. The whole thing was meant to stir a public drumbeat against the war as an attack on Bush, presumably with the intent of getting a Democrat elected in the next election.

Well a Democrat was elected--with full mainstream media participation and assistance--and now Barack Obama owns the war. He promised to immediately end it many times when he was campaigning (just like he promised to close the still-open Guantanamo detention facility) but he has only escalated it and we now have more troops either overseas or heading overseas than we have since Vietnam. And the media, rather than continuing it's opposition, has flipped completely. Now they never want to show coffins coming back to Dover, even though there are more of them. They don't report on every single soldier killed, like they did when Bush was running it, and the pictures of the fallen are no longer printed. Now it's like our soldiers don't count since they cannot be used to attack a president that the media didn't like and mentioning them might reflect badly on one that they do like.

Am I the only one who sees this and has a problem with it?