Moteur Kharban


Moteur Kharban is a common expression in Arabic; it means broken motor, and is a metaphor for the world around us.

The Florida pigs on my street have gone full tilt boogie into some maxo Anti-Arab ethno-gaga mode since yesterday, but, as I described in my previous post, their motors are broken.

Yesterday, the Orange Turd greatly increased the chance of nuclear or conventional war in the ME, but then again everyone knows Uncle Sam is just a client state of Israel, now, you know, because of the coming Rapture, and that if we’re going to be honest about it, it’s been the pits since Vietnam.

Me, I take care of the car.

I keep the motor humming and in tip-top shape: I may need it one day as a getaway, if this summer turns real hot, and the balawis of unresolvable discontent burn down everything.

Yesterday I drove to Lowe’s to buy some brackets for the screen door I’m fixing, and found myself behind a plus size SUV that had two moronic decals — an American speciality! — plastered on its hatch. The  vehicle was of course being driven by an angry-faced, overweight middle-aged fuck with wraparound Operation Iraq shades that were meant to be intimidating. Don’t fuck with me! seemed to be the general idea.

One read: “”the real problem is …. overbreeding.”

The other:

“This is my country. If you don’t respect my flag, leave America.”

His flag, no less.

Well, he can keep it.

I changed lanes and moved on. Sometimes the bridge is open.

Other times it’s up.

I can’t fix the broken motors around here. A wrecking ball has descended on our planet since the towers fell, and all the right-wing snakes in this country think about is how to make even more off the backs of those who jumped.

The calm voices are unheard or drowned out.  The thirsty SUVs lurch on cracked highways, and no one dares look sideways at anyone else on the road.

Meanwhile — have you checked this shit out? — Europe has trotted out the kneepads to service the Irn-Bru phobic Orange Turd like a slut in some back alley off the Reeperbahn, but even that’s not good enough.

in bru bottle

The orange motor won’t start anymore, no matter how much they lick and suck and moan. It’s all about the crazy chaos and hate now, now that America can’t get it up anymore, as the blind continue to dance to the madman’s tune.

Despite everything, Theresa and Macron and Angela continue to powder their noses and paint their faces like the cheap whores they’ve become, all for that deal, that special dispensation, that promise of continued protection, some backstop guarantee, against the this or that, this year at least.

At least there’s that, they hope,

And so on their knees they fall, and suck hard like the trembling-with-fear sluts they’ve become, and some even dangle the promise of a regal State visit with full regalia and even the Queen can be humiliated if that’s what it takes, even the Queen is for sale nowadays, even her.

O England, country of my birth, O once mighty England now paying obeisance to a racist, misogynist thief.

Me, I no longer give a fuck.

I care more about why the Blue Sky A-19 Smart Bulb won’t pair up with my Samsung 8.  At least the new Charge 3 I just bought did, and I’m grooving to a Cairokee playlist on Soundcloud as I write this, deep into the racist American night and dream already of where I will be in a year or two.

I met a friend of mine yesterday.

Things have not been going well, at work  and his wife got cancer, even though she’s young. He packed on the LBs since I last saw him 7 months ago, before I left for Gouna, where the latest overhyped Let’s-Pretend-We’re-Americans bogus event is currently taking place.

He remarked, as several have already since my return, at how completely different I look. how much thinner and healthier-looking I now am.

Here’s the deal.

I don’t give a shit if America’s motor’s broken.

What I do care about is losing the next 30 lbs, getting fast on my bike so no girlee girl or old man ever passes me by again on the road.

I care a thousand times more about taking my SUP board out this weekend to the Loxahatchee river and paddling away.

My motor ain’t broken any more — although for sure it once was, big time — and that’s that really matters.

Detoxing from right-wing pablum, and seizing whatever remains of my days — not just surviving, like before: we’re way past that now.



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This Is What Happens When It Rains in South Florida


SUP car rackSo yesterday I went to downtown Hobe Sound and had a Thule rack installed on the trusty Escape my wife and I share.

I was all set to take it around noon today to Burt Reynolds Park in Tequesta for some paddling, but heavy summer afternoon thunder, lightning and showers came early this year.

So I ended up cooking an Egyptian-style okra with fresh locally grown tomatoes and beef dish (bamia bil lahma).



okra dish

Last time I had this traditional dish was in Gouna on the Red Sea about a month ago at an Egyptian restaurant directly in front of the GO bus stop.

I had bad stomach problems for many days afterward.

The moral of the story is, if you want to enjoy good Egyptian food that’s safe to eat, cook it in America!

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Peck’s Lake

It’s already been a week since I’ve returned to the USA after a 7-month stay in El Gouna, Egypt.

Now that I’m back in Florida, I’ve resumed my frequent walks on the wild beach where I like to spend two or three mornings a week. I walk for about an hour and a half, on both the hard sand of the beach face, and the much softer and more laborious to walk on sand by the dunes, which is a better workout.

Like many people, I like to go for long walks on a good beach. In Gouna, I think I walked twice along the beach during my time there, for Gouna is to good beaches what Egyptians elections are to real democracy.

Today I decided to walk to Peck’s Lake, which is about a two mile walk from the parking lot at the entrance of the Hobe Sound National Wildlife Refuge, then you cut just cut across the dunes on a path that’s been cleared through the sea grape stands to the InterCoastal Waterway.

It’s the only beach habitat I have ever found — other than outside of Marsa Matrouh in the 90s — that was both beautiful. empty, and undeveloped — unlike, say, the grotesque Trump-branded monstrosities in “Little Moscow” on the Sunny Isles barrier island in Miami.

Peck’s Lake is renowned as a choice snook fishing spot; lots of boats moor here in season, but today I was early, and it was completely empty.

When I think of an El Gouna beach, such as Mangroovy, I think three essential characteristic describe the scene there: soleil accablant, plage moche, mer pleine de cailloux et rochers.

Plus, you get the pain-in-ass kite surfers, when the wind is up; the usual pestering flies; ATVs and horseback riders that barge into your attempts to commune with Nature; the plastic garbage and decidedly strangely colored scummy water (I think plutonium green describes it best); not to mention that if you sit anywhere half decent, some kid is going to run over and attempt to charge you a hundred pounds Egyptian for the privilege; and lastly, there’s construction everywhere you go.

In short, the El Gouna beach scene sucks big time.

In contrast, the wild beach I go to in Hobe Sound is usually empty, especially off season and you go out far enough towards the St Lucie inlet.  I seek freedom and relative privacy and complete quiet on the beach, without being observed by the eyes of those who seek to make money off you, and where the only sound you hear is the roar of the surf and the squawking of sea birds.

It’s the go to place if you’re put off by dogs and children running around and radios playing music as you’re trying to get into some sort of Zen like mystical Walden Pond trance.

Ditto if you avoid beaches where narcissists flex their overdeveloped muscles to impress whomever.

It’s not that I’m misanthropic; it’s more that I like to go to beaches where you can observe animal life, and that means beaches that are protected from development, and where few people go.  I think the beaches of the South of France in summer, for example, or the Sahel in the North Coast of Egypt are to me more akin to catching a subway at rush hour than being out in a natural setting.

So the Hobe Sound Refuge is ideal for someone like me, which is why I having been coming here for the last dozen years or so.  I saw one turtle nest already, so the season for that has already begun. Can’t wait to see them hatch and swim out to sea this summer.

The number of birds I saw on today’s walk was amazing.  But my crap camera does not allow me to catch osprey in closeup as they soar high above then make sudden kamikaze dives into the ocean.

For that, I would need to get a much better camera with some sort of long telephoto lens.

There are many birds that migrate through here, and unlike third-world Egypt, no-one tries to net them to eat or sell (in fact, one of the many sad things about the Red Sea is the dearth of seagulls and other pelagic birds): I would love to be able to take high definition digital pictures of them in all their plumed splendor.

I know there is at least one professional photographer who follows this blog, so any suggestions for modestly-priced equipment that does the job in that regard would be most welcome.

Absent such feedback, there are of course many resources on the internet, such as this, this, and this.

It all comes down to if I want to really get into birding, a hobby that is both time-consuming and expensive.

Methinks, let’s hold off for now and focus on the objective of losing the next 30 lbs and getting badass ripped, at age 66, through beach walks, swimming, bike riding, weight training and SUP boarding along the boat ramps at nearby Burt Reynolds Park.

Mind and body, body and mind.

The health of both are my true objectives, as I approach year 67, only four months away from now.


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