Charter man Jack and fishing on a Wednesday. 

Early is to rise on a Wednesday morning like today. The tide low, angular to the particular pattern of the wind, eyes sharp for the swimming prize—The ‘score’ the ‘get’

We press off the dock in stages, the first being the mettled wake breaking trot down the alley of the docks and once under the bridge, secondly, a cannon-like shoot off into the open domain. 

The waves are rough out here, the prawn surely feel it too. But this little fifteen foot boat equipped with a one-hundred and fifty horse power engine soars over just about any interrupting wave. 

It’s got its charm, fishing in this neck of the woods. Surrounded by this giant infrastructure of privatized home building, with two sixty year old men who have just about seen it all. Their gripes, complaints about the whole thing keep the trip interesting. These men are fishermen. 

This old log we ride on is not the fanciest boat in the harbor. But it carriers this confidence of some kind of Cop Boat or Pirate Sloop. Something ready to pounce on any pretentious little fuck that might be out here today, stealing the wake, the spot… the fish. 

It has its beauty though. It’s pearl white, minus kisses from the sea, and just big enough for a couple guys my size to make a decent fishing day out of. 

We cast into the bellies of the rich, right underneath the one million dollar boat. There are Snook here. They will bite. 

The spot hasn’t changed, it seems, potentially the land owner solely—Or the city entirely. 

But beckoned, the men ensure that they bite here like they had used to. Back in the seventies. When I’m sure all of this shit cluttered in and out of the water wasn’t here. 

But contrary to my view on it, I’ve felt big bites underneath the shade of the dock. Big ones that jerk you forward, laugh, and reassure your crew that you are after ‘em. 

 TIME TO LOOK ALIVE, GRAB IT BY THE THROAT

YOUR AMERICAN INSIGHT, DETRIMENTALLY,

MY DEAREST COUSIN.

In all great expanses, around the world in which we have so desperately traveled, I have found myself back in the cradle, the shit of the thing, Saint Petersburg Florida. The seemingly sundown villa of the world, surrounded by newer highrises and the despairingly lost fellowships. The world does not stop here, but in the timely manner that it does, would be completely contingent on the man you write about. The man desperate to voice his surroundings, a man so greatly impacted by where he will end up. 

May our rent be high, unreasonable, may our landlord be the one to sip dietary margaritas and wear polyester linings, but may we never let the newer age encompass our ability to see our world as we once knew it to be. The truth you harp, is what we know, never what we will know.

The air is thick, full of metals and sounds that do not resonate with you and I. In the weeks that I have been surrounded by the elaborate reconstruction of my home, I have grown angry at the complacency of our citizens. The folks that once yelled at the homeless for a quick look back and forth, and spit and drank for evening ball games. Morality of the herd relied on the independence of the man in the junked town, who fought for his home, his wage, his family. The lack of want for a gritty beachtown to remain a place where drinks cost sub-ten and parking didn’t require a third of an hourly wage, is more evident than ever, leaving a calling and reason to return. 

Lion’s Paw on Central Avenue is open from Wednesday to Saturday. Defying all ability to remain a rightfully open business. Its success is now contingent on the city's property tax, its traffic flow. Once a monument to the city; ran by an Armenian fashion junkie, is now the city's way of showing its regiment of tourists a good time halfway through the week. Encouraging the slow march of wallet-fulls and fat-asses to walk happily through the town, at certain hours, on certain days. The businesses all along central are faced with this fate, puppets of the city. Just a quirky little stop made for a resident with no idea of the historical significance of the small businesses that once made the city what it is. 

There’s your little thing to get mad at. 

                                          We’ll make it here. 

Jack.

 In strong favor of burning my W-2.

The endless war waged on the highway; Bumper-to-bumper, metal grinding, name-calling, middle-finger fucking, way to start the day. Loud engines, louder people with big and nasty faces ready at any moment to rip mouth to the ass of any human being behind the wheel. 

Drivers from all parts near southern San Diego jump early on metal tide, taking the surf roughly forty miles in no-time. Partly due to the fact that the speed limit is determined by the perpetrator and the course is determined by the hand of god and the fifty-fifty chance at death. 

Speeders, bikers, and racecar drivers heave and ho through the constantly changing traffic patterns. Changing lanes with haste and bravery, only to be found miles ahead squashed like a bug by the opposite in nature they challenge; The hyper unaware teenage driver. 

Throughout the Fifteen South, life, liberty, and the pursuit of making this month’s rent come to a crashing halt for the over zealous types and adrenaline addicts. 

So does this transportation, blood-thirsty fever junked up in every west coaster’s mind rival some kind of equally just and true force? The idea of gangs of White Knights ready to enforce law and spit and slay those who do such a disservice to tax-paying California citizens? The answers lie in the eyes of the beholder, unfortunately, with any case involving the California Penal Code of Justice. Any man could easily say that the gold medal Olympiad for traffic offenses goes to speeding; Yet any time 

I'm truly dug deep into the rat race, the only enforcing seen is between the law and the dead. 

Mailman brought the advertisements today. Between the ruck is paperwork from the state government, telling me I've gone way too fast. Worded so delicately, in the case I stick a straight face through reading the shit. Two hundred and twenty dollars for driving under the cameras, stuck above the lane free of the five-in-the-afternoon clutter, the one you’ve got to pay for.

And I’m guessing that this money I owe the IRS is for the speeding.