Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

Cat Shit Coffee

2011-11-05T22:01:00.006-04:00

I've been to Indonesia half a dozen times and it's the only country I've been to where the food is consistently terrible. During my current trip, I was given at least two meals that actually made me angry. After one bite of the oxtail soup, I felt like grabbing the entire bowl and throwing it as hard as I could against the wall. Who the fuck likes to fight with grisly bony gritty chunks of flavorless meat in their soup? And at a recent dinner, they fed us this horribly bony duck which was literally all skin and bones -- just a big plate of bones. See, that's the thing with bad food in Asia; it's bad mostly because it's full of mouth-tearing bones or tough meat so your meal feels like a battle.

But what I had a few days ago was another type of annoying food: the gimmick. I'm talking about civet cat coffee, or called locally, "kopi luwak". I've known about civet coffee which I've always thought was stupid as shit and had no interest in seeking it out. This is a type of coffee made from coffee beans that have been eaten by a type of wild cat that lives in the mountains of Indonesia. The idea is that the beans are partially digested and then shit out, which makes for a smoother, less bitter coffee which can sell for up to $350 a pound. But I call bullshit on the whole thing. It's just a gimmick, and Asians love their gimmicks when it comes to food. Sadly, many of the gimmicks involve abuse of animals like drinking rice wine in Vietnam with a still-beating cobra heart in it, or eating a live octopus in Korea. But at least these cats only get their shit taken from them. The joke is really on the people.

So, some back story. I've been sick with an infected wisdom tooth the entire time I've been in Indonesia. During the first part of the week, I had a fever for four days. But I still had to work, so we drove around through the most dangerous driving conditions imaginable. I always sit in the back seat so I don't have to witness my near-demise every 30 minutes. On the way to the meeting on our 6 hour drive, I saw a flipped car with glass scattered all over the place. Off to the side, was the dead driver sprawled out on the highway with blood covering his face. This is also the kind of thing that makes you feel less safe.

We arrive at the meeting, and I meet with one of the coffee growers who I give a sales pitch to. He starts telling me that he's the head of the local farmers' association and also is involved in making civet coffee. I'm intrigued. I ask if we can see the cats, and he says we can after lunch. So lunch comes, and it's the usual completely inedible Indonesian crap. I ask for a bowl of vegetable soup, but it still tastes like the oxtail soup I'd had before. Anyway, I head to the bathroom and immediately projectile vomit it back out. After I recover slightly, I head back into the restaurant, and I shit you not, they had this cat shit coffee waiting for me, just steaming there in the cup. So basically, after I'd just hurled out their awful food, they literally force me to drink something that came out of a wild animal's ass. Just unbelievable.

After lunch and our meetings, I still have a fever and all I want to do is go home. But I'd asked to see these fucking cats, so off we go. We pull up to this building way up in the green mountains in a driving rain storm. I enter the building and we're met by a guy filming me with a professional video camera. What the fuck is this. Anyway, I try and ignore it, but as we walk in, the room is full of all these people, including a woman who looked like a model. We sit around and chit chat, and then they take us to the cat cages.

So these cats are hiding in these wooden boxes covered by burlap. They're nocturnal animals so they have to hide. They bring out the food which comes from a massive tub of writhing live eels which they throw to these cats who just snap them down their gullets as the eel twists and turns in the cat's mouth. They're also offering the cats dead crabs. Apparently, this is their sustenance and they give them the coffee beans once a day.

It felt surreal, yet annoying. It was amusing, but since I had this fever, I really just wanted to get back in the fucking car and go to the hotel. I didn't feel like dealing with this crazy third world bullshit. But the people who ran the cat shit coffee place had other plans ...

As we head back outside, the video camera is still obviously interested in filming me. They guide me out into the rain where the coffee plants are growing so I can give a testimonial about how great their kopi luwak is -- mind you, I have a fever, and they've now just pushed me into the driving rain to get free video footage of me saying how great their coffee is. They had not asked my permission to do this. But they are customers, so I oblige.

Then, they walk me over to these trays of the collected pieces of cat shit packed full of these coffee beans. It's swarming with flies. They make me kneel down in front of all this stinking coffee bean cat shit, look into the video camera, and say, "Coffee Luwak BAGUS!!" (Coffee Luwak is GOOOD!).

This would have been pretty funny, but I had a really uncomfortable fever and all this weird poor country bullshit has just gotten old to me. Twice a day in this place, I think, 'All you fucking people are totally INSANE.'

My Secret Apartment

2011-09-15T21:38:00.004-04:00

I have a reoccurring dream that during times when I need to be alone, I escape my house and drive across the city into one of the dirtier parts of town, and unlock my own tiny rented apartment -- just a getaway apartment that I only visit no more than twice a month, that the wife doesn't know about and I only tell a select group of friends when some whiskey needs to be consumed, or Apocalypse Now needs to be watched outside of the presence of children or women.

I wonder if other people have this fantasy. Of course, I couldn't afford such a place, and really wouldn't want it ... or could I? or would I?

Then I realize that I actually have such an apartment. Granted, it's not a secret place, but I do have it -- and it's cheap as hell, in fact it's only $1600 per year in rent. Not only is it cheap, but it's waterfront property. Ok, it's tiny and cramped, and the lighting in the apartment runs off two golf cart batteries, but hey, it's always stocked with decent whiskey and has a working toilet and sink.

What is this place? It's my sailboat.

Man, it's this type of re-occurring dream that makes me so glad I have it. I mean, it's essentially a tiny waterfront apartment that's cheap as hell and is the perfect getaway. I'm surprised more people don't just get a beat-up boat that they can hang out at as a cheap getaway waterfront apartment.

And it's mobile and (mostly) powered by free energy.

Ok, I'll Play Some Guitar for You

2011-08-08T23:35:00.008-04:00

I spent last weekend sailing my boat with two good friends.

We left at 9pm on Friday and ended up at Tilghman Creek on Saturday at 4am. Strangely, we didn't pass out at the moment of anchorage, but chatted and drank under lamplight until the early morning about sex and US defaults.

That sail across was nice though. 18 knots starting out, then 12 knots fighting us to get down the Bay. Beating the whole way. My new spotlight was getting dim (my fault). But God, you desk-job people could learn a lot from this. I'd love to have you onboard.

We ended up at our spot late

The next day, while anchored, bored, nothing to do all day, and smoking honey-and-spice flavored tobacco from a hookah (I promise it's not weed), Dan recorded me aggressively beating on a guitar that Chris D. bought for $20 two years ago. Here's the video onboard my sailboat.

Basic playing on my part, but this is the way I have played guitar for like 10 years. It just relaxes me.

I'm pretty sure I just went to the best sushi restaurant of my life.

2011-07-02T09:17:00.005-04:00

Well, I failed in getting Lady GaGa to have a beer with me. She just arrived in Taipei, where I am right now, waiting for the flight out tomorrow to Jakarta on business. Hey, I'd much rather sit for 40 hours in a hotel in Taipei than Jakarta. Trust me, I've spent time in Jakarta several times before.

Anyway, Ms. GaGa had posted her usual pretentious update on Facebook that she was in Taiwan and I asked if she wanted to meet me for a beer in the comments section. Having no response, I googled for a place for sushi here in Taipei and I had a true Internet-Is-Fucking-Awesome moment.

This isn't much of a story, really, but two minutes of Google searching found this recommendation on the Internet of where to eat sushi in Taipei.

There's no way I could've found such a place without my basic Internet skills. First, the front door had no English written on it. I checked that above random girl's blog and it had a picture of the front door which led me to the sushi:

I've decided I don't put pictures of food on the internet anymore but I will tell you, this shit was amazing. First off, I felt great, because being a White Person, I was the only White Person in the establishment. That made me feel all superior and what not.

And it was one of those sushi places where they bring out the food each individual piece at a time. The chef literally just lowers down a piece or two of sushi at a time onto a dry banana leaf. Occasionally, the chef shouted at me "NO SAUCE!" as he set the piece on my leaf, indicating that I wasn't supposed to dip it in soy or wasabi. Gotta love a restaurant that has such strict rules that they aren't afraid to shout them at your face.

And the only person in the joint that spoke English was the Phillipino dishwasher who treated me great and fully deserved the $40 tip I gave him.

Anyway, if you're ever stuck in Taipei for a day and a Saturday night, go to Niu Sushi, 150 Xinsheng North Road, Section 1, Taipei - 中山區新生北路一段150號 - 2542-9978

The Pinnacle of Sport Fishing: Catching a Blue Marlin

2011-06-27T22:01:00.003-04:00

One drawback of living in DC is that lots of people here don't appreciate stories about catching fish, especially rare and legendary sport fish. In my opinion, the proper response to 'We caught a 9.5-foot blue marlin this past weekend' should be 'holy fucking shit, you what??' -- not the reaction I typically get around here which is more like the response you should expect if someone told you they chose the tilapia over the flounder last night at Red Lobster.

But there are a few people around here who appreciate a good man-versus-beast story and one like what happened recently to me is worth writing down for posterity.

Until this past Saturday, I'd never gone fishing for blue marlin. And until this past Saturday, I'd never experienced fishing at the height of its possibilities.

Barely able to our put our feet from the bed to the floor, waking up at 3:45am, my group of friends crawled out of a dirty Motel 6 in Norfolk, Virginia into our car for a four-hour boat ride to the fishing spot.

Calling this place a "Motel" is a compliment. A more accurate description is a freelance brothel where some of the rooms smelled like an orgy took place some time in the previous 100 hours. Nothing much in this world makes you want to sleep less than the smell of a two-day-old orgy having occurred underneath where you lie. God, I wish I was exaggerating. One guy in our group brought his own towels and sheets, having stayed there before.

With me on this fishing trip are: Colin, my brother-of-a-friend whom I've known since third grade; Brian, an affable Irishman from Belfast with a shapely belly and big personality who has a since-childhood obsession of catching a blue marlin; Rusty, a likable fellow on the quiet side, who owns a fireplace-and-grill business in Virginia; and Mike, a fun-ass unedited joke-cracker who's got seven kids and an early-model Chevy with serious fuel digestion problems.

Every time we head out fishing the group vows to take it easy and go to bed early. That didn't happen on this trip either. So most of us hit our filthy beds at near 2am after killing a bottle of tawny port and Sambuca that Brian grabbed from his home liquor cabinet on the way out.

That night we vowed that we'd pass the rod to Brian if there was a blue marlin hooked the next day. It was his lifetime dream to catch one, and if you could see the gleam in his eye when he talked about wanting to catch one, I imagined this must've been the type of zeal that drove Hemingway to catch 20 marlin per month off Cuba in the 1930s. Brian has traveled the globe in an Ahab-like pursuit of a blue marlin and spent more money on it than I think he'd want me to reveal on a public blog.

The captain of our fishing boat drove us over four hours off Norfolk until we were trolling in 500 to 1000 feet of water off the continental shelf. We had all the lines in by 8:15am, trolling 8 rods and two teasers.

A teaser is a hookless chain of fake orange squid that makes lots of splashing. They're used to draw the marlin up from the depths. Once the fish is near the teasers, it usually peels off and hits one of the hooks and the fight begins.

And at around 10:00am, that's exactly what happened.

Brian was fully spread out on the boat's couch at 10:00am in a state of half-seasickness and half-hangover. Rusty was lying face down on the salon floor carpet after puking most of the ride out. Mike was trying to sleep in the chair, baseball cap pulled over his eyes, but every once in a while when the boat rolled, he'd be thrown violently onto the floor in a chaotic toppling event. And Colin and I were just watching those lines from the back deck, waiting -- the excitement had pushed our tiredness into some dusty corner of our skulls.

Then, in a bellow that cracked through the drone of the twin diesels and the snoozing, the captain shouted from the top deck -- "MARLIN ON THE PORT TEASER!! MARLIN ON THE PORT TEASER!!"

I looked back and there it was, not 20 yards off the back of the boat -- a big blue dorsal fin trailing the teasers. And that's when the true skill of our Mate and Captain went into full gear.

It's worth saying here that catching a blue marlin is not easy. Some people pursue this prize fish half their lives and catch nothing -- having spent tens of thousands all for nothing. Some people pursue this prize fish half their lives only to watch one nearly take their hook, but lose it due to the inexperience or bad luck by Mate and/or Captain. And if a blue marlin is checking out the teaser you're trolling, trust me, you want a Mate and Captain like ours.

I've never seen fishing like this. Our Mate Fred jumped into gear, grabbing the transom-mounted rod, trying to lure the marlin away from the teaser. Captain Mike maneuvered the boat into place and reeled up the teaser so the marlin would lose interest in it.

All this time everyone onboard is shouting and yelling and chaos is rampant. The boat pitches and rolls. Brian is falling and tripping out of the couch onto the deck and into the fighting chair. He's still barefooted and if I'd looked, there was probably crusty drool stuck to his face.

The mood change onboard was as distinct as a lightning strike.

Fred's rod bent over fast and we heard that distinctive beautiful fast ZIZZZZZZ of 50-pound test monofilament line peeling off the bowling-ball-sized reel at high speed. The fucker was hooked!

Then, in a second later, Fred's rod loses its curve and he's cursing that he's lost it. FUCK! And here's where the experience factor plays in -- Fred didn't even pause; he just grabs the second rod off the transom and starts playing the lure, trying to draw in the leviathan.

Our anxiety and head-spinning adrenaline rush had come to a confusing low point when we thought the marlin had spit the hook on Fred's rod, but not a minute later, and Fred had the beast hooked on the second rod. He set the hook hard, and then the reel just started screaming as Colin and Fred steered the butt of the rod into the fighting chair and Brian started one of the most exhausting fights of his life.

Most fishing in my life has not been an athletic feat. Maybe when I caught a small hammerhead shark in Hitlon Head as a kid -- that was tiring. Or even a few sand sharks and rockfish and barracuda I've caught along the way have been enough to break a sweat and work my biceps. But watching Brian battle to reel in this blue marlin was painful -- even witnessing it tired me out.

This marlin ran off the boat nearly 400 yards and then began to jump and thrash about in the water as we all watched in awe and shouted at Brian to REEL REEL REEL REEL. REEL MOTHERFUCKER REEL.

That's the thing about the fight to haul in a blue marlin -- all that shouting and screaming and sweating and waves splashing over the transom and saltwater in your eyes and chaos as the captain puts the boat in reverse. It's like some kind of spontaneous desperate celebration that hurts your vocal chords.

Brian fought that son-of-bitch for thirty minutes and at one point we thought that reel would get smoked. After the initial run, the marlin nearly finished the spool of line. Through the skilled reverse engines, the captain prevented that, thank God. But damn, after that first 20 minutes, I was wondering if Brian could do it. I was wondering if anyone onboard could do it.

The marlin dove deep into the 100 fathoms beneath us and we couldn't see him for a while. There were times when the drag was just stuck and any amount of Brian's reeling was useless. Then after a while, the fish tired and we could see the long flash of its body rise up from the depths. As it got closer to the boat, I had to spin Brian in the fighting chair into position. Fred had the rod bent over his right shoulder as he made sure the fish came up properly.

Through some deft boat positioning, the captain made sure the prop didn't cut the line and Fred put on gloves to grab the marlin by the bill and de-hook and release it, and we watched it drift and then swim away gracefully.

Marlin fishing is a bit like an arm-wrestling contest with a true bad-ass and (usually) neither party gets killed.

It was just unbelievable. All of use were coming off an adrenaline high and half panting and half laughing. I looked over at Brian, covered in sweat, breathing, smiling and just saying YESSSS, YESSS over and over. The mother fucker was in tears, man. In TEARS.

Here's Brian reeling in slack after the boat had reversed for a while:

Here's Brian as he starts to tire:

Here's the fish as the Mate de-hooks and releases it. The blue marlin was estimated at 9.5 feet in length and 275 pounds:

And of course the guy who catches the blue marlin always gets pushed in by the crew:

Bars in India: Like 100 Years Ago in the USA

2011-03-17T09:05:00.003-04:00

I'm in India for the third time in my life, trying to get more business going. My company has been exporting to India for four years now with mild success.

One thing that's interesting about India (among millions of things) is the bar situation. You see, the bars here are like I imagine bars were in the USA one hundred years ago -- hidden away, with entrances in the alley or in some dingy corner, dark and smokey, poorly air-conditioned and humid, no music, sometimes barely lit (or lit with a red light bulb), serving one type of beer and two types of whiskey, no mixed drinks (except water + liquor), and most importantly, no women are allowed.

Ok, it's true that in rare cases in some of the more cosmopolitan cities in India (or in tourist spots -- which is totally different from what I'm talking about), a wife or girlfriend may enter a bar and not be kicked out. But this is REALLY rare for Indians.

In India, bars are places for men to drink and talk, and that's that. It really changes the feel of the bar too, and not just for the decor, which is always bare bones and ratty looking. It tends to be nasty in Indian bars, where the patrons are quite rude to the staff and often yell at them -- "BOY!! BEER, BEER! QUICK!". I noticed they even call grown men "boy" when they're serving beer and liquor. The food is usually just salted peanuts and nothing else. There's just Kingfisher beer, and Teacher's scotch, with maybe some rot gut Indian brands that you don't want to even sniff at.

Having females in bars really changes the mood. In short, men tend to behave more when women are around, especially the way that the men talk to the staff. I haven't seen any bad drunkenness episodes, but it has to occur, despite India not being much of a drinking culture.

I'm curious anyone else's experiences with drinking in India.

Atlantic Rockfishing

2011-03-01T10:15:00.001-05:00

Here's a video of a recent fishing trip 6 of us took out of Norfolk VA in the Atlantic Ocean. Right now, you cannot keep rockfish caught in the Chesapeake Bay, but you can in the ocean. We caught 7 fish between 35-inches and 40-inches.

They Hauled My Next-Door Neighbor Away in an Ambulance -- A Monthly Occurance

2011-02-22T18:40:00.003-05:00

My neighbor gets carted away in an ambulance every month. And his sickness is drinking too fucking much, not lupus or cancer.

This is the guy I wrote about in July 2009 who side-swiped up a bunch of parked cars while on taxi duty. Since then, he's gotten his license suspended and thank god for it. Like his brother (whom I also wrote about), he's on the end of the road toward death, I'm afraid.

I'm not 100% certain what causes the ambulance to get called, but I have a theory:

This old alkie lives with his 95-year-old mother who has regular in-home nursing care (and dementia). So the old boozer drinks all night and passes out in the bathroom and is there by morning time when the nurses are changing shifts. I think they have to go to the bathroom, and find him passed out over the toilet so they just call 911. Hence, the usual ambulance outside my door every month.

You Better Believe I'll Be Cooking Hasenpfeffer When the Wife's Gone

2011-02-22T18:22:00.002-05:00

My lady is taking my boy to Michigan to see my in-laws this weekend. That type of weekend is rare, and a call to go on the sailboat, have the guys over for some drankin', or cook some meat that the wife never would allow in the house. And see, my woman considers rabbit to be in the "cute" species category (along with pigs -- huh??) so we don't eat it together -- ever.

So this Friday -- alone or with whomever -- I plan on cooking a whole rabbit. And I've never attempted to cook rabbit.

A Google search slowed my excitement because lots of rabbit recipes are frilly fussy pretentious affairs, requiring all sorts of Frenchie-Frencherton bullshit like a bouquet garnis, and what-such nonsense. I'm sorry, but I'm not cooking something that requires me to create a bouquet out of my food.

That's why I was so god damn glad that I found multiple recipes for German Hasenpfeffer -- a simple stew with whole rabbit, dark red wine, thick-cut bacon, carrots, pepper, onions, and more. Really, whatever I feel like eating, throw it in the stew.

A family needs time away like these to do the things he or she wouldn't normally do.

Chickass. We really need more of 'em.

2011-02-17T23:37:00.001-05:00

I just spotted this banner outside a clothing store a few blocks from my house. Love it:

It's supposed to be a play-on of the Spanish word for girls, "chicas". What I also appreciate about this sign, and Latino culture in general, is that they appreciate a woman that really looks like a woman, front to back -- none of this bullshit starved-assless-pale-vegan-waif nonsense like you see in the media so much in the USA. In Colombia, no way. Check out the fine fine junk-in-the-trunk of that female in the picture on the left; red beans and rice didn't miss her. YES PLEASE THANK YOU.

I Dislike Most Non-Top-40 Rock Nowadays ... that is, Except One Old DC Band

2011-02-17T23:31:00.010-05:00

My go-to station now is Hot 99.5 FM (DC). That's just the state of my music today. And I have 'No Apologies' (as Curt Kobain said).

Hey, if whiny-vegan-richboy-rock were actually good as it stands today, I'd like it. But it isn't, mostly, so I don't. Hence, 99.5 FM is on the quick-button in my Toyota Echo.

I'd rather listen to Ke$ha. Or Mike Posner. Or Katie Perry (at least for that Sesame Street cleavage) or Lady GaGa. Or whatever's fun, not boring. At least it doesn't hurt and try-so-hard for nostalgia and it has a steady beat that's danceable.

But there is one indie rock band that still holds it for me, I admit. And it just can't get old, and none of that Top 40 crap can hold a candle to it.

And that band is Fugazi -- from DC, Arlington, Virginia. You may think this is pretentious ... until you listen to a song:

Man, listen to them bend those Gibson SGs, damn. And now I feel sad and miss the 1990s.

FUCK POACHERS

2011-02-17T23:12:00.002-05:00

Poachers of Chesapeake Striped Bass are destroying the Bay. Shawn Kimbro has an eloquent post describing this shit.

'Pure Arctic Wind' Soundtrack Mixes Well with a Classic Sailing Novel

2011-02-17T23:07:00.006-05:00

For two years my friend Jason has been patiently reminding me that to be a true sailor I should *fucking read* Master & Commander by Patrick O'Brien. And on a whim this past weekend, Greg brought the book over to adorn the bookshelf of my man cave.

To gear up for my first reading of Master & Commander, I bought an MP3 on amazon.com called "Pure Arctic Wind". It's one hour and fourteen minutes of very authentic-sounding wind, with enough low end bass to convince. I'd been browsing the MP3 section on amazon.com for sound effects tracks that perfectly capture the sound of being holed up belowdecks of a ship while a howling storm rages out of doors. Most of the tracks you find online are clearly synthetic wind noises, created probably by some jackass waving a tube around in the air in a studio to make the whistling sound of cold wind at night. But finally I found the above track, and it's just excellent.

My Process to prepare for reading Master & Commander: I go down into my basement bar and turn the lights down low and close the window. I turn up the subwoofer to 'full' and put the Pure Arctic Wind track on repeat. It's important to adjust the volume so it sounds as if a storm is truly blowing outside the window. You're not trying to make it sound like the storm is blowing inside the fucking bar, man -- just enough to make you sort of believe you're in siege mode, safe inside a warm ship's bar, while danger and uncertainly swirl outside. So volume is crucial. Put the volume on -55 db (not sure how you can have negative decibels, but ok Yamaha) -- that's pretty quiet, if you don't know. The stereo has an enhancer which completes the effect; I choose "Hall in Vienna" for the right reverb effect.

And so begins my dive into the book Master & Commander. I suppose you don't fully believe that I'm going to finish the damn book, considering that I'm blogging about reading it rather than actually reading it. Well, believe what you want.

New Poster for the Basement Bar

2011-02-17T22:58:00.002-05:00

One thing I love about having a basement bar that all my friends love is that they often bring me little gifts to adorn the walls or add to the bottle collection. And recently my friend Rachel bought me this poster for one dollar at a thrift store in Philly. What a score!

The year listed on the back of the poster says 1966. Nineteen Sixty Six! And I love this style of drawing; it reminds me of the old fish guides I used to study endlessly when I was a kid, trying to memorize the max weight and length of each species of fish that haunted various parts of North America. And now I have all these guys -- from the Alligator Gar to the Bluefin Tuna -- to look at every night that I'm home and holed up down in the man cave.

The Right Way to Make a Martini (ADDENDUM)

2011-02-17T16:01:00.006-05:00

I never thought this would happen in 20 years, but I have to make a major revision to my original 'The Right Way to Make a Martini (The Long Version)' that I posted last June.

Reason: my good friend Derek Brown, whom the Wall Street Journal almost called the Best Bartender in the Nation, has finally constructed a gin martini based on a talented knowledge of mixological history and cocktail flavor balance that I will dare to call The Best Martini on Planet Earth. It is truly incredible, and surprisingly, very easy to make.

But first, my recipe (ok, really not mine, but the one I promoted), which I described in June's blog post, was this:

- 1/2 oz Martini & Rossi Dry Vermouth (stored in fridge)
- 1 1/2 oz Beefeater Gin (stored at room temperature)
- 1 Dash Regan's Orange Bitters No. 6

Stir with cubed ice for at least 45 seconds. Strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garish with 2 olives, lemon peel, or pickled onion, depending on your mood.

But Derek's recipe, which is truly genius (and I almost never use the word genius) is this:

- 1 oz Dolin Dry Vermouth (stored in fridge)
- 1 oz Tanqueray 10 (stored in the freezer)
- 1 Dash of 50/50 pre-mix of Regan's Orange Bitters No. 6 and The Bitter Truth Orange Bitters

Stir with cubed ice for at least 45 seconds. Strain into chilled cocktail glass. Cut a wide swath of lemon peel (without the pith). Twist peel over the edge of the glass (but not directly over the liquid), letting a bit of the lemon oils fall onto the drink. Discard lemon peel into the trash, ie, not putting it into the cocktail.

The result is one of the most perfectly balanced and unique flavors I've tasted. It really tastes like nothing else. It's colder Derek's way because the gin is stored in the freezer. Since Dolin is lighter than Martini & Rossi, you need to do a 50/50 (vermouth/gin) mixture. However, if you do a 50/50 mix with Dolin and Beefeater, the gin can't stand up to the vermouth because Beefeater has a lighter juniper-based botanical profile and the result is an overly vermouthy mixture. The choice of Tanqueray 10 is perfect because it tastes richer and slightly more citrusy than Beefeater. Of course, the orange bitters combo is perfect because Regan's tends to be more bitter than The Bitter Truth so they keep each other in check. Keeping the gin in the freezer reduces the amount of ice that gets melted when you stir the ingredients so it's a tighter, cleaner texture in the mouth -- nice and taut across the surface of the cold liquid, too. Putting the lemon peel into the drink over-powers the cocktail with lemonyness and masks all the other subtle qualities, so just throwing it away is best.

It's so simple but so perfect. Try it.

A New Note From Iran, Plus My Rambling Thoughts

2011-02-17T15:33:00.002-05:00

I recently emailed my business associate in Iran, Ali, to see how he's doing during the latest anti-government protests in Iran. I am concerned, because in December 2009, he was shot in the face by Iranian police during a protest in Tehran and lost his vision as a result. We had not spoken much about politics, but since he's a dissident against the Iranian government and does business with an American company, I am certain he is on some government blacklist and may be the target of round-ups, jailing or interrogation. I am sure there are many others in Iran like Ali, considering that the NY Times recently reported that around 4,000 American companies do business in Iran (we are forbidden by US law, of course, to have any dealings with Iranian government-owned banks, freight companies, distributors, etc).

Below is the email Ali sent me today after my inquiry. I found it inspiring, especially since this fight for democracy and freedom is not happening in the text of a school book, or pontificated about by western pundits who have no experience with what it takes to bring down a bad government, and the real dangers and risks to health and life that that entails.

Mind you, Ali wrote this email with some kind of special audio program or personal assistance because he has lost the use of his eyes as a direct results of his political beliefs and actions:

"Dear (Lonnie)
I’m very pleased to hear that you as a friend and human being are concerned about your friends and the other people living in the other parts of the world, since just sharp and kind people have this kind of attitude. I'm really happy to have such a friend in a big country named America.
Considering the recent news in Iran, I have to say that aware people who want to establish a democratic and liberal government in Iran are trying to get this goal without making any disturbance in the society since they have had the experience of 1979 revolution and are now well-informed. Of course, the present governors, or better to say dictators, with their theological, fanatic and fascism ideas are a big obstacle for the people to get their ideals. They use the worst possible behavior, in another word disturbance, torture and murder in response to people’s questions and demands.
Hope that Iranian people who have experienced 1979 revolution can achieve their goals and have a government who is selected with the true votes of the people; a democratic - not theocratic - government, and also having aware, liberate, and happy people worldwide.
Thanks again for your kind feelings.
Best regards,
Ali"

I feel proud to know Ali and do business with him. These are the kinds of people who need to be strengthened and given support -- even if it's something as small as an email saying that people around the world are watching and give our solidarity.

In my experience doing business in various countries, the view of America is a very good one. We do a lot of business in Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, China, Vietnam, etc., and in all of these places we proudly tell people we are from the United States and the response is always positive, with comments that the US is a "great country". The opinion that you hear so often in the US that people in other countries "hate us", in my experience, is complete and utter bullshit. And we did business with the largest Muslim country on earth (Indonesia) all through Bush's presidency.

What happened in Egypt and continues in Iran is not dissimilar from what started in Tiananmen Square in 1989 (recall that those students erected a mock Statue of Liberty). Some of these realities may even sound cliche, but these folks generally do look to the USA as an ideal to be achieved, despite all our imperfections. Even though the people may not have the USA specifically in mind, the want of freedom and democracy is a natural human desire, not just unique to western countries. Ali's email above is just one example. And in my opinion, US programs that allow Iranians to have direct contact and sales with American businessmen only strengthen civil society and those who battle for liberty against the worst odds and do not give up -- even after being shot in the god damn FACE by government thugs.

The worst course for US policy would be to cut off these heroes from all foreign contact, so you end up with a place like North Korea which is nearly hermetically sealed from the outside world and the population is so brainwashed and subservient that they believe and parrot the government's lies, and any popular opposition is non-existent and highly unlikely any time in the foreseeable future. How sad that would be.

The Blue Blazer

2011-01-13T20:48:00.004-05:00

My latest favorite cocktail to make at my home bar is the Blue Blazer -- a cocktail that dates back to the famous 19th century bartender, Jerry Thomas. He created it in the early 1860s.

According to David Wondrich's book Imbibe!, the story of the creation of the Blue Blazer started when a "bewhiskered giant, laden with gold lust, with three layers of pistols strapped around his middle" stomped into the bar, and shouted, "Barkeep! ... Fix me up some hell-fire that'll shake me right down to my gizzard."

The barkeep then proceeded to mix up some high-proof scotch with boiling water in a silver mug, and proceeded to pour the flaming mixture back and forth between each mug "with a rapidity and dexterity that were well nigh unbelieveable."

And it's fun as shit to make. Here's a video of me making one down in my basement.

Most Americans are Fucking Clueless About How Close We Were to Total Collapse

2010-12-01T21:07:00.003-05:00

I still think most Americans are clueless about how close we were to the edge of a cliff after Lehman collapsed. You really see this in the worst way especially when you talk to "libertarians" or those who think capitalism is a perfect or nearly perfect system.

The Fed has released an enormous amount of data today. The NYT has summarized it here. Everyone should fucking read this article. If you don't understand it, you should read it twice. If you still don't understand it, you should keep reading until you do or go buy a textbook on economics and read the article again.

What this information reveals is what people like Warren Buffet and other major investors who know how the fuck the world actually works have been saying for over two years.

Professor Ben Bernanke, a genius Jewish guy from South Carolina and scholar on the Great Depression from Princeton, saved the US and world economies from total collapse. There really is no question about that fact now and if you think otherwise you are just simply wrong.

You may think that's an exaggerated statement, but it clearly is not -- considering we now know from these recently released documents that after Lehman Brothers collapsed, everything was about to go to near total shit.

And damn, any libertarians you talk to wish that would have happened. Libertarians want pain. They want 30%+ unemployment. This is all part of the "natural" workings of the capitalist system for libertarians. They see any central bank or other government intervention as a moral problem primarily. We Keynesians see it as a practical issue when government does what Bernanke did.

This man saved millions of people's lives from descending into misery for many years. He should get the god damn Nobel Prize.

In Cuba: Sending the Cockerel Off to Valhalla, or Wherever Annoying Creatures Go To.

2010-11-24T13:58:00.005-05:00

There's an email exchange going back and forth with some people I work with about this article on "urban agriculture" in Cuba.

Thank Christ one of the guys on the email list (an old Brit) actually lived and worked in Cuba in the 1980s and promptly dispelled the common American Leftie myth about how Cuba is a paradise.

"My wife and I lived in Cuba from 1985 to 1988. I returned several times afterward, for business trips, and to get our old maid out. In May 1987 our younger daughter was born ... in Texas. (Infant mortality in Cuba, for the "foreign" community, was 35%. Parents were never given the bodies of their dead infants. Hence my wife flew to San Antonio to deliver our daughter. Her leaving Cuba, to go to Texas, heavily pregnant, is a story in itself.)

The much vaunted Cuban medical system was a disgrace. Still is. It simply did not work at all. I know that from personal experience. We took my daughter to Cuba when she was two weeks old. On our way back to Cuba, in Mexico City airport, the stupid clod at the Mexicana Airlines check-in desk told me that our daughter would not be allowed to go to Cuba because - get this - she didn't have a work permit. Can you believe that? The fact that she was 14 days old made no difference to him. I asked him to tell me what kind of work did he think she was going to do. That really got up his nose.

Much heated arguing later, I took our little girl from my wife, and passed her to the idiot check-in man and said, "You are now the proud owner of a brand-new baby girl. Here is her passport. We have to catch the flight. Goodbye." My wife, of course, was frozen speechless in horror. So was the clod. He swiftly passed Alex back to me and said, "She can go, but don't ever do this again."

We were classed as Diplomats, which meant that we had very distinctive plates on our car. We also had the right to shop in the "Diplomercado," or Diplomats' supermarket. The problem was that, whenever there was meat (goat) for sale, we had to fight against the Russian Diplomats' wives, and the Russian Navy seamen. The seamen were from the Russian nuclear submarines and surface warships, permanently present in the harbour, all of them painted a dull black colour. (Habana, or Havana, means "safe harbour," and it is a very safe harbour.)

We never won. The only other food available was tins (mostly without labels) of various things from Canada, all well past their sell-by date. Really! The Russians paid for their food with "Inter" money (like Monopoly money,) while we paid in the much despised US$ (that everybody wanted!) We had lots of money in those days, because Cuba was classed as a "Hardship 1" posting by the British Foreign Office and, as such, the posting paid very well.

Lots of money or not, there was never much food to be had, and you can't eat money. We used to buy electric fans, fridges, and similar goods that Cubans were not allowed to buy (from the "Inter" tourist, souvenir shops!) and go out into the countryside to swap the fans etc for live chickens, the odd potato, carrots and so on. My wife made baby food out of these things, and froze them in ice-cube trays in our freezer. Then we would lose the electricity for a few days and all the frozen food for our little girl would spoil. So we would start all over again.

I went back to Cuba over the following years and, for old times' sake, I visited the new Diplomercado (built with Canadian money, as was the new airport.) The Diplo was enormous, excessively air-conditioned, and the rows of gleaming, new shelves were stocked with just two things: tomato ketchup and cat food. All well past their throw away dates, of course. The Diplo was empty, apart from the totally disinterested staff and myself.

The lack of everything was very trying so, whenever we went on leave to Miami, or the BVI, we would buy a huge trunk there, and fill it with everything we couldn't get in Havana. Soap, shampoo, toothpaste, you name it, we bought it. In spite of our Diplomatic status, some of it was "confiscated" by the customs officers in Havana, as soon as we arrived, but we usually got the bulk in.

I smuggled in seeds to grow food in our "garden." The garden had been abandoned for decades and was full of rubbish, snakes and large scorpions. Even worse, the topsoil was about 10 cms deep and then you hit granite. I acquired a very heavy iron bar, about 2 metres long, and broke holes in the granite. We "liberated" soil when we were in the countryside, and filled the holes (called canteras.) We planted the seeds and grew all our fruit and veg. All crops grow like crazy in that climate, it is really easy.

We didn't choose our house; we were allotted one by the State. It was pre-bugged with electronic ears. Even our car was bugged. On one side of our house was a block of revolting, stinking apartments. The inhabitants were dreadful people (thanks to the system) and all they seemed to do was loll about and spy on each other. All day. The "spies" were the "State Committee For The Defense Of The Revolution," and they reported on me, and their own neighbours, every day, to the Secret Police. Every block had its spies.

On the other side of our house was a small bungalow, in which lived a General and his family. Both sets of our neighbours were intrigued and fascinated to see foreign "Diplomats," outside, pouring with sweat, fixing our garden and growing food. I gave both of them seeds to grow their own food. They did nothing, but were always trying to scrounge food from us. I told them to sod off.

The Cuban people could have been growing their own food, in urban gardens, since 1959, right after the Revolution. Unfortunately, the Communist system was such that, if you grew something yourself, the local spy would report the fact, and you had to share your produce with your neighbours. Therefore nobody did anything, except for "exempt" people like us.

When the Soviet Union collapsed (nothing to do with Ronald Reagan and his "Tear down that wall" speech - it was already well on its way to collapsing anyway,) the oil-for-sugar deal with the Soviets ground to a halt, and Cuba was in seriously deep trouble. It still is.

So, it is no surprise to me that the Cubans are now growing their own food in the urbs; they have no choice. Grow it or starve.

One of my last acts before we were mercifully transferred from Cuba to fabulous Belgium, was to kill the cockerel that lived in the filthy shambles of a "garden" belonging to the block of flats next door. That damned bird had no sense of time. It would consistently crow its head off, all through the night, and wake us up. My pleas with my neighbours were all in vain. The cockerel was kept for the simple reason that looking after it called for zero effort. It strutted about all day, scratching for whatever it could find, and crowed all bloody night.

I acquired a powerful air pistol from the British Embassy, and one night, with the aid of a torch (flashlight?) I sent it off to Valhalla, or wherever annoying creatures go to. My neighbours were in uproar, but I just denied everything. They knew I was lying, but they couldn't do a damned thing about it. Anyone harming a foreign official just disappeared."

This Spirit Should Be the Inspiration for All Sailors

2010-10-22T22:20:00.005-04:00

Thank god people like this exist -- a group of four anarchists who bought a derelict boat and sailed from Florida to Dominican Republic. The video is well-produced and over an hour long, but one of the better sailing documentaries I've seen.

This is an extreme version of how I started sailing. I was a bit of an anarchist back in the 90s and some friends wanted to purchase an old boat and sail it around the Chesapeake; I was against it because I couldn't sail. Eventually, we ended up with a 23' O'Day for free. It was our Anarchist Sailing Club, and there was no captain and no owner. That only worked out for a short few years, but damn, it was fun while it lasted. Now I'm a committed capitalist and own a bigger, more seaworthy vessel.

Watching this video, it will be very hard for you not to feel a bit freer than you feel now. The spirit of this video is my ideal, why I sail. Without that spirit, sailing is just jocks and rich fucks.

Hold Fast from Moxie Marlinspike on Vimeo.

Ad Hoc Night Sailing Venture to Tilghman Creek

2010-09-16T00:25:00.010-04:00

Randomly invited my old sailing buddy Greg for a trip across the Bay at night. This was the only time I could get away to go sailing -- departing the marina at 8:00pm, crossing the Bay, then arriving at our anchorage at Tilghman Creek at 1:30am. It was so fucking fun. This is the kind of shit I live for.

This is a picture of me looking at the chart with a red headlight -- what most of the sail across looked like (I haven't used my GPS in years). In fact, we had only time for two pictures during our Bay crossing because it was 12-13 knots, gusting to 16 with weird waves pushing us around and making my tiller feel like an oar. And as usual, I had up slightly too much sail so the boat was hard to manage at times.

Here's the only picture of Greg from the trip across:

Damn, we roared across that Bay and of course it always feels faster when you're sailing at night for some reason. I suppose it's because the waves seem to be going by faster when it's dark.

Sailing at night hones your skills and attention like no other -- especially sans GPS like I do. You're constantly making sure you're heading for the correct red or green blinking light, and not actually heading toward some land-based beacon, running aground, hitting some object, or falling overboard (that reminds me: I need to get life jacket strobes).

Getting across the Bay was relatively easy on a beam reach -- except for managing the waves -- but when we headed up Eastern Bay we were close-hauled and pounding into the spray for hours. It was also one of those sails where you're constantly straddling running into too shallow water, or heading up too far that your sails start to luff and you lose momentum -- yet you want to avoid tacking because it'll put you into the anchorage too late.

After anchoring, we enjoyed a metal cup each of Green Label. Man, whiskey never tasted so good at 1:30am under the glow of oil lamps:

Neither of us could finish it, because we were so dog-tired from the athletic sail across so we just passed out (of course, after I caught up on on my internet -- love that Verizon Wireless card):

I had caught some crabs at the dock before leaving and they kept jumping out and grabbing shit onboard, like Greg's shoe (I cooked 'em up next day for lunch on the way back -- the crabs, not the shoes):

Next day, I made coffee and bacon and enjoyed a Marlboro, too. I love that my boat has a pop-top (yes, you can see I don't care about my tan):

The view from our anchorage (the crabbers were up at dawn):

Sadly, we had to motor most of the way back because the wind had died -- classic Chesapeake. Here's a nice view from my new Fujinon binoculars with built-in compass (and red light). These were great on setting the course to the entrance to Tilghman Creek at night:

Gravelly Point Probably Not the Best Baby Destination

2010-09-08T08:42:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I decided to teach my 9-month-old boy about airplanes -- close up. There's a small park in northern Virginia called Gravelly Point right next to National Airport where you can lie on the grass and watch the jet airplanes fly right overhead before they land. They seem so close that you could throw a rock at them.

We spread out our blanket on the grass to wait and he seemed happy. We played with his toys for a minute before the first plane came toward us, its massive jet engines revving.

I forgot how loud it is and the first one came over and Elliot just watched it, following the plane with his eyes and looking confused. Then he went back to playing and looked like this:

The second one came, and again, the confused look.

But when the third one came, the little guy got scared! It's so sad and pitiful to see your baby get scared and I felt like a bad father.

As soon as the engines roared that third time and he spotted the jet coming our way, he crawled real fast across the blanket toward me and just lunged into my lap, hugging me and looking frightened.

I packed up our things and left immediately.

A Ramen Noodle, Jim Beam, and Beagle Dog Sailing Trip to Rock Hall -- ALONE

2010-09-06T19:57:00.022-04:00

The wife and baby took a weekend trip to see my in-laws in Detroit -- and also so Katie could see the Jay-Z/Eminem concert with her sister (god, I have the coolest wife).

So what's a man left alone to do? Go sailing with his hound dog for three days, that's what.

Whenever a sailing trip is planned, and I have it in my head that I HAVE TO be on the water, I hate the whole process of stopping at a dozen different places to pick up crap; I just want to get on the water NOW, and the 2 to 3 hours of provisioning drives me nuts. But since I was sailing with just me and my dog, none of that bullshit applied; I stopped at one place: a convenience store that also sold liquor and three types of ice.

My plan was to sail all weekend and live off the bluefish and crabs I caught, but as back up, my 20-minute provisioning was merely block-ice, Honeynut Cheerios, milk, ramen noodles, coffee, bacon, Marlboro Ultralights, packaged ham-n-cheese sandwiches, canned Chef Boyardee ravioli, a 750ml bottle of Jim Beam, and frozen chicken necks.

I slept on the boat Thursday night with oil lamps burning and listened to the VHF weather channels for Hurricane Earl news, and it seemed it would miss us. I spent most of that dark night changing the oil in the outboard engine; I recently was informed you're supposed to change the lower unit oil every year -- that's the gear oil that keeps the propeller gears running smoothly. So I changed that mess in the dark lit only by my headlamp. Half the gear oil ended up on my hands and arms. Anyway, the job got done and the engine ran smooth.

Whenever there's someone else at my marina working late into the night on their boat, I invite them onboard for some cold beer or whiskey. So this dude Pete and I swapped sailing stories and drank Jim Beam while my beagle Oliver snored and the oil lamps burned.

Next day, I headed into an empty Bay. Everyone had been spooked by Hurricane Earl, despite the fact that all weather stations were saying it would miss us by a long shot. The sky was overcast from the edge of the hurricane, and the Chesapeake was nearly empty, save for a few container ships anchored off Baltimore. The dog and I headed out toward the Bay Bridge with 5 to 10 knots of wind. I couldn't believe everyone was so skittish of going out, despite what all available science was saying. The wind was so calm that I even brought the dog bed into the cockpit so Oliver could sail in comfort with a view on the sail north:

After the bridge, the wind died, so I started up the Honda 4-Stroke for the 3-hour trek to my destination -- Rock Hall, Maryland.

This town Rock Hall is directly across the Bay from Baltimore and is one of the last towns within 30 miles of my marina that I haven't visited. I'd heard it's a slightly more rednecky version of Baltimore with better crabs, so I had to check it out.

I called ahead to reserve a slip at Rock Hall Landing Marina to discover it would be $69 for the night -- whatever, the wife just got a new job at 20% pay increase, so no prob.

This is the first marina I've ever stayed that had air-conditioned bathrooms and showers and a swimming pool. Seems this place is a hot destination for old people who like to get drunk and sit on their Rodney-Dangerfield-esque stinkpots (my boat was the most beat-up in the whole marina). Basically, if you have a big-ass stinkpot, there's not much to do other than hang around other people with big-ass stinkpots so you can flaunt your massive gas-powered retirement trophy and get drunk. I mean, the people were nice enough, sure, but I just calls 'em like I sees 'em so you gets 'em like I gives 'em.

Rock Hall is totally worth visiting. Right off my bow was a live band playing late into the night at a big crab house. Off my stern was another live band playing late into the night at a bar with a blow-up Corona-themed biplane hanging over the bar; it's the kind of place where if you ask for a Mai Tai, you get grenadine-flavored rum. Thank god I had quality earplugs for the sleep.

Next day a front came through with gusts to 30 knots, so I bought another night at the marina and hung out with my dog and crabbed from my boat all day. I'd brought three collapsible crab traps and used the frozen chicken necks to catch under-sized blue crabs all day. For some reason, the nice old people in the stinkpot across the way had a nice-sized batch of crabs using the same bait. Oh well, at least I had cold Miller Lites, a hound dog, and Marlboros to keep me company all day.

Side note: Anyone taking a 5 day sailing trip should do well to stock up on block ice. Packaged ice is gone in a day or so -- only worth taking a 16 lb bag and pack it on top. But that block ice will easily last the whole time -- maybe a week.

Luckily, during the strong wind, an awesome classic car show was happening in Rock Hall. I got a picture here of my favorite muscle car -- the GTO. I used to have a 1966 GTO, but this one looks basically the same as mine did (and same color) but this is technically a 1965 GTO:

Great cars overall in the carshow, but "Ratzilla" caught my attention. Hilarious:

Ratzilla is a rusty 1930s modified Ford with a rear-mounted engine whose interior was covered in very opinionated bumper stickers. (I imagine the owner is not a fan of our current president). For example, this plaque was mounted on the engine:

Funny, I often love the humor and spirit of redneck culture -- and the people are always so nice, personally -- but we'd never vote for the same person for political office, ever.

That night, I still wasn't having much luck catching keepers while crabbing, so I decided to go to the crab house one block away -- alone. It's kinda weird going to a crab house alone, but I was hungry at this point, and tired of eating a few small crabs and Chef Boyardee canned food.

I am starting to consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur of crabs and I'm always on the lookout for the best Chesapeake crab spice. I've been now catching my own crabs and have them at home to cook every week. First off, anyone who knows diddly about Chesapeake crabs knows that Old Bay® seasoning -- produced by the New-York-Stock-Exchange-listed company, McCormick -- is SHIT. Not one decent crab house uses it in their kitchen. Hardly one person on online message boards devoted to crabbing likes Old Bay®. Everyone knows that the true Chesageek only uses J.O. #2. That's it, no discussion.

Anyway, this crab house I went to used a modified version of J.O. #2, and I bought two styrofoam cups of it for $7.50. Damn, I couldn't believe it, but it was even better than J.O. #2. I will cherish this stuff til the day it runs out. The taste made eating crabs alone better. I was so happy that I left the waitress a $100 tip on a $60 meal -- just to see the look on her face (don't tell the wife, but I did this partly because she got a raise and partly because I think the Asian economies may be turning upward).

Next day me and Oliver headed home. The Bay was giving me the most annoying wind -- 16 knots in the morning, which made me have to go through the trouble of reefing underway alone, then light-and-variable in the afternoon, which made me have to kick on the Honda again. At one point in the morning, I was scrambling around back-and-forth on deck to put up the sails alone, stumbling over the stupid dinghy lashed on deck and nearly running aground, and when I got back to the cockpit, I couldn't find my fucking dog! I called and called, and looked below, but nothing -- slight panic set in when I thought he'd jumped overboard while I was making that racket putting up sails. Finally, I found him cowering dug back where I stow my bags; he'd gotten scared of the noise and hid in the deepest place he knew. Man, it was good to see him again.

I tried sailing all the way back, but couldn't quite do it without the help of the outboard -- especially under the Bay Bridge. That thing spooks me; I'm always afraid I'm gonna lose wind underneath it, then drift into one of the massive pilings. So I kicked it into gear, then cut it out and tried sailing in the sickly 3-to-5-knots on a beat for the way home -- so annoying!

So here I am, on a starboard tack for basically the whole way home -- like 14 nautical miles or so. If you don't sail, a starboard tack gives me right of way over basically anyone except a freight ship or someone sailing also on a starboard tack who's downwind from me. And all of a sudden, I realize I'm sailing through a regatta.

God damn, those richie rich fuckers think they own the god damn Chesapeake Bay from the South River to north of Annapolis whenever they want it. Now I know why the fishermen hate those god damn jocks. Anytime they want, without warning, they can mark off a random section of the Bay with their clean little bobbing orange blow-up bouys, and if you cross into it, YOU'RE the one who's accused (by them) of being an asshole.

So here I am, cutting through their special little race, when I see that three $1M boats under spinnaker are heading right toward me, despite the fact that I have right way -- they're all glaring at me. I stared at them. Then they started yelling at me about cutting across their massive race course, which, I remind you, they randomly declared with plastic floating bouys without regard to the fact that it's one of the most busy sailing days of the year. I yelled back, "YOU DON'T OWN THE FUCKING WATER." Not sure why I bothered, and I wished I'd had my bullhorn (which had run out of batteries).

I mean shit, imagine if me and my friends decided to mark a one-mile by one-mile section of the Chesapeake with anchored empty kegs and hold a beer fest and yell at anyone who crossed through it and glared at them as if they were assholes. God, sometimes I hate the whole jock attitude of the richie rich racing sailor.

Well, despite all that, they do sail beautiful boats. This is the only shot I could take on the Blackberry while sailing through their precious little race (this is not the boat who yelled at me):

Sometimes I feel like I can't relate to any one of the main subcultures in my region -- not the sailing jocks or the rednecks, not the lawyers or the non-profit do-gooders, not the fishermen or the watermen, not the Rodney Dangerfields or the retirees. You'd think I could relate to the hardcore wooden boat sailing guys, but my engineering skills are lacking and I'm too lazy for them anyway (they'd rather work on their boats than sail on them, I'm convinced). I suppose that's why sometimes I just go sailing with my beagle dog and some ramen noodles in my 39-year-old sailboat with Marlboros and Jim Beam.

Bad-ass Article About Guys Who Save Ships

2010-07-29T11:02:00.003-04:00

My friend Jason sent me this article about a marine salvage company made up of guys who seem so tough-as-nails that even Hollywood couldn't have found better characters. Here's the head guy, who lives in Jackson, Wyoming:

The article is pretty long, but if you don't have time to read it, here's a video summarizing what they do:

Damn, and I thought my job was cool.

Elliot Meets "Ethel" -- an M24 Sniper Rifle

2010-07-22T21:23:00.006-04:00

Hilarious how a leftist like me is drawn to guns.

Since my wife won't let me own one, I am highly lucky to have an old friend like Colin who has an entire arsenal locked in a 7-foot steel case in his basement. He has some of the coolest weapons I've ever seen, and he loves to shoot them -- often.

Shortly after I arrived, out came Ethel, a metallic black M24 sniper rifle with built-in tripod and is the official sniper rifle of the United States Army.

I figured if it's good enough for the Army, it's good enough as the first gun for Elliot to experience.

Luckily, my wife had bought the little dude a pair of infant-size blue earphones to protect his tender ears from the sound of this black beast blasting out .300 magnum match-grade ammunition.

Actually, the little guy didn't even flinch while sitting in his seat on the back deck while we fired it across Colin's backyard at some plastic bottles filled with water. KER-SPLOOSH!!! with every hit.

Cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce ...

Summer is nice, isn't it.

Ng-Ka-Py Liqueur

2010-07-22T20:51:00.007-04:00

I finally finished Steinbeck's magnum opus, East of Eden. My grade school English teacher, Mrs. Voelker, would be proud. God, she loved Steinbeck so much, I wish I could track her down and tell her.

Great book, highly recommended -- was hoping it would be good enough that during the last couple pages I'd be tearful, but no.

There's a character in the book whose parents were brought to the U.S. from China to build the railroads. He was born in secret on the side of a mountain and grew up in the Salinas Valley. He's a self-made philosopher named Lee who drinks a Chinese liqueur called "ng ka py" which is described as tasting like "good rotten apples".

Never heard of this stuff.

The book was written in 1952 and took place between the 1880s and the end of World War I (1918).

Apparently it's still around: a google search yields some Taiwanese manufacturer. No idea where I could get it in the States but if you know somewhere in the DC area, tell me. I expect it tastes like the typical liqueur you get at Chinese business meetings -- a spiced and heavily fortified "wine" which runs at around 60 proof.

Surabaya Crabs

2010-07-14T12:03:00.002-04:00

Picture taken at a restaurant in Surabaya, Indonesia. The crabs are wrapped with ribbon or leaves so they won't pinch people.

Thing is, they have great crabs over here, but they prepare them to detract from the meat's taste by slathering the hell out of them with gooey, spicy-wet sauce. Often, Asian food is so good but they don't understand the concept of letting the meat stand on its own sometimes. They should prepare crabs the correct way: by covering them entirely in a DRY spicy salt. Much much better.

Asia's Gotta Get This Customer Service Thing Sorted Out

2010-07-10T09:20:00.004-04:00

Nearly five years now doing business in a dozen countries in Asia, I feel qualified in making crude-yet-experienced generalizations about the quirks about the part of the world where most of the people live.

This service thing ain't like the West. I'm talking about staff in retail stores or restaurants, specifically. This one's easy to describe: those fuckers peer at you with overhelpful anticipation while you eat or pick out underwear in a way that still amazes me years after I first saw it.

I just returned from eating sushi at a nice place. I was the first one in there, sitting alone at the sushi bar reading East of Eden, with my steaming hot sake and fatty tuna stomach cut into nice strips on top of balled rice. Trying to enjoy all this with -- not exaggerating -- 10 eyes unflinchingly watching me. No feeling of privacy whatsoever.

I'd get down to one small strip of ginger, and before I could even realize I needed more, someone pounced and already was asking me if I wanted me. Hardly the last sip of my first mini-bottle of sake was gone, and a hand from nowhere was whisking it away, asking, "Sir, you need more?"

God, it was even hard to look up at them because they'd quickly look downward, trying to play it off as if they hadn't been staring at me, waiting to jump at me, and serve my needs. I don't need to be obsequiously served like a god damn British Colonial, god dammit. Can't a man eat at a nice place in Asia without being hounded over?

It sure is hard being a white man in a foreign land sometimes.

;-)

I'm sorry, but I fucking hate when people fucking tell me "be careful".

2010-07-10T09:00:00.003-04:00

I've hated this since I was a kid. This annoyance goes back to one of my core annoyances -- irrational fear derived from a poor understanding of risk.

Ok, I know what you're thinking: people who tell me "be careful" before a trip are just being nice, and they care about me. I will grant you that, sure.

But really, people. The true risks one encounters, whether abroad, in suburban suburbanyland, or in the big city of the USA, are considered and dealt with by any half-intelligent human in about the same way.

Is there ever a time when a thoughtful farewell of "be careful" actually resulted in that person who received that farewell having taken actions that he or should would not have normally taken?, ie, the "be careful" comment having helped? And even if a major fluke of an accident did take place -- like a car accident or slipping in the shower and breaking your skull -- could the most careful person have avoided it with even the most obsessive precautions taken?

Answer: no.

We live in a pretty safe world. The odds are in your favor to do whatever you want in over 190 countries and not come away harmed. "Be careful". What a shallow thing to say, based in fear.

People just seem happier in the poorer parts of Asia. Why?

2010-07-09T13:25:00.007-04:00

Today at the trade show in Jakarta, I was chatting with a Dutch supplier who's been doing business in Asia twice as long as I have -- 11 years. I commented how it seems people in the poorer regions of Asia seem generally happier than people in the US or parts of Europe. I asked him if he had any opinions on the matter.

He's had the same observations and he thinks it has something to do with the 'law of diminishing returns'. He explained with an example.

The pleasure of going from owning no TV to owning a TV for the first time is huge. The pleasure of going from owning no AC to owning AC is equally as huge. The pleasure of going from owning no car to owning a car, I think, is hard to understand for people who live in countries where having a car is taken for granted.

These are serious life improvements and when these sort of big shifts happen to millions of people on a grand scale, a static electric kinda feeling runs through the population that things are really changing for the better for a great many people. It doesn't matter that the TV or AC are in wooden shacks with dirt floors and corrugated metal roofs. This is a phenomenon that hasn't been in Europe or the US for quite some time.

And in many of these countries like Vietnam or China you have more than 10% growth in the economy so this is happening on an unimaginable scale for thousands of major life quality upgrades.

But take a rich country like the US. Everyone's got a TV and AC and umpteen other things of equal comfort. Our lives are saturated. What more pleasure can we obtain on par with going from zero TV to having a TV? Upgrading that TV to a bigger one? or with HD? Getting two or three or four TVs? Sure, that brings a level of additional pleasure, but the pleasure is far more diminished than the feeling you got when you got your first one; you can never get that original thrill -- kind of like the effect of a drug -- and the pleasurable feelings are more and more diminished the more stuff you continue to obtain. Hence, 'the law of diminishing returns', and more happiness in regions where people are poor and the economy is roaring.

Maybe this is one reason why polls in rich countries show a larger proportion of the population disapprove of the direction of their country. In China, for example, I think over 80% approve of the direction of their country, as opposed to less than 30% is the US.

Another Reason Islam Sucks: No Dogs

2010-07-07T00:16:00.002-04:00

I'm in Lampung, Indonesia and noticed the lack of stray dogs that are usually so present in the poorer parts of the earth. I asked my associate why.

Turns out, Islam forbids the keeping of dogs as pets because of their saliva; being licked by a dog is filthy, according to the Muslims -- on par with eating a pig.

What a mirthless, humorless religion.

Baby Interest List: Stereotyping By Demographic

2010-06-20T21:05:00.000-04:00

Elliot is now 7 months old and I often take him around the city so I've seen people's reactions to the little guy for long enough to make some sweeping generalizations based on race, class, culture, gender, sexual orientation, etc.

Below is a list of the groups of people who express interest in my baby. Number 1 is the group who generally goes NUTS when they see Elliot, on down to the last group, who could give a flying fuck.

1. Black women over age 27.

2. People with babies around the same age as Elliot.

3. White women over age 36.

4. Black men over age 36.

5. Foreigners/immigrants.

6. Children age 6 to 9.

7. Gay men.

8. Lesbians.

9. White men over age 45.

10. - 199. Anyone I missed in the above.

200. Urban white hipster-type people in their 20s.

The Right Way to Make a Martini (The Long Version)

2010-06-20T00:22:00.002-04:00

Can you believe there are respected mixologists and cocktail enthusiasts who don't have the Martini at the top of their favorite cocktails list? Whenever I discover this, it makes me wonder about the credibility of that bartender. WTF is wrong with people.

The reason the Martini is the one drink that brings up such passions is because, correctly made, it tastes like nothing else on this earth, in an amazing way, and so many have fucked up the recipe for so long.

I'm downstairs here next to my wall-mounted Chesapeake map scattered with red pins marking the places I've been, and my over-sized bitters collection. I am enjoying what I consider the cocktail that should be on everyone's favorite drink list -- topping the list, or coming no further down than second. The only reason this cocktail is likely not on the top of your list is because you've been served it wrong.

What follows are my instructions and opinionations on how to make a real Martini. I'm going to spare you the side picture of the cliché glimmering martini glass sitting on a dark bar. I'm giving you no picture at all. This type of post has been made by hundreds of blogs and journalists throughout history so this is not much new, but I want to do it justice in writing alone.

First and foremost, a Martini should never include vodka. They should call a "Martini" made with vodka something else, and I'm sure people more clever than me have put together such names in the past, but frankly, I'm not spending even a half ounce of time on vodka, so from the get-go, a Martini does not have vodka in it. Leave vodka to drunk Russians, floozies, frat boys, and the cast of Jersey Shore.

Second is the choice of vermouth. I've gone over this with the best of Washington DC mixologists, and we've got disagreements here and there, but my personal choice for vermouth is boring: Martini & Rossi "Very Dry" Vermouth. I've sat at my home bar on multiple occasions and sipped various vermouths from brandy snifters side-by-side and M&R wins out -- yes, even better than Dolin.

A word about Dolin vermouth: this is a very small company that has been producing small batch vermouth from France apparently since 1821. In a side-by-side taste test, Dolin is clearly the one you want to drink straight or on the rocks with a lemon twist rather than M&R, but in a Martini, Dolin cannot stand up to any decent London Dry Gin. It's just too light. I swear -- if you do numerous side-by-sides like I have, you will (or should) agree.

As for other vermouths, some people have a Noilly Prat fetish but this is just silly. Christ, the producers recently changed their recipe for the American market -- no sense of history, just marketing. I've always found NP boring. I suppose people like NP because it was supposedly -- and I emphasize the supposedly -- the first vermouth ever used in a Martini. Probably pure bunkum. As for Stock vermouth, Cinzano, and whatever else is out there, I haven't done extensive taste tests but judging from the low price and mass-producers who put out that shit, it's not worth my time.

Again, my choice is the humble Martini and Rossi -- and let's be done with it.

All cocktail ingredients need to be measured. Can you imagine constructing anything of quality without measuring? For the best Martini, the proportions have got to be Three To One -- gin to dry vermouth. I'd strongly suggest small proportions of 1.5 ounces of gin to 1/2 ounce of vermouth; anything more than around 2 ounces of cold liquid served straight up will nearly be the temperature of dishwater for the last sip. Smaller cocktails go quicker, but you'll never skimp on taste.

I could go off on a rant about the ridiculousness of making a "Martini" without vermouth, or any proportion less than 3:1, and I will do so now. The first damage done to putting the correct amount of vermouth in a Martini was during Prohibition. Who the fuck wanted to sneak in a cheap fortified wine during Prohibition? They wanted the hard spirits, not wine. Stuff was hard to get, but gin was cheap to make. So vermouth got neglected, which, in previous years was called for at like equal proportions to the gin in the cocktail. Then, people like Ernest Hemingway wanted to prove how manly he was to be drinking basically cold gin and calling it a Martini -- ooo, that's so tough. This was copied over and over until a Dry Martini (which originally meant just using dry vermouth instead of sweet vermouth) was assumed to mean that you should add so little vermouth in with the gin that it didn't add anything to the drink. Think about it: vermouth is not a strong substance. Gin is. Vermouth needs to be at least one part to three of gin to make any dent in the sting of the gin -- ahhh, and what a perfect marriage those two flavors are. I'm so sick of the super-duper-duper "dry"Martini bullshit that nowadays when I hear of someone still talking this nonsense I instantly think of that person as a fairly uncultured rube.

To summarize, don't put less than one part vermouth to three parts gin.

I put orange bitters in my Martini -- usually just a few drops of Regan's Number 6. I've always done it this way, and it adds a nice citrus sharpness to the cocktail. This is a very old tradition, dating to the very origins of the cocktail, which by definition must contain bitters.

When deciding which gin to use, ask yourself: would my grandmother have drunk this gin? If the answer is no, don't buy it. Yes, I'm thinking specifically of that new category of gins target-marketed to people who don't actually like gin -- the cucumber-tasting Bombay Sapphire or ridiculously-priced Hendriks. These things shouldn't be called gins (perhaps "Cucumber Liqueur"?). I can't believe I need to elaborate on the obvious here, but gin should taste like juniper -- that's the dominant flavor. If it doesn't taste like juniper, don't make a Martini of it. If it doesn't say "London Dry Gin" on the bottle somewhere, don't make a Martini of it. My choice: Beefeater. Let's move on.

You need to use ice made from bottled water in ice trays -- the bigger cubes, the better. Pour your 3:1 gin-vermouth-plus-orange-bitters into a clear mixing glass (not into the metal shaker cup). Then fill it with cubes. These cubes must be filling the glass to the point of sticking out over the rim. Never put cubes in halfway; that's just unprofessional. Let all that sit, while you prepare the garnish.

I go for olives, onions or lemon twist equally; it just depends on my mood. I understand those who slam the olive as muddying up the drink with saltwater, but I think it's fine. The Dirty Martini is generally bullshit, but I can see why people want it. If you use olives, just buy the expensive ones, put no more than two on the metal pick and let them drip-dry across the olive jar. I'd say the same about pickled onions: buy the larger more expensive sour ones. Never use sweet onions. A lemon twist is the garnish that fits best with the balance of the vermouth-gin-bitters combo, but I'm usually just not in the mood for it. I have to be in a very rare mood to use a lemon twist. Note: 95% of bartenders can't cut the fucking lemon rind correctly. There should be no pith (white stuff) in a properly-cut lemon twist. I prefer a wide swath cut with a knife, and given a gentle twist over the surface of the liquid. Using a channel knife for the twist is fine, but it always looks a bit too girly for me.

Having let the liquid stand in the ice for a minute while you get the garnish ready, begin to stir with a long barspoon. I bend the handle of the bar spoon so it easily stirs with one hand. This guy does it right (but not for long enough), but that bend I'm talking about makes it even easier. I could list all kind of clever quotes from long-dead drunk writers here about how you never shake a Martini unless you're the fictional character James Bond. I won't. The quotes here are mine. You need to stir a Martini for at least a full minute. Actually, stir the cocktail until it seems like you're stirring a ridiculously long time; at that point, keep stirring. Your hand should be getting a bit tired before you're done. Stirring gets the drink cold longer than shaking, but stirring is important for drinks with mostly spirits because it doesn't cloud it up or add a lot of tiny ice chips therefore watering it down and ruining the whole thing.

A word on location: a Martini is strictly an urban drink. Never consider drinking a Martini in a city or suburb with fewer than 100,000 people and never ever drink a Martini while camping or boating. Good lord.

That's it. Some people get fancy like that stirring bartender in the video and strain with a julep strainer but as long as it's a quality stainer that filters out the god damn tiny ice chips, you're fine. Oh yea, you should let the cocktail glass chill with ice and water before you start any preparation. This really makes a difference, trust me.

This elaboration is necessary. Anything worth doing, is worth doing correctly and in excess.

Alaska is Tough. It's the First Word You Should Use to Describe That State.

2010-06-08T21:33:00.000-04:00

Last week was the first time I've caught a fish so big that it required a gun to subdue it and bring onboard.

Last week was the first time I've boated through an actual fjord, seeing wild orcas jumping and humpback whales showing their dorsals fins, between snow-capped mountains.

And last week was the first time I've held a Smith & Wesson .50 caliber handgun.

Bringing a halibut that's over 50 pounds onto a boat through 200 feet of water makes me wish I'd spent more time in the gym working my biceps and forearms. God damn, you can't imagine just trying to pull even the four-pound weight through 200 feet of water -- much less a 56 pound halibut (pictured above).

Going to Alaska, prepare for the worst, and expect the best. I brought all kinds of cold weather gear -- expecting not to need it -- and used it all. Catching halibut requires standing holding a heavy rod and steely Penn reel on a boat for hours while getting rained on and the boat rolls and pitches, weeding out all non-hackers (there were a few) who turned pukey gray-green.

In Alaska, the limit for halibut is two per person per day and we met that limit all three days we fished. I came home with 85 pounds of halibut fillet in big wax-coated cardboard boxes that I checked as luggage.

This state was the only place I've been where pretty girls gut and fillet big fish faster and better than 99% of the men in the northeast USA. (Come to think of it, how many men do you know who have gut a fish even once?)

There were a bunch of union reps at our lodge. One of them brought a .50 caliber pistol to protect against bears while fly-fishing. And this is -- in case you know nearly nothing about guns -- the most bad-ass handgun ever created by humankind:

Me, in front of a bona fide glacier. We could hear it calving, which sounds like canon fire:

The crabbing boat Time Bandit had a tourist shop selling trinkets in Homer. Out front was one of the crab pots from Deadliest Catch, the TV show:

Said pretty girl, gutting our fish:

The smaller halibut I caught (larger one above):

I Don't Care About Birthdays

2010-04-27T22:42:00.002-04:00

If people forget my birthday, I don't care. Why celebrate the random day when my mother's water broke? There are things that are much more worth celebrating than birthdays.

Women seem to make a bigger deal out of birthdays than men do. Actually, thinking of a handful of my closest friends, I can only tell you off the top of my head when one of them (Colin) was born, and that's because he was born the day before Halloween. And I've never called him on that day that I can remember. I don't think that makes me a bad friend and I'm pretty sure he doesn't either.

I only care about this subject enough to give it seven sentences.

New Business Idea for my Home Bar?

2010-04-21T10:04:00.003-04:00

Now here's a guy who's innovative with his awesome retro basement:

Welcome to Club Thunderbolt, the strangest place in the city to get a lap dance. It's located in the back room of an old house in an east side neighborhood of working class bungalows.

"Everybody in the neighborhood knows what I do," says Jay Thunderbolt, the 45-year-old club owner, homeowner, house mom and house DJ. "In the summertime you got all these girls leaving wearing four ounces of clothing, so they kind of get what's going on."

Thunderbolt doesn't need a cabaret license like other Detroit strip clubs must have. The city ordinance regulating other places doesn't apply, because it's not a bar serving liquor or food, but rather a private arrangement in a private home. To him it's like having a strip-o-gram sent to your own house.

And this part of the article pretty much sums up my life philosophy:

"I tell everybody, 'This is what I'm gonna do. Don't be freakin' out.'"

Holy crap, next time I visit the in-laws in suburban Detroit, I hope we can hit up Thunderbolt's home strip club. Check out his harpoon on the wall in that picture. Man, I gotta get one of those for my place. I'm slippin'.

What do you think, can you picture bouncing tits and grinding asses amongst my cow skull, nautical paraphernalia, and bitters collection? I guess that could be a fall-back if my export business goes by the wayside. I'm sure Katie won't care, and Elliot loves bare boobs, so I'm sure it would be cool with him too.

Shit I've Fixed on the Sailboat in 2010 (Non-sailors need not read this).

2010-04-15T21:24:00.004-04:00

Whenever the winter is hard on my mind, it's harder on my sailboat. I am nearly ready for the 2010 sailing season once I get a couple more things done. Here's what I've completed so far, with details.

I love reading the sailing blogs' lists of Spring fix-it tasks, but I'm always disappointed that they just make a short bullet-pointed list without good descriptions of what it took to do this or that. I always find that the smallest job on a sailboat takes MUCH longer than anticipated, so here we go, as I see that it should be written:

Replaced seat drain flanges and hose mechanism. This was nearly the most uncomfortable task to complete because it required taking all the junk out of my cockpit locker and crawling around in tight spaces with my bare skin rubbing against 38-year-old fiberglass. On my boat, there's a drain mounted onto the port seat which drains the rainwater that would otherwise stand in a 5-foot wide spot on my cockpit seat. The hose that I removed was 38 years old and was the cause of a lot of rainwater entering my boat. The thru-hulls were so deteriorated that the boat was taking a gallon of water with each rain. I went to Bacon's and met an old salt who recommended that I buy Home Depot parts to replace it instead of spending big bucks at Fawsett's. I followed his advice, but nothing fit where the old rig had been so it took me many hours of hack-sawing, razor-blading and caulking hoses and metal to get it to fit. This is the classic jimmie-rig for me on the boat.
Replaced cabin lights with fancy brass reading lights; added hard-wired v-berth light. I LOVE to burn my two oil lanterns in the cabin, but I need the backup of real electric lights. My port cabin light had voltage issues so with 30 minutes of investigative work with my voltmeter, I figured out that there was a bad connection where the wire had been pulled taut under the bulkhead. Easy repair. I've now got classic-looking brass lights over the galley and the port settee berth. I removed the old plastic incandescent light that I had in the port main salon into the v-berth so now whoever sleeps there can read without their headlight. Speaking of headlamps, I love them on the boat, but part of the beauty of having hard-wired lighting onboard is when you're sleeping and then wake up and can't find your headlamp in the dark, you've got your hard-wired lighting to guide your way.
Installed Sony marine stereo system and new speaker. This will be the third stereo in three years -- averaging one a year. My first stereo I tried to go cheap; I bought a bona fide marine stereo, but spent very little money. The brand name was Pyle and I highly do NOT recommend it. That fucker broke in one season. Then, for 2009, I bought an inexpensive Sony car stereo because some old salt told me that you don't need that bullshit "marine stereo" shit unless you enjoy spending extra money. The stereo did fine through the '09 season, but the winter killed it when the melting snow found a deck leak and dripped all over the bitch for several months. Luckily, Christmas of 2009 brought me two $100 West Marine gift cards so I broke down and bought a quality marine stereo system with iPod input and the works, including remote control that I can operate from the cockpit. I also scored a $25 Poly Planar speaker (used) which I man-handled into the cockpit, with the help of Mr. Hacksaw and Mr. Metal File. There's really not much point to a boat stereo system that doesn't have a speaker wired into the cockpit. Now I'm looking for a cheap subwoofer that I can rig up inside the bilge, so if anyone can hook me up, let me know. This would do wonders for the 1812 Overture at sunset -- a long-held tradition of the guys' trip.
Taped and sewed up the whomper. Yea, I know it's annoying that every sailor since the movie Wind refers to his biggest sail as a "whomper" but it's just so apt; the fucking thing is basically a 200% genoa and gives power like no other. During my March 8th sail, the damn thing caught on the spreader and gave me an 8-foot rip about 3/4 of the way to the top of the mast. My neighbor, and sailing buddy, Todd, helped me with the canvaswork and we sewed it up right. During my sail today, it held great. Actually, I think sewing a large rip in an old sail can be stronger than some of the original stitching because the new stitches are with UV-resistant thread that hasn't been exposed to sunlight like the factory-installed stuff.

Organized all my bolts and shackles and shit. One of favorite things to do is organize my toolboxes and fishing tackle boxes on the boat. And damn, I have enough of them -- probably six, if you count the tool drawer and storage boxes of spares. I just love a boat with proper back-up that doesn't just increase the clutter level. I had a bunch of old caulk-coated bolts sitting in an old chicken livers container; I'm not kidding, the container still says "chicken livers" on the side. I put these into an old tackle box -- coincidentally, one with sentimental value, a tackle box that I've had since I was a young teenager; it still has Polaroids of old guys holding up fish taped to the inside that I took from a shoebox in a long-closed fishing shop back in the 80s; the fucking box barely closes with all those photos taped in there.
Replaced my fishfinder/depthfinder trasducer mount; added ladder bracket. The ice flows blew hard into my marina and broke off my transducer which was mounted on a 1X1 piece of wood bolted to my transom. The shit was just dangling in the water when I first noticed it this season. I had bolted the old mount into the original ladder bracket, which I thought was the right thing to do, since I didn't want to drill new holes in the back of my transom. In hindsight, this was the wrong way. I fucking HATE the ladder that we've been using for three years. The legs would always fold up on people trying to climb back on the boat, and you could never properly stow that son-ofa-bitch because it was so goofy and big. Good riddance. I've now moved the transducer mount and bolted it through the transom after getting the balls to sit precariously in my dinghy and drill through it with the non-battery-powered Makita. Now I have a nice bracket which will hold the ladder, and the transducer mount is securely bolted next to it. This ladder is stowable in the cockpit locker and will be much easier for swimmers to climb back onto the boat with.
Screwed in small wooden compass/windmeter/pencil holder. I have a great new sailing buddy who lives down the street and has an AWESOME wooden boat from the early 1960s. He built me a small compass/windmeter/pencil holder which is mounted to my starboard aft bulkhead so when I need to find a quick bearing or wind reading, I can reach down and grab the needed tools without letting go of the tiller. This may sound small, but it's the small things that make my sailing world happy.
Added sailing collage for 8-year guys' trip anniversary. I posted this previously on this blog, but I now got it printed and laminated at Kinko's and stuck it to the starboard aft bulkhead.

Hope to get the god damn ball valve for the head intake installed SOON. My boat is 38 years old. For some damn reason -- likely to save money -- the manufacturer used fucking gate valves for my toilet. Simply put, that old shit broke when ice got in there. There was water sitting where the hose connects to the valve and it just fell off when I put minimal pressure on it last December. As any good sailor knows, I need to replace this old crap with ball valves but it's been a negotiating back-and-forth with the various marinas in the area to get the best price and time. As you may know, my wife and I just had a kid and she's taking in reduced pay, so I'm trying to find the best price for a haul, paint, etc. The best price in the region is my marina, but getting them to do the work is another story entirely. The marina owner is a 300-pound dude who's very slow and seems to always been moving around the marina mixing epoxy or something while his (old school) railway sits empty, and making excuses why he can't pull my boat. But finally, today, I had a good conversation with him and he set a date to haul and paint the boat during the last week of April. I hesitate to mention the price, because it's the lowest in the region, but damn, this made my day today. I might have quality head valves soon! I have already figured out that I'll need a serious metal-saw to get the old valve off, but I think I can handle it. I'm expecting that it could either take 20 minutes or 20 hours to complete.

Got fishing licence, bigger net, better/bigger rockfish lures. I SCORED at a fishing flea market in Essex Maryland. Damn, it was great. My fishing gear is now complete with a 1960s Penn reel (don't make 'em like they usedtuh), and net that actually fits the size of the fish that I actually catch, and big-ass lures that should nail 'em. I wish I had a photo of the lures I bought because they are as big or bigger than some of the fish I caught last season.

Regardless of all this, as my Todd said, "the fun things in life are never very practical." And we spend money on the fun things because that's what "living" is all about.

Alexander Stephens: Slavery Was a Major Cause of the Civil War and the "Cornerstone" of the Confederacy

2010-04-14T22:36:00.006-04:00

The argument that slavery was not a major cause of the Civil War has been around for 140 years; it was started by the people who got their asses handed to them. It's easy to understand why -- I mean, in Mr. Ulysses S. Grant's words, it was "the worst cause for which anyone ever fought" at that time. I suppose they just felt guilty, and needed pseudo-history to settle their consciences.

Most people in the south have long ago gotten over this and moved on, but every once in a while, you hear that slavery was -- oh yes -- such a small small, very small part of why they fought.

A nice piece of evidence against this bullshit is the speech given by the Vice President of the Confederate States, Alexander Stephens, on March 21, 1861. This "Cornerstone Speech" is worth reading in full which you can find here.

I've bolded the key parts. I quoted extensively so no one can accuse me of "taking it out of context":

"But not to be tedious in enumerating the numerous changes for the better, allow me to allude to one other though last, not least. The new constitution has put at rest, forever, all the agitating questions relating to our peculiar institution African slavery as it exists amongst us the proper status of the negro in our form of civilization. This was the immediate cause of the late rupture and present revolution. Jefferson in his forecast, had anticipated this, as the "rock upon which the old Union would split." He was right. What was conjecture with him, is now a realized fact. But whether he fully comprehended the great truth upon which that rock stood and stands, may be doubted. The prevailing ideas entertained by him and most of the leading statesmen at the time of the formation of the old constitution, were that the enslavement of the African was in violation of the laws of nature; that it was wrong in principle, socially, morally, and politically. It was an evil they knew not well how to deal with, but the general opinion of the men of that day was that, somehow or other in the order of Providence, the institution would be evanescent and pass away. This idea, though not incorporated in the constitution, was the prevailing idea at that time. The constitution, it is true, secured every essential guarantee to the institution while it should last, and hence no argument can be justly urged against the constitutional guarantees thus secured, because of the common sentiment of the day. Those ideas, however, were fundamentally wrong. They rested upon the assumption of the equality of races. This was an error. It was a sandy foundation, and the government built upon it fell when the "storm came and the wind blew."

Our new government is founded upon exactly the opposite idea; its foundations are laid, its corner-stone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery subordination to the superior race is his natural and normal condition. This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth. This truth has been slow in the process of its development, like all other truths in the various departments of science. It has been so even amongst us. Many who hear me, perhaps, can recollect well, that this truth was not generally admitted, even within their day. The errors of the past generation still clung to many as late as twenty years ago. Those at the North, who still cling to these errors, with a zeal above knowledge, we justly denominate fanatics. All fanaticism springs from an aberration of the mind from a defect in reasoning. It is a species of insanity. One of the most striking characteristics of insanity, in many instances, is forming correct conclusions from fancied or erroneous premises; so with the anti-slavery fanatics. Their conclusions are right if their premises were. They assume that the negro is equal, and hence conclude that he is entitled to equal privileges and rights with the white man. If their premises were correct, their conclusions would be logical and just but their premise being wrong, their whole argument fails. I recollect once of having heard a gentleman from one of the northern States, of great power and ability, announce in the House of Representatives, with imposing effect, that we of the South would be compelled, ultimately, to yield upon this subject of slavery, that it was as impossible to war successfully against a principle in politics, as it was in physics or mechanics. That the principle would ultimately prevail. That we, in maintaining slavery as it exists with us, were warring against a principle, a principle founded in nature, the principle of the equality of men. The reply I made to him was, that upon his own grounds, we should, ultimately, succeed, and that he and his associates, in this crusade against our institutions, would ultimately fail. The truth announced, that it was as impossible to war successfully against a principle in politics as it was in physics and mechanics, I admitted; but told him that it was he, and those acting with him, who were warring against a principle. They were attempting to make things equal which the Creator had made unequal.

The Confederate constitution was modeled on the US Constitution, except, as Stephens so proudly described, it was the first constitution in history to fully legitimize slavery in the founding documents of that would-be nation.

As I've said before, I love when facts get in the way of a good argument.

Here's the Eight Years, Gentlemen

2010-04-11T10:52:00.002-04:00

On May 22 this year, me and my old friends will have taken our annual Chesapeake Bay sailing trip for eight years in a row. On most of the trips, we've taken pictures, so I put some of my favorites in this collage. Click through to see a larger version:

These photos tell like a hundred stories. A print version of the above collage will be gracing my aft bulkhead.

A Perspective from My Friend, the Catholic Priest

2010-04-07T21:51:00.000-04:00

I have a drinking buddy who's also a Catholic priest. (No, that's not the beginning of a joke. I really do).

The other day, I posted a Facebook status that said:

"I cannot read any more priestly pedophile stories. Now that I have a child, that type of news affects me like never before."

My Catholic priest friend didn't comment on that status, but he sent me a private email which was very interesting, and illuminates the stress and depression many priests who are genuinely good people must be going through at this time. That may sound strange coming from a non-believer like me, but I went to Catholic high school and have fond memories of the church, and I have sympathies for my friends, despite their religious background.

My Catholic priest friend wrote me:

"These stories are hard for anyone to read, I suppose, in your case because you have a child, in mine because I have loved the priesthood and the Church and am horrified by the enormous evil that has been wrought and so inadequately addressed over the years.

The last few days have been enormously depressing for me, despite my own personal successes in preaching and the beauty of our Easter liturgies, I have found it difficult to be optimistic about where things are headed and difficult even to focus on my own work.

While I meant what I wrote on your post last week that some of this stuff was being distorted and overblown with respect to Benedict, other things that I have read (chiefly through the obsessive and unfair Andrew Sullivan's blog, but not his work itself) have made it difficult to defend the institution even in light of the changing standards of history, etc..

I'm blessed that my own religious community has had good leadership in this regard. In the last 25 years I'm aware of only one case that we've had involving children, and as soon as the complaints surfaced we removed the guy from his work, investigated, and kicked him out of the priesthood. We handed him over to the police, fully cooperated, and refused to pay his defense. Quite right, too--we were convinced of his guilt, after all. He is now in jail. Any cases are too many, but as with family and school, so in the church to a certain degree they cannot be totally avoided--what is essential is to be vigilant about dealing immediately with any hint of threat so as to protect children. (We do have extensive screening for candidates and so forth, but it's not easy to totally predict who will have these tendencies in life).

Anyway, sorry to prattle on, but your status update has been on my mind since I saw it first come up."

It is quite unbelievable and sickening what's been going on with the Catholic church. These scandals damage or destroy so many people's lives in different ways, but it's important to remember how it also affects normal, good Catholics, including the priests.

I love when facts get in the way of a good argument.

2010-04-07T12:38:00.004-04:00

I love fivethirtyeight.com. This guy actually uses facts and data to prove conservative bullshit wrong.

In a recent post, he shows that as a percent of GDP (the only way to properly measure anything in the US economy) the USA has one of the lowest tax revenues on the planet.

Of the OECD countries, there are 25 that have higher taxes than the USA and 4 that have lower taxes. So unless conservatives want to live in Mexico, Turkey or Korea, the US is the best place for taxes:

And taxes in the US have been basically the same since about 1950:

And make sure you take a look at 538's post on income distribution in the USA where he make the true point that:

"Dollar for dollar, America offers the most effective and efficient government on the planet, doing so for about 20 cents on the dollar nationally, 28 cents if you include state and local taxes."

I love when raw facts and data get in the way of a good argument.

Your Grandparents Will Teach You A Lot -- Even After Life

2010-04-04T23:46:00.005-04:00

My wife's grandfather just died at age 86.

During his funeral, something happened that gave me a feeling that I get every now and again -- that I should have served in the military.

Blaine W. Evans piloted a B-17 over Germany -- led a crew of 10 in 33 missions. He's been out of the military for 65 years, but the honor that veterans receive is, and should always be, timeless. During the funeral ceremony, two young members of the armed services arrived and walked past the (mostly) old folks attending the funeral. They walked to the front of the room in silence and slowly saluted the urn where Grandpa Blaine's remains were on the table next to an American flag and his picture.

These two, fully decked out in US military uniforms, stood in posed salute while a man walked in front of everyone and played Taps on the trumpet.

It is hard to describe what that feels like -- the appreciation that even the oldest war hero receives in this country -- but every single person in the room was dealing with tears at that moment. To bring this closer to home for the reader, this is what it sounded like:

After Taps, they folded the flag and presented it to the next of kin -- Katie's grandmother, Jean.

There's a confluence of emotions that run through your mind when this is happening -- sadness, patriotism, pride, pain, strength, pain.

I remember when this happened at my grandfather's funeral back in 1997, but I feel like I was maybe too immature to soak its full meaning in.

In the past year, I've felt the happiest I've ever felt about the direction of my country. I've experienced patriotism that is unparalelled in my recent memory. Biking or driving past DC monuments makes my cold godless heart swell with pride.

And this experience with Grandpa Blaine just makes me want to write about it without editing. I'm so lucky to have had him as my wife's grandfather.

God bless his soul.

There Are Really Two Raising Arizonas

2010-03-31T22:15:00.004-04:00

My old friend Jason told me years ago that watching Raising Arizona is completely different after you have a baby. God damn, there ain't much truer than that (watching it now on TV). I've loved this movie for 15 years and watching it now, it's like watching it for the first time.

I would put out a few choice quotes or videos, but there are just too many to list; it's like the whole movie is perfect -- an everyman's video version of Dr. Spock.

Further elaboration would be lost on people without kids. Anyone who has them will totally understand.

If You Don't Mind, Allow Me To Quote Myself

2010-03-30T15:33:00.007-04:00

On March 27 at 10:46am, I commented on my own blog:

I think these people just don't have the balls for an attack of any significant sort. Think about it: that militia leader in Alabama (Vanderbough?) basically said "we're cleaning our guns ..."" and urged people to throw bricks through Democratic offices. Oooo, I'm so scared; a bunch of dumb-ass rednecks are wacking off to their guns and encouraging petty vandalism. Pussies. I say to them, bring it, bitches. You do, and our excellent law enforcement system will lock you up for a long long time.

Then, two days later, from NYT, on March 29:

Militia Charged With Plotting to Murder Officers
In an indictment against the nine unsealed on Monday, the Justice Department said they were part of a group of apocalyptic Christian militants who were plotting to kill law enforcement officers in hopes of inciting an antigovernment uprising, the latest in a recent surge in right-wing militia activity.

See ya, suckers. Enjoy prison.

Vimeo is the Place for Sailing Videos

2010-03-28T23:47:00.002-04:00

You'd have to sort through youtube all day to find the number of quality sailing videos you can find on Vimeo in 15 minutes. That's why when I'm longing to get back on the water, I troll Vimeo; you just can't top their production quality, despite being made by amateurs. Below are a few of the good ones.

Here's the "last sail of the season" probably somewhere in England onboard a really old wooden schooner:

Ocean Pearl - Last Sail Of The Season from Richard Gooderick on Vimeo.

Here's a guy who sailed from San Fran to Hawaii. He seems bored throughout the video but there are some good shots:

Singlehanded from San Francisco to Hawaii in 27 days from nickj on Vimeo.

This was shot in the Azores, in a port that's one of the last stops for people heading out of Europe across the Atlantic. Seems like a port I want to visit one day. And the sound track is quite nice as well:

The most colourful marina in the world from Alexandre Jesus on Vimeo.

I'm not much of a cold weather sailor but if I had a motor-sailer like this one, I might consider going to Antarctica aboard this boat:

Antarctica 2008 yacht expedition from Blazej Pyrka on Vimeo.

I'm not crazy about the song in this video, but this definitely took a lot of work and the boat is beautiful:

Sean wants to take you for a ride on a sailboat. from Sean Aiken on Vimeo.

Why Obama Isn't Gonna Take Your Guns: The Short Answer

2010-03-27T00:10:00.005-04:00

Bill Clinton got tons of shit from the right because of his 1994 crime law which restricted assault rifles. The far right will never forget this as long as we live, but here are a few quick reasons why Obama has no interest in doing anything about guns in the US: he doesn't need to. Crime is on a major downswing and has been since the mid-90s.

(Link)

It's obvious Clinton tried to restrict weapons, not because liberals hate the 2nd Amendment, but because crime was at an all time high in the US in 1992:

I'm not saying Clinton's weapons restrictions reduced crimes; let's not confuse correlation with causation. I'm just saying that in the reality of left wing politics in the US, gun restrictions is sooo 1992.

Halibut and Salmon Fishing Trip in Alaska!

2010-03-26T10:50:00.003-04:00

The CEO of the company whose product I sell invited me for a week-long trip to Alaska to fish for halibut and salmon in the Cook Inlet in early June.

I've loved fishing since I was a little kid when my grandfather got me hooked fishing for catfish, bluegill, spot, croaker and crabs out of Norfolk Virginia. As a young teenager, I was obsessed. I used to subscribe to Saltwater Sportsman magazine, even though I'd never been on a private charter boat -- only the cheaper "head boat" trips out of Virginia Beach. I had an old net on my bedroom wall and adorned it with all sorts of finds from the beach. Surrounding that net were cut-out pictures from fishing and surfing magazines, even though I'd never surfed a day in my life. I remember just hanging out in my room as a kid and staring at that wall, dreaming of fishing and coastal life.

But I'd never had the chance to go on a private charter boat until July of 2007. Granted, I've trolled and bottom-fished from my own sailboat, but it's not comparable to paying the experts to take you out for the big ones. Charter boats are no doubt fun, because you catch big fish almost every time, but the mates take away a significant part of fishing's fun because they basically do everything for you until the fish is securely hooked, then they pass you the rod to fight it in. Then they land the fish and take care of the dirty business. In fact, the only time your hands get dirty on a private charter is during that typical goofy smiling-and-holding-fish pose for the camera. I guess we should call this "businessman fishing".

Part of the fun in fishing is the failing part; most of my fishing experiences don't actually involve catching fish. The anticipation hones your tolerance for patience, and it teaches you a lot about the way nature really is. I mean, from watching TV, you'd assume that nature is an all-action-all-the-time phenomenon, but in reality, the lions are sleeping 23 hours a day. You can always spot the fishing greenhorn by the guy who's surprised and pissed that he didn't catch anything. I also love learning about which gear will bring the right fish and how to rig it up. While I hate losing fish, it teaches me how to improve my skills and land them better the next time. And yes, I love unhooking and cleaning and filleting and handling my own fish; having someone else do it all makes me feel -- how should I say -- less like a man. What, does the mate think my dainty paper-and-computer-softened hands can't deal with the messiness of fishing? For me, that all detracts from the fun.

But damn, there is NO WAY I would turn down a trip to Alaska to catch the most tasty fishes in the world -- halibut and salmon. And Jesus H., look at the size of some of the hogs they catch up there:

Elliot is Four Months Old

2010-03-24T07:03:00.001-04:00

Kraken Rum: Great Bottle Design, Not Great Rum Taste

2010-03-23T13:29:00.007-04:00

I am a sucker for product packaging design. That's the only reason I bought a bottle of Kraken Rum, pictured here.

And what a cool looking bottle! A black rum with two built-in finger handles with a picture of a mythically large kraken with an ancient sailing ship in its evil tentacles. How could I NOT purchase it.

I even purchased the bottle knowing that it's a "spiced" rum -- long derided by cocktail snobs like myself. After all, spiced rums are sold to be mixed with cola, and rum-and-coke is a pretty uncreative drink and is one of the few alcoholic concoctions that nearly makes me puke. See, I enjoy the raw taste of straight rum and don't need the manufactured spices to make me enjoy the basic flavor of distilled molasses spirit and whatever woody sugary notes and color picked up from the barrel.

The taste of Kraken Rum is simple to describe: moderately high-proof base spirit with vanilla. Seriously, I could duplicate Kraken Rum simply by buying a cheap bottle of vodka, some black food coloring, and a two ounce bottle of McCormick's vanilla extract bought at Safeway for $7.99.

If you're ever in the mood for vanilla-flavored liquor, have a glass of Kraken on the rocks. Otherwise, stick to real rum. There's not much more to the story than that.

Sometimes You Have to Walk Carefree Across the Street with a Big Ass Hammer

2010-03-22T18:29:00.010-04:00

Yesterday I biked down to the US Capitol to see for myself the Teabagger crowd on the day the historic healthcare reform bill passed.

Whenever I had posted pictures or videos from Tea Party protests or Sarah Palin rallies in the past, I would get the same comments from my right wing friends: that the photographer or video producer had only published the images and interviews of the most extreme elements that the protests had to offer and the most extreme posters, and that somehow the intellectual or reasonable people were not being shown. There are crazies in every crowd -- so the argument went -- and all video is biased.

Well, take my opinion for what it's worth, but the negative stereotype of the Teabagger we've seen in the media is highly accurate. This is a movement whose origins are not in mere response to Obama's policies; they are the same exact angry, sometimes racist, often religious and conservative protests we saw during the 2008 election, which are the clear roots of the Tea Party movement.

I walked around with an Obama t-shirt on and spoke to many people -- perhaps two dozen. Some folks were polite, some folks not, but many of the signs were offensive, comparing the Obama administration to some of the worst governments known to modern man. Here are some photos I took:

The comparisons are, of course, completely ridiculous and not worthy of much comment. However, having visited the physical evidence of Nazism when I visited Auschwitz and been highly emotionally affected by the experience, I would like to extend my sincerest fuck you from the bottom of my heart to the types of people who wrote the above signs. Granted, those types of signs were not the majority, but coupled with the intense anger exhibited around me that day, there is something different about these extremist reactions. I've been to many many protests in Washington DC from over 10 years, but I haven't seen this level of anger, threats of violence, and demonization of the presidency, ever. Plus, the widely-reported shouting of the words faggot and nigger at members of Congress carrying out their democratic duties. I mean, even the enormous anti-war protests under Bush didn't yield more than two signs comparing the presidency to regimes like Stalin or Kim Jong Il. You can even see my photos from those protests back in 2005 here.

What's most disturbing and should be understood by any thinking person, is that this isn't just the fringe elements of right-wingism in 2010. This is no longer the big tent party of Ronald Reagan. My favorite economist, Paul Krugman, put it very well in a recent op-ed:

And let’s be clear: the campaign of fear hasn’t been carried out by a radical fringe, unconnected to the Republican establishment. On the contrary, that establishment has been involved and approving all the way. Politicians like Sarah Palin — who was, let us remember, the G.O.P.’s vice-presidential candidate — eagerly spread the death panel lie, and supposedly reasonable, moderate politicians like Senator Chuck Grassley refused to say that it was untrue. On the eve of the big vote, Republican members of Congress warned that “freedom dies a little bit today” and accused Democrats of “totalitarian tactics,” which I believe means the process known as “voting.”

This is what pisses me off so much. What's going on here isn't that old saw that "both parties are guilty of the same behavior." Bullshit. One party is dedicated to whipping up fear by spreading lies and misinformation, regardless of its sometimes violent effects, and the other is trying to move the country into 2010. Until Republicans change, that is my assessment of a wide swath of their party (yes, I know not 100% of Republicans are like this; that's not my point).

One great part of the day that made me feel proud of my democracy was the fact that the congresspeople walked from their offices across the street to the Capitol building, boldly walking past screaming Teabaggers. And this picture of Pelosi and her entourage with the fucking big ass hammer is just awesome:

I was standing with the mob of angry screaming teabaggers a few feet from where Pelosi walked in to vote. She walked right past them in bright sunshine, without security, and without fear, despite the violent rhetoric and insults. It was a great democracy-will-prevail moment that few people get to see in person. And now the US will have universal healthcare. It's hard to believe, but it gives me chills still.

Healthcare in Capitalist Countries Has Fully Delegitimized the Marxist Worldview

2010-03-22T12:00:00.008-04:00

Most of the people calling the new healthcare law "socialism" have no idea what socialism really is and the view that true Marxists have regarding medical care and capitalist systems. This is the case because the Teabaggers and other misinformed people with no understanding of history who are screaming socialism have never met a real socialist in their entire lives, nor have they likely read Marxist literature, ever. (Perhaps if they are calling American healthcare reform a move toward European-style systems, they are more accurate, but those are not truly socialist systems, so the term is being misapplied in that case).

Here is the important point: starting well over 150 years ago, the Marxists' key point was that capitalism could never and would never provide universal healthcare because of its core nature; the only way to provide healthcare for all, in the traditional Marxist view, was to destroy capitalism and implement state socialism.

So the fact that many advanced capitalist countries have been able to successfully provide medical care to all of their citizens, while maintaining industry overwhelmingly in private hands, is nearly the biggest blow to the Marxist worldview that has ever occurred. This is a major devastating reality to the entire Marxist ideology, and further drives home the point that regulated capitalism is the most superior economic system that has ever existed.

So it's truly ironic that opponents of healthcare reform in America are using that word "socialism" to criticize it, when in fact, what happened last night is further evidence of the complete triumph of a flexible capitalist system to provide economic growth, full employment and affordable social security and healthcare for everyone. Incredible.

This just makes me happy.

2010-03-20T22:50:00.001-04:00

Actors Are the Least Interesting People to Watch Being Interviewed.

2010-03-18T00:01:00.002-04:00

More people probably agree with me than disagree on this one.

My son got his toe pinched by Nancy Pelosi. Suck it, right wingers.

2010-03-15T19:24:00.004-04:00

Through some connections on the Hill my wife was invited to a press conference given by the most powerful woman in the United States. And no, I'm not talking about Oprah; I'm talking about Nancy Fucking Pelosi -- the woman who has enough power to alter 350 million people's lives with her influence and is third in line to the president. Here she is looking at my son Elliot and reaching to give him a pinch in the toe! That's my wife Katie holding him. (Original picture here).

And my son has already got that Ann-Coulter-wannabe, Michelle Malkin, up in arms. She's ranting about it on her blog here!

Ha! Suck it, right wingers. My son had a brush with the most powerful Democrat in the world today and health care for all is close to passing the House this week -- closer than it's ever been before. Intrade is betting HCR passes by 65% this week. Life is gonna change, people. And if not, I will only be pissed at the Democrats in Congress.

Fingers crossed ...

Antiques Roadshow Score

2010-03-15T14:10:00.001-04:00

I love Antiques Roadshow, or more precisely, any show having to do with antiques. And I love when something really rare and expensive is appraised like this:

God, if you take the chorus out of Springsteen's Born in the USA, it's a sad, sad song.

2010-03-12T17:05:00.006-05:00

It's weird that people rock out so hard and happily to Springsteen's Born in the USA because it's a song about a Vietnam Vet who's been in jail, been denied a good job, is probably nearly homeless, and whose brother was killed in the war. Take a look at the song if written in a prose style without the chorus:

Born down in a dead man town. The first kick I took was when I hit the ground. You end up like a dog that's been beat too much, till you spend half your life just covering up. Got in a little hometown jam so they put a rifle in my hand, and sent me off to a foreign land to go and kill the yellow man. Come back home to the refinery: hiring man said, "Son if it was up to me ..." Went down to see my VA man, and he said "Son, don't you understand?" I had a brother at Khe Sahn fighting off the Viet Cong. They're still there, he's all gone. He had a woman he loved in Saigon. I got a picture of him in her arms now. Down in the shadow of the penitentiary, out by the gas fires of the refinery, I'm ten years burning down the road. Nowhere to run, aint got nowhere to go.

Gets me choked up watching the video having read the song like that. Watch it here.

Lonnie B's Mint Julep

2010-03-12T10:13:00.003-05:00

A friend on Facebook asked me for my recipe for a Mint Julep so I thought I'd transcribe it here too:

Ingredients and Equipment:

First, buy a set of four 10 oz metal julep cups like these.

Second, buy an ice crusher like this.

Third, get a wooden muddler like this. (Make sure you don't get one that has those stubby barbs at the base like this one. Those barbs rips the mint to shreds, which you do not want).

Fourth, get a bottle of your favorite 80-proof Kentucky Straight Bourbon. I use Jim Beam. (100-proof+ bourbon is just too much fire for a Mint Julep, which should always be drunk ice cold on a hot summer day. Also, 80-proof is a little more friendly to inexperienced drinkers).

Fifth, make a batch of simple syrup. Use the expensive organic sugar or Demerara sugar at Whole Foods. To make it, mix water in sugar 50/50, boil, simmer for 1 minute, cool, done.

Sixth, buy a bottle of Fee Brother's Peach Bitters (this is my special touch).

Seventh, get a big bunch of fresh mint, preferably picked from someone's backyard, or wild, near a creek or in the woods.

Preparation:

Pour 1/2 oz of simple syrup, 1/2 oz bourbon, a dash of the peach bitters, and about 3 mint leaves into the cup (no ice yet). Muddle this mixture. (Do not over-muddle! You don't want to bring out the bitter vegetal flavors in the mint. You're just giving the mint a light massage really quick. DO NOT put muscle into it).

Crush a full batch of ice in your crusher and add ice to fill the julep cup about 3/4 of the way to the top and add another 2 oz bourbon. Slowly stir this mixture with a long bar spoon until there is frost forming on the outside of the metal cup; it should look pretty snowy before you're ready to stop stirring (may take 30 to 45 seconds of stirring). When done stirring, top off the julep cup with crushed ice until it's rounded over the brim, almost over-flowing the cup.

Give 3 or 4 sprigs of mint a single hard slap between your palms (this "wakes up" the mint and it will become very fragrant after only a quick bitch slap). Put the slapped mint sticking out of the cup and add two skinny bar straws beside them. It is very important that the straws are short enough that when someone starts to drink, they will smell the mint with every sip, ie, the mint should tickle their nose with each sip.

Take the Mint Julep to your porch (preferably one located below the Mason Dixon Line) and sit down in a wooden rocking chair with a couple of hound dogs sleeping by your side. This is the BEST drink on a really hot humid day and it's not only good during Kentucky Derby day (very important).

That's Right, I Snuck in a Sail on Monday

2010-03-10T00:05:00.004-05:00

March 8th: first sail of the season on the Lonnie Bruner II. Sadly, no pictures, but do have my whomper (185 genoa) in my basement with an 8-foot rip in it. Damn, I always fly that thing when there's too much wind and the boat is heeling over at 25 degrees and the weather helm is working my flabby, winter-starved muscles.

It was a good quick sail -- not another sailboat on the water, just a small fleet of crabbing boats heading for Galesville for some reason.

And this winter was hard on the boat. My depthfinder transducer is broken off, the CD player got waterlogged and don't work, the head intake valve froze up and broke, and now this 8-foot tear in my most powerful sail.

I gotta say, I like sailing better in warm weather. In the fall, I quite like the colder weather coming on and the hot bowl of Dinty Moore cooking in the cabin while the leaves blow by, but I really love seeing other boats on the water, catching crabs at the dock, and trolling my two lines in hopes of catching a rockfish for dinner. All that's just around the corner right now.

And I hope I can pull together everyone for my annual guys' trip. I'm having some difficulty coordinating the usual suspects to commit to a weekend in May, but it'll work itself out -- even if I have to take everyone out sans toilet or radio or big whomping genoa sail.

90 "Types of Bitches" - from a Third Grade DC Classroom

2010-03-04T00:17:00.009-05:00

My wife's cousin works at a Northeast Washington DC public charter school and she sent me this internet GOLD today. This lengthy note was found on the floor of a 3rd grade classroom. Luckily the teacher saw its worth and scanned and emailed for posterity.

Here we have a 90-point list of "Types of Bitches" -- unfortunately, page 4 is lost. It speaks for itself:

In case you can't read the above, it says:

Types of Bitches

1) Dirty dumb assbitches
2) aint got no ass bitches
3) Dusty trick bitches
4) Fishy bitches
5) dont know how to figh bitches
6) got all that mouth but cant step bitches
7) ugly looking bitch that think they all that.
8) cant keep a man bitch
9) track wearing bitches
10) bitches that be trying to steal your man.
11) hoche looking bitches
12) aint got no damn sense bitches
13) stupid bitches that act dumb
14) bitches who can only get a dirty boy
15) want to be jocking bitches
16) bitches who think their man love them but get pregnent be left alone
17) bitches who thing they better than me
18) inste geting bitches
19) Talking behind your back bitches
20) loud mouth bitches
21) pissy bitches
22) stingy bitches
23) Funky looking bitches
24) Short hair bitches
25) Spanish bitches who think they all that cause of their hair
26) Bitches that be ignoring you when they know they can hear you.
27) Staring in your face bitches
28) big eyed looking bitches
29) crazy bitches
30) napy tender headed bitches
31) booty shorts wearing bitches
32) Coast signing bitches
33) dick riding bitches
34) whiped bitches
35) buck tooth bitches
36) Chesesy teeth bitches
37) Same wearing clothes each day bitches
38) getto bitches
39) hair dying bitches
40) Wearing shoes that be talking bitches
41) bitches who think they hard
42) bitches that think they get money
43) bitches that go to a dirty school
59) Gay bitches
60) Stanky fishy coche smelling bitches
61) tom boy bitches
62) Stain on your pants bitches
63) dry scap dandruf bitches
64) drity hair bitches
65) Stealing bitches
66) Stinky feet Bitches
67) big gap bitches
68) protecting their store bitches
69) pajamas out side bitches
70) ragly braid bitches
71) Stanky but bitches
72) greedy bitches
73) Slimy girmy bitches
74) Phyco bitches
75) drug dealing bitches
76) geeken bitches
77) Suntanning bitches
78) goofy looking bitches
79) triflin bitches
80) Skankishy bitches
81) mugging bitches
82) Sloppy bitches
83) dirty fingernails bitches
84) dirty sock wearing bitches
85) un creative bitches
86) White bitches that think black people poor
87) Concetied bitches
88) tall bitches
89) Short bitches
90) Jelous bitches

A 39.2 Metric Ton Mistake: A Work Rant

2010-03-01T21:48:00.006-05:00

Think about a time when you ordered something from a company and you received the wrong product in the mail, or Fedex messed up the shipment somehow. Most likely, this was a small item, like clothes from the Gap, computer parts, or a used book on Amazon. Probably made you irate, and was annoying to deal with because you had to return the shipment and you lost time dealing with it waiting for the product you actually wanted.

Now imagine that situation, except you didn't order a small item like a book or computer part, but many tons of product -- and I'm not talking about dainty-ass American "tons", I'm talking about the way the rest of the world reads the word "ton" -- a metric ton, ie, 1,000 kilograms, ie, 2,200 pounds of stuff. Now multiply that metric ton -- that two thousand two hundred pounds of product -- by 39.2. That's 39,200 kilograms or 86,240 pounds.

The point of this rant is that because of a screw-up that was entirely NOT my fault, the manufacturer of the product I sell accidently sent 39.2 metric tons of the wrong product -- some weird type of powdered clay instead of the mineral product that they wanted -- to my customer in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

This is a bunch of shit he doesn't need, and as elaborated above, it's a BUNCH of shit. I often find that people can't directly relate when I tell them that I sell real goods in massive quantities in forty-foot shipping containers to nations very far away. Most people work in offices where they deal in abstract services where no physical goods are ever traded. I sometimes envy those people. When I get an order, we ship hundreds of metric tons at a time and there's a possibility that all that crap will get fucked up along the way.

You know those freight trucks that carry big loads across highways? Yea, well, I'm talking two of those guys that are loaded onto a ship and have crossed the Pacific Ocean for three weeks, then fought through Communist customs people in Uncle Ho's Socialist Republic of Vietnam, then trucked to the customer many miles away, only for him to discover that we've sent him the wrong god damn product. Jesus Christ, steam must be coming out of his ears by now. It's coming out of mine.

This is the problem with this business of exporting big loads. There's a good chance you can make decent money in the long term, but there's a decent chance that the screw-ups will be embarrassing and put my years of labor down the tubes, or cut it back significantly.

I've had a rough week. Sales had been great for the first part of 2010 and I was looking ahead at seeing my income increase by an amount I haven't seen in years, or ever. But now, because some uneducated fuckface low-level loading guy loaded the wrong god damn product on my shipping containers, I have people on the other side of the globe so angry that we might be back to a revenue of like 2007.

I hope a visit with a bottle of Blue Label can keep this customer, but Christ, would you want to remain my customer if I had just sent you 86,240 pounds of shit you don't want and can't dispose of?

(Rant over).

I am a Devil Bitch, Apparently

2010-02-28T23:50:00.003-05:00

I've gotten a few nasty comments on this blog since I started it nearly six years ago but I just got hands down the best -- I mean, worst -- comment in the blog's history. Four years ago, I wrote a post about the racist Black Israelites who rant terrible words against whites, gays and Arabs on H Street NE. That post is still getting comments. And then yesterday, I had the cake-taker:

"Anonymous said...
Lonnie Bruner you are a devil bitch. And you are going to be put to death. And when the most high returns and we get to fucking you devils up. I"m going to come all the way to d.c. and rip your fucking head off you devil bitch. Now say something about that you cocksucker"

Holy crap, that is hi-larious. I'm a devil bitch! Scroll to the bottom of the comment thread to see my response. I think it's appropriate.

Perfectly Put

2010-02-27T12:53:00.003-05:00

Man, Paul Krugman has such a talent for summing up perfectly the way things are:

"In our current political culture, the background noise is overwhelmingly one of conservative platitudes. People who have strong feelings about politics but are intellectually incurious tend to pick up those platitudes, and repeat them in the belief that this makes them sound smart. (Ezra Klein once described Dick Armey thus: “He’s like a stupid person’s idea of what a thoughtful person sounds like.”)"

"A rain of ruin from the air the likes of which has never been seen on this earth."

2010-02-26T13:33:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, my wife and son went to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum where I saw for the first time, the Enola Gay -- the plane that dropped the nuclear bomb over Hiroshima.

This got me to reading up on the history of the war with Japan and the dropping of the only nuclear weapons in history. The Hiroshima bomb immediately killed 70,000 people -- just 70,000, poof!, gone in a minute. What is even more chilling is the statement released by Harry Truman the day after:

"If they do not now accept our terms, they may expect a rain of ruin from the air the likes of which has never been seen on this earth."

Fucking hell, man. I had forgotten that basically, the United States had planned to drop nuclear bombs on Japanese cities continuously until they surrendered. If that meant killing every human in Japan, so be it. From wikipedia:

"The U.S. expected to have another atomic bomb ready for use in the third week of August, with three more in September and a further three in October."

Five days after the Nagasaki bombing, Emperor Hirohito announced:

"The enemy now possesses a new and terrible weapon with the power to destroy many innocent lives and do incalculable damage. Should we continue to fight, not only would it result in an ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but also it would lead to the total extinction of human civilization."

Then the war ended.

Damn, Democrats sure were hawks back then, eh? I support the nuclear bombing of Japan. I've read estimates that a ground war would have cost up to a million US casualties with MULTIPLE millions of Japanese lives lost. Incredible, that a US president made such a major decision. Words fail me.

I Fucking Hate Winter

2010-02-21T00:15:00.002-05:00

The one thing that gets me through this part of the year is the knowledge that my annual sailing trip with old friends is coming up at the end of May. We've done it every year since 2003. And about this time of year, I begin trolling through old photo albums of past trips.

Here are some of my favorites.

Check out this series of photos from the 2006 trip -- one of the most nuts. We had chartered a fancy 35-foot yacht called The Segel out of Solomons Island and spent four days having an on-the-water bender. We nearly got in a fight over those arm-wrestling bouts.

Or how about this quick video of Jason and Colin at the helm on the Segel while Flight of the Valkyries blasts on the stereo:

And photos like this one make me really long for spring. It's a picture of me lighting up the oil lantern while a cool Spring rainstorm pounds the window outside. I love a (relatively) dry cabin with spirits and oil lanterns keeping it warm inside while waiting out a storm.

But for real nostalgia, I always head back to my old sailing trip blog for pictures and some short videos of our second trip back in 2004. You can see them here. These were the pictures taken on my first boat -- the Lonnie Bruner One, the boat I got for free and sailed until it nearly broke. I loved that boat. I had no idea what I was doing on the water and that made sailing the Bay seem like a real adventure. I'm always hoping to capture that wet-behind-the-ears feeling of possible danger while seeking calm ports, but I suppose the more sailing skill I gain, the more old-hat it seems and the feelings just evolve ... for the better, for the better, I admit.

But I still need the memories to get me through the bullshit winters. The only thing good I can say about winter is that at least it makes me appreciate the Chesapeake warm seasons.

The Third World Equalizer and Old Naked Men

2010-02-07T07:02:00.009-05:00

I just got back from working at a trade show exhibit booth in Bangalore India. I had one day to walk around the city by myself and see the spectacles which, in India, occur about every three seconds.

I was walking to the museum when I noticed an entourage of 30 men coming toward me. As they approached, I noticed that six of the oldest men -- 70 years plus, with white cropped hair -- were completely naked, just strolling through the mid-day traffic, uncircumcised penises a-bouncin', with the honking auto-rickshaws, crazy traffic, dust and heat swirling around them -- the pedestrians hardly gave them a second glance.

I found out later that the men were Jain monks, who, when taking the oath to be a Jain monk, give up all their material possessions, including clothes, which they don't wear for the rest of their lives.

This is such a typical India thing to witness -- a completely weird sensory overload and WTF moment. This brings me to a point I've been making about India lately: if you took all of the common things distinctive of poorer countries and represented each single one with an equalizer level, most Third World countries would have all the levels set generally in the middle range, like below. For example, take these EQ levels:

Now, represent each one of the levels with an item in this list of common things/occurrences common in the developing world:

- Amazing artwork
- Arranged marriages
- Astonishing, ancient architecture
- Backwards treatment of women
- Beautiful beaches
- Beer served with ice
- Burning trash
- Cars/trucks without mufflers
- Chaotic, sprawling, traffic-snarling construction projects
- Child beggars
- Coconuts
- Construction workers not wearing helmets
- Corrugated metal shacks
- Currency notes with too many zeros
- Diarrhea
- Dirty European/American/Australian backpackers, wearing some sort of local garb, who look down their noses at "tourists" (meaning non-full-time-tourists)
- Dust
- Engrish
- Exotic incredible plants
- Extreme division between rich and poor
- Fanta Orange Soda
- Flooding
- Gasoline sold in old Johnnie Walker bottles
- Guards toting automatic assault rifles
- Haggling
- Heavy rain that lasts 30 minutes
- Hellish, dangerous traffic
- Hilarious local TV shows
- Hotels that don't provide soap/towels/toilet paper
- Hotels with bed bugs
- Hotels with insufficient water pressure or temperature
- Hotels with roaches
- Hundreds of handicrafts shops, all selling generally the same stuff
- Incredible food with incredible sauces/spices
- Intense heat/sunshine/humidity
- Karaoke
- Lack of backseat (or sometimes frontseat) seatbelts
- Mangled-up mangy stray dogs
- Meat served with head on
- Motorbikes
- Motorcycle riders without helmets
- No local men who wear short pants
- Not being able to get change from small bills (ie, trying to pay for something with the equivalent of ten dollars (500-rupee bill), but the vendor cannot give you change for it)
- Open sewers
- Other weird, unexplainable random phenomenon, like the old naked Jain monks, or head-slapping haircut
- Overabundance of honking horns
- Overloaded freight trucks
- Packs of children playing in the street, unsupervised
- People loading large commercial goods onto passenger trains
- People pissing outdoors, openly, day or night
- People shitting outdoors, openly, day or night
- Person with fucked-up deformity or injury, begging
- Plastic bag trash, lying everywhere
- Prostitution
- Rickshaws
- Sales of single cigarettes
- Slums
- Smoking indoors
- Somewhat successful communist party
- Spectacular religious monuments
- Sprawling awesome open markets
- Squat toilets
- Stray chickens, or other livestock, in city and country
- Street food
- Strikingly beautiful women who're really poor
- Strong smell of urine
- Too many people riding on a two-wheeled vehicle
- Touts (hustler middlemen who take a cut of some service, like taxi or hotel fare)
- Two-wheeled vehicles transporting way too much cargo
- Unfinished buildings with rebar sticking out the top of the roof, but people are still living/working in the building
- Un-iced raw meat sitting in the mid-day sun, for sale
- Weird rot-gut local liquor
- Weird/unidentified smells on the street
- Wild religions with weird rules

For every poor country other than India, the levels on the Third World Equalizer would be somewhere in the middle range; for India, with only a few exceptions to the above list, just push all the equalizer levels to the very top.

People Braver Than Me

2010-02-03T07:43:00.004-05:00

For over a year, I've been working to register and sell my product in Iran. I got the license from the US Treasury Department and was working with the Iranian distributor, Ali, to get the sales going. We had even finalized the proforma invoice, etc, when I got this message from Ali's associate on January 3rd, 2010:

"Dear (Lonnie),
This is Muhamad, Ali's colleague and I am writing on his behalf as he asked me to do. Unfortunately Ali got shot in last week's clashes in Tehran and has severely injured from his eyes and chest. He asked me to write to you and tell you what has happened and ask you to wait for a few more days (I don't know how long it takes) until he gets better and leaves the hospital hopefully to his normal life. I appreciate your patience toward this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Muhamad"

Then today I received this email from Ali who is now out of the hospital:

"Dear (Lonnie)
I would like to thank you for your concern for me and my family and I apologize if I made you worried for my health. You called me a brave person but I should say that I am not that brave you think, I just tried to do what any free and responsible person would do. I have been admitted to hospital since 27 Dec 2009 in order for doctors to
work on serious injuries on my body and help curing them as far as it is possible (like blindness on my both eyes). Unfortunately doctors have diagnosed my right eye with blindness and they hope I will have my eye sight back partially in my left eye step by step. I hope so. I said this not to worry you but for you to be familiar with my medical situation at this time and to know why I don’t follow up with our business. I am trying my best to gather my mind and soul in such a way that I can continue my personal life and career in the quickest time and our cooperation is my primary goal.
I hope I will send my first order to you the soonest time. I hope you understand the whole situation that I am involved with.
Best regards.
Ali"

My Neighborhood in the Freezing Cold Night

2010-01-03T22:59:00.010-05:00

I finally figured out how to take photos at night with the shutter open on my camera for 15 seconds to let in as much light as possible. So I walked around my neighborhood tonight freezing my nuts off to get a few good shots.

This is my block. My house is the second from left -- the green one.

My house:

The alley behind my house. These are the trashy neighbors:

These are the tops of the garages behind my house:

My neighbor's eerie tree:

On 16th Street. That's the Cambodian Embassy there in the background:

Back home in my basement bar:

A view from my bar top:

My bitters collection and tiki glass collection. I'm very proud:

I Take Back All the Positive Things I've Said About Reid Stowe

2009-12-18T14:06:00.003-05:00

What a real douche. I've been following his "voyage" since a month after it began. I always thought the guy was loopy but I also thought he was going to try and legitimately continue sailing around the world as many times as he could in 1000 days -- an actual journey. But it's obvious that his 1000 Days at Sea voyage is him merely drifting around at less than half a knot of boat speed in the doldrums of the Atlantic for over a year while the mother of his child raises his son. I have lost all respect for Reid Stowe.

Look at his position for nearly the past year!:

And the 1000-day mark will pass in January 2010 but for some reason, he's decided to drift around off west Africa until June. Get back to land and raise your fucking child, you dirtbag!

I should have listened to the Sailing Anarchy members who've been making fun of Reid for nearly three years.

And WTF is this Mars mission crap?! At first, I didn't think the guy was serious, but from a few posts lately, it's obvious he thinks NASA actually cares that his hippie-ass is drifting around the Atlantic for years. Are you serious man?!?

It's time for me to call Reid Stowe what he really is: a jobless, aging hippie loser who used his charm to coax a 23-year-old girl to set out on a dangerous venture with him because he had nowhere else to go because New Jersey was going to evict him from his slip, then he gets the girl pregnant at sea, so he dumps her in Australia to hitch back to the USA and do the tedious work of raising his child while he wacks off and paints bad art drifting in the doldrums of the Atlantic which is the least challenging place to sail on Earth.

God, that was the longest run-on sentence I've put on this blog, but Reid Stowe deserves it.

Cities Where I Slept in 2009 (with pictures)

2009-12-16T13:19:00.000-05:00

(One night or more spent in each):

January:

Atlanta, Georgia

February:

Wintergreen, Virginia

March:

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Bangkok, Thailand

Chennai, India

Coimbatore, India

Bhimavaram, India

Goa, India

April:

Delhi, India

Chennai, India

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

May:

LaTrappe Creek, Maryland

June:

Des Moines, Iowa
(No picture)

July:

Wadesboro, North Carolina
(No picture)

Raleigh, North Carolina

Mayo, Maryland

Cleveland, Ohio
(No picture)

Lake Ann, Michigan

August:

Lake Ann, Michigan

Troy, Michigan
(No picture)

September:

Fredericksburg, Texas
(No picture)

Austin, Texas
(No picture)

October:

Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina
(No picture)

Chicago, Illinois
(No picture)

Gainesville, Georgia
(No picture)

Brooklyn, New York

Shanghai, China

November:

Shanghai, China

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

December:

Just Washington, DC

2008 Here.

2007 Here.

It's Kind of Like Falling in Love

2009-12-13T17:22:00.005-05:00

I've been searching for an apt description of the emotion of having a baby. The best analogy I've come up with, and have been mulling for the past few weeks, is that having a baby is most similar to the sensation of your first or second experience falling in love -- not the kind of cautioned, jaded love people can have later in their adult lives, but the powerful, inexperienced connection of falling in love with someone earlier in your life. It's most close to that kind of strong emotion, minus the sometimes off-the-rails component of being in love as a teenager; parenthood is a far more stable and permanent feeling than that. This is the best way I can describe it to someone without kids.

Think way back to one of those experiences when you were a teenager or in your early twenties. Remember how when you went outside on a cloudy day, all you could see was the blue sky and all you could hear were the birds singing? When you fell in love, even if you were in a job you disliked, it seemed just fine and the least of your concerns. Your entire mood was lifted and your worldview was improved in every regard.

To sum up my experience so far, all the bad things people warned me about are far less bad, and all the good things people told me about are 100 times better.

Babyhood doesn't know the world of adults. There's no cynicism, violence, conflict, or all the little crap people just accept by being an adult (think of the disgusting adult phenomenon of passive aggression. There's no passive aggressiveness with babies!). Being a newborn is a simple world and a baby is as close to a pure human you'll ever meet. That's the world you enter when you have a baby.

Let's Get Family and Baby

2009-12-12T01:24:00.008-05:00

I'm realizing that people go nuts for baby pictures and comment like drunken sailors so here are pictures of Elliot with each parent:

With Mom:

With Dad:

With Grandma (my Mom):

With Grandma (K's Mom):

With Grandpa (my Dad):

With Grandpa (K's Dad):

Baby Brief (With a Touch of Gross-out Stuff)

2009-12-09T13:46:00.010-05:00

Before I had a child, I told myself I would rarely write about child-rearing experiences on this blog once I brought a human into this world. Childless people have nearly zero interest in reading about the adventures in bottle-feeding, cleaning up shit, and sleepless nights, but since this blog is all but dead, and I'm writing just to hear myself think, I'll lay down a summary and reflection.

Birth

I've talked to people who get downright philosophical about witnessing a baby come down the birth canal. I've heard all the gross-out stories about the blood and ripping skin etc. Personally, I didn't find the procedure stomach-turning, nor did I feel like howling at the moon because I'd connected to my primordial past. For me, it was all procedure; let's just get this DONE. But, of course, the real work was done by my wife, Katie. I was surprised by how much hands-on assistance the hospital allowed me to do. Throughout the pushing process, I was basically doing the same thing as the other nurse. That was pretty cool. I watched the whole thing, including the long needle penetrate my wife's spinal cord when she got the epidural at 4am, the grayish-blue baby's head coming out face up, and the massive purple placenta dropping into the stainless steel bowl -- all creating an environment that looked close to a murder scene. COOL. And my son had to be vaccumed out with this crazy suction cup device with a cord and handle.

My advice for dads-to-be in the delivery room is to be as hands-on as the hospital staff will let you -- especially right after the baby pops out. At that point, your wife will be so spent that she can hardly manage on her own. The staff have to give her a wheelchair just to go 15 feet to the bathroom. It was scary when Katie came back to the bed and passed out at the same time she started to vomit, so I could hear the sound of my own wife choking on the puke gurgling, blocking the air in her throat. Luckily, the nurse had some smelling salts on hand -- came out of nowhere -- and a spray of chunkified orange-juice vomit coated my arm and splattered the floor. But thank God for it, because Katie was awake and breathing again. I'm glad I was there to hold her head and make sure the nurse got things done quick. In my limited experience with birth, that seems to be a crucial point in your post-partum wife's health -- so guys, be alert.

The Goddamn NICU

Our baby was born five weeks premature so as soon as he came out, they put him on the warming table to revive him. He wasn't crying when he came out and was limp and floppy. The first thing Katie said when she saw him across the room on the warming table was, "Wow, his balls are really big." Yea man -- that's my boy. ;-)

The doc handed him to us for a quick picture, and then whisked him off to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) for 15 days -- yes, fifteen fucking days. This is precautionary because premature babies are so vulnerable, but it was torture not being able to have him home immediately.

For two weeks we made the back-and-forth trek to the hospital to sit with Elliot amongst the loud bleeping alarms of the 500 monitors they have hooked up to all the preemies. The aesthetics of the place do not appear conducive to proper child development, but we were assured that being there was the best thing for him. Christ, the kid can't even see solid shapes right in front of him so I guess it doesn't matter that multiple nurses are handling him with rubber gloves and wires and hoses are running into all his orifices. We just toughed it up and kept visiting him for five to seven hours a day.

Here's my little dude on the night before I thought he was getting out. He actually got out five days after this photo was taken:

Katie's Chief of Staff

All of this is a lot of work, but one of the biggest tasks is playing chief of staff to my wife by handling the many phone calls, emails, text messages, facebook updates, and visitors. By far, in the first day or so of birth, that took up more of my time than any other single thing. Granted, I'm not complaining -- I'm a social person, and I LOVE people -- but I didn't expect such an outpouring of generosity and love from so many family, friends, and neighbors. Babies make you realize how fundamentally good people are. At least four of my neighbors brought over home-cooked meals, the gifts from all the family and friends are a TREMENDOUS help, and all the offers of support were just mind-blowingly generous. I wonder how I'll ever properly thank everyone.

The Cliche Sleepless Nights

The short story is that I've had much harder sleepless nights on overnight sailing, airplane, and camping trips -- MUCH harder. I'm an insomniac by nature so the continual waking up, changing diapers, bottle-feeding, then trying to go back to sleep is not that different from my normal nights. I had just been warned by so many hundreds of parents that I could give up sleep that I was expecting the worst but it really is not so bad. But who knows, maybe the worst is to come.

Thank God for the Home Bar

I got some weird sickness two days ago so I sequestered myself in the basement bar for two nights. I felt like crap, with a fever of 100.7. Who knows what it was but I was not giving my baby my germs so I stayed down in the bar and wore a surgical mask when I went upstairs. My hands are now cracked and dry from obsessively washing them so much. But having that wood-walled man-cave in the basement is a nice get-away, and thank God for a quick martini by the Christmas tree after the baby's been changed and fed and everyone but me is asleep and I love my family so goddamn much -- seems all is right with the world. That is a feeling that's hard to put into writing. Maybe the below photo I took last night sums up part of that feeling. Cheers everyone, and Merry Christmas.

My Kitchen Window

2009-12-07T13:52:00.001-05:00

I like this photo I took of my kitchen window after the first snow of the year:

Final Night in the NICU for My Little Man

2009-11-24T19:32:00.002-05:00

Because he was born five weeks early, my son Elliot has been in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) since he was born last Monday, November 16th. They say he can come home tomorrow -- nine days into his life outside the womb.

He's a tough little dude and has been handling it well, but we are dying to have him home. I envy all the parents who have kids born to term and can cart them home in a day or two. You guys are lucky!

Birth!

2009-11-17T15:56:00.004-05:00

My boy Elliot was born November 16 at 4:27pm. He's 5 weeks premature so he's in the neonatal ICU for maybe over a week. He's got all kinds of tubes and catheters and crap running into him, but you can still see he's an outlaw, just by that little twinkle in his eye.

Already smiling and ready to man the winches or reel in a rockfish at a moments notice, perhaps.

Food or Pets?

2009-11-07T05:56:00.001-05:00

Multiple choice quiz: a) this photo was taken at a Malaysian aquarium store and these are pets; b) this photo was taken at a Malaysian restaurant and these are dinner choices:

You've Seen Pollution? Sheeeiiit. Can't Be Worse Than Shanghai

2009-11-05T05:33:00.006-05:00

Took these photos from the top of the Jing Mao Tower. This is what I mean by shapeless motionless clouds blending to the sickly yellow pollution haze that's permanently hovering over the city:

The only thing I can imagine completing this skyline is a giant set of Mickey Mouse ears.

Pretty Much Ideal Sushi Place

2009-11-04T14:31:00.006-05:00

In Shanghai, my biz partner took me to a sushi place that I would have never been able to find if I hadn't been shown it. It was the quintessential unmarked place with two small red lanterns with Asian characters being the only thing indicating an awesome restaurant up the dirty black-carpet-covered stairs. Above, was some of the best sushi and sake I've ever had.

I took three pictures of the joint while sitting at the bar:

Kuala Lumpur Twin Towers from a Rainy Taxi Cab

2009-11-04T14:11:00.005-05:00

It's been raining every single afternoon here in Kuala Lumpur Malayasia and does not make for good picture-taking weather. But below is a photo I snapped of some of the world's tallest buildings taken with a nice light and foreground while trying to hold the Panasonic Lumix steady from a moving taxi cab that I liked:

God, I hate the words "Kuala Lumpur". Who the hell named a city that -- after lumping koalas?? I wish I wasn't here. Sure, I love seeing all my business partners but I should be home helping my wife with her pregnancy. Meanwhile, I'm schmoozing in Asia, waiting til Saturday ... taking decent photos of tall buildings.

Down at the Ole Turtle Farm in Hangzhou, China

2009-11-01T02:03:00.007-05:00

The old cliché about swamp animals tasting like chicken couldn't be more wrong when it comes to Chinese turtle. The turtle leg soup was flavorless and the muddy broth stuck to my gums; the turtle neck salad was 70% bones; the turtle guts and onions tasted uninspired; and the turtle blood liquor was like a less sweet Jagermeister with tiny bits floating around in it.

I hate to seem like that fat weenie Andrew Zimmern on Travel Channel. Granted, I love to eat foods from all over the world, but I don't seek them out simply because they're strange, gross or exotic. I just like good-tasting food first and foremost. The reason I found myself eating the above monstrosity of a meal had nothing to do with shock TV though; I was eating all that turtle mess because the product I sell goes into turtle feed and I prefer more sales to less.

The Chinese believe all sorts of ancient bullshit about health -- sometimes referred to as Eastern "Medicine" by western hippies and yuppie fools. The Chinese still believe much of the "wisdom" derived from a period in time when nothing was known about human nutrition, disease or health -- before science, really. Simply because this knowledge has the cachet of being from a long long time ago, it has a vast following. Therefore, many Chinese think eating turtle will keep their sexual drive and energy up, and will make women's skin youthful.

The turtle farming region is in Hangzhou, an industrial city 110 miles southwest of Shanghai. If you've never been to China, you cannot imagine this level of pollution and industry. I've been to nearly every country in Asia and I'd never seen anything like this. Imagine that region on I-75 right before you get into Detroit or that section of northern New Jersey right before you get into Manhattan -- the sections where you pass a natureless field of industrial smokestacks and the car starts to stink up. Now imagine those smokestack regions stretching for miles and miles: that's the entire highway from Shanghai to Hangzhou, and for all I know, it could extend another 200 miles past Hangzhou.

A sickly yellow haze sits over this entire region. You can barely see the buildings only a half mile in the distance and you can't distinguish the separation between the motionless shapeless clouds and the polluted air-soup that envelops everything below. It was through this industrial endlessness where we stopped at the turtle farm for lunch and meetings.

"Turtle farm" makes it sounds more complicated than reality. We walked down a dirty highway and turned off down a gravel road that looked like I was entering the city dump, then past piles and piles of industrial trash before reaching this turtle-rearing facility. The farm is split into two sections -- outdoor and indoor. The outdoor ponds are massive acre-long concrete tanks holding muddy water and ugly-ass turtles whom nature cursed with heads that look like human penises with tiny pig noses stuck on the tip. The indoor ponds were in giant shacks made of corrugated metal roofs and thick black tarps. The hot stale air hit me as the door was opened, and I shined a flashlight into steamy darkness to see hundreds of tiny dickheads sticking out of the dirty water in concrete tanks.

The farmer reached into one of the writhing dark tanks, and pulled out this snapping beast whose neck stretched like some pornographic cock trying to bite us:

Here it is trying to attack us:

Luckily, I have a strong stomach. I have to in order to do business in China, but damn, after about a week of Chinese food I crave pizza and burgers like crazy.

In Tidal Waters -- Yachting Mishaps Are Timeless

2009-10-19T23:58:00.004-04:00

In the last year I've done less reading than I'm happy with. Mostly, if a book doesn't grab me in the first chapter, I put it down. But damn, when a book catches my attention it changes my whole mood. That is now happening with a book called In Tidal Waters I found online written by some dead Brit named Francis Cooke who sailed the mouth of the Thames back in the 1890s.

Every chapter is a rambling witty story of sailing disasters on a number of small boats, written in a way that only an Englishman could tell. I could relate to a lot of it, seriously.

On his first sailboat outing, at the last minute he discovers that he's about to spend several nights aboard a 30-foot boat with nine friends -- NINE. They all end up in the cabin with a coal-burning stove without a chimney and are coughed out. Several of the crew say fuck it and sleep in a nearby inn. (Hello, 2005 on the Segel?). Here's Cooke's description of the first night:

"I then learnt that the interior of the yacht was even less inviting than the exterior had appeared in the uncertain light. The cabin, in the absence of a fore-bulkhead, was open right through and quite destitute of furniture or fittings. A bunk ran down either side forming seats, but the roof was so low that it was impossible to sit upright. As there were no cushions I could only conclude that her owners made a practice of sleeping upon what Dan Leno used to describe as 'pure wood.' Water dripped freely from the underside of the deck, and a cheap tin paraffin lamp with a smoky glass smelt abominably. Into this nauseating den the whole nine of us crowded."

And I love this description of trying to get some sleep onboard:

"I think I may say without any great departure from the truth that I never passed a more uncomfortable night in my life. Sitting huddled up in my overcoat with my chin almost on my knees, I was chilled to the marrow and soon began to feel that dry, prickly sensation all over my body which I have since learnt is peculiar to sleeping in small yachts in the winter. One by one my companions dropped off into a troubled sleep, and most of them snored abominably."

All the boats the authors sails are unseaworthy tubs that are constantly running aground, colliding with other boats, or sinking. For some reason, he always goes sailing in the worst part of the year -- winter. Twice in the book, he goes out sailing on Christmas day with a 12-pound turkey which he and his mate proceed to cook in a frying pan with some bacon. God knows how he did that. I'll have to try it.

All the descriptions of misery actually made me want to sail even more this winter. These guys were sailing back before we had quality portable heaters that don't suffocate you in confined spaces, depth sounders, and electric lights.

As my friend Jason said, people were made of "different stuff" back then.

You can download the entire book from this Canadian library. (It's definitely not on Amazon.com).

Witnessed a Dead Soldier Coming Home in Texas

2009-09-25T22:04:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I arrived in Austin Texas by airplane and witnessed an American soldier's flag-draped coffin being unloaded onto a hearse while his mother wept in the rain on the tarmac, her body so overcome with emotion that she was shaking -- heaving up and down.

This makes war come closer to me than before. From the plane, I could see this mother's eyes.

When we took off from Dallas we were told to wait to exit the plane so the military escort could depart first -- also that we'd have to wait for our luggage so the coffin could come off first. All this sounded pretty routine and the gravity didn't hit me at that moment.

We touched down in the rain and a big van pulled next to the plane followed by 15 motorcycles and a hearse with small US flags on the front windows.

Out came the family -- a group of 25 -- only with one umbrella. I suppose all of them were so overcome with emotion that no one remembered to bring more than one umbrella.

I unloaded my carry-on, and moved toward the exit, but stopped to watch the heavy sadness unfolding below me. I looked out the plane window and directly underneath me, they wheeled up a black conveyor and waited. The family was directed closer to the plane to the point where I was facing the grieving mother through the small airplane window only 40 feet down through the drizzle.

There was more waiting and I could feel the tension as the family held onto one another in mournful anticipation.

They just looked like any suburban family I've known -- a lot like mine. Just normal people waiting for a dead loved one.

Finally I could see the corner of the American-flag-draped coffin moving slowly out from directly underneath me into the rain. The coffin was wrapped in red, white and blue, and sitting on a shallow pine cart. The six military escorts came forward, each to carry the coffin to the hearse a few feet away.

I couldn't believe watching this crying mother so closely. Her image is burned into my memory. There's nothing like this -- to see it personally. More people should have to see this. No one should take going to war lightly.

Had Me a Stroll Through Some Turkey Houses

2009-09-17T22:02:00.005-04:00

I walked around inside several turkey houses yesterday for the first time.

Amongst these thousands of ugly animals, I kept thinking, 'what's all the fuss about this being inhumane?' It certainly is not. In fact, the grower has huge incentive to keep the birds in the best of health, otherwise the animal dies and is a loss for the company.

When talking to most people who live in and around cities, the feeling is that animal rearing facilities are horrible hell holes. This attitude is also in force in the book Omnivore's Dilemma which I read a year ago. In the entire book, it's just assumed that "industrial" animal-rearing facilities are cruel. I disagree.

First, broiler chickens and turkeys are not raised in cages. They are raised in open-floor housing that's nearly double the size of a football field -- huge. They do pack a massive number of birds in that space, as you can see in this picture, but as soon as you walk amongst the birds and they move out of the way, you can see that they have plenty of room to walk around. The only time these birds are in cages is the few minutes when they are put on the truck to the slaughterhouse where they are very quickly killed.

Most poultry raised in tight cages are for eggs, so, ironically, if you are an ovo-lacto vegetarian -- but not vegan -- your ethical choice is arguably worse than someone who eats meat but not eggs. How ironic. (BTW, I do not believe that keeping layer chickens in cages is cruel).

I also visited a house where they had just introduced 2-day-old turkey poults. These little guys have to be taught how to eat, drink and sometimes stand. I noticed that several of the baby birds had fallen over and I thought they were dying, but apparently these birds just aren't strong enough to stand on their own so it's the farmer's job to stand them back up by hand and get them tromping around again. It was sweet watching the farm manager give such care -- kind of like the time I was in the Philippines and the shrimp farmer actually gave little massages to the shrimp he thought were suffering from cramps.

I have yet to visit a slaughterhouse but I have seen video of how meat animals are killed. This also is entirely humane to any reasonable person.

People -- especially those in urban areas -- should feel fine about the meat they eat. Maybe most people are squeamish and delicate about this, but if they visited a poultry house, they would see that it's perfectly humane and as professionally-run as possible. If you're unsure how you feel, get over it or become a vegan; those are the only two legitimate choices.

Rum Soaked Monument Tours

2009-09-15T20:43:00.012-04:00

The other weekend I realized I have two man caves -- one in my basement with a full bar, and a second in the garage when I set up a wooden table and plastic chairs as a smoking lounge next to the 50-year-old car.

Found myself there with my old friend Jason at 3:00am, smoking and waiting to perhaps catch late-night activities in the alley behind my house.

Jason and I had mixed rum-heavy Zombie Cocktails after everyone ate a bushel-load of crabs and left. Man, this is why I love having a home bar. At 3:00am while listening to sea chanteys on the stereo, Jason and I were grinding ice, squeezing lemons and limes, pushing pineapple through a strainer, measuring brown sugar and bitters, and pouring Bacardi 151 into a cocktail that was created by Don the Beachcomber back in 1934.

And then we took advantage of the fact that we were in Washington DC: while sitting in my garage smoking Marlboro Lights, we decided to pump up the bike tires and head down to the Mall and take a dark tour of the monuments. I tore up the garage for the pump, and we headed down.

We hit the Einstein Memorial, Vietnam, Lincoln, World War II, and Korean War Memorial.

Touring monuments in the daytime sober is not nearly as good as taking a leisurely bike ride in the cool summer evening with a good buzz rolling when no tourists are in sight. That's the kind of drunken moment that can get me all philosophical and nearly teary-eyed.

Sitting in Einstein's lap felt like I understood the Theory of Relativity -- looking up at the stars in the sky and down at the solar system inlay in the black marble. The glowing white stone of the World War II Memorial made me babble about my late grandfather who was in the Navy from '33 to '63 -- a subject that gets me. And the Korean War Memorial, man -- it's really worth seeing lit up at night.

Jase, in the lap of genius:

And looking for the Big Dipper in the inlays:

Lincoln at night:

The Gettysburg Address at 4:00am:

That eerie view of over-sized soldiers in Korea:

Wingers Need to STFU About Obama's Debt Levels

2009-08-28T00:30:00.004-04:00

Most of the screaming about Obama's levels of deficit spending ($1.75 trillion in 2009) is because people cannot fathom the number one trillion. Oh my god!! A trillion!!??! BWAHAHHHH ....

But the debt needs to be be considered as a percentage of GDP. The red line is the US national debt as a percentage of GDP since 1940:

This is entirely manageable, especially considering how bad this recession is. Do people still not understand how unique this recession is? And Obama's level of debt is NOTHING compared to Japan:

Paul Krugman put it best:

"The projected debt/GDP ratio will be high by US historical standards, but within a range that a number of advanced countries have entered without catastrophe in the past."

Screw Sailboats, Let's Get a LARC

2009-08-25T23:28:00.007-04:00

Holy crap, is there a manlier vehicle on the planet earth? Check out the 1952 62-foot LARC Amphibious Landing Craft -- yours for only $245,000. Anyone wanna go in on it with me?

It's also hilarious that the contact person to buy the LARC is a guy named Bob Everhard.

Pictures:

My Gold Standard Bet

2009-08-24T11:08:00.004-04:00

I have a $500 bet with my gold-standard-espousing friend Matt that not one major industrial country will go to the gold standard. My time frame was originally in the next 10 years (or ever), but that's no fun for betting, so we've reduced it to 5 years, ending on April 13, 2013.

So for the past year, Matt has been sending me occasional links to articles like this one about Zimbabwe whenever there is any word uttered by a government about possibly backing a country's currency with gold.

Come on, Zimbabwe? Really? The country with 231 million percent inflation? Shit, if you were to propose backing Zimbabwe's currency with seashells, it would be more than reasonable.

I'm Gonna Have a Son

2009-08-20T21:46:00.003-04:00

The sonogram revealed a cigar-smoking handsome male that looks strikingly like me.

I've been thinking a lot about my life after Elliot is born in December.

Plenty of people live full happy lives without children, but if I were to go through the rest of my days without having raised a child, I will have missed an essential part of the life experience. (I speak for no one but myself on this).

I'm 35, and I will likely keep living longer than I have already lived. If we had decided not to have a child, what would lie ahead for 35+ more years? More drinking, traveling and hanging out with friends like we did in our 20s? Then, when the friends all have children, we're stuck with only drinking, traveling and surrounding ourselves with more and more material things until the day we die? Don't get me wrong, I love Katie so much that I start to miss her when she comes home even a little bit late, but I could not see myself at age 45 feeling I'm living a full life merely on career and traveling with just the two of us.

Thank god I'm gonna have a little dude to eat weird food with, teach to sail, light shit on fire, catch and cut up bloody fish, skateboard, teach guitar to, look for fossilized shark teeth, teach to drive a stick shift, and do 800 other things I would not have done otherwise. It's like life will begin anew in four months.

NOTE: I don't wanna hear from parents warning me of all the sleep loss and shitty diapers. What, do you think I can't handle being around other people's feces and losing sleep? Have you not noticed that for seven years I've been going on 4-day sailing trips with no fewer than four other dudes?? I am ready.

Johnny Collins, Shantyman - RIP

2009-08-18T20:01:00.003-04:00

Music has qualities like smell does; both can take you back in time and for an instant you feel a calm out-of-body experience that can make history more real than anything you read in a book. Think about the time you inhaled a passerby's perfume that your ex-girlfriend used to wear 10 years ago, or that terrible Lords of Acid song you heard in the girls' dormitory back in college.

Listening to a well-sung sea chantey makes me feel warm and comfortable, as if I'm plying Chesapeake waters in a creaky wooden sailboat before stinkpots and fiberglass hulls existed -- the aural equivalent of drinking a good scotch on a snowy night in front of a fireplace while chatting with Herman Melville in the late 1800s. And few people did it quite as well as Johnny Collins who, I just found out, passed away last month. Here he is doing what he did best:

I bought this great shantyman's album a while ago and it gets lots of play every year during my annual sailing trip. I'm now at a stage in my life when music is not very important to me, but these old sailing songs always lift my mood and make me feel warm inside. In part, I thank Johnny Collins for that. God bless his soul.

Show me someone who doesn't love pressure washing, and I'll show you a woman.

2009-08-16T21:36:00.007-04:00

I've never met a man who does not love pressure washers. My father-in-law is fascinated by them, telling me that he pressure-washed nearly everything he could see when he first bought one. And today I realized how addicting they are when I rented one from Home Depot for $56.

It's about the messiest job you can do. A gasoline-powered engine forces the water through the hose and jets out in a dangerous knife-like spray so you have to wear protective goggles or dirt nails your eyes at 50 miles-per hour. My entire body was covered in grime from the backyard, but mainly that was because I was not adverse to aiming the nozzle at nearly everything in my path -- leaves, weeds, and broken pieces of concrete. Outta my way! It was awesome.

Chesapeake Blue Crabs are Mean Mother Fuckers

2009-07-23T17:12:00.002-04:00

Last Saturday the wife, dogs and I sailed to the Wye River. We'd caught crabs beforehand at the dock and put them in a cooler to eat later. After hours of sailing across the Bay, I reached in with tongs to pick them up to put in the pot of steaming water, and as you can see from the below video, blue crabs are REALLY aggressive and if they pinch you, you will bleed like a murder victim.

Most people only see crabs when they're dead and red and headed to your mouth but they don't realize what assholes they are when they're alive. My wife found that out the hard way when one pinched her finger and she bled for nearly an hour.

More Evidence of the Chesapeake's Health

2009-07-07T09:22:00.002-04:00

I couldn't resist re-posting this fishing report that I found on a Bay fishing message board:

"----POSTED: 7/03/2009 ... The most unreal day of rockfishing in my life-----

I have to prelude this by telling everyone that this year has been stellar when you talk about catching rockfish. Methods of catching them has varied depending on the locations but most importantly we know for a fact that the rockfish population in the Chesapeake is strong to say the least. Regardless of how many fish we have caught this year, what we experienced on Friday morning takes the cake.

After about a 25 minute boat ride, we got there and had the spot to ourselves. 7:30AM came and I just happened to turn around and scan the bay for signs of fish. Bingo. I saw a few birds working about a mile from our location. Immediately we all agreed to head over and scope out the situation.

What we saw as we got closer to the birds shocked us all and dropped jaws. I thought I had seen a few birds and I was right. What I couldn't see from the distance was a tremendous school of feeding rockfish just tearing up the surface. This school was gigantic and had to be every bit of a half a mile long. The best part was, no one else was around except us. Rockfish were going crazy churning up the water completely surrounding us. They were feeding on what I have always called silversides, little 3" thin semi-transparent baitfish that others may call spearing or bay anchovies.

We started casting surface plugs to them and was averaging 3 or 4 strikes per cast. A fish was guaranteed almost every cast. The most intriguing part about it was that these were not your typical summer schoolie rockfish. They were big and hungry. Almost every one was over 25 inches with some of them over 35. We had our over/under 28" limits for all four of us in 25 minutes.

This is when it really began to get interesting. Typically, when you find fish breaking like this it might last for 35 minutes, an hour if you are really lucky, and then they will disappear deep again. This is what separated this trip into a whole other category. The fish didn't feed for an hour. Not two hours. No these rockfish either really liked what they were eating or the fish gods were smiling over our boat this morning, because this same group of rock fed--nonstop--for get this--SIX HOURS. They were moving really fast and we constantly had to stay on the outboard to keep up with them. After it was all said and done with, we had followed this same school of fish for 23 miles. Totally unreal.

How many rockfish can you catch in six hours of nonstop bailing rock on every cast between four people? I have no idea. We lost count but had a serious conversation afterwards and felt comfortable saying that we easily caught somewhere between 200-300 rock, almost all of which were over 25 inches. None of us could lift our arms over our heads afterwards and I personally was bleeding from almost every appendage. My thumbs were so raw that I couldn't do anything but hold a cold beer for 24 hours to cool the burning.

After about an hour of catching them on topwater I got so freaking tired of dealing with the lovely combination of thrashing boated rockfish and big treble hooks that I had to switch to something with a single hook. I caught them on everything i threw at them, bucktails, spoons, swimbaits...but I settled on a 7" white bass assassin on a jighead as my bait of choice for the rest of the day. They would hit this bait SO HARD that it would take the rod out of your hands if you weren't paying attention. It was amazing seeing all the feeding fish around us. They were literally jumping completely out of the water all around us.

I've caught a lot of rockfish in my few years around, but I've never seen such a huge school of rock, all of such quality size, that fed for so long in one morning without ever disapearing 23 miles across the bay. It was totally unreal and I think may have been the best day I have ever had on the Chesapeake.

JF"

My Alcoholic Taxi Driver Neighbor Just Crashed His Car

2009-07-06T16:30:00.003-04:00

Every day around lunch time I watch my next-door neighbor stumble up to his door drunkenly after his all-night shift. And he is REALLY hammered every time. For example, today, he opened the screen door and started knocking into empty air. I suppose he thought the main door was closed so he just knocked into nothingness.

Today I was doing some painting outside when I heard him cursing and shouting at someone -- maybe to no one in particular. A sure sign that he was plastered. Then I noticed his cab.

The rear bumper was dangling off and dragging the ground and his side view mirror was smashed and dangling by a single wire. As I walked closer, I saw that the entire right side had dents all along it -- an obvious side swipe of another car or a guardrail.

I hope he doesn't kill someone. Maybe I should report him. To all DC residents: perhaps be safe and choose the Muslim cabbies. At least they're teetotalers.

Paul Watson of Whale Wars: The Most Irresponsible (but Entertaining) "Captain" in the World

2009-06-22T20:22:00.008-04:00

I'm addicted to a show on Animal Planet called Whale Wars that chronicles the high-seas tomfoolery of a "captain" who values the lives of whales more than humans.

The show reveals this raw truth in every episode. In the season opener the captain decides to plow through expansive iceberg fields in pursuit of Japanese whalers even though the ship's hull is not built to withstand ice. He sends two 20-somethings into the hold, allegedly to patch an oncoming breach in the metal hull (like they could actually do anything to stop water of that kind!) The kids nervously watch as the steel creaks and flexes and the paint cracks on the inside from the massive ice chunks trying to send them to Davy Jones' Locker. The entire crew was in real danger of dying, simply because the captain wanted to get to some evil whaling ship so they could throw stink bombs at them -- really, stink bombs. Their main tactic is to throw stink bombs at whaling ships, and nearly die trying.

In last night's show, we again see what a heartless bastard Watson is when he finds that one of the crewmembers from the Japanese whaling ship has fallen overboard. That evening, Watson spots the whaling ships' spotlight looking for their dead shipmate. But no matter -- Watson decides it's time to send out their fleet of fast inflatables to harass them with the nautical equivalent of toilet-papering an enemy's house. Most of the crew is obviously uncomfortable being pissant nuisances while the whaling ship is searching for a dead person, but captain's orders are orders. They suit up and go.

The only reason Watson is able to accomplish such dangerous acts is because he has surrounded himself with the young and the stupid. Some of the young people onboard are genuinely smart but, I think, blinded by their idealism that they're actually saving whales. The stupidest person onboard is certainly Peter Brown, Watson's sycophantic First Mate. We witness his terrible leadership one time when it appears that the scout boat is lost at sea, and he has no idea what to do. One of the younger crew takes over to begin a search pattern and they find the lost boat. Last night Brown ignored satellite images of ice flows because he trusts his own instincts better than "computer screens"; he misses the break in the ice which could have brought them to safety. It's not until the more intelligent younger members of the crew come on watch to save the crew from being crushed by ice.

And all of this brings me to the question of why these people think they're saving the Earth by playing kids' games with massive ships and a big budget in the middle of the most dangerous oceans. Let's be honest with ourselves: in 2009, people support people like Paul Watson because whales are charismatic mega fauna, not because saving the few that are currently hunted is key to saving biodiversity. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad there's an international ban on whaling. Whales are beautiful animals and that's why they deserve protection. If whales were small and ugly, no one would give a fuck (or give less of a fuck). Japan kills 1,000 minke and fin whales per year and while there is disagreement, it's not a threat to the species. Even so, Japan should be stopped, but the main thing Watson's adventures do is make good TV. Even Greenpeace agrees with me.

UPDATE: I was wrong about Watson choosing to harass the whalers while they were looking for their dead crewmate. Watson radioed to the whaling ship that he would not harass them and would assist in the search for the dead man. However, the whaling ship radioed back and said they did not require cooperation from "environmental terrorists."

My Wife Is Pregnant. 14 Weeks.

2009-06-18T21:06:00.003-04:00

After a year and a half of trying, I finally put a baby in my lady. For all you in your thirties who're thinking about trying to get pregs, don't delay. It's not as easy as you think even for someone with an extrodinarily high sperm count such as myself [breathes on fingernails, brushes them on shirt]. As far as I know, pregnant women who're over 35 are considered high risk pregnancies.

I'm logging a mental list of all the things people say I am not going to be able to do after I have a kid. Then, I'm going to go through that list and check them off after I do them. I mean, come on, I can just bungie-cord the stroller to the mast and sail the seas like before. That's no issue as far as I'm concerned.

And I vow to talk on and on ad nauseam about babies and parenting around people who don't have kids. Childless people LOVE that.

I may be the only person I know who looks forward to getting older.

2009-06-17T19:27:00.006-04:00

One of the first people I looked up to and thought was a cool dude was my grandfather. As a kid I remember wishing I was more like him: bony hands, spots on his arms, always concerned about getting sunburned, loving fishing, taking me fishing, telling stories about being in the Navy -- the skinny red-headed guy who had fight in him down to the end (1997).

This may not sound becoming, but a year after his wife of 60 years died, he had some rough spots. The story goes that my mom found him alone in his Norfolk Virginia home with empty cans of Coors Light strewn about, passed out on the couch (he'd only been a moderate drinker). At the time, that was hard to hear, but now I think that was the best course of action for him to take. When his lady died, it was rough for the old man. Why not show some sympathy and say, hey, he at least deserved to get blotto one last time before the nursing home.

On the subject of getting old, you have to admit, one of the worst clichés in the universe is "Life is Short." God damn, it is NOT. I can prove it.

I am 35 years old and feel like I've been living for-fucking-ever. How many animals on the Earth can claim to have been around 35 years? It's amazing to think that I will likely continue to live for as long as I have already been living. You follow me here? My life is probably not even half over, if statistics are correct.

Here's another part: I've already got the old-guy habits and tastes down pat. Scotch? Like it. Classic cars? Got one. Old sailboats? Love 'em forever. Now all I need is golf, but I have no one to go with, despite having some of the best courses close by ... Derek?

Urban Fishing Means Fat Brown Nasty Carp

2009-06-16T22:53:00.006-04:00

For the first time, I bought a DC fishing license. I'm now determined to catch fish in some of the nastiest, most polluted urban waters in your nation's capital. The main fish that can survive in that type of water is the giant cockroach of fishes -- the carp.

This fish tastes disgusting so no one eats them -- always catch and release -- so they grow to be HUGE, like the one pictured caught in the Tidal Basin in sight of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.

But damn, it's hard to catch these beasts because they're so wily and smart. Check out the elaborate carp rig I have to figure out how to put together. Note that the bait is not even supposed to be on the actual hook! WTF?

Apparently, carp are so smart that they can sense that there's a hook in the bait and won't take it. You're supposed to suspend the bait above the hook so they chew it and suck the hook in accidentally. I've been fishing since I was three years old and have never heard of a fish doing this or a rig like the one above. This is going to be a challenge.

I've found a spot on Rock Creek where I've seen big carp and have sat for a couple hours without catching a one. But I am determined to get one before winter.

Hey Asshole, Here are a Few Things NOT to Say When Sailing with Me.

2009-06-15T16:37:00.003-04:00

I took a neighbor's boyfriend out sailing Sunday after he'd asked me to take him on several occasions, and he complained the entire time like a little dickwad. From this experience, I've compiled a short list of DON'Ts in case you happen to sail with me. These should be no-brainers, but some people have no social skills (maybe that's why "some people" have been divorced ... thrice).

1 - DON'T keep musing to everyone onboard how you can't believe that you hate being on the water this much, especially after I've given a few subtle reminders (FOUR TIMES) that "that's the last comment I wanna hear about this." Just because I'm smiling when I say that, doesn't mean I'm joking.

2 - DON'T continually make stupid jokes about how slow sailboats move. We are all aware that sailboats go considerably slower than stinkpots (motorboats). That doesn't take a masters degree in physics to understand.

3 - DON'T make anti-sailboat comments more than twice. You get two, but that's it. Yes, the rivalry between sailors and stinkpotters has a long history and has been well-catalogued on this blog. And it really is funny, but these jokey conversations are best had on land; at sea, they're just annoying -- especially after the 10th joke about how much my sailboat sucks to you. Fuck off. Really.

4 - DON'T continually spout off about how you cannot understand why anyone would want to spend the day on a boat. Why the fuck are you even here if you didn't "understand" that simple-to-understand phenomenon?

5 - DON'T pretend you don't know why some aspect of sailing is occuring -- like when the boat heels (leans) -- just so you can in turn make some snide comment that what's happening doesn't meet your standards or is annoying/ridiculous to you and would NEVER happen on a motorboat.

In short, you should treat someone's boat like it's their house. I would never come to your house and complain about your choice of paint or furniture or location to your face. That's rude. I've been on motorboats and had a great time, even though I would've rather been sailing. But to remind the owner of your disapproval multiple times makes you a huge asshole. Shouldn't that be common sense?

I'm not sure who's worse -- complainers or doomsayers. Perhaps the former.

"Alternative Medicine" is 99% Bullshit, NIH Concludes. No Duh.

2009-06-10T21:54:00.004-04:00

After $2.5 billion dollars spent, the government finally figured out what I've been saying for a while:

"Ten years ago the government set out to test herbal and other alternative health remedies to find the ones that work. After spending $2.5 billion, the disappointing answer seems to be that almost none of them do.

'You expect scientific thinking' at a federal science agency, said R. Barker Bausell, author of 'Snake Oil Science' and a research methods expert at the University of Maryland, one of the agency's top-funded research sites. 'It's become politically correct to investigate nonsense.'"

This news makes me feel happy while being angry at the same time. Generally speaking, people who advocate pseudoscience like all those frauds falling under the rubric of "alternative medicine" can go fuck themselves. All the crap you've been dicking us about is now officially bullshit. At least we can get back to the scientific method instead of messing around with kid's games.

"Driving a 50-Year-Old British Sports Car is the Automotive Equivalent of Sailing." -- Dan K.

2009-06-10T18:13:00.008-04:00

I like giving stinkpot drivers hell on this blog because I'm on the cooler side of the boating set. The uncool side merely pushes a throttle stick forward, moves fast at high expense and speed from point A to point B, anchors, does nothing except get drunk and lie around, gets bored, then turns a key to go back home in 10 minutes -- loud-as-shit motor. It's easy and any dummy can do it.

But to sail a boat over 20 feet takes training, time, dedication, practice, lots of mistakes, near death experiences, bruises, blood (really), some muscle-work (feels like going to a gym sometimes), danger, old-school techniques, getting wet, cold, and when it's done, and you're close to mastering it, the best part -- pride. This is something most stinkpotters will never understand (ok, I can't fault them for wanting to lie around and get drunk on a boat, but you see my point: I WORK to get to that. They don't.)

And now that I've obtained a 1960 MGA from my friend Dan while he's working at the US embassy in Rome, I'm realizing that what he said was correct: stinkpots are to sailboats what regular ("reliable") cars are to antique cars.

When in high school I owned an 1966 GTO and a 1972 Cutlass so I remember what owning an old car was like, but it's been over a decade. Man, that smell -- that SMELL -- of an old car brings me back to those days.

And it's not the type of car any ole person can just plop into, turn the key, and go. For this 50-year-old vehicle, you need training -- even for the finicky-ass, mother-fucking stick shift -- and it helps tremendously if you've actually gotten your hands blackened while working on it to the point where the black spots only wear off with time -- often over a week. I have. And I feel like I earned my right to drive this sonuvabitchuvacar.

I always keep in mind that driving and maintaining this relic from the late 1950s takes some Fonzie-style intuition -- the kind of skills where you have to knock the thing just so with your fist or elbow, with the right amount of swagger and confidence, so things work and run correctly. Unfortunately, these are not my strong points; I try, giving it my best, but often fail at this intuition with cars and sailboats and houses all the same. Oh well.

Here are some similarities between owning an old sailboat and owning an antique car: 1) the wife likes it less than I do; 2) the wife sometimes gets worried, too hot, and uncomfortable while riding in it (while I'm having a fucking blast); 3) I need to keep an entire tool set, flashlight, and three fire extinguishers in it at all times; 4) When I get in the cockpit (or driver's seat) to take a trip, I am aware that there is a decent chance that I will have to pay someone to tow me back home; 5) I'm constantly thinking about where that dripping liquid is coming from, what color the liquid is, and how much time I'll have to spend replacing that liquid; 6) I have to put on sunscreen before I go out in it; 7) my full attention is needed to drive it; 8) old guys like it.

As an adjunct to that last point, I'll add one thing that's different from a sailboat, at least as far as public reactions go: black dudes, latino dudes, old white guys, and kids -- in that order -- seem to like the MGA more than any other group, whereas with sailboats, the interest is mainly white folks (male and female) from the ages of 34 to 90.

The BEST was when I drove up to Dad's house in Gaithersburg. My Dad's 80-year-old neighbor came ambling out after I parked the MGA in the driveway. His eyes were wide while he looked at this old-ass car I'd brought over --- running his fingers over the vinyl interior and fenders, talking and asking questions about it. He said he had a car like this in 1957. It made me feel great to then ask, "Wanna go for a ride?"

We drove down Needwood Road past the golf course, past Montgomery County's lush trees under a blue sky with some cotton clouds overhead. I drove this old guy 30 miles-per-hour and we didn't care if the car was old and unreliable. I looked over and the old man had a slight smile on his face, sitting silent. I think I made his day driving around in this 1960 car for 10 minutes. His wife said so. That one trip made all the hassle with this car worth it. I've had instances like that sailing a hundred times.