Tuesday 2nd January around 2 p.m…

I’m trying to think. Sitting on Scruffy. Got the heater going. Storm’s looming. Thanks to my painting project last summer I’m sitting high and dry. Knock on wood. I’m rocking a little. Not Rocking and Bobbing. Nothing too serious. Storm came in on time. Weather. com got it right for a change.

Storm front arrives like clockwork. Like it’s got nothing better to do. Show up and power down on us a little.

I don’t mind the rain. But not like last January. No hundred mile an hour winds, please. I’m planning on Weather.com being right for a change. 15 m.p.h. with gust up to twenty. Fine. No big deal. Bring it on. Seagulls don’t mind, either.

All they do is hang.

Go about their business like the weather don’t count. Daytime they hang around the dock. At night they find a flat open space, the ocean, or a rooftop, or the tarped roof of the old lady’s boat. The boat is empty. Old Lady gone to a rest home. Nobody else is using it.

I’m getting fed up with the Seagulls. I mean they’re everywhere. Seagulls all over hell. Mean-ass bastards. The bicker like humans. They fight. Steal food from each other. I don’t know why I ever started feeding the little pricks. They’re worse than rats.

Here’s a seagull eating a rat.

Downed it in one gulp.

Nothing cute about a seagull….

What the fuck am I doing, feeding seagulls?

I can’t get rid of them. The ones I showed you in the pictures? They won’t leave. They own my boat.

They perch on my hatch and stare in at me!

Waiting….

I oughta have my head examined.

I actually buy crackers to feed these bastards.

That’s why they won’t leave.

Is that crazy or what?

I need to make some constitutions

I’m on the horn with Rel Render.

The Dude lives in Modesto. High rent forced him to the hinterlands. You know Rel. The dude I wrote about in my novel. Log Of The Yardbird.

I’m on the horn with him because he’s like one of my four friends I can call up and they’ll actually answer the phone. Not always. Lately, Rel’s been blowing me off because he thinks I only call him when I’m bored off my ass at my free booze sample gig and need to bend his hear to pass the boredom. Which is true. But still. What’s a friend good for if he can’t help kill your boredom?

“Are you at work?” he says.

“No, I’m not at work. I’m sitting here on my boat. In the storm. Is it storming in your neck of the woods?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s coming down like rats.”

“I’m sick of seagulls, man. They won’t leave me alone. They’re staring at me through the window. At this moment they’re staring at me. In the middle of this storm. They’re staring in at me!”

“That’s because you feed them. Stop feeding them, you idiot.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re stuck in Modesto.”

“Are you at work?”

“No. I told you already. I’m sitting on my boat in this storm.”

“Okay, I get it. You’re calling me because you’re bored. I’m done here.”

“No, no, no. Don’t hang up. Please. I need to tell you something.”

“So tell me.”

“I got some serious stuff. Things. You know. Serious dedications. Not dedications. What’s the word? I can’t think of the word. I’ve got some serious stuff I’m planning. What do you call them? Constitutions?”

“What?”

“Constitutions!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait. Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you about the constitutions. The things you do for the New Year. I’ve got some good ones.”

“You mean Resolutions.“

“That’s it! That’s what I mean. Resolutions. I got some good ones.”

“I’m done here.”

The Dude hanged up on me.

My New Year’s Resolutions

It’s really boring when some Yahoo starts sharing his New Year’s Resolutions with you. Don’t listen to them. Tell the person you don’t care. You don’t give a shit. I have serious Resolutions. But I don’t plan to bore you with them. Except for maybe one.

I’ve resolved to make a pile of gold in 2024.

I don’t know where I’m gonna come up with it.

I’m trying to think.

Meanwhile, I’m Rocking and Bobbing

Wind’s kicked up. Rain splattering down.

Austin, the kid lives in the boat next door, just immerged from his main hatch to hit the head up at the sailing school. Kid’s got on sandals and shorts. He’s like the brown gull. Weather don’t bother him.

Strolling through the storm up to the head. That’s a quarter mile walk. He’ll be soaked when he gets back. Kid don’t care. He’s twenty six years old. Smokes pot all day. Sits on his Pop’s boat, plays shit on his phone. Sometimes his girlfriend shows up. She’s in medical school. Plans to support Austin’s dead-ass. I asked him once, I said, what’s your secret, man? He laughs. Good old Austin. Kid’s got life dicked…

Now it’s really coming down. Old Austin will be soaked.

But how am I gonna find that pile of gold?

Oh shit. My tarp’s flapping loose.

False alarm. It’s not my tarp but my other next-door-neighbor’s tarp. Andrew. He tarped his boat yesterday but did a shitty job of it.

I should’ve told him while he was doing it he was doing a shitty job. A tarp needs to be cinched down tight. I’m pretty good at it.

Just ask one of my seagulls.

I’m thinking maybe I can make some money, tarping boats.

Fat chance…

Meanwhile…it’s really coming down out there.

Well, shit. Let it rain.

Meanwhile I’ll make a list of Resolutions.

Stop feeding the seagulls. Put that on the list.

Fat chance…