“A tall, dark, handsome surfer enters the back gate.  “Hi Wrak, will you repair my surfboard?”  Wrak sits on the back doorstep smoking a cigarette and drinking a red can of Sugar Coke.  The little dog Punkin, who sits at his side with his tongue hanging out, panting like dogs do, turns and scurries back into the house through the Sears, Roebuck patented doggie door.  “Sure, I will fix your board. What does it need? “I am going to surf a place called the Strand up north.  The surf at the strand in the wintertime runs two to four times bigger than the popular winter breaks.  I have two small, green, fiberglass finlets I want you to resin to my surfboard, one half foot in front of the fin to stabilize the board in big surf.  I am worrying about spinning out at the bottom of a fifteen-foot wave,” explains Lu. “I will shape the fins and then glass them to your board with four-ounce glass and laminating resin, and then I will shave the product and give it a final coating of glossing resin.  The board will be ready by Saturday,” says Wrak. The three-fin surfboard is born.  Lu turns, salutes and walks out the back door gate, and the steel bolt hits the platen, closing making a sharp metallic sound.  A  Volkswagen bus starts up, and the tuned megaphone exhaust with glass pack muffler blares a popping noise, and the van turns, and the sound slowly disappears in the distance.  Wrak takes Lu’s board, a seven-foot-two Wilkin Phaser model, sands the spots, then mounts the fins with epoxy glue.  “I will form the fins with a sure form after they are glassed.

     The strand is situated as a deserted beach with large homes set one hundred yards from the beach because during high tides and large surf, the water moves up the beach, sometimes more than one hundred Yards.  The beach near the water juts sharply downward due to enormous tidal action.  Surfers time the surge coming in and then fling themselves off the ledge into the water, paddle furiously, and hope to make the sometimes thirty-minute paddle out to the breaking waves. The Strand consists of three surf breaks:  the jetty, the second peak, and the Washing machine.  A huge freighter run aground sits broadside at the south end of the beach in about twenty feet of water.  Some people agree that the Jetty at the entrance to Manta Ray Bay is the best spot at the strand. A surfer can jump off the jetty or paddle with the outgoing boats into the surf break.  The jetty at the strand can hold any size swell and breaks right going left almost all the way to the beach.  The jetty usually breaks the smallest of the three definite surf areas.  The local blond owners shoot to kill.   The second most popular spot is the second peak.  The second peak breaks right or left in a pipeline fashion, similar to Windansee in La Jolla.  The main attraction of the second peak is a channel that facilitates paddling back out to the waves on big days.  On big days, the rip tide surges through the channel, helping a surfer paddle back out to the break.  The tallest wave at the Strand is the peak that breaks next to the deserted ship on the south end of the beach.  Local surfers call the peak there the Washing Machine because the water between the shore and the breaking waves swirls like a huge Maytag upright washer set on fast.  The Washing Machine breaks big, and the waves primarily break left, then spit like the Pipeline on Oahu.  Paddling out in ten to twenty-foot surf sometimes takes half an hour.  Once out in the lineup where the biggest wave’s crest, a sneaker set breaking five feet bigger sometimes drowns experienced surfers.  The only way to the beach is to bodysurf a huge breaking wave to the white water impact area.  This is easier said than done.  On the beach, The Washing Machine does not look that big until a surfer starts his or her descent down a peak, and the drop takes three or more seconds.  Then everyone knows, a surfer will get the ride of their lives, or die trying. On a small three-foot northwest swell, the Washing machine will break eight to ten feet or bigger, easy. Today, the boys will surf the Washing Machine.  A bonus to the adventure shows as huge dorsal fins sometimes appearing next to the hulking wreck, serving as a lineup reference out in the water.  The option for traveling surfers is to either surf the Washing Machine or have their cars dismembered by an armed and unruly local surfing population that guards the beach like a paramilitary outpost. 

     “Where is BG?” asks HP. “BG does not like the paddle out here.  He says it is not worth it and goes up to the little corner where he has a girlfriend.” Says Wrak.  Lu and Eck wax up their boards on the beach.  Lu has his phaser, and Eck has a seven foot three tear drop pintail with a big fin.  Lu and Ech have teamed up as they are in the same socioeconomic group and share similar tastes.  Lu tires of carting Wrak around with a huge grocery bag of food.  Lu and Eck dive off a sand dune into the churning seawater, and the race commences.  “Let’s watch,” says HP.  “I might want to go backside today.”    The door to HP’s banana yellow Volkswagen scrap van flies open, and Cool sits in a druid robe with a cigarette and a Heineken bear.   “Is it good?” Cool yells, and then he starts singing like at a concert.  HP says, “It’s really big.”  Cool screams, “I’m going in.”   Lu and Eck duck-dive two large waves and continue paddling.  In a couple of minutes, two surfers sit in an undulating ocean framed by a huge grey, rusting freighter lying on its side.  Eck starts paddling furiously as a cleanup set begins to form outside.  Eck paddles to get in the monster like a man possessed, and he drops down, drops down, further to the flats, then squats and begins a bottom turn on a wave at least four times overhead.  Eck turns into a huge tube, and the wave covers him up, and Eck disappears.  Two seconds later, Eck shoots out of a wave along with a hissing spit of spray framing his exit. He begins paddling furiously to get back out, arms going like motor boats, and Lu takes off on a smaller one.  The wave approximates three times overhead, and the phaser bearing Lu jumps on the turn because the board is too wide.  The two small fin-lets hold him in.  On this day, Lu becomes outgunned.  All surfers who surf the big waves know a pintail board will draw out their turns to safety, and a big fin will not spin out on the ridiculous angles of huge breaking waves. Cool runs past in a super suit by O’Neil with a bright red rocket ship with a rounded tail. He has a job as a singer in a band. He jumps off the ledge into the water and enters the arena.  “I’m going in,” says HP.  “I will too,” says Wrak.  Wrak goes into his big brown lunch bag and retrieves a Gordon and Smith nine and one-half inch high-performance fin and screws the unit into his six-ten Blue Cheer Hinson natural Rocker design.  Wrak knows his backside remains weak, and today will test his spirit.  Eck gets another big tube.  The Pang gang rolls in along with their girls, and the three-ring circus begins. Wood leans out of the shotgun seat of a Volkswagen van and smiles to the crowd. He wears a mink stole ripped off from somewhere?    HP and Wrak begin their entry.  Wrak times the set, and they hit every twelve minutes, three waves to a set.  When a huge set of waves fills the panorama, HP and Wrak start paddling like men sentenced to life imprisonment.  “I am going to wait for a right-hander on a big set,” says Wrak.  He waits far outside where big sharks prowl and sometimes strike stragglers.   An enormous cleanup set of waves hits the horizon, and everyone scratches for existence.  The first huge wave starts to crest, and Wrak sits in position.  “I hope I do not die,” thinks Wrak. He turns and paddles like he never paddled before, and the wave lifts him up, and the board starts tracking down a four or more times overhead right-hander at the Washing machine.  Wrak doesn’t know the set cleaned up the gang, and they all swam for half an hour as he started to make the turn at the bottom.  The short board arcs up the face, and wrack goes vertical for the first time in his life.  He turns back down and drops endlessly again.  The wave slows down, and Wrak starts an even cutback into the hook of the breaking wave.  His fin hits something hard, and Wrak launches off the board into the washing machine.  Wrak at this moment fin dinged a great white shark.  Wrak hopes the shark is not mad.  Wrak pops up like a cork due to the buoyancy of his wetsuit and looks for the shark.  Poseidon, in all his mercy, sends a large wave breaking toward Wrak.  Wrak body surfs a fifteen-foot wave on his side to the shore where safety lives.  Surf cords have not been invented yet.  Twenty minutes later, Wrak retrieves his board and thinks twice about going back out.  B.A. surfs a purple gun with a small fin, spins out at the bottom of a triple overhead wave, and eats a soggy lunch of seawater and churning sand.  The pang boys on the beach slap their sides and laugh.  Bobbie ponders the situation intently.  Cool has a seven-eight long narrow, round tail pin and is riding a board more appropriate to the environment.   Cool and Eck rip huge pipeline tubes at the strand in the early morning as light offshore winds fringe the breaking waves with spray.  Wrak does not want to sit around, so he paddles back out for more torture and abuse.  He surfs two smaller waves, one right and one a leaning left, trimming for survival.   For some reason, only weathermen and women know, the north wind on the strand starts to blow at about eleven A.M.   The beach slowly blows out, and the ocean becomes capped with a white crest blending in to a huge seething cauldron of corduroy madness. Everyone comes in, strips their suit, and redresses. The paddle out is too hard, says Eck, I like pipe better.   The vans rev up and are gone.  Taco Bell and McDonald’s are the next stop for tanking before the one-hour ride home past the dunes, past the aperture carved out by an atomic bomb, and into the cool hills of Malibu County.

     Wrak would ride the Washing Machine occasionally with his friends with more appropriate equipment, namely an eight-foot Waimea gun surfboard.  Everyone agrees the paddle out is too difficult and the result of a wipeout at best disheartening if not lethal.  Nowadays surfers have tow-ins and surf jets. Bonze boys control the second peak.  Once, when alone driving a cast-off barracuda with carbon monoxide in the interior, Wrak happened into a twenty-foot-plus day, right, off the jetty.  The waves break like San Miguel, only bigger and churn almost all the way to the beach.  A huge ex-marine, at least six feet three, introduces himself to Wrak as they watch the waves from the parking lot at the jetty.  The marine says to Wrak.  “If you take off in front of anyone on these waves, we will punch you out.”  Wrak agrees and watches perfect surf spin off a long jetty bordering a boat inlet to Manta Ray Bay.  After watching a while, Wrack goes home, the barracuda spewing noxious fumes out the back and both windows open to air out the compartment as Wrack’s hair-do tosses and tumbles in the wind. 

     The sad point of Wrack’s surfing career is revealed in the fact that he never could tame the surf at the Washing Machine.  The waves, the current, the under tow, and the huge sharks punish the mind and body incessantly.  Wrak never saw another big shark there, but fishermen pull in eighteen-foot great whites with regularity and publish the picture in the Nards local paper.  The surf crew of the cosmic children, satisfied with their conquest, moves on to better things.  The beach at the strand blends back into quiet seclusion, and the waves keep pounding with a roar.  The Army Corps of Engineers removed the huge, rusting, corroded hulk of a freighter, and the sand forming the Washing Machine disappeared.  The huge waves, the intensity of feeling, of being alive in adrenaline madness, and the virtual picture of surfing will forever remain conscious in the memory of those who did. 

Outsourcing in present memory, in the United States, came to form during the heyday of General Motors Corporation. If the business was not equipped to manufacture a part or model, the administration would commission another business to fabricate the part and supply chain the product to the main corporation for inclusion into their item or device. The money that changes hands stays in the country and essentially in the state and the Government gets its fair share to maintain the infrastructure. For example, if Chevrolet needs aluminum header intake manifolds and the item is not included in corporate assets, the administration outsourced fabrication to Alcoa aluminum, and they forward the completed product to corporate headquarters. This “outsourcing” is an exclusive right, bound by federal and state tax laws, and the result is that the money in the circular economic cycle stays in the cycle, subsidizes the infrastructure, and goes round and round. Is the current economic climate representative of the feature that the administration declares as outsourcing, or should we look a little closer

The bleeding hearts that wail and moan and that are too weak and sickly to fight for our country, feel that the economy is global and that the people of the United States have the onerous duty to support the world and its people, stilted and famished by aggressive warlords. They, in their religious duty to help and heal, starving indigent people, feel that outsourcing heavy industry to other nations is their contribution to fighting world starvation and making the world a better place. Is this true?
Outsourcing heavy industry to other countries outside the Monroe Doctrine sphere of economy causes many things:
The accounting of business cannot be accomplished adequately because other countries, due to religious or governmental practices, do not support the same methods that the United States does, so the U.S. government cannot tax the business enterprise because it is in a foreign country. Thus, businesses outsourced production to hide income from the federal government. The supply chain of crude substrate for industrial processes in foreign countries cannot be demarcated because the resources cannot be annotated, and the federal government of the United States cannot tax or monitor the construction.
The crude impoverished labor that the warlords pay menial wages in foreign countries do not pay income taxes like United States workers so the government cannot support the social security system in the United States. In short big business outsourced to hide income from the federal government and at the same time show a bonus increase in net income and cash flow that reflects in stock price and investment stirring on Wall Street. In most countries, their does not exist social security so the aged pass away or fall upon the mercy of the church indigenous to its locale. The net effect of supporting outsourcing to foreign countries is that Warlords and demigods get incredibly rich, and the people don’t, but are glad because the job the government gives them is better than starving to death. Almost all the incredibly endowed foreigners of another country have a home in Pacific Palisades, California or Beverly Hills and raise their children as United States citizens, yet they keep their money at home in case they have to leave in a hurry or expatriate to their home country due to political upheaval. The most incredibly affluent people in Asia have lavish homes in Southern California, and they associate with the Saudis.
Where do all these cheap products from developing countries go to? The products from outsourcing corporations end up on container cargo ships bound for the West Coast of California. On a container transport, almost anything can be hidden and inserted into a container among the immense quantity of product, so foreign heroin and other contraband finds its way into the United States, commingled with legitimate product. In addition, cargo transport across the Pacific Ocean cannot be adequately monitored. What is declared in the manifest might not be in the manifest, and there is no inexpensive way to prove or police the shipments. Cargo carriers are the 21st-century equivalent of middlemen, and the people and their families that control the cargo destinations frequently add 100% cost to the goods before customs in Long Beach, California, or San Francisco. Positions in this enterprise are handed down from father to son. The United States Navy, instead of patrolling around with cruise missiles, should police the flow of goods into the United States instead of lying in port in foreign lands, policing a non-deserving world that is half the world away.
The result of outsourcing to the people of the United States is this:

1. The working people are not employed and cannot pay income tax or send their children to college
2. The fabulous markup on foreign goods only serves to make the wealthy wealthier
3. The loss of independence in heavy goods production makes the United States dependent of foreign nations, which can prove disastrous in time of war.
4. The increase in net income and cash flow on paper drives the market to obscene heights, and the financiers stir the funds to infinity, driving inflation to insane levels
5. The logarithmic flow of foreign goods into the United States provides opportunity for criminals to move extreme amounts of contraband into the continental United States, which serves to poison and destroy the children of the next generation.
6. Finally, the people of other nations are not that better off, because warlords and demagogues accumulate the money in their own pockets and don’t spend it on the nation that nurtures them
7. They all live here now!

This author never knew his grandfather well, but he once said, “if you are not part of the cure, you are part of the problem,” so I say to use the navy to control commerce instead of policing foreign nations. The government must subsidize heavy goods industries. Foreign governments must pay their share of social security taxes in our country in order to do business. Most importantly, Americans who are well educated and in the know must stand up for right and believe our people come first, foremost, and justly.

I might not be a republican now, but, Make America Great Again.

How should we, the indolent and working class, invest our money? The tall people in suits with lofty degrees tell us to invest the hard-earned payroll money in investment funds where experts using complex derivative algorithms and stock market curves buy and sell and earn extensive commissions, making them millionaires, and inflation soars. Is this real? Is this American? Should the educated become millionaires, manipulating the funds of the working class? The people who work for a living do not have the time to be active investors, where active investment is defined on the 1040 as a 20% time investment. There will always exist the rich and the poor, and the well-to-do usually live off the working class in some way. The Frankenstein monster is born.
Stocks are paper, and rise in a bull market usually after a war. With common stock, an investor only gets proceeds in a liquidation once the preferred and treasury stock owners assume the balance of the corporation’s assets. Try to buy preferred stock with a broker! If an hourly worker wants to invest in stock, they must choose a business with a large asset or owners’ equity, unlike most of the skyrocketing dot com apparent today. Just access a prospectus online, and if the assets are huge, then in a bull or bear market, it is time to invest in the long run. Blue chip stocks usually are stable investments for the long run.. Foreign or gold stocks, while looking unbelievably lucrative, can bottom out in a second if the new government steals the cash. These are gamblers’ fodder. Another way to choose investments in the long run is by net income. Get a PDF prospectus of the stocks you are interested in and choose the ones that have a steady and increasing net income value in the current period, and go with it. If an investor wants to make big money in the short run, make a product, build a factory, and sell it once it gets big. The most stupid investment in the long haul is real estate. Thomas Jefferson guaranteed all citizens a piece of land for themselves and their children; he didn’t say to speculate on property, sell when it is high and then move. To make a killing in real estate, buy low, sell high once a business or government moves in and makes a product or starts a function, then move on. In this author’s opinion, real estate salesman, luring citizens with the prospect of big profits in investment property, is both a heartache and a pain in the ass. Everything is always breaking and people who have lost their jobs have to be evicted and thrown out into the street. In Adam Smith’s book, “The Wealth of Nations,” rental real estate is the basis for accumulating wealth and is best perpetrated by a heartless cad like Simon Legree.
A bond is like stock; it appreciates in a bull market, and like stocks, becomes worthless if the market becomes bearish and nosedives. The difference between bonds and stocks is basis, just like bitcoin, and bonds have no basis. A bond is merely an IOU by a wealthy person or investor to pay back a loan at a later date with interest for the privilege of lending money. Bonds deliver a fixed taxable income and are useful in a retirement portfolio if and only if the economy is good.
Municipal bonds are the only bonds this author likes because the basis is a public work that people need to live. Municipal bonds are usually base on gas, electricity or water. These are what we need to live. Dividends generated by municipal bonds are not taxable, although they appear with lower numbers, and people would rather not eat than have to part with their Sony play stations and Battlefield 6, or have to stop viewing adult entertainment on their satellite feed.
For a stable income that is transferable to kin before demise, buy municipal bonds. Government treasury bonds no matter how stable they appear, can disappear like other stocks and bonds if the government declares bankruptcy and they are not FDIC insured. The menial, pecuniary interest of government bonds does not warrant purchase in a scenario of rampant inflation and obscene national debt.
I am just one of the stupid folk, in-between jobs, who loves his morning coffee and prays that his children will be educated, have families, go to church, and share in the liberty and freedom that many of our fellow men and women have died for. A lackluster FDIC-accredited bank that pays low interest on savings and tries to gouge clients every chance they get is the best chance the people have to live a bright future and raise their children. All accounts insure for up to one hundred thousand dollars in case of default, nuclear explosions or attacks by the Martians. A three-month CD that pays 4 percent and is guaranteed to be there once a citizen returns from a lunar mission is the way to go. Of course, this percentage does not match the 16% inflation rate, but the task of a free society is to eliminate or exile the people who cause the inflation.
Looking back to economics 1, taught at a junior college, the economy is like a pump with a closed circuit; it goes round and round. The pump leaks, and a citizen has to continually add money to the pump to keep it going. In other words, work part-time until you drop and spend money on products to keep the pump pumping. Do not feel obliged to give your children a huge treasure chest. People born with a silver spoon in their mouth do not amount to anything, and the maker wants the chosen few to help the underprivileged by educating and feeding their children until they can stand on their own feet. Like it or not, Yahweh watches, and he notices, and he rewards the faithful in ways that cannot be imagined. Getting on a plane and living in hotels gets old after a while, and making a human being successful is the only gift that the maker requires to be one of his own.

Wrak does not know why he woke up so early today. Today is Saturday, and the automatic coffee maker is off, and father does not have to leave at seven fifteen today after a cereal breakfast and a cup of coffee. Today is another day of summer in Tranquil Hills, and the sun shines in the kitchen window now as it does almost every morning except in June when the coastal fog crawls up the canyon into Bacon Way and Mellowman’s Lane. Wrak does not know why he drifts around the house so early today, but notices his little dog Punkin is not on his cushion. Where is Punkin, wrak thinks.  Wrak walks over to his father’s Pall Mall cigarette pack and steals one and puts it in his shirt’s pocket. He will go outside for a coffee and a smoke after breakfast.  Wrak opens the back door and steps outside, where the garage meets the back door of the house, and a little herb garden sits in front of the trash cans. BG is sitting on the ground playing with Punkin.  Punkin is sitting up and begging with his little paws, making a praying motion.  If a person were not sane, they would think BG and the dog were having a conversation.  Any sane person knows this is not so.  “BG, what are you doing out back with my dog at 6 AM?” Inquires Wrak.   “I had nothing to do, so I am playing with Punkin,” says BG. He ignores wrak and pets the little orange platinum Silky terrier. “Besides, he says, a new south swell should be hitting right now, and I want to see if the Bu is catching it.”  “Get your board and wetsuit and let’s go.”  “Get some food and steal some of your Dad’s cigarettes for the road.”   Wrak does not have a board, or is at least in between boards so he borrows his brother’s lily white seven-foot eleven-inch pipeline gun with winglets shaped by Dean.   “Be sure the board fits in between the seats before we start off,” says BG. “I have my sack of stuff,” says Wrak.  “Light me smoke and let’s have at it,” says BG.  

      The Pacific coast highway remains a beautiful stretch of road on the good side of town and touches in the opulent beach area of Northern Los Angeles called Malibu and Point Dume Estates.    The Army Corps of Engineers built the road wide, and the palisades to the east rise beautifully in the east and the ocean sparkles dazzlingly on the left and west side of the street.  Most of the movie star beach house has been torn down, and the ocean beckons alluringly, sweetly, and innocently as Catalina Island shimmers sixty miles away to the southeast.  Surf Rider Beach has a parking lot, a wall, and a secret house hidden in the moat inside of the creek belonging to the Ringe family. Surf Rider Beach today displays three-foot waves and a slight south wind, which ruins the shape somewhat and makes the lines section raggedly as they turn inward into the first point.  “Let’s go out,” says Wrak.   “There is hardly anyone here!”   “No!” I do not want to get in my suit for three-foot mush and south wind,” asserts BG.

“I am deciding,” insists BG.  “Don’t talk, I am thinking.”  “Probably the swell is too south for the Bu, and the tide changes right for the pipeline.  “What pipeline?” says Wrak.  At Newport Point, there is a secret surf break that only experienced people can surf.  Houses are built on the beach, and no parking exists so there is no way to enter the surf zone without having your car towed.  “I know Juan  says BG.” “We can park at his house on the beach.”  “Light me another smoke.” We are jamming to the pipeline.

   At seventy-plus miles per hour, the Chevrolet econocar propels down highway one.    Highway ten appears, and then Highway five appears, and the huge refinery burns by, and Highway 58 becomes a reality, and then into Newport.  BG’s uncle is Richie Rich.

       “Who is the guy?” says Juan. “BG, you know better than to bring strangers here!”   “He is cool,” says BG “Besides, he is a friend of mine.”  “OK,” says Juan, “Pull it in and close the garage.”  “I just finished the night shift as a security guard.” I am going to have coffee and breakfast and wake up,” says Juan. “You two can go out.”  “It’s pretty good.”  A south swell hit last night. The waves at the point are at least 8 feet.  Wrak learns quickly. He realizes that an extremely south swell blocked out by Catalina Island focuses on the point here.  BG and wrak sit on the beach at the point in the morning, and the water shimmers like glass, and the fishing boats sail out at the pier, and the waves crest at eight to ten feet and bigger, breaking like turning cylinders and spitting in the shallow end of the sand bar.   This is the Newport pipeline, and the wave looks better than Hawaii.  Hawaii is always windy.  The point today shows smooth as molten glass, and green water waves break in perfect form and harmony onto shallow sand reefs.   “Let’s go surfing,” says BG.  “I can’t go backside so good,’ whine Wrak, “They will run me over.”   “Just tell them you know Juan,” says BG.  “They will back off.”    “I will go surf on the right side of the channel. It looks almost as good.”  “Get a few waves and paddle over to the left,” says BG.  “It really is good.” 

     The paddle out at the point seems easy compared to the washing machine up north.  Wrak waits outside and paddles into a twelve-foot right peak, bottom turns, and releases the inside edge of the pintail to ride the tube.  A huge blond-haired local takes off in front of Wrak, and Wrak holds the edge of the board in the vortex, then reinserts the inside rail as the wave spits foam and blows by a huge blond-haired kook.  Inside the shore-break, the huge blond-haired local grabs the white pintail from wreck and says “If you take off on another of my waves, I will kill you.”  “Give me back my surfboard, you blond, I am a guest of Juan.  The big blond surf God looks at wrak, looks at wrak, looks at wrak, then grabs his own board and paddles away.  “I had better stay clear of him.” Thinks wrak, Time to surf some lefts.”  The channel at the point means an easy paddle out.  Halfway out, BG enters a ten-foot pipeline peak.  He goes straight off, then turns hard, and the board arcs up into the hook of the wave as the water forms a pipeline tube.  As the wave tubes over him, BG carves back down the face, then turns again up into the hook, and then goes by Wrak as he paddles out.    Outside in the lineup, BG returns.  “How do you like the pipeline?” Asks GB.  “The waves are great but the locals burn aggressively,” says Wrak.  “Just do not snake Juan,” says BG, “Then you will be OK.”  “Let’s surf till our arms drop off,” says BG.  “This is as good as it gets.”   A small six to eight-foot wave peaks at the point, Wrak is on it, and now he is a believer. 

       Juan lets BG and Wrak redress in his garage.  His parents live upstairs in a two-story house converted into a duplex.  “I have someone I want you to meet,” says BG.  “Let’s go meet the Brotherhood.”  “The Brotherhood of eternal love.” 

     We met some friends in Newport town in an apartment in an upscale building with security and potted plants everywhere.  BG tells Wrak that one of his friends is deaf and not to make fun of him.  The deaf person is smaller, with brown hair, a deep chestnut tan in short pants and a Hawaiian shirt.  Another person is larger, skinnier, with brown curly hair and a beard, dressed similarly, and who laughs a lot.   The wrak grabs a piece of paper and writes on the paper what we are discussing so the deaf person can stay tuned.  The deaf person does not talk, but smiles and reads the paper. Smoke passes around and the boys share surf stories and compare the lifestyle of Los Angeles with Newport Beach and Irvine. “Is he cools,” they each ask BG in turn.  “He is cool,” says BG, a friend of mine. Do you have a car for a run they ask.  No, says the Wrak, they think I am not responsible.   After a while, Juan shows up on schedule, and BG and Wrak decide the time is right to leave.  Wrak waves goodbye to the brotherhood and will never see them again.  They provided hospitality and cordiality and all that can be expected of them in a place in time down south.  BG and wrak accelerate onto the freeway and rocket toward Los Angeles.  “Light me another smoke,” says BG.  “I am driving.”   The refinery and the large deep fence hiding the factory from the people appear, then disappear.  We arrive on the ten and then the one and up Sunset to Bacon way.  Wrak pulls his board out of the hatchback, and Punkin jumps out from the fence and greets the pair.  “Hi Punkin,” says BG.  “See you later.”  The green Chevrolet econocar accelerates quickly and smoothly because the car weighs very little.  BG leaves as mysteriously and enigmatically as he arrives when the buoy indicators of big surf herald a new swell.  Wrak goes back to the daily rigmarole of reality, sometimes punctuated by excitement.

        Wrak never rode the pipeline again.  Occasionally, when wrak would surf the area, he would park illegally and watch the waves from an aperture on the street that meets the beach.  Once,  a skinny, tall, beach boy with a long head and blond hair would appear and menace him with a Ruger 10/22 varmint rifle.   The tall beach boy shot him once when he was in his wetsuit, but the bullet did not stick in.  The Newport pipeline is real.  The Newport pipeline tubes perfectly.   The Newport pipeline gives a great drop and acceleration.  The Newport pipeline is off limits to commoners.   “The rich are different from you and me,” said The Great Gatsby.  Wrak knows what he means.  The only reason Pipeline is better than the point is that the water is warm, and it gets to twenty feet.  The point is best at six to ten feet, but don’t bother to go surf it; the well-endowed landowners have dredged the reef because they don’t want low-class surfers treading on the mean high tide zone.  The California pipeline does not exist anymore, at least until the sand builds back up again after the Wracks is long gone.  I guess this is the way it is .  They have done it to moonlight too!!  Time rolls on, the morning is soft and beautiful and full of tanned women and waves in the time where only luck and darkness prevail. 

Nuclear reactors are not cheap to make, like automobile engines or computers. They construct of high tensile steel designed to withstand high temperatures. The melting point of steel is around 1800 degrees Fahrenheit, and with tungsten and molybdenum added, this brings it up a bit. The reactor is an enclosed vessel encasing fuel rods that hand in the coolant. Nuclear fission makes fast neutrons, beta particles and others, and the steel slowly increases in mass because of neutron capture, and the vacant orbitals of the transition metal vessel pick up electrons. The result of this constant action produces a vessel that becomes brittle at around one hundred years.
Brittle things crack under stress and all nuclear reactors must be replaced dependent on the size of the pile and the fission intensity.
The coolant of nuclear platforms is continuously under debate. Water works well, but the reactor must place on the coast of a continent because extreme quantities are necessary to cool the reactor to salient values. Due to this physical observation, brilliant scientists postulate a liquid sodium-cooled reactor. Metals conduct heat and radiation better than any mass, and the metal can be reused until it becomes radioactive or changes in mass. In the native state, the metal sodium, sitting at the top left of the periodic table with extreme ionization potential, explodes on contact with water and burns upon contact with air. In a human environment, where “to err is human” this action does not seem prudent and at best dangerous. Using the metal Galium, which is liquid at room temperature and is placed on the left side of the periodic table akin to the transition metals, seems feasible. The result of intense neutron bombardment over time has not been considered to date and volatile gallium at two thousand degrees does not seem innocuous. Digress to steel production and all steel workers complain of “fume fever”. What really is the best coolant element? Time will tell and the talk around town is that arsenic placed in a nuclear reactor neutron port eventually becomes gold????? This author thinks water if the best way to go because of track history. The nuclear plant at San Onofre, California still produces energy and is at least 75 years old. Radioactive water enriched in deuterium and tritium makes hydrogen bombs, but decay means they must be replaced every seven years. A fissile will detonate tritium and this author is sure that top secret scientists continually work on a method or technic that permits fusion temperature ignition at minimum temperatures using a fissile.
What is breaking radiation? Bromstrellung as Al Rombauer used to say, occurs when fast neutrons strike a transition metal in a crystalline lattice and produce gamma and X-radiation in a photoelectric effect. Around each nuclear reaction vessel , there must exist a steel wall to decrease the energy and range of the nascent free neutrons. After the steel wall, concrete, in extreme proportions and thickness, provides the mass to absorb high-intensity light spectrum radiation, all in a solid and massive form. When the concrete second shield starts to develop powdering,, it is time to bail out and decommission the site.
The offices and control systems of the site must station behind these two shields and to all poor biologists trained to handle isotopes, the admonition of distance and shielding are constantly in mind. Electric generators using energy present in the reactor coolant sit alongside the fission kettles and are dealt with the same as the reactor vessel because they too become intensely radioactive with time.
Changing fuel rods remains as the ever-present danger close, and it seems timely to state that breeder reactors need fuel rod changing at a greater time interval than standard reactors. Thus, due to the nature of human beings, it seems safer to have breeder reactors than standard configurations.
All sorts of new designs pop up, created by rich and privileged minds, like uranium mixed with ceramic, making balls that slowly fall out of a hopper at the bottom, kind of like a grain silo in Kansas. Nuclear reactors with fissioning, glowing plutonium at one thousand degrees are not like corn to be sold to an ethanol maker. Their exists no time or training to remedy or fix things and it seems logical to a neophyte without a degree in nuclear physics that fuel rods hanging by a chain, amongst neutron dampeners that limit the rate of fission seems the safest way to go. If a coolant leak exists the dampers, now made of silver, can fall down and lock into place, preventing a nuclear incident.
The most salient feature of high technology, expensive, dangerous energy producers is that these edifices require constant human attention and moderation. Nuclear reactors connected to a grid, away from a city but close enough to impact it, must be designed so the site is idiot proofed, and safe to all so a policeman, if necessary, can enter the control room and shut down the reactor. Every human being has a bad day, their wife is leaving them, their son is in the hospital, they have a hangover from a bad batch of tequila and more. Accidents most certainly will happen, but the controls will be simplified, easy to read and configured so anyone who can read can control. From this author’s understanding, all nuclear incidents are accident-based, not due to an explosion caused by 007, or a disintegrator from Mars. Responsible people will be selected by the government, by Psychologists who study them, and by their dedication to defy the human dilemma. On her day off, she looks out the window after her shower, and she feels cooped up. And so it goes.

How and where and when does man build a nuclear reactor that is safe and impacts the community in a minimal fashion?
The answer is simple, not simplistic, and derives from common sense and good old Yankee ingenuity.
A reactor must be built in a place where an eventual meltdown will not cause a horrendous calamity. Places that are safe exist. Because the longest-lived reactors in the world sit near a great body of water, water-cooled nuclear reactors must reside. In a meltdown, huge quantities of water cool the core and bring the reaction back to equilibrium. In the United States, safe places are on the seashore of coastal states and abutting the great lakes area where the lakes hold millions of gallons of extremely cold water, benefiting only the Erie Canal and Niagara falls.
A reactor can also be built in a remote area where a meltdown has no direct effect on local populations. In sparsely populated states in the northern forties of longitude. Here, a meltdown has little consequence and the energy produced by reactors can feed into a grid to serve populated cities and heavy industry factories.
The reality of meltdowns is that the core forms a superheated magma and sinks deep into the earth. Intervention by man serves no purpose and the core remnants can be fenced off until radiation follows the logarithmic law of extinction.
Reactor shielding
Most current nuclear reactors are poorly shielded because of man’s inhumanity to man. To shield a nuclear reactor, water serves to moderate small particles like quarks and bosons. The next shielding layer stops the most important aspect of nuclear radiation danger. Bromstrellung is a German word for radiation secondary to the deceleration of basic particles like protons, neutrons, and electrons. Bromstrellung registers in the gamma and x-ray region of ionizing radiation. To create bromstrellung, an alkaline earth crystallite like steel becomes an emitter of bromstrellung when the subatomic particles impact upon the nucleus of an atom and decelerate. Impacting particles generate gamma rays. A secondary shield of high mass number element like lead or other heavy metals, turns the bremsstrahlung into infrared radiation also known as heat by means of the photoelectric effect. In addition, to shield a nuclear reactor emanating fast neutrons, gamma rays, heat and light, three shields become necessary. The first is an ionic shield that can be made from water. The second is a braking radiation shield to be made from steel; the third is a gamma shield that fabricates from use of any of the heavy metals in the periodic table of elements. This coupled with calculation of radiation safe distance by means of a Geiger counter forms the parameters and specifics of shape and size of containing vessel. It is prudent at this point to remember the basics of nuclear physics: distance and shielding. The force of radiation = Gmm/rsquared where G is the acceleration due to gravity or the speed of light.
Breeder reactors
Breeder reactors are thorium breeders or uranium breeders. Thorium breeders are safer because the core does not go critical as fast as a uranium breeder fired by plutonium. The birth of uranium 235 or plutonium 239 by means of thorium or uranium breeders, respectively, occurs at a logarithmic rate. The product must be removed in relation to a logarithmic calculation based on breeding mass and size of the fissioning bed. The math is simple; people are complex and amiss to education and behavior change.
The rate of breeding is directly proportions from the rate of radiation emitted from a core. New material is added as the product is born and the reactor is safe and fashionable. In the event of a meltdown, non-reacted raw material pulls from the core and the reactor comes to rest. All reactors will eventually become breeder designs because the cost, difficulty, and danger of changing reactor core reactants is the same whether conventional or breeders. Conventional reactors need to change fuel rods more often.
Reactor design
A circle of concentric rods seems the safest and most logical picture of a reactor core. The rods are suspended by means of a chain or wire just as a guillotine blade hangs over the head of a criminal. If the core overheats, moderator rods can be inserted or the raw material can drop out of the core into a concrete tomb. The reactor sits safely away from supervising staff and controls occur by action of chains, wires, and levers pulled or guided from a remote location by robots. As in Chornobyl or Three Mile Island, all nuclear accidents result from human error; for this reason, and this reason only, all reactors, cores, and controls must be completely idiot proof.

Radioactive waste
Radioactive waste equals strontium ninety and cesium 137, along with radioactive water. Strontium 90 mainly emits alpha particles with a half-life of five thousand years, and cesium 137 emits gamma rays with a half-life of 120 days. In the future, man will collect radioactive waste as a positive byproduct of a nuclear reactor and use the waste as a source of heat or a source of electrons, forming batteries by means of the photoelectric effect, turning gamma into electron movement in a wire. Currently, the best way to store radioactive waste is to drop it into a chasm that empties into the center of the earth. Will radioactive waste become more valuable than gold when humankind uses it to bake long-term batteries?

Fission or Fusion Oh My!
Fission reactors tend to overheat and go critical. Fusion reactors burn at full throttle and can die in an instant. Fission reactors produce large amounts of gamma-generating waste, and fusion reactors generate helium which, when it accumulates, is one of the most toxic elements to biological life forms. The choice will be made by the next generation. The author, for one, chooses fission because fission reactors do not go out, they refuse to die. He excludes fusion because of the generation of huge amounts of helium and a tendency to blow out. This author feels that fusion reactors will only serve as power for military vehicles because they require less shielding. However, other dreamers with their hands in their hair, imagination, and a whim of Yahweh will choose in a scenario of beauty and optimism. We can dream, and in this want, dream even better. Puff on when the beer goes flat.

A long time ago, when Wracks washed out of his residency, he ended up back at home. His parents have him see a doctor. He sits in the green chair and reads and goes out to walk his little silky terrier, which is old now. They walk to the lookout and watch the ocean, the water a greyish blue with white caps demonstrating the ever-present onshore west wind that begins at twelve o’clock noon and sometimes abates at 5 PM for a glass off. The little dog sits next to him attentively, and they watch, and the sun slowly descends and eventually kisses the ocean until sunset. Because his dog is old, he carries him back in his arms like a father carries a baby child. Then at home, Punkie dances and goes to sleep in his little box underneath the barbecue fireplace in the living room.
Grandma is gone now. The Wracks sleep in her bedroom, and he can still smell the perfume she liked so much, “white linen”. The cotton sheets with French etching cover the maple trellised bed, and now it is his. Nobody is here, his mother has a job at the V.A., and she says she is a notary, and his father still holds two erratic jobs, one that lays him off periodically and the other part-time affair, a teaching post at the college downtown. He looks out the window as he always does, and the white rose in the planter box is blooming, a single flower on a barren plant, and the Wracks looks at it and remembers. Mother is home now and she suggests that Wracks go to the library in the next city and meet a reading group there. “Maybe you can make friends,” she says. The next day, the Wracks take the blue bus to Monica, get off, and walk to the public library there. The library there is a newly constructed affair for the literate, and the Wracks climbs the trellised stairs to the second-floor reading room. In the room, in the center, are approximately four people sitting at a table, all wearing off-work clothes, jeans and sweat shirts and adidas tennis shoes. They all have short hair, are tall and lanky, and giggle when the Wracks approaches so he sits at the table across from them, alone, and he pulls out a textbook and starts to read. From out of sight approaches a middle-aged man in a leisure suit who looks around, then sits across from him in the corner his back to the wall. Then a mid-sized gentleman. A little on the small side, dressed in a worsted grey suit with tie and matching belt and shoes, approaches and looks at him. His eyes are grey, and a little on the bluish side, his nose and chin are aquiline and penetrating, and is hair is not grey, it is not white, it has no color but silver. Silver. It is longish and swept back as if he had just had it coiffured. He asks, “May I sit here?”. The Wracks says yes, and the man pulls the chair from the table and sits down.
My name is Montgomery he says, perhaps you have heard of me. The Wracks says, “No, I haven’t, but continue”, and the man smiles with a full set of teeth in a knowing way. I would like to tell you about my life, which I spent in the military.
“When you interrogate prisoners, interview them one at a time, ask them a question, and if you do not like the answer, shoot them in the head. Throw the corpse outside. Ask the next hostage a question about the information you want to know, and if they do not answer or expunge erroneous information, you shoot them in the head and add them to the pile. Eventually, the hostages betray their own kind and when they do, put the man in jail until the information validates, and then let them free. Their own kind will deal with them.”
And he smiles.
“When you invade a town, surround it with tanks and then blow the central bank apart. Blow open the safe with a cannon shot. Divide all the loot among the men so they can send it home to their families. Save the best of the spoils for yourself. Tell the men that they can have any fortune they can steal if they include you in the plunder and kill any of the citizens if they complain or resist.”
And he smiles
And his bluish grey eyes seem to glow, or is the Wracks hallucinating
Be sure to get up every morning at six AM and take in the morning air. This is imperative. Every morning until you are home, do the same thing. In the morning. The opposition uses carrier pigeons to relay messages because radio waves can be jammed, and other forms of communication can be seen. If you see a bird in flight in the morning, they are near. Sound the horns of battle and muster all the men. They are close.
And he smiles.
“ Be sure to wear high boots because the wogs throw cobras at you and then run away.”
And he smiles.
His teeth are long and white
He said more, but the Wracks was a neuro patient, and his head started spinning, and he could not believe what was just conveyed to him.
It is nice to meet you, Dr. Wracks. Perhaps we can meet again. He stands up, dusts off a dress hat, moves away without a cane, and disappears. The valet looks around, stands up, and follows him out the rear exit.
The Wracks never went back to the library, and he told his mom it was too far away to take a bus ride. Young people are so naive and stupid that they do not realize the goose with the golden egg is sitting in front of them. To his disadvantage, he never went back, and now he realizes his immaturity and stupidity, but to no avail. It seems that in times of war and strife, Yahweh sends special people to lead the multitude to safety or to victory. Their methods might be unusual or even evil, but these are the ones sent by the maker to impart salvation and justice and peace. Pacifists call them vicious animals. Effeminate call them crude and crass. The bottom line is that these intrepid warriors ensure the multitude another generation of peace. These are one-of-a-kind people, and the rulers keep them close, often under wraps for their lifetime, and for their own safety.
Wracks sits at the lookout with his old dog, who still has a beautiful coat because his owner feeds him spaghetti and meatballs or ballpark franks and rice. His dog looks up at him and yips. The sun is setting, and the clouds are orange, slowly becoming pink and then purple. The yellow orb descends into the ocean, slowly, and then melts away, and night begins. Wracks carries his little dog home in a backpack, in front, and sets him on his bed. Punkie wags his tail and moves his feet.
When you see the old fool on the hill, wave, and say thank you. They bestow the people with another day to raise their children and watch the sun go down. And the eyes in his head see the world spinning round, pip pip, cheerio, and carry on.

Wrak is sitting in Grandpa’s green recliner.  The chair grandfather would sit in before he died.  Wrak studies history in Summer school.  Taking classes at the local community college costs less than attending a university, and the prerequisites that need to be fulfilled are cheaper.  BG opens the front door and walks into the house and into the living room, where Wrak sits on the green chair and reads a history book that weighs five pounds and looks like a phone book.  The history is American history from inception to 1945. “A southern hemisphere south west swell is about to hit with ten to fifteen foot waves on south facing beaches,” exclaims BG as he waves his arms in earnest.  “I had a smoke at the lookout last night, and the ocean seems flat as a board.”  Says Wrak.  “I have sources,” says BG. “What sources,” intones Wrak.  “Good sources,” says BG.  “What good sources,” questions Wrak.  “Secret sources I cannot disclose.”  Insists BG.  “It is nine o’clock now.  Let’s go check the Bu.”  Get your stuff and bring some of your Dad’s cigarettes.  “History bores me anyway, “says Wrak. 

     Down the Marquee street, past the self-realization center with a swami dome stuck in secluded madness and on to the PCH goes Wrak and BG. This morning shows summer as the water looks green and the smell of seaweed and dried crustacean fills the air, pushing into the green General Motors economy car with a hatchback and Michelin high-speed tires.   Up past the Sea lion and then Alice’s restaurant, where you can get anything you want.  Drop right in around the back, it’s only twenty miles from the railroad tracks.  Anyone can get anything they want at Alice’s restaurant, and the mixed drinks taste good, too.  The booths look directly into Malibu’s first and second points, and when the sun sets, the restaurant lights up in color until nightfall.  Pulling into the parking lot, BG and Wrak witness the current state of wave height and conditions.  A slight south wind makes the waves look weak and crumbly, kind of like broken cookies.  The waves appear to be a disjointed two to three feet at best.  “BG, you told me that a huge south swell is hitting now, and the Bu breaks like weak mush in a porridge bowl.  “My sources are A1,” says BG. “Let’s go surf in San Clemente.  I know the swell will be hitting there.”  “But the drive to San Clemente lasts about two hours,” says Wrak. “Even if the waves break big, the coast will be blown out by twelve o’clock. “  “No, it won’t, “says BG. “If you drive with me, this time you do not have to pay for the gas.”  “Why not? Let’s go.” Wrak.   The green Chevrolet econocar revs up, and BG patches out of the parking lot.  “Light me a cigarette,” orders BG, “I am driving.”

              After driving southward to San Diego a thousand times the route becomes monotonous and the sights breeze by at an incredible speed and time lapses until the destination looms upward in sight. From the one to the ten to the five and then off at Christianitos Ave. in San Clemente, the time flies by at seventy-five to eighty miles per hour.  “I still get twenty miles to the gallon flat out,” smiles BG.  A secret parking lot off the main street becomes the final resting spot for the two north county surfers looking for the perfect wave and the endless summer in a youth they both know will end soon.  “No one comes this way, “says BG. “They are too lazy to walk in.  The locals sneak into the south entrance and frequent lowers, never looking north to where the two true gems of the trestle lie.  “They hide in the brush with varmint rifles and sight on each other,” says BG.  The trail from the secret parking lot underneath the trestle and onto the first point reveals itself as a dusty path amongst scrub vegetation across a lagoon and onto a beach strewn with small pebbles of odd sizes smoothed by the constant action of waves on matter.  Now the two surfers are close enough to see the water, and the waves are at least fifteen feet high.  When a wave gets big, the size of the swell becomes hard to estimate.  Surfers discuss wave height in terms of body length, one body length being six feet.  At the Apparel point, the waves are at least three times overhead.  “I told you so,” screams Bg.  “It is three times overhead and churning.  Let’s go surf some rights first at Uppers.  Wrak hugs his yellow anti-meth model.  His friend Eck was drunk when he shaped the blank and put the meth model template on backwards.   The result becomes a seven-foot-seven mini-pin gun with square rails and a seven-and-a-half-inch fin in shark tasty yum yum neon yellow. Against all odds known to man, the board rides beautifully and does not spin out in large surf. Wrak starts singing, “Every girl likes a sharp-dressed man,” just like ZZ Top.  Uppers roar huge with a peak and a huge throw-out inside section, daring the intrepid to make or die and swim.  BG has a new gun. “I took it off the rack, and Robbie shaped it,” smiles BG.  “Big Uppers, how delightful. “  Compared to the washing machine up at The Strand, the paddle out at Uppers remains a cake walk.  Both surfers time the sets and scratch out to the peak.  “Line up with the last trestle,” exclaims BG, “Then make the drop.”  A huge set of wave pops up on the Horizon.  BG likes to take the first wave of a set. He turns and paddles furiously and disappears with the hiss of a cresting huge wave.  Wrak scratches out, and the second wave is three feet bigger, and Wrak is too far out but exerts against the odds and is in to a giant, and the run is on.  At large size, uppers yields a soft take off compared to Pipeline, but the wave then hits the cobblestone point and no time exists to turn back into the wave, only to turn at the bottom and go as fast as possible.   Wrak mistimes the huge inside section and chickens out. A huge lip starts to fall ten feet in front of the nose of his board.   He exits off the top and shoots his board upward so the wave cannot trap it.  Wrak is safe and scrambles to his board and starts the scratch to safety. Wrak paddles out to the lineup and finds the last trestle to align.  He sits on his board waiting for BG to return.  BG rode the first wave almost to the sand and now walks up the point to re-launch again at the impact zone. Something juts out of the water behind him, and Wrak is scared.  A huge shark with bristling teeth comes up, opens its jaws, and mouths Wrak. Wrak prays.  The huge twenty-foot shark that might be a Mako slides backwards into the water and is gone.  “BG, a huge whale just came up and kissed me,” screams Wrak. “Don’t get excited.” Drones BG.  “If it were hungry, it would have taken you. Lightning does not strike twice in the same place.”  “I hope it kisses you too,” whines Wrak.  For three hours, the two are the only ones out in the water in triple overhead uppers. The locals are lazy and wave after wave pour through the peak and into the cobblestone point.  “I cannot move my arms anymore.” Says Wrak.  “Let’s go in and surf the lefts at Fabric Point.” Says BG.  “Did you bring your canteen?”  “Yes, “says Wrak, “But I saw someone walk over to it on the beach.  “What did they look like?” says BG. “He looked small and with blond hair, but that was all I could see, “says Wrak.  “I know who it is, “says BG.

              Ten minutes of walking north of Uppers is Fabric Point.  The point reveals as a left jutting beach set out into the water.  There lie rocks on the beach just like uppers.   The wave at fabric point at large size shows as a huge triangle peak like Sunset Beach, Hawaii.  The largest waves then hit the point and break in a concerted fashion all the way to the beach. For some reason, Uppers breaks bigger than Fabrics, but Uppers breaks right and Fabrics breaks left, and goofy feet love left-breaking tubular waves.   “I am too tired,” says Wrak.  “I will watch you and be a lifeguard.”  “How do you have so much energy?” asks Wrak.  “My arms ache from exertion.”  “Performance powder,” says BG.   “He launches out from the rocks into the exploding surf.  BG caught three huge triangle peaks at Fabrics.  He descended straight off, bottom turned, arced off the top, and then again and would kick out before the inside beach break and paddle furiously to get back to the takeoff point.  “Let’s go.” Says BG.  “I want to surf the glass off at the Bu.”  The pair jogs back up to the secret parking lot at Christianitos.   Youth and vitality are wasted on the young and the two gorge on brown bag food, pack the gear and head north at warp speed.  “Light me a smoke,” says Bg.  “I need the nicotine.”  “I told you so, I told you so. Don’t forget I told you so.”  The econocar fills up with smoke and Wrak sips his red sugar coke and the machine rockets northward.

              “Are you sure we have time?” questions Wrak.  “I want to nab a few waves at the Bu just as the swell hits.”  Says BG, “If we miss the traffic, we will be in Malibu by six thirty P.M.”  Sometimes the Northwest wind, which flows through Malibu in the afternoon every day, abates for the good and the faithful.  At six thirty, Surf Rider beach breaks six to ten feet high with a slight north wind, which is offshore in direction.  The tide ran out, and the cobblestone point shows like a huge bingo board, and the waves break forest green tubes with misting lips flying down the point like a big machine.  Everyone and their mother is out in the water.  The waves break six to ten feet, spitting low tide tubes, and the sun sets as a yellow-orange fusion orb set in a blue sky with wispy clouds, and the island of Catalina is illuminated in the distance.  If Poseidon himself came up to greet the world, he never would be noticed among the beauty, intensity, and uniqueness of a glass off at the Bu in the summer, at low tide and spitting ten-foot tubes. “I have my sources,” says BG as he turns his eyes up into his head. “I have my sources.”

      Out in the water Wrak sits by himself outside, like always, waiting for a big set wave.  For some reason, a terrifically tall peak looms up out of nowhere, and Wrak surfs left at a right point.  “Just like Pipe, thinks Wrak, “Just like Pipe.”  The sun sets, and the ocean drowns the orange-red light with green-blue fullness.  “Let’s go now, or you walk home.” Insists BG, “I have to go to work.”  “Where do you work?” asks Wrak.  “In the city,” insists Bg, “In the city.”  Unloading the equipment at the house of Wrak again happens a zillion times.  The boards are bounced on the ivy, and suits are thrown over the fence.  “Wash my wetsuit in cold water,” commands BG. “O.K. says Wrak.  “Thanks for the ride. “  BG takes the hose and gives himself a shower behind the fence near the trash cans and dresses quickly from a satchel bag, waves goodbye and is gone, again.  Wrak walks into his house, and the little orange platinum terrier spins around and yelps.   “Hi Punkin,”  “I am home. Where is everyone?”  “Your mom and dad are out.”  “There is some chicken in the refrigerator.”  Says Grandma.  Wrak makes coffee and eats the chicken, then takes a shower, then falls unconscious in his bed. His last thoughts are: “triple overhead surf at Uppers all to myself.”  Wrak probably smiles as he sleeps because few are on the scene at the right place, at the right time, anytime during their life.  Wrak was there.  The swell peaked overnight, and the Bu was not as good the next day.  Surfers know that when the waves beckon, they must entrain or the moment passes unfulfilled.  This reality stunts the life of wave riders who must decide whether to follow the tides or walk away forever.  Wrak sleeps in the grey house on Bacon Way, down from Disenchanted Way and close to the green house on the corner, unknown until the present day.

Inflation defines as the increase in price of a market basket of common items necessary to sustain the life of an average American family. It seems inflation is the persistent affliction in a democratic free society that relies on the economic cycle as given in the “Wealth of Nations” written by Adam Smith. Many factors cause inflation in the western civilization but this author feels the most important is the stock market. Ivy league MBA’s with all the current education that work for mutual fund companies cause an increase in stock price every year. The reason for this condition follows as such: When stock traders buy or sell stock, they make a commission and the commission is added to the price of the stock. The natural impetus of human beings to generate commission also called stirring, in the stock market, results in a buy or sell commission to be tagged on to the current price of a common stock offering. This increase in stock price which happens with every trade, accumulates, the traders slip into their own pocket commission and the stock of price increases. Eventually with the accumulated trade commission, the stock is not profitable anymore, it is sold at a loss or disappears due to liquidation, and inflation moves on. It seems pertinent at this point to exert the government to limit the times a stock can be traded per year to limit inflation. The educated workers in the mutual funds coerce the wage earners to invest in their devices, promising a better return than a bank, and a prosperous future, at least as long as the market is bull and remains solvent. Intense speculation and trading may generate a stock market disaster, now called by the educated elite to be a correction, and those that lose in the market cry, the poor die in poverty and cycle starts again. It seems the consistent quality of a free capitalistic society is inflation and top heavy corporate infrastructure.
Sir Warren Buffett, the king of the mutual fund, in his amazing rise to wealth and national stature, ironically states these four things. Investing is a long term maneuver. If you want to profit from the market, become a trader and profit the commissions. Buy only stocks you know.
To an hourly wage earner like the most of us, video game companies who produce interactive gaming, game console producers like Microsoft and Nintendo, or cannabis growers who ensconce in northern California and Humboldt counties, like Mr. Buffett says “make sense” and can be the basis of a diversified portfolio. An average American shouldn’t buy technology or aerospace companies Like Martin-Marietta or Grumman Aerospace because they really have no idea what they are producing and the sixth generation fighter F-47 is no more than a Roger Ramjet pipe dream. This is where the inside traders, and let me remind you that inside trading is illegal, make a killing, because they buy stock the minute they hear the government is going to purchase 100 stealth jets at 100 million dollars a piece. It is not what you know, it is who you know. Like Sir Buffett, and the king of Saudi corruption Gene Getty, the adage “buy low sell high” is good and real and like Berkshire Hathaway, an investor watches the market and the economy as an daily ritual. This takes time and like on schedule R for renter in the 1040, real estate losses cannot be deducted unless an investor is 20 percent active in their interest in the offering. Like Sir Buffett admonishes, watch the market even though a person works an eight hour day, sleeps and goes back to work again, the next day for thirty years. The fourth thing sir Buffett states is have a diversified portfolio so in one aspect hits rock bottom, the others will still be substantial enough so on a mathematical average over time, the portfolio looks substantive so that darned wage earner doesn’t throw himself off the Brooklyn bridge, or cry “uncle”. We live in a golden age where everything now is electronic, and remote, and battery powered on a RISC-C platform that is energy efficient and everyone walks around with a personal phone and can watch adult entertainment off a hot spot pirated from the local Burger king. At this point in the discussion, read a basic Economic text inspired by the local community college and see that the economy runs in cycle, each product has a business cycle, and economic geniuses die and cant run the show to fruition anymore. Like he says in the four ways to wealth, watch the cycle and sell when things begin to go bad. Be on the lookout for economic geniuses that appear on the scene and go “all in” when you find one. Have hope and belief that God will smooth out the ridges and make the going smooth, give to church to bribe the maker, and pretend that the altruists will prevail after you take control of a country in a bloodless coup and put their treasury in your own pocket.
If the believe the foregoing, you have a good belief in God and the almighty, and remember that you have to go to school for a long time to make money on the market. If Mommy and daddy love you and pay the exorbitant tuition to go to Wharton School of business, than you can be a trader and become extremely wealthy as a buccaneer on wall Street. Remember, however, you need an in to run and she most likely loves you for what you are, not what the bank statement reveals. Give to the church and know that way down inside, the commissions you make will ultimately destroy the economy. Os

Another beach day for mosquito. His mother is having the time of her life like all young upperclass women do so she dumps him at the Bu to be with subculture criminals. The best surfer who ever entered the waters at the Bu is a counterculture decrepit who has a side job as crooner for the rest. They had his father develop spy planes for the government during his lifespan like the SR-71 blackbird. He has long hair and wonderful personage and mosquito is hoping he tells Kelly Slater how he did it before he passes. They call this little grom in a silk hawian shirt mosquito because he hovers around the beautiful children and begs for food. Occasionally Moon dog buys him a hotdog. Elephants never forget. The bikini originated here and the girls let him hang around in their briefness because he is a child and not in puberty yet.
He watches one girl, she has olive skin like a European and a fine luscious body with breasts not to big to clunk around. Mosquito notices she is not like the other girls and her hair is cut very short so the boys cant spy her at a distance and chase her. Her eyes are light grey and mosquito wonders how she ever happened. She chooses bikinis that exactly match her light olive complexion and of a fabric that really clings and she looks like she is walking around naked. Mosquito wonders and he comes close to see and she bares her teeth at him, like a mother wolf protecting her litter. She makes bikinis for the cosmic children. In the thatched hut which is a meeting point for the gang she measure a womans fourchette and derriere, writes the measurements on paper and makes the most incredible mind boggling swim suits under the gaze of God. She lets Mosquito hold the measuring tape while she measures because he is not in puberty yet. the models then put their cut off jeans back on and look at Mosquito and he smiles and the thatched hut is no more at the Bu. Women are amazing when they are young, and innocent , and pretty and wild.. The cat is out surfing now with the Malibu Masochist. Together they beat up anyone at the Bu who doesn’t have respect. The masochist flies off his board in a side thrust kick and breaks people in half. They whisper he is a black belt. The only one he cannot beat up is the cat, and he tries repeatedly to no avail. This is why his nickname is the masochist. Maybe it is because the cat is six foot three inches and an expert in tZu Jan Men that he learned somewhere in the military.
The sun is shining, the waves are up and mosquito sits next to the wall watching their surfboards so no one steals them and the girls walk around in the land of freedom and liberty and all is well, and the clouds move in and the west wind comes up, and there is a glass off phase between two and three PM when everyone is gone and the jobless pros are here and go out. Mosquito has a little Timex watch his mother gave him so he can be at the pickup zone on pacific coast highway at about three thirty and his mother bat turns the blue Chevrolet station wagon in the turnaround
zone and waves. She has on dark Rayban sunglasses and a chiffon scarf around her thick, thick hair cut short so she can wear a wig. Mosquitos mom has been a blond, a brunette, and a redhead on a mission just like Tokyo rose. Mom uses mosquito as insurance and he is happy he has a bed to sleep in. He wonders who lives in the underground logging, dug in and camouflaged on the beach. Word is it is the beach house of the Joe Bfstky, and he sleeps there when one of his five wives cannot take him to a luncheon. He has a bigger house at the base of Sunset boulevard, but his relatives make him lock himself in the bedroom. When the waves get fifteen feet, once in every couple years, the Bu is the place to be and people live in Malibu their whole lives just to ride it and experience it once. The day ends and Mom smiles and hands mosquito a popsicle for the ride home. Fonz is not here. He is her favorite and is elsewhere and the peak at third point does not break anymore. The Movie industry diverted the runoff and it doesn’t exist anymore and time goes on. Don’t bother to go anymore.