Real Resorts

When we stay on Florida's east coast, in a real resort, our umbrella and lounge rental fees on the beach include surfer dude Nick helping us, dispensing laid back philosophy and raking up the beach flotsam. 

Over here on the west coast in a nature preserve, as noted last year, NOBODY RAKES A THING. Dead, stinking fish on the beach? Isn't Mother Nature wonderful! West coast Nicks turn out to be environmental nuts, more concerned about nesting turtles than your damn umbrella positioning. 

On the east coast, old guys stand around in a group in about 3' of water, beer and cigar in hand, hats on. On the west coast, there's shelling. You faithful readers will have little difficulty guessing which crowd I identify with. 

Real resorts have places to eat food and buy it right on the grounds. Here, we have a restaurant whose windows overlooking the Gulf turn into mirrors on the inside when it gets dark, so the restaurant lights won't disorient turtle hatchlings. 

On the east coast you have a life, on the west coast you are subjugated by the turtle overlords. 

Right Mind

Nobody in their right mind comes to Sanibel (where I am currently perspiring excessively) at this time of year. Except, it would seem, my Sainted wife. Unbeknownst to me, some years ago she acquired a timeshare here along with her arguably equally crazy sister. 

So here I am once again whining to you, dear readers, when I should be whining closer to home. Despite the fact that I am under an umbrella on a beach, waves crashing quietly in front of me, more or less at peace, it IS 90 humid degrees out. Worse, the weather app on my phone gleefully informs me that it feels like 98. 

I don't care how pleasant the breeze, knowing it SHOULD feel like 98 humid degrees makes it, dammit, FEEL like 98 humid degrees. 

And thus, no one in their right mind comes here this time of year. 

Technology

I am proud to say that in addition to authoring Chapter 22 (trash is the last resort) in the Curmudgeon Handbook, I have just finished a new one on technology. 

Now, I know technology is changing faster that any printed word in a handbook can keep up with, but bear in mind my primary audience is doing its damnest to still master cell phones and TV remotes. 

So a little out-of-date 3D printing information or, say, not mentioning how they can stream reruns of the Rockford files to their TVs or, perhaps the nuances of WiFi and Bluetooth are simply not in the chapter. 

But I DID tell them all about hooking up a DVD player and how to unplug things and plug them back in if they don't seem to be working. 

Hey, I'm a curmudgeon, I'm not mean. 

The Library

Because I'm cheap - as well as a curmudgeon - I get all my books from the library these days - no more buying the damn things. 

Boy are library book readers a bunch of slobs. You would expect they'd be erudite, ever so proper sorts (such as myself) but they border on criminal: they eat all manner of crap while reading and don't do an especially good job of cleaning up after themselves (i.e., they just turn the page and the mess goes away). 

Then you're innocently turning another page and apparently there's a very funny moment in the book on it, because some earlier reader, mouth full of god-knows-what burst out laughing and spewed. 

Finally, and most egregiously, they DOGEAR the pages. This is unforgivable in book circles. Only the basest sorts resort to dog earring pages rather than using a bookmark. Sheesh. It's like they never read a book before. 

Certainly not one about etiquette. 

Mallomars

What is up with these things? They are only available October through April. People hoard them. And 70% are sold in the NY metropolitan area. 

This is one weird cookie. Apparently, since back in 1913 (when they were invented) there were no refrigerated delivery trucks, the Mallomars produced in the summer melted before they ever reached your local grocer. Improbably, the Mallomar people elected to keep to their quaint production schedule and these cookies remain unavailable in the summer months to this day. 

And thus the sign here at my local grocer. 

Curmudgeons don't seem to particularly care for Mallomars - the hoopla is lost on us.