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Friday, October 04, 2013

Misery's Comin' Around

Bad things hang like bunches of bananas.
Once you get past the entire mound of them, there's a big, bad spider been hiding inside 'em.

I think it odd the way people were carrying on about bombing Syria: if we do not bomb, nobody will respect us!

Our government is shut down. I wonder if those people respect us?

We are on a one way street.

I was on Harsens Island yesterday, and I looked up from painting the porch and saw the Canadian Steamship Lines vessel Rt. Honorable Paul H. Martin going by and heading upstream.

I looked at the wake she threw.
It was the new kind of wake, not the swells I had seen for over sixty years, but the new kind of breaking waves that ships throw in the lower water levels of the St. Claire River.

It used to be that swells from freighters would come in and break on the shore at an angle of about 10 degrees or so. If the ship was heading north, the waves broke at a slight 10 degree angle east of north.
Now they begin to break out in the shipping channel, and most surprisingly, the first set of swells is immediately followed by a surge that moves almost at right angles to the shore and sweeps upstream.
Now that is something rare until now.
It has caused an unusual amount of erosion. There is more erosion now during low water than there was when the water was higher.

Anyway, the wake of the Rt. Honorable made me think of the river of the future: a deep shipping channel like a continuous enormous tub surrounded by sand bars and pools of water. Something a bit less ominous than the sea floor at the end of the film Take Shelter, but equally jarring to my sensibilities.

It just made me realize that bad things come in bunches... and they are not a lovely bunch, like coconuts. They are unfortunate and malign, like governments which take delight in their lack of functionality.

The waters in the river reminded me of a post from 4 years ago, which I include below

It is a dark future of a film noir on the Great Lakes...............
(all the noir of the world comes crashing in)



It was 101 degrees by the lake. That was the cool spot. The cooling north wind came on like the air from a blast furnace, and it jenn-aired the surface of what was left of the St. Clair River.

The rains had stopped, and the people who still owned houses were foreclosed by fire and arson.I exaggerate, as everyone who knows me is aware.I was going to teach EngLit. Now I'm a private eye, and I look for rich guy's kids. No exaggeration. Straight dope. My name is Mark Justinian, and I have two partners, Joey Catalina and Bobby Kikero.

We work out of South Park. There's good money in finding rich people's kids. There's a lot better money in kidnapping them in the first place. We run down the kidnappers, rescue kids, and get paid like 1/40th of the ransom demand. Agrippina, my squeeze, bitches I should go bad, and make some long green. I swore to my grandfather in the nursing home - the dive where they pushed all those Boomers who had lost their stash back in 2008 - that I'd stay legal. Boomers mess up everything.

Port Huron is on the border with Canada. So when things got tight for the rich guys and their offspring that screwed up the banks and the rest of the economy, they wanted to run for it. They didn't want to go south, to Mexico, because it was too hot. No one wanted hot. No tans. No UV rays. White, white skin was the emerald of the rich folks desire: go to Canada where it is still sunny and 70 by Hudson's Bay.

But even if you're rich, there are only so many visas. So the rich guys and their families parked it here - like a clutch of snakes - until they could go north. That's why it's good harvest for kidnappers. I'm good. We're good. We worked for the kids of the Merril Lynch guys, and the Lehmann Brothers mob. They say the sins of the fathers aren't visited on their sons, but you couldn't tell from their haunted eyes. Ask the CitiGroup Gang... Sometimes the kids don't make it. Everything goes hurrycane katrina, and death stalks the border. I wish I hadn't promised that old man nothing. It's a living, and I have to pretend that I make a difference. The clock on the Clarence Thomas Federal Bank building said 1300 hours.

All the banks were government, and I'd owe them tax for checking the time. Exaggerating. A little. They sucked us all drier than the wind. This is my place, the Domus Aurea; Gold House. I get to have a house, since the time travellers say it's cursed - or, they say it will be cursed: it'll come to a bad end. But they're not clear when. And anyway, it coulda already "come to a bad end"; it could be the past they seeing. It could be Nero's house, or Domitian's. It coulda been a the past.

I spend my time off the job in my garden, tending my collection of succulents, or cacti. Agrippina says I spend too much time loving those plants:

Agrippina has something to say about everything. She doesn't understand why they're called succulents. She says you can't suck them. Me, I don't say nothing. I like the desert. I like desert plants. They're survivors. Today I was taking the sun, as we say. I drove to the Temple of Fortune and parked in a handicapped spot, flipped the official a Jackson - not worth much these days - and walked on.

As I was walking by the Club of 36 Parrots,Dicky Tiberius, the 2nd in command to Georgie Caligula ("little boots"), grabbed my lapel and pulled me through an architrave. "I've been waiting for you," he said. That's too bad. Dicky's waiting for you; Death in all his dreadful panoply is waiting for you; take your pick. I waited for Dicky to spill his guts...not mine.

Then he got all quiet and relaxed. He stamped that sneer on his puss that passed for feel-good, but only made kids run to the other side of the street when they saw him coming...........


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