The Chair that (almost) Ate Me

It’s a big bruiser, isn’t it? I bought it three years and eight months ago. I have sat in it many hours a day, every day, except when out of town.

Before that, I sat in an even more massive (if that’s possible) leatherette recliner for six months in New Orleans. Little by little, my will to do anything ebbed away.

Or perhaps, my will flowed back as I worked odd jobs on my laptop, web surfed, and frittered away perfectly good time on non-productive tasks. It’s always so hard to figure out what is the start and finish of something?

I’ve yearned for years for an expensive Scandinavian modern recliner with a footstool, instead of a kick-out panel. These are so far beyond my level of frugality, such a chair was aught by an impossible dream.

Now, with craigslist, patience, and a bit of luck, it is possible to find most anything at a steep discount. This sexy northern import became mine about 85% off retail, albeit in (excellent) used condition. I feel as if the whole world has opened up around me and that I am no longer suffocating in tons of upholstered padding.

Still, I’ve a fond spot for that big boy that has been my pal for so long. It’s a shame I do not have a place where I can tuck it away. Perhaps I should get rid of the dining room table. It’s only use is as a place to pile junk. You may have noted, from the background in the photos, I am not exactly Martha Stewart.

But who else gives you headlines like Bearded Lady Shops at Wal-Mart or Attack of the Killer Barbie Dolls?

I doubt that it was ever possible to get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant – long closed now. But the Arlo Guthrie song is still a good tune, part of the musical Hall of Fame of the era. You probably can find the memorabilia, though, on craigslist.com.

Quest for Confectionary Relic Is Unrequited

Last weekend, I called two Fort Lauderdale candy stores with unusual confections. I was searching for fairy floss, better known as cotton candy, a sweet memory of everyone’s childhood for the last 100 years.

Today, I tried the Fort Lauderdale Swap Shop, which may or may not be the biggest flea market in the world. It has been featured on a documentary about great American flea markets on the Travel Channel. One world traveler, a British gal working in the south Florida tabloids, once described it to me as "exotic as any North African souk."

The swap shop has some kiddie rides. It's hard to tell which are in a state of disassembly and which are still in use, until the ride starts, blaring Hispanic music. There used to have an indoor circus, but the aging owner had a family out with them. The Hanneford Family Circus was a unique and irreplaceable feature of this old Florida institution.

I fear the aging buildings will not be around much longer. Like the orange that were once such fun to visit in western Palm Beach country, the swap shop will be replaced by housing developments that are "all made out of tickey-tacky, and they all look the same," to quote Malvina Reynolds' Little Boxes.

One booth at the swap shop had cotton candy in plastic containers. That is so sad. Once, in desperation, I tried this pre-made, preserved stuff. Fairy filament is not meant to be trapped in a bottle. It must melt magically in the mouth.

Apparently, it is possible to make cotton candy at home. This process involves the use of a candy thermometer and enough dexterity to spin the sugar with a cut-off whisk. I tend to glue my fingers together, so that rules out homemade cotton candy making for me.

I've read that green apple cotton candy is served as dessert at the Tatu sushi restaurant in the Seminole Indians' Hard Rock Cafe and Casino south of here -- the one where Anna Nicole Smith died in her hotel room.

That one sentence sums up the jarring contradictions of contemporary culture. Cotton candy is as American as Ipods despite its apparent origin in medieval Italy. Sushi emblemizes ultra-global cuisine imported from that techie empire, Japan. The restaurant name, Tatu, sounds like the name of a comic French film star. Seminole Indians invoke the uniquely U.S. Wild West of days past; Hard Rock Cafes celebrate the semiotics of fleeting celebrity chic, embodied in the cartoon sexuality of poor Anna Nicole.

Green apple cotton candy is just wrong. Maybe I’ll take a ride down there soon and see if I can have some without eating raw fish in eel skin first.

Simple Semi-Automatic Energy Saving Ice Maker Cost One Buck

I hate my refrigerator. It is old. It is noisy. The top shelf is held in place with a spring rod for curtains, because a part is broken. One day I overloaded the shelf, and the Britta Box and big tea pitcher came sliding my way.

The bottom plate also is broken. One side hangs sadly, resting on the floor.

And I don’t have an icemaker.

I’d like a new refrigerator with a freezer on the bottom. Even the smallest model appears too big for my tiny condominium kitchen. They also cost twice as much as a standard model and use more energy.

I also learned that an ice maker uses more energy. For the past three years, I’ve dutifully filled my lone ice cube tray. I slowly fill half-gallon plastic bags and try not to use too much ice in a drink.

Now, stackable ice cube trays have semi-automated the process. A set of three set me back a buck at the Dollar Store.

I don’t like the smaller cubes quite as well as the gigantes formed in my longtime mold. But the four ice trays fill up a half-gallon bag in one freeze. Two days after buying the molds, I have a gallon-and-a-half in the freezer, and I’m only filling the ice trays once a day, instead of three or four times a day.

A freezer full of ice is another energy saving measure. It’s also a great thing during hurricane season. The great blocks of ice in gallon water containers melt very slowly if electricity goes out in a storm. My freezer items will last for at least five days.

I am so pleased with the ease with which I now fill a half-gallon bag with ice. I cannot imagine needing an energy-sucking automatic ice maker now that I have my stackable plastic ice cube trays. Sometimes a dollar goes a long way. It is great fun to solve a problem on the cheap.

Attack of the Killer Barbie Dolls Turns Mass Media Reporting to Mush

I was not terribly surprised yesterday this overwrought headline arrived on my desktop: Killer Storm Faye Barrels Toward Florida.

The Dominican Republic and Haiti reported “numerous deaths,” according to the Agence France-Press report.

That just shows the usual fuzzy thinking about cause-effect relations that characterizes the Ken and Barbie approach to news reporting. The Dominican Republic and Haiti are two of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere. Whenever it rains hard, people are washed away in mud slides. They live marginal lives in huts cobbled together from corrugated metal, clinging to the least desirable pieces of real estate on mountainsides.

A more accurate headline would read: Homicidally Indifferent Government Causes Yet More Deaths.

Or perhaps: Extreme Poverty Takes More Desperate Lives.

Perfectly groomed Barbie and Ken reporters are not able to think too deeply about social forces. They are able, however, to recognize a really big wind and a lot of rain.

Any sort of weather emergency quickly exhausts their tiny vocabularies. Cause and effect reasoning is largely beyond their mental processes.

The Barbie dolls have killed good reporting as it used to exist when I first started out in journalism, so long ago that I pounded out my copy on ancient, high carriage typewriters -- in triplicate. It's all mush now. Social forces are the same as rain. A tropical depression with high winds and rain is a killer storm. I'm not sure what they'll do with the next hurricane. It will be apocalypse now, I suppose, in their oh-so-limited views of life and the world. Can we please have some grown-up reporters once in a while? Please?

Wicked Wit Skewers Fugly Fashion at Snarky Blog

Go Fug Yourself is a snarky blog about celebrity fashion. It is so wrong to enjoy something so mean.

Fug means frightfully ugly, according to the blog's FAQs – but Wikipedia confirms my suspicion the “f” stands for an unsavory four-letter street word. The blog is so well-known and influential that it has its own entry. There’s something for my aspirations – an entry about ordinaryordinary in wiki.

Fug is a "self-inflicted” condition that characterizes “pretty people with money to spare and little sense how to spend it,” the blog explains. One must, of course, possess sufficient celebrity so that paparazzi are standing by to document one’s fashion faux pas.

Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan write Go Fug Yourself. I don’t know why I read it. Perhaps because silly togs are a fitting target in our celebrobsessed culture. Withering wit is an art in itself, as proved by Oscar Wilde.

Stone Cold Creamery Disappoints Ice Cream Epicure

I love ice cream. My emphasis is on CREAM. The three perfect food groups are butterfat, chocolate, and sugar. They must, however, be combined in exacting proportions.


I recently read about a small ice cream chain, Stone Cold Creamery, that mixes ice cream concoctions to order. Nuts, marshmallows, candy and cookie pieces, even peanut butter – whatever you order is mixed before your eyes on cold marble to prevent melting. This is the cold stone that gives the chain its name.


With a family with children dithering over choices, I selected a container of Rocky Road that I hoped would not melt too much during the 20-minute drive home. I could hardly wait to taste it.


Like so many ice creams, Cold Stone Creamery product is too sugary and sweet for my taste. I like a butterfat content in the 12-14% range, which is the highest I’ve been able to get it. The chocolate is so dark and fudgy, it obscures all taste of cream – even when I let it melt on my tongue to savor what little cream flavor I can find. Nuts are abundant. My favorite, however, is the marshmallow. Whether it’s a marshmallow ribbon or tiny candies tucked into the ice cream, I love the gooey squishy feel on my palate. Alas, marshmallows are few and far between in Stone Cold Creamery Rocky Road ice cream.


Stone Cold Creamery probably is a hit with kids who get to choose almost endlessly among thes urprising combinations that Stone Cold Creamery makes to order. It’s a clever and unique marketing idea. For my part, I prefer my cream ICED rather than sugared. I will be sticking to Hagan Dazs and Ice Cream Club.

Artful Blogging Magazine Is Eye Candy that Inspires and Deights

Somerset magazines are a guilty pleasure that inspire and delight. My favorite is Doll Art. It portrays what my dentist called “big girl dolls.” She noted that her ability to perform tight work in small places could make this a good hobby for her.

Somerset Studio: The Art of Paper and Mixed Media is a colorful phantasmagoria for a gal who worked in newspaper, loves books and fancy paper stocks. I remember when a trip to Office Depot was like a trip to a toy store. One never knew exactly what color paper stock and textures might be available. I still remember with delight a very pale green linen texture typing paper and envelopes that I purchased in the 1980s. This was before Home Depot became a standardized purchasing monolith with the same product in all stores all the time.

My most recent purchase is Artful Blogging. I am looking forward to exploring the picturesque blogs depicted in its full-color, art-book quality pages. I even have a vague fantasy of publishing my own artful blog with a specific theme.

Somerset publications have been a guilty pleasure but probably also should be an unaffordable one, now that I only have minimal part-time work. Somerset Studio: The Art and Paper and Mixed Media, January 2008, cost $7.99. The price of $14.99 for the August 2008 Artful Blogging puts this publication out of my reach (even though I indulged anyway). Art Doll is holding steady at $9.99 for the upcoming October 2008 issue.

The paper quality, photos, and quality of the reproduction is excellent in all the Somerset publications I’ve seen. In fact, the quality is as deliciously tempting as a perfectly made chocolate ice cream sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top. The page layouts facilitate lingering appreciation for the crafty art depicted: there’s none of the big-little type, tilted layouts, and crazy cuts that characterize the apparent cutting edge in layout and design. If you love visual delights, these magazines are well worth pooling resources with friends to purchase and share.

Racism is Color Blind on CNN's Crossfire

A black commentator tried to convince panelists of the subtle racism in John McCain’s ad that juxtaposes images of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears ad with that of Barack Obama at a large rally. The juxtapositions are intended to cast doubt on Obama’s experience to be president. They also create subtle impressions of the classic American fear of black men harming defenseless white women.

Mike Barnicle, filling in for Chris Matthews on Crossfire, and Michele Bernard, expressed shock that the black commentator could say such a thing. “I don’t see it,” one panelist said.

The black commentator was unable to express the notion as accurately as he might have. Nor did he bring up the cognitive tests we now have about people group and assign meaning to images that reveal subtle racism.

The racism in the ad exists at a subliminal level. Like the panelists on Crossfire, people find the idea unbelievable when it is explained as conscious processing. None of us like to admit to these hidden pockets of racism deep within our unconscious. We cannot see it, as the panelist said; it is an unpleasant look at oneself.

National Political Pundits Find No Racism in McCain's Overtly Racist Ad

Maybe I'm out in the woods on this one. I just heard a pretty young African-American commentator on CNN, Michelle Bernard, proclaim that there's no racism in McCain's new political ad.

The ad, in case you've been stranded at sea for the past 24 hours, flashes photos of very blond, beautiful and young airhead Paris Hilton, as well as an image of almost as blond and beautiful, equally young, and narcotically disturbed Britney Spears. These are followed by images of a smiling Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama greeting crowds of believers. The ad questions whether Obama is qualified to lead. John McCain's face appears at the end of the ad.

The imputation, in case you're brain dead from your ordeal at sea, is that Obama is as intellectually challenged as two women who are famous for being famous.

Obama has responded to this and other ads by suggesting he is under attack because he doesn't look like the other faces on our dollar bills.

Aside from the fact that it's silly to devote one's ad to images of a smiling opponent being worshipped by stadium crowds, this ad had a decidedly racial undertone. Let's pan past those images again: Two young dumb blond white girls, clearly needing protection, sometimes from themselves. A powerful black man surrounded by a large and potentially mob. All the ad needs is an over voice. I suggest the robot from the 1960s TV series, Lost in Space (an intergalactic version of the Swiss Family Robinson story), intoning,"Danger Will Robinson. Danger, danger."

Michelle Bernard's position suggests that there are no lingering fears of black men, no fears of unreasoning mobs, and no desire to circle the wagons to protect those beautiful women-children. Huh. I wonder why six times more black men are in prison than white guys, per 100,000, as reported by the U.S. Department of Justice.

If you have doubts about the power of subconscious imagery of this sort, check out today's story on National Public Radio. It's about psychological tests that help us identify our hidden, subconscious biases by the cognitive connections we make when shown photos. From there, you can sample some of these self-quizzes online.

To slide off-topic a wee bit, for a daily dose of intelligent visual deconstruction, check out No Caption Needed. This blog is written by John Hariman and John Louis Lucaites, two communication professors who prove the academy is not a bastion of hopeless eggheads who can't write a readable paragraph.

In summary, the McCain ad is racist. It uses subtle visual images to exploit deeply held racial prejudices. Political commentators who deny this reinforce the fantasy that voters are making a decision to vote for McCain for good reasons. Encouraging people to deny our biases while simultaneously making decisions on their basis is the essence of exploiting people's worst selves. Not only McCain, but our television commentators, should be ashamed.

John Burdett, Bangkok Haunts; Robert B. Parker , Now and Then; James Lee Burke, Tin Roof Blow Down; J. Lantingua, Lady from Buenos Aires

John Burdett’s Bangkok Haunts captures the seamy underbelly of Thailand – an underbelly apparently as big as Sidney Greenstreet playing the corrupt Signor Ferrari in Casablanca or the vaguely homosexual seducer and rapacious Kaspar Gutman, The Fat Man, in The Maltese Falcon.

I mention these classic tales of human depravity, because they weave complex stories of human vice and virtues, although the later are practiced equivocally. Burdett ploughs new ground with this well-crafted page-turner. It had appeared that the James Bond novels and subsequent thrillers have covered every possible means of cruel torture and unnatural death. John Burdett proves it’s not so.

This tightly crafted novel offers finely drawn character portraits, a taut and surprising plot, and insight into Thai culture and consciousness. Burdett, who now lives in Thailand, has two previous novels with Bangkok in the title.

In Robert B. Parker’s novel, Now and Then, the gang is gathered together – Spenser, Susan, Hawk and Chollo – and up to their usual pranks of setting the world right with bullets. That these shoot-outs never seem to bear any consequences such as murder charges and the like is one of the enduring peculiarities of the series. The type is large, the story is brief. Now and Then, it appears, the author phones one in.

James Lee Burke is a word stylist worth reading even when plots curl over themselves in labyrinthine twists that – upon reflection – make little sense. The Tin Roof Blow Down is better than some (In The Electric Mist with Confederate Dead comes to mind) for plot. It is a Burke’s eye view of Hurricane Katrina, the 2005 hurricane from which the beloved city, New Orleans, has not yet recovered. Having spent a short time living there and most of my life wishing that I could, I was glued to my TV during those awful days following the storm. Burke presents a version of the events as deeply and darkly human as those of Spike Lee’s documentary, When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts.

Clete Purcel continues to self-destruct with dialectical carefree intensity, and Dave Robicheaux continues to tilt at windmills. Dave is on his fourth wife, by my count. Like Travis McGee in the John D. MacDonald color-coded mysteries, Robicheaux is one dangerous dude to fall in love with, if you’d like to live a long, happy life.

It’s probably not fair for me to comment on my brief tango with John Lantingua’s Lady from Buenos Aires. Willie Cuesta is a Miami detective. I picked up this one because the locale interested me. By chapter two, the pedestrian prose had me flipping to the end. My hat’s off to any author who gets a book published, but this one was not for me.

Bearded Lady Shops at Wal-Mart

I was on one of my endless quests for a product that doesn't exist (black-out curtains in white or ivory, 63-inch length, that will fit my unrealistically low budget) when I saw a bearded lady tooling through the aisles on a Wal-Mart motorized cart.

She had something resembling a gray goatee extending from either corner of her chin, about three inches long. I don’t have a photo to prove this. At the time, not having a camera seemed like a mixed blessing.

On the one hand, I wanted a photograph as soon as I saw her. On the other hand, what was I going to do? Walk up and ask her for one? Under the law, there is no reasonable expectation of privacy in public place; hence, the profusion of paparazzi at celebrity locations. Legally, I would not have had to ask for permission.

On my nonexistent third hand – insofar as I have been dealing in the nonexistent and legendary, a third hand is not an imaginative leap – an unauthorized photo poses many ethical quandaries. How would I take such a photo? Should I be brazen and snap it as she sat helplessly confined to her motorized cart? Or should I hide behind something and take the photo surreptitiously? Either way, I could not in good conscience publish a photo of a woman I do not know for the purpose of holding her up as a public oddity.

But why not bring a Shiva-like fourth hand into this discussion? If the woman did not want to be noticed, would she not have shaved the beard or used some other depilatory? Aren’t there hormone treatments for such things these days? Or is she a feminist a la Frieda Kahlo who was making a statement by allowing her facial hair to show? Perhaps she would have welcomed a photo and an opportunity to express herself on my blog.

Alas, like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, the bearded lady who shops at Wal-Mart must remain a creature of fable. We know one thing sure: she knows where to find a bargain.

Richard Lester Was a Genius

Director Richard Lester was a genius.

Help! introduced a wry comedy of irony and understatement. The visual jokes used fast-cutting and weird juxtapositions that later influenced music videos. Video techniques used by Lester were proclaimed as new when they appeared in the visual feast of Michael Mann’s Miami Vice. As signified by the word vice in the title, by the 1980s, the innocent insouciance of the Beatles had morphed into the dangerous world of drug cartels and cynicism that remain hallmarks of our world.

Help! simultaneously is a send-up of the Eastern gurus seeking their fortunes in the West and the spy film genre. Looking back, the Cold War seems an age of innocence compared to the complicated world of suicide bombers and flu pandemics that threaten us today.

Watching a rerun of Help! on TV today, I was impressed by the joyful enthusiasm conveyed by the young lads from Liverpool. No wonder they took the world by storm. John, I know, would later battle depression and drug use. Two are dead, and one is now a peer of the kingdom. Those still alive are, like me, old.

Where has that irrepressible way of poking holes in all that is stuffy, hierarchical, and repressive gone? The world has become a serious place. The college students I meet are – depending on their particular make-up – angry and cynical or focused and motivated. But silly and foolish? No. The Joker and The Fool are gone from our midst in these harsh times.

The Beatlemania that engulfed the world in the first wave of worldwide media reach probably can never be again. The markets are now highly segmented, narrow, and divisive.

As I listened to the lyrics of the film’s title song, I also was impressed with the wisdom of words that now have quite different meanings to me.

When I was young – so much younger then than now – I never needed anybody’s help in anyway. Most of us come into the world helpless and leave it needing help. As a result:

But now I’m not so self-assured /My independence seems to fade

I’ve opened up the Door /Help me if You can, I’m feeling down

I do not often listen to the music from my past. A good time was had by all – at least, much of the time. I and the new mass mediated cultural world was a-borne-ing. But that sweet bird of youth has flown, to borrow Tennessee Williams’ phrase that perfectly captures my bittersweet feelings about that time and those places.

Wise Fools walked among us, and I am glad I was there.

What Would Jackie Do? Presents Hints for Living with Courage, Discipline, Balance -- and Great Style

Long before J-Lo became a pop culture icon of the snappy abbreviated moniker, Jackie O was pursued by the paparazzi, celebrated by mass media, and obsessed over by fans. What Would Jackie Do? distills the fabulous femme’s life into a guidebook for living life with courage, discipline, and balance.

Shelly Branch and Sue Callaway have given me renewed respect for this former First Lady whose brilliant husband, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was famously assassinated with her by his side in an auto parade in Dallas, Texas. The authors state that Jackie Kennedy made sure that her young children – then six and three – slept in their familiar White House bedrooms that night, not at the homes of relatives. Kennedy was convinced the children needed the stability of familiar bedrooms in their lives. Later, she recreated these bedrooms for the children in her Fifth Avenue apartment. Unbelievably in these days when a million dollars buys a 500-square-foot studio apartment in Manhattan, that purchase cost her $200,000.

Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis was a strict but loving mother, according to Branch and Callaway. It was refreshing to read about a wealthy society woman of JBKO’s stature who was so engaged with her children. Memorable anecdotes are Jackie sending John Jr. for counseling when he started sowing too many wild oats, JBKO seen on Manhattan streets with Caroline laughing and sharing secretively like gal pals, and Jackie indulging her grandchildren with a sledding trip to Central Park not long before her untimely death at age 63 from cancer.

JBKO practiced balance in her inner and outer lives. A lifelong practitioner of yoga, she investigated the Eastern and alternative healing therapies that were in vogue for much of her life. But, Branch and Callaway note, she never went overboard about anything that could endanger her life.

Her homes also illustrated her emphasis on balance. She loved beautiful things, but she created environments (with the help of many famous designers) in which her children and friends could feel at home. Priceless treasures were displayed so casually that a visitor might not notice at first glance that the art was by world-famous masters.

Yet, above all, Jackie is remembered for her fabulous sense of style. Her over-sized dark black sunglasses are iconic. They remain a wardrobe staple for which I will pay almost any price. Her little shifts were copied throughout the sixties and seventies; her pillbox hats were immortalized in a Bob Dylan song. She was always impeccably dressed.

She made culture a part of White House life when she hosted internationally famous musicians, dancers, and writers with the President during their all-too-brief White House years. Her restoration of that historic landmark has been nearly undone by subsequent administrations, report the authors. Jackie and an elite committee put time and research into to getting the details right.

What Would Jackie Do? is written in short information bytes that make this the perfect book for waiting room reading. The breezy style is seasoned with memorable short anecdotes. The authors, editors for national magazines, have done their research. They know what they are doing when it comes to capturing and sustaining reader attention. Tuck this one in your bag for those times when you unexpectedly get stuck with time on your hands. The seconds will speed past as quickly as those fatal moments in Dallas that changed the world.

CC's Oysters Rock -- CLOSED, noted 5/11/2009

I returned to CC's Fish Camp for a second round of fried oysters a mere four days after my first incredible basket.

I was pretty sure that my second meal would not measure up. I have a way of idealizing my first visit to a restaurant. I build it up so much in my imagination that it would be close to impossible for the next meal to live up to my expectations.

I was pleasantly surprised by my second visit. The oysters were as perfectly fried in light batter as they had been the first time. When I asked for a tad more cole slaw, the waiter responded with a bowl so large that I could not finish it.

A drunk in a corner booth carried on loud cell phone conversations against the too-loud retro rock on the sound system. Other than that, I enjoyed my second fried oyster basket as much as the first. Bravo for consistency, when the consistency continues standards for excellence. I hope your trip to CC's Fish Camp is as good as mine.

CLOSED -- Superb Fried Oysters, Light and Crisp, at CC's Fish Camp

Driving past earlier this week on May 11, 2009, I found CC's closed. Too bad.

It’s easier to cook oysters wrong than it is to get it right. CC’s Original Fish House got it deliciously perfect yesterday. A basket of fried oysters featured huge shellfish encased in perfectly seasoned batter, simultaneously light and crispy. Inside, the oysters were fully cooked with no trace of rubberiness.

The order was accompanied by French fries and cole slaw. If I can fault CC’s for anything, it is for the stingy portion of slaw. Cabbage, after all, is not yet a high-priced delicacy. The ice tea was full-bodied and served up in a huge glass.

CC’s is a plain structure with wooden floor, tables, booths, and a bar. The nautical décor is a bit out of place on the commercial strip of West Oakland Park Boulevard. The area is dense with dilapidated strip malls housing small businesses and walk-in doctors. I was not sure what to expect – a fast food joint or exactly the kind of individually prepared meals that CC’s Fish Camp has.

Every tourist and many a Floridian probably has sampled mediocre and over-priced seafood in tourist restaurants along our waterways. CC’s Fish Camp is off the beaten trail but well worth the trip. My delicious and generous oyster basket was $8.99 for lunch, plus a couple of bucks for all the ice tea I could handle.

Bring the kids. If they don’t like fish, they can try the burgers, chicken sandwich, or ribs. There’s even a delicious-sounding walnut gorgonzola salad for the vegetarian in your herd. The menu includes a Louisiana specialty – po’ boy sandwiches. This meal lived up to the best fried oysters I’ve had in New Orleans and fried clams on the Massachusetts coast. To see the menu, go to www.ccsfishcamp.com.

The danger of falling in love with a restaurant is that the return trip often doesn’t live up to my ideal. There’s any number of reasons why fried oysters, clams, or calamari (all on the menu) can go wrong. I was there on a Thursday and during an off-peak time in mid-afternoon. I had the chef to myself. I am still looking forward enthusiastically to my next trip to CC’s Original Fish Camp. The restaurant is located at 301 W. Oakland Park Boulevard, slightly west of U.S. 1. There is a good-sized parking lot. If coming from the west, you have to do a U turn to get in.

Recommended Blog: Casting Jewels for Readers

I have been preparing to launch a website (details when ready) and neglecting this blog. It does not get much traffic anyway.

Today, I scuttled on over to Velvet Sacks from Ronni Bennett's Times Goes By, the best blog about aging anywhere.

Velvet Sacks refers to the little pouches in which women often keep small items of precious jewelry. As it turns out, Velvet Sacks is often about two topics most precious to me -- dogs and Louisiana.

During a time of emotional confusion, I bought a Florida condo apartment that does not allow dogs. Dogs were my most valued companions for more than 30 years. Honestly, what was I thinking to make such a lame decision?

I was not able to take care of my beloved companions and had placed two in good homes, thanks to my connections with dog rescue and dog training people. How could I have believed that I would live a dogless future forevermore. Now the value of property has decreased so much, I appear to be stuck here much longer than I dreamed.

As for Louisiana, like so many artists and oddballs, I've been attracted to New Orleans since I was young. I believe I read Dinner at Antoine's when I was a teenager. I lived the summer of 2004 in the Lower Garden District. The flood of 2005 tore my heart out -- as does the prospect of a dogless old age.

Enough of my whining. For some jewels, stop by Velvet Sacks.

FLORIDA PRIMARY DATE WAS ANOTHER REPUBLICAN DIRTY TRICK

One thing I do not hear Hillary Clinton or any commentator saying is that REPUBLICAN LEGISLATURE IN FLORIDA is responsible for disenfranchising us Democrats in our primary.

It was the REPUBLICAN LEGISLATURE that set the primary date so that it broke Democratic Party rules. This is just another dirty trick by Republicans. It is making my blood boil that no one -- NO ONE -- has noticed this.