As I mentioned in my last post, I am out of my Global Humor Adventure Travel Writer mode on a secret mission that is so secret if I told you I would have to kill me!

But we are not being ignored. As a matter of fact we are being surrounded by more support than Britney Spears has pursuing paparazzi.

I would like to say that this special assignment has an end in sight, but given the current climate conditions we may be here until the snow flies, and based on the past few winters, I’m not sure if that will ever occur again.

If I was you I would consider buying some soon-to-be ocean beachfront property…in Las Vegas.

Good night and good luck.

Every once in a while I am drawn away from my award winning (it’s amazing the certificates of achievement you can print off the Internet);

highly respected (it’s amazing how much better my writing looks to strangers after I buy them four or five drinks at the bar);

and distributed worldwide (hey, it not called the World Wide Web for nothing),

global adventure humor story writing.

For the past few days I have been on a special assignment involving military cargo planes and numerous troops.

Given the current situation I am not at liberty–as I’m sure all you true patriots will understand–to disclose my location or special assignment, I can say that we are spreading some real slick material from the sky.

Let’s just say the people on the ground that we are dumping on are pretty hot and it’s our job to cool things down.

And sometimes it just gets messy.

But please don’t worry about your intrepid journalist as I have avoided life-threatening risks to my well being, at least so far.

That is if you don’t count the paper cut.

And they hurt like heck.

I should be back in country within a few days, but given the aforementioned not-to-be-discussed situation, it could be a couple of months.

If things get stretched out I will make every effort to sneak out some special reports from the rear.

And that’s where it really gets messy.

For today’s travel, we are not going to the Middle East.

Back in the day, I was among the cool kids who spent Friday evenings cruising Main Street in their shiny, full-sized examples of Detroit’s best.

Anyone remember those days where the primary pastime was the boys watching the girls watching the boys while driving miles and miles but never going anywhere?   (Obviously this was pre $4.50/gal gas.) The era was well represented in the iconic 1973 film, American Graffiti, directed by George Lucas, of Star Wars fame.

I was there, right in the middle of these cool kids driving up and down the street. When it was time to stop, it was me that they hungered for.  It was me that they came to talk to. It was me that they got out of their cars to come see.

And it was me that was wearing the funky red apron and hat and stood behind the counter at the local Red Barn restaurant–think McDonald’s but less cool–and it was me who literally got to ask these cool kids,

“Would you like fries with your order?”

I was the epitome of the un-cool.  No car. No girl. No letter jacket. And stuck at a minimum-wage job on a Friday night.

Sometimes after we closed and were supposed to be cleaning up, someone would fling a fry at another worker and once in a while it would escalate into a full-blown aerial assault of artery-clogging, congealed-fat coated food items.

What brought me back to those fond memories of my supreme nerdness was a recent story of another hamburger joint, but this one in Beirut, Lebanon.

At this new place, I would worry less about a food fight and be a lot more concerned about a fire fight outside the front door, especially given it’s locale.

But I will have to give it to the proprietors; they opted to capitalize on the current situation by calling the place Buns and Guns, which garnered some free publicity in the process.  Given the 25,000 Google hits, apparently a whole lot of publicity.

The name might conjure up an image of a Middle Eastern version of a Hooters with buxom waitresses wearing ultra-short shorts while packing heat on their hip in the form of a 9mm, but considering the religious fervor in that region of the world, they probably were just thinking about the standard faire of bread rolls and the run-of-the-mill weaponry you would find at any fast food restaurants that happen to be in a tough neighborhood: just your normal complement of AK-47 Klashnikov assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades.

Of what’s left of my 1,000 places to see, I would love to visit the Middle East, but I think I will give it a few more years for us to be welcomed with open arms and gratitude for allowing American-style democracy to break out over there.

For now, I am hesitant to visit someplace where if the stray bullets don’t kill you, the cholesterol might.

Hey, that’s not me saying that…it’s the slogan right there on their sign.

 I have always challenged the concept of a midlife crisis, at least as manifested by the commonly accepted evidence of a sports car, motorcycle, or for those who could afford the alimony, a younger, new wife.

What does being in early-life, midlife, or late-life have the hell to do with it?!?

Those things can be fun at ANY age.

(No, dear, I am not talking about the last one…I have just heard about that one.)

I bought my first motorcycle at 16; I got a sports car at 22; but I have the same wife of 30 years (that is, if I make it another two weeks!).

My first sports car was a classic.

(That’s what us old people call something that was around during the last century when we were much younger.)

Back in college in Berkeley, I owned a used Datsun 1600 roadster.  This was the predecessor to the Datsun 2000 roadster that was one of the hottest cars on the road back in the day and I really wanted to own a 2000.

A 2-liter engine in a tiny, light car the size of an MG was a lot of car.

That was also the bloodline that lead to the iconic 240Z which in time, morphed into the Nissan Z-cars.

Anyway, that was about the time the Era Of Being Responsible started.

So, no Datsun 2000.

There was a dry stretch during those prime career years with house payments to make, young daughters to help raise and just lots of life’s responsibilities.

So, when the daughters survived college; got jobs; and headed down their own paths, and I survived a 32-year career, I decided that retirement was yet another great time to enjoy the pure, unmitigated and unadulterated pleasure of driving a sports car.

(I had considered another motorcycle, but given the combat-zone mentality of our local freeways, I wasn’t sure if I could survive that.) 

Fast-forward to almost 10 years ago to the advent of the Honda S-2000.

It was lust at first sight!

I think my wife figured that as long as my post-adolescent, testosterone-fueled lust was directed at something with four wheels, rather than a well-tanned, long-legged woman wearing a tight tank-top and ultra-short skirt that didn’t cover everything that a skirt might cover…wait, what was it that I was talking about? 

(What dear? What heavy breathing?  No, I’m just in here blogging about my sports car.)

So, yes, I got the leather-clad, topless, hot number. No, the car.

And yes, it’s fun. Oh, is it fun.

While I am typically out driving solo, last weekend I connected with a local group of S-2000 folks and did my first group drive.

We ventured up in the mountains with narrow roads, replete with tight curves and beautiful lines…no, I AM taking about the drive, dear.

My wife joined me and we were by far the only people on the receiving end of AARP paraphernalia.

(About now the younger drivers are probably Googling what an AARP is.)

The ages of the drivers of the dozen, or so, S-2000s ranged from 17 to 57. 

I got to thinking of how someone at each end of that age range might view the drive from different perspectives, so I present here:

The Top Ten Differences Of A Honda S-2000 Driver Aged 17 Versus Aged 57:

(Needless to say, most of the drivers were somewhere between, so I will leave it up to them to decide where they fit.)

 Number 1. The younger driver watches his oil pressure.  The older driver watches his blood pressure.

Number 2. The younger driver relishes the load exhaust pipes. The older driver can’t even hear them.

Number 3. The younger driver will have a login name on the S-2000 forum something like RedHot2K2Play.  The older driver will have a login name that is, well, their name.

Number 4. The younger driver will miss a drive because they partied until 5:00 A.M. The older driver had dinner the night before at 5:00 P.M.

Number 5. The younger driver will stress about their homework. The older driver will beg the wife to postpone the home work so he can go for a drive.

Number 6. The younger driver will make stops to buy another liter-sized can of Red Bull.  The older driver will make stops to buy Advil to mitigate the arthritis.

Number 7. The younger driver will make yet more stops to buy yet more Red Bull.  The older driver will make yet more stops to pee yet one more time from a cup of coffee that was drank two days ago.

Number 8. The younger drive will go home and add another component to boost their horsepower.  The older driver will go home to take a nap.

Number 9. The younger driver thinks it’s “cute” that grandpa drives an S-2000.  The older driver thinks it’s cute that these kids humor grandpa by laughing at old-person jokes that make no sense.

Number 10. The younger driver got bored with this list five numbers ago and has since surfed five web sites, texted three people, checked their Face Book and My Space pages, downloaded six songs to their iPod, watched two You Tube videos, and is having an intimate relationship with someone they just met in Second Life…and had two more Red Bulls. The older driver forgot the rest of the list.

Cheers to the S2KI Sac group!

Ordinarily, it only looks like I’m drunk when I pedal my bicycle down the road. 

Sometimes it’s just me futzing with the foot clip thingies, which is a surefire way to go down with the ship, so to speak.

More than once I have gone over in slow motion, unable to un-clip fast enough.

Or maybe my wabbling-ways are me just trying to skirt around a plethora of potholes.

And it could be a full-out evasive maneuver in an avoidance attempt of swarming wasps.

But traveling by bike is supposed to be a good thing, even if I don’t exude a vision of grace and athleticism.

So when I was at the Farmer’s Market over the weekend, I saw an invention that would forever allow me to explain away my wobbly wheels as I pedal somewhat off the straight and narrow.

I witnessed an invention that is certain to garner greater interest in traveling by bike–even more so than spurred by the rapidly escalating gas prices.

The measly water bottle holder, which has not really changed since Napoleon rode into Waterloo on his low-rise Schwinn, has been supplanted by a device that can truly offer aerobic exercise AND constant liquid refreshment.

There are still a few issues to resolve with this bike-bound blender.

Beyond trying to figure out how I will be able to maintain an adequate ice supply while on long cross country adventures, my primary question is how to keep the straw from becoming tangled in the spokes.

And I guess I need to find out if adding rum to the fresh fruit frappe would be considered a form of doping.

Have you noticed that there really aren’t too many travel blogs out there in the Boundless Blogosphere?

Well, at least relative to the gazillion of stars you gaze in a silky sky on a moonless night, especially when you get away from the city lights.

Wait…maybe there are more travel blogs than that! 

OHMYGOSH. Or is that OMG?

The reason I have not posted a new piece since Tuesday is that I clicked on another travel blog site and something looked interesting so that lead to another click and another and…

After three days reading about backlinks and relative PR scores, going without food (stomach growling sound), without drink (hacking raspy dry throat), without sleep (yawnnn), and lacking personal hygiene (peeee-uuuuu) I realized I had traveled from California to all points of the planet and a few beyond.

You would think this experience should have one of two results:

Either I would quit trying so hard on this one as one more voice creates barely a squeak in the din and clamor of the thousands of others.

Or I would just quit reading other people’s stuff, or at least not in 72-hour stints.

But, as in my early attempts to learn how to windsurf, after hours of doing the walk of shame (other past students should know this maneuver) and more than my share of bleeding scraped knees, people used to comment on my perseverance and tenacity.

I’m still uncertain if those comments were compliments or questions of my sanity.

What is that cliché about the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over with an expectation of a different result…

So…why don’t we go to Africa.

Actually, a friend is leaving on a month-long journey and since one of us has to stay in range of a broadband internet connection and a Peet’s coffee shop, so off she goes, my buddy Doc Martin.

I will provide occasional updates to Doc Martin’s trials and tribulations, as I get word from the bush.

But I am confident there shall be no problems as that is her theme song, so to speak.

In the meantime, it’s only midnight as I go to press, so maybe I will check out what Killing Batteries or Nomadic Matt are up to.

And, what, I mean, just a few clicks, come on…

…just a few clicks…I can quit anytime I want…

Really, I…..

Calling commuting a form of travel is like calling a colonoscopy a good way to clear your throat.

For many it’s a necessity that we would rather avoid but know we must succumb to, telling ourselves it’s for our own good.

Between travels to Baja beaches and semi-staycations on local fishing expeditions, once in a while I actually do work at an eight to five gig that requires some form of commute transportation.

Driving was never a favored option of mine, even before $4.00+ a gallon petrol, what with over-priced parking at a premium and aggressive lane-shifting maniacs cutting in so close they would rub off my Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink Starbucks bumper sticker.  

And I never did like the other drivers glaring at me just because I insisted on eating my breakfast, shaving, and reading the morning paper while motoring down the freeway, while staying mostly in my lane.

So that left the Al Gore-approved transportation alternative of public transit as the least-of-all-evils option.

As many of you are likely to agree, commuting by public means has a number of feel-good pluses and a few humongous minuses.

Hint: coming home in a sweltering, over-heating bus in the unrelenting, searing heat of a 100+ degree afternoon, wedged next to the window by someone that Southwest airlines could charge for occupying two seats, is probably not on the positive side of the ledger.

So, when the California transportation folks–a.k.a. CALTRANS–decided to close the major interstate artery transecting downtown Sacramento, it was sure to cause some bleeding, mostly out the ears of the already irate commuting public.

I will have to give the planners credit though. Thanks to months of relentless advertising and promotional gimmicks the first two phases have seemed to cause a lot less headaches than anticipated by many.

Between the Internet, TV, newspaper blitzes and highway signs every few miles, you would have to have been on the space shuttle to not have known this was coming.

Unless, of course, you were from out of town and rushing to the airport to catch a flight.

Of course the first week there were a couple of drunk drivers crashing into the lookie loos, but that can happen on the best of commute days. 

CALTRANS, after that, did decide to lower the speed limit through the construction area to 45.5 mph (really!), but I am not sure you want a drunk driver staring at their speedometer to make sure they weren’t getting up to 46 mph.

Up until this point in the project, the real news seems the lack of traffic, at least on the portions of the freeway I travel on.  Where is everybody? Thousands of everybodys?

Either everyone is staying home–on extended vacations or possibly telecommuting–or opting for buses, trains, carpooling, etc.

Wouldn’t Al Gore be proud of us?!?

In doing my research for this story, I happened to read an article in the newspaper–while going into work on the bus–about a new booze tax being levied back in Pittsburgh, PA to subsidize public transportation, of all things.

Talk about hard to swallow!

You can read the whole sordid story for yourself, but let me tell you, it is creating desperate times,

“Now the brew-haha over the tax, which also applies to six-packs sold at bars, is taking a more serious turn.

And desperate people,

“I cannot afford to drink as much as I used to,” says (Michael) McDermott, 49, of Scott Township.

The locals are not at all happy with the politician who instigated this impediment to serious drinking, to the point where,

“One restaurateur even challenged (Dan) Onorato to a charity boxing match, with the tax’s future at stake if he lost.

Leave it to a politician to put buses over beer.

Beat the creep, indeed.

I started my last post by suggesting that this was not a fishing blog site.

And, by all means, I certainly do not consider this a fly fishing blog site.

Let’s see; why not?

Well, I don’t own anything with an Orvis label.

(Or alternately, I have no fly-fishing gear purchased from eBay.)

And I don’t own a pair of hip waders.

In addition, I can’t tell a Chandler bobolink catkins white-winged gaggle nymphet from a fruit fly.

Oh yeah…and I don’t fly fish.

Well, I do own one of Cabela’s fully equipped fly-fishing combos ($39.99 Cabelas.com), which I think I have used three times in probably 15 years.

After my recent Creek Walk I was lucky enough to get invited to re-walk a portion of the recent trek, this time under the tutelage of the Grand Zen Master of fly-fishing for the Northern Hemisphere, herein referred to as “Mr. Master.”

The first thing Mr. Master instructed me was to go get a fishing license.  Now, it’s been a while since I bought a fishing license so when the clerk at Big 5 asked me if I needed any “stamps”, I answered,

“No, I wasn’t planning on mailing any letters. I just want to go fishing.

And when she asked me if I needed a “punch card”, I assumed this was like my frequent buyers card from Noah’s Bagels. So I declined her offer and wondered if maybe I should have read the regs.

The next morning, Mr. Master came by at 6:30 a.m. and told me to “load up.” 

With a command like that, I wasn’t sure if he meant in the cab of the pickup or the bed of the truck.

After a 30 minute drive, we parked and started the death march up the creek. (Since we were sans my mentor’s four-legged sidekick–Little Meathead–we were truly up the creek without a poodle.)

The morning was picture perfect with the early morning sun glistening off the gently flowing creek. The banks were lined with lush green vegetation and the numerous bird species each sang their own songs which combined into a choir’s chorus befitting a Sunday morning.

It wasn’t long and we started seeing some very large fish cruising near the surface of the creek.

And after a few did their best Marine World imitation by jumping completely out of the water, Mr. Master informed me that they were fish.

Well, he did give a little more detail in that they were carp, likely in the eight to 10 pound range. Lots of them.

Mr. Master demonstrated proper casting technique, deftly avoiding hooking a lurking lunker which would have required diverting our attention from our intended reconnaissance mission of the area downstream of the dam.

I was impressed.

Eventually we hiked up to pools along the creek just below the dam where there were so many large carp, you might have been able to walk across their backs without getting your feet wet. These, Mr. Master said could be up to 20 pounds.

Mercury is a heavy metal, right?!?

Once again, Mr. Master delivered excellent fly fishing grace in his style, as you would have expected from the Grand Zen Master of fly fishing for the Northern Hemisphere.

And once again, as only someone at the top of their game could pull off, there were no fish harmed (or hooked) in the writing of this blog. Why ruin a perfectly good hike with having to touch stinky fish.

We never saw another sole in the river channel.

But for the first time I noticed how much a duck’s quack sounds like someone laughing.

Laughing at us.

Damn carp by the damn dam.

This is NOT a fishing blog site.

You want fish stories, go someplace else. 

Like http://singlebarbed.com, for instance. His stories are certainly fishy. Funny fishy sometimes.

But while this is not a fishing blog, it’s hard not to notice when a two-foot long fish jumps clean out of the creek a few feet away.

Today was Day Two of the three-day Creek Walk.(http://sanddollaradventures.wordpress.com/2008/05/12/bullets-and-beer-what-could-go-wrong/)

 In addition to publishing this highly professional, award winning blog site, since I want to be a “real writer” when I grow up, I was tickled when I got a couple of newspaper pieces published on this Creek Walk event. (http://www.dailydemocrat.com/ci_9489062?IADID=Search-www.dailydemocrat.com-www.dailydemocrat.com)

 Today, our morning briefing included an admonition to watch for snakes.

Rattlesnakes.

So, I start walking next to a guy named Jeff, who says, “I hope I see snakes today.”

Jeff, you see, really likes snakes.

Indiana Jones, obviously he’s not.

Indiana: There’s a big snake in the plane, Jock.
Jock: Oh, that’s just my pet snake Reggie.
Indiana: I hate snakes, Jock. I hate ‘em.
Jock: C’mon, show a little backbone, will ya?

Upon opening the Well of the Souls and peering down into it]
Sallah: Indy, why does the floor move?
Indiana: Give me your torch.
[Sallah does, and Indy drops it in]
Indiana: Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?
Sallah: Asps. Very dangerous. You go first.

So, funny thing; we hadn’t gone 100 feet from the road and there was a rattlesnake crossing the trail.

(So why DOES a rattlesnake cross the trail?)

Needless to say, Jeff was happy.

And that we saw more snakes made Jeff even happier.

It wasn’t just snakes and large fish jumping clean out of the water (maybe they were being chased by the snakes) that we saw.

There was that itty, bitty, little frog pictured above.

And the air show along the creek almost rivaled the WW II planes I spoke of in my last post, with flocks of flying denizens of the sky: massive blue herons; snow white snow egrets;  streaking Osprey; circling Swainson hawks, just to name a few.

The last picture I will offer is a cute critter that was found (and replaced) in a quiet section of the creek that formed a placid pool off the main channel.

You know the story of the tortoise and the hare and the hare is supposed to be the fast one?

When the turtle was placed back at water’s edge I expected the guy to slowly stroll back into the water.

Silly me.  One minute he (or she?) was safely ensconced within its shell and the next she (he?) was doing a Michael Phelps imitation, leaving a trail of bubbles.

It wasn’t exactly a rooster tail, but what would you expect from a turtle?

The title is not exactly a Catch-22, but it may answer some questions.

BREAKING NEWS: While our lives may sometimes seem linear, they are probably a lot more circular than we often think.

Or maybe to paraphrase an oft-repeated cliché, “What goes around…goes around some more.”

Call it part of the galactic interconnectedness of cosmic interrelated reality, or at least what passes for it.

This story started out about a flight of fantasy that became a flight of fabulous fun–with the exception of a slight WW II-related injury.

As I connected a few dots of this story, and some history–both recent and distant–the story truly etched a circle of  my life.

For many years I have said that one of the most incomputable influences in my formative years was having read Joseph Heller’s iconic novel on the lunacy of war, the venerable Catch-22. 

The book, which came out in 1961, was followed in 1970 by the release of a movie version, under the same title.

But it was only within the last few weeks that I finally viewed the movie version, which came out 38 years ago.

Like many people–mostly of the male variety–I am enamored with movie scenes of warplanes with loud engines engaged in mind grabbing action. So in addition to being saturated with the satire of the Catch-22 story line, my rapt attention was drawn to all of the old World War II bombers.

Up until this week, I really could not tell one bomber from another.

So, as part of this connectedness, a news clip on the morning entertainment/news show last Monday featured a piece of an event coming to a neighborhood near you, which showcases a number of classic WW II aircraft that, for a tax deductible, set-donation, puts you in the rear gunner’s position or bombardier’s seat. 

The Wings of Freedom traveling air show includes a number of revered bombers and the instantly recognizable P-51 Mustang fighter aircraft.

One of those planes is the B-25, pictured on the right, in which Catch-22’s Yossarian was clearly traumatized by the frequent flak–and an occasional empty parachute pack (you’ll have to watch the movie, but it involves eggs).

Another plane that was holding a stately pose on the tarmac was one of the true workhorses of that war, the B-17 Flying Fortress. 

This was the Hummer of the air with almost 5,000 horsepower and a reputation of solid construction.

The B-17 is the plane pictured on top and to the left.

As it happened the day I drove out was just to look at the planes sitting on the ground (’honest, dear…”).

It was the last day the small air force was to visit our local airport and the only plane they were taking paying passengers up in was the one on the left, the historically significant Nine-O-Nine (the name came from the last three numbers on the tail).

After hemming and hawing for way too long, I decided if I passed up an opportunity to actually fly in this rumbling beautiful beast I would certainly have to give up the “adventure” part of my supposed and self-applied title of “global adventure humor writer.”

So out came the credit card!

(”Dear…it’s all a write-off“, as Kramer would tell Jerry.)

Before crawling up into the smallish rear hatch, a safety briefing was given with the following warnings:

Do not step on to the bomb bay doors while in flight. They will open with 100 pounds of weight.

(Who weighs under 100 pounds, nowadays?!?)

Do not lean on the rear hatch cover. It will open with the same 100 pounds of weight.

(Ditto?!?)

At no time, while in flight, should you grab the extensive system of flight control cables that run along the entire length of the fuselage. If you do, YOU will be flying the plane.

(The crewman said this did once happen, but they did not really explain what to do if you got buffeted while traversing the really narrow gangplank through the bomb bay and you had to choose between stepping on the bomb bay doors or grabbing a handful of cables. I guess if it’s the former you could reenact the closing scene of Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove. “Ahhhheeeeee!”)

So after we were all buckled in–sort of– the four powerful Wright reciprocating engines were started, which briefly wafted smoke through the cabin, and then we rumbled down the runway and we were off.

We all took turns crawling on our knees, squeezing around gun turrets in the middle of the belly and tip-toeing down the 70 foot+ of this bomber and into the clear nose area (see the picture above) that housed both a .50 caliber machine gun and the then-top secret, highly accurate Norden bombsight.

The picture to the right is the view looking down as we flew over Cache Creek, where you can see the airplane’s shadow on the ground, below, and part of the bombsight to the right.

As we continue to draw the circle, the creek is the venue for tomorrow’s Creek Walk that I mentioned well before I knew of this possible flight.

http://sanddollaradventures.wordpress.com/2008/05/12/bullets-and-beer-what-could-go-wrong/

Coincidence?  I think not.

But wait…there’s more.

In order to provide, you, the valued reader (value based on having such a small number–the few I gots are priceless) with fair and balanced reporting (wait…that’s not even funny) I went home–albeit with that one small WW II-related injury (I bumped my head trying to avoid stepping on or grabbing something that could kill me)–and hit the books, or what passes for a book anymore…The Google - Wikipedia Informational Complex).

I decided to learn more about the namesake of the B-17 that I was privileged to fly in, even if it was for a relatively short mission. What I did not know until I conducted my in-depth research was that the original Nine-O-Nine was retired in 1945. This was after dropping over HALF A MILLION pounds of bombs, much of that over Berlin, Germany. The 9-0-9 had a record for having made the most missions AND having never lost a crewman as a casualty.

The more to this part of the story is that my father was born and raised in Berlin, Germany–even having attended the 1936 Olympics wherein Jesse Owens thoroughly embarrassed Der Fuhrer. But my dad escaped Nazi persecution in 1939 by immigrating, along with 14,000 others, to Shanghai, China (controlled then by Japan).

So, here I was last Monday, flying in the namesake of the plane that repeatedly bombed Berlin, where my dad had only left five years previous.

The plane–or an exact replica of same–that I was flying in, could have been responsible for killing the person (with obvious assistance from my mom; also from Germany, but not Berlin) that allowed me to even be in that plane, so to speak.

Whoa! I think I just blew my mind!  Am I in the Twilight Zone?

So, are we done?

Well, how about one more.

Regarding the Zohan reference in the post title: he is an ex-Mosad agent. The Mosad are from Israel, where I currently have relatives living.

Last fall I sailed in the Baja Ha Ha sailboat race from San Diego, CA to Cabo, Mexico. After over one week at sea we looked forward to anchoring off of Cabo so we could hit the bars. But, you see, they were filming this movie and needed a clear sight-shot out into the ocean; right over our anchorage. So we had to motor around while the chilled cervazas were within sight.

The movie?

Yup, you guessed it.

Damn youuu, Adam Sandler.

He is lucky I was not airborne in the Nine-O-Nine, fondling my .50 caliber.

So is anybody down there littering Cache Creek?

I guess they are lucky that I am only shooting blanks nowadays.

That, and the gun doesn’t have real bullets, either.