The Gull Reef Club

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9/17/2019 · 2:03 am· Trouble · Good Bye Blue Sky
sometimes waiting and watching is all you can do. The weather has been oscillating quite a bit this... | Read More

9/1/2019 · 1:30 pm· Jaime · Good Bye Blue Sky
It's summer. We don't adventure much in the summer. It's too hot & buggy. We hibernate and wait... | Read More

9/1/2019 · 2:25 am· Trouble · Good Bye Blue Sky
So how goes the summer of adventure? Inquiring minds want to know.... | Read More

6/6/2018 · 12:46 am· Michael (Net2007) · My friend, my friend, (s)he’s got a knife
I've often felt this way, it's strange and divisive times in many ways. As far as this goes, I... | Read More

7/12/2017 · 4:22 pm· Trouble · Half of Us Are Wrong or in the Alternative, Half of Us Are Right
I've been following the saga and cataloging links of interest that contain more than mere rhetoric.... | Read More


And it’s just like any other day that’s ever been

Filed under: — Jaime @ 9:41 pm

Not sure if you beachcombers ever check out any of the links on my Gull Reef Reads (to your right; no, your other right). If you do, you may have wandered over to visit Rob a/k/a Acidman at Gut Rumbles. I was mostly a lurker there but he was on my everyday reads list (ie RSS). So I was saddened when I recently learned he passed away. I’m not really sure what to say here. When it comes to death on the net, I’ve unfortunately met more people who faked their own deaths (for real, there are some f*?!ed up people out there). But Rob’s death is as real as the raw emotion he presented everyday on his blog. And now he’s gone and I really don’t know what else to say.

Fare thee well, Acidman.


Chicken Shack Couture?

Filed under: — Jaime @ 9:03 pm

Tonight Mike and I were waiting in line with all the other hungry dinner seekers at Krispy Chic. I can’t recall right now what first drew my attention to the ankle of a fellow waiter, but once there my eyes locked onto a curious site and I spent the rest of the time paining myself not to stare. The man was sporting an electronic tracking bracelet. What was even more surprising was that he made no attempts to hide it by wearing pants or socks. Nosiree, he seemed to proudly sport his bracelet like an accessory to his black, fuzzy, flip-flop slippers.

As we were leaving a police car was approaching the parking lot.

Only in Savannah? Seriously, I’m asking. I really don’t know.


Clever title unnecessary. See below.

Filed under: — Jaime @ 10:39 pm

In Norwich, CT folks must now sort their trash into one of the following groups – paper, plastic, or white.




Filed under: — Jaime @ 12:31 am

While most cities are complaining about the influx of illegal aliens, Savannah has been relatively isolated. But we’re not safe from invasion. Oh no. The Boomers are retiring and Florida is full, flooding, or on fire. So they’re moving here. In great numbers. And they’re everywhere. On the roads, in the crosswalks, in the grocery store lines. And they are slowing everything down. Why hurry? They have nowhere to go or nothing important to do, so no one else must either. For of course, the Boomers are the center of the entire universe.

They were certainly the center yesterday in the Piggly Wiggly line when three sixty year old broads in large straw hats, with their Kathy Lee Gifford denim tank tops, placed their 4-pack of red wine spritzers, to-go cups, and InStyle Magazine, with a pic of Bradgelina, on the conveyor as one of them loudly declares, ‘There it is!’ (yes, she was referring to the celebrity baby pics purportedly inside), and she throws back her flabbyass arms in joy and knocks me in the head, never turning to apologize or to even acknowledge her lack of understanding personal space. “Oh there’s that Taylor what’s his name.” “The Idol.” “You know, he’s kind of cute…” Explosion of naughty twitters. Puke.

Trapped in a second store’s line this afternoon, Boomers again demonstrated their lack of understanding for their age, quantity of hanging skin, and number of liver spots. For at least ten minutes, my eyes were assaulted by a three-quarter-life-crisis couple desperately molesting each other as if they hadn’t anticipated the length of the line and the viagara was peaking a little too early. Naturally, I gave them the condescending, raised-eyebrow with essential, complimentary smirk and the lady had the nerve to give me that ‘jealous much’ look. Bwahahahahah. Snicker. Snort. Return to reading my magazine.

Horn-dog decides to start playing with a display of squeak toys, proceeding to squeak every damned last one of them asking his menopausal mistress ‘think he’ll like this one?’ and she would honestly analyze the squeaks – “No, not that one.” “Too quiet.” “Too high.” They finally chose one that met the incredibly demanding standards of Fido and Horn-dog proceeds to thumb a Reader’s Digest.

In the meantime, Mike returned to join me in the line and noticed the couple’s stuff was getting jammed up on the conveyer and politely points it out to Horn-dog. Horn-dog ignores him. Mike points it out again a bit louder. The jackass has the nerve to respond, “Well, it’s not that hard to move it.” WTF? Like we’re going to touch your crap, dude. This is the south and the assumption must be everyone’s packing, some are nuts, and a few are nuts and packing. We’re not taking the gamble that you’re latter who has issues with his food being touched. Pay attention, pops and this will all work out for all of us.

The Gull Reef Club