Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘hurricanes’

Saturday Morning Coffee

Here’s a place where we had a great family vacation when the kids were little. This is sad to see. (Bitter end is the inboard end of the anchor chain.)

VIDEO: Irma rakes Bitter End Yacht Club

Shakespeare And Sandy

“Anything to say about the hurricane?” Spence says.

“How about we let Shakespeare speak for us?” says Admin. “Hard to top him when it comes to saying just about anything.”

(From King Lear, Act 3, Scene 2)

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!

“That’s like a little word hurricane all by itself,” says Spence.

Welcome Doug, Annie & Tracker, Grizzly.

No Post Today

“Why not?” says Admin.

“Shouldn’t we battening down the hatches?” Spence says.

“We don’t have any hatches.”

“Also none of those basement window covers. I was thinking you might pick some up on your coffee run.”

“Grumble.”

Earl (Revised)

“What if,” says Admin, “you dropped a nuclear bomb into the eye of  a hurricane?”

That Admin! Fun in his own way.

“Not sure I’m following you,” says Spence.

“What’s so hard?” says Admin. “Nuclear bombs make those big mushroom clouds that shoot right up to the highest part of the atmosphere. So why wouldn’t the detonation take the hurricane with it, up and out of the way?”

There’s a long silence after that. Then Admin says, “And I don’t like that name – Earl. Know what an earl is?”

“I remember the Duke of Earl,” Spence say, and he starts singing, “Duke duke duke duke of earl.” Some humans – take Billie Holiday for example, or Elvis – have nice singing voices. Others don’t. I’m edging toward the door.

“A duke’s a peer,” Admin says. I know piers from our trip to San Diego, when this drunk fisherman fell in and Bernie and I fished him out, but Admin had lost me. “Between a marquess and a viscount.”

“Oh,” says Spence.

“Like Robin, Earl of Locksley.”

“Oh.”

“And you haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?

“Nuclear bomb.”

More silence. I’m outta here.