sand sex

History in High Places

2012-01-31T15:08:00.003-05:00

Before I die I hope to see. . . .

A) a cure for cancer (they have been promising a cure since Popeye was just a gleam in his old pap’s one good eye, but as I type, no “cure” in sight). . . . B) all humans suddenly convert to vegetarianism (the war against animals and the consuming of our fellow earthlings has been going on for far too long and is now totally unnecessary and totally unhealthy, for both diner and dinee) C) real peace in the Middle East (I wonder how this country would like it if Iran was assassinating our scientists or Iranian aircraft carriers were parked in the Gulf of Mexico, threatening destruction on the U.S.). . . . D) an American president who actually cared more for the safety of America than the safety of Israel (all of the presidential candidates, the “Empty Suit” included, seem to spend more time fretting over Israel’s safety than our own) . . . E) life on another planet (Hello? We know you’re there, and we know that you know we're here, so, Hello? ) . . . F) travel faster than the speed of light.

Of all the above, “B” is the thing I would most like to see happen before I die but since there is almost no chance of that occurring, I’ll opt for “F” as the event I would most love to see before I kick the can. As a history lover, nothing would be more wonderful than actually viewing history as it happens and solving age-old riddles.

Some where out there in that great ocean of ink is a planet some two hundred light years from earth. And on this planet there are some highly advanced folks with some incredibly sophisticated technology, including extremely powerful telescopes that can see right into the very heart of the universe. For education, as well as entertainment, some of these folks have trained their telescopes on many planets, including our very own earth. Since their own planet is two hundred light years away from earth, these beings are just now enjoying earth history as it unfolded here two hundred years ago in 1812, or, as the light reflecting off earth reaches their own planet.

My desire before I die is to see we earthlings reach travel velocities of not just the speed of light, but ten times the speed of light. In that manner, our spacecraft—of which, I, of course shall be the resident-historian on board—can actually stop our travel in ten years or so, get out our nuclear-powered space telescope, point it back at earth and I can then feast my curiosity on the conundrums of American history, some of which are . . .

1) Did Davy Crockett really die at the Alamo like a hero, i.e., on his feet, swinging “Old Betsy” like a club when his bullets had run out, fighting to the bitter end? Or will our telescope spot old David crawling under some buffalo robes when the battle reaches its full fury?

2) What really happened at the Little Big Horn? Did Custer make it to the top of the bluffs alive, or was he actually killed along the river, as some accounts state? Did the Sioux make a final rush toward the doomed soldiers, as so many artists romantically depict, or did the Indians just take their time and pick off each trooper, one at a time?

3) Was there really a UFO “incident” at Roswell? Was there a cover-up? Did men in dark suits whisk away those little green aliens after the crash or is this just more bull whack by those same looney-toons who believe in Big Foot and Elvis sightings?

4) Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone? Or will we see in our telescope shooters on the grassy knoll also killing Kennedy?

5) What really happened to Jimmy Hoffa in that Michigan parking lot? Was he rubbed out there by mobsters? Or was he taken for a last ride? And what became of his body?

6) Was Flight 93 shot down by our own jets as some evidence points, or was it truly a last, desperate act of doomed people?

These, off the top, are just a few riddles I will solve if man begins his outer space travel at ten times the speed of light in my lifetime. Anyone want to go along?

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Tails, You Lose—Recently, I have noticed lots of bob-tailed house cats running around Florida. I suppose the answer is very simple: Gators are fast, but cats are faster. When an alligator lunges for a feline snack, the latter is quicker than the former—but not so quick as to escape entirely unscathed. The cat may save its life but not its tail. This is probably how the American Bobcat originated. They must have begun here in Florida, then, after countless generations of cats losing their tails to gators they finally fled far from Florida and spread out to relative safety across America. But the eons of evolution had taken its toll and the cat never regrew its pride, its beauty, its tail. Seems reasonable. Sounds plausible. Must be true.

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Send in the Frowns--I wrote two blogs back about tornadoes and the colors they adopt when tearing through whatever is in their path. Strange. That very evening after posting the blog a tornado roared through Charlotte County and tore into tatters some property here. After two years of living in Florida, that is the first twister to hit anywhere near this native Kansan has abided. This bizarre coincidence reminds me of that very same blog and my mention of being nearly hit by the van one night and then being attacked by a vicious dog on the next night, all in the same place.

Now, just last night, as I was tossing the rubber bone for Disney the Dog to fetch, one toss landed and wedged tight between the door frame and the open door. My very next toss, in the opposite direction, stuck square in the sliding glass door track. Both tosses were at least 25 feet, and both times Disney could not retrieve the bone. In thousands of such tosses, nothing like this had ever happened.

I do not consider any of this earth-shaking or other-worldly, merely fantastic coincidences. This type of stuff has occurred all my life. I hope these bizarre happenstances happen to others as well for I certainly don’t relish the thought of being the only person tumbling along like some sort of real-life Stephen King virtual victim.

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Photo of the Day

Life in the Past Lane

2012-01-27T15:31:00.002-05:00

I must admit that even I—I, the researcher and writer of history--even I was startled to silence when I learned the other day that John Tyler, the 10th president of the United States (above), a man who was born in 1790 when George Washington was giving his State of the Union address, a man ten years older than John Brown and 17 years older than Robert E. Lee, a man who became president two full decades before the American Civil War began, a man who helped annex Texas and transform it into the 28th star on the flag, a man who began his life in the 18th Century . . . and a man who still has two grandchildren whose feet are firmly planted in our own 21st Century! Unbelievable!

Here’s the math: John Tyler had 15 children. In 1853, when Tyler was 63, his son Lyon was born. Lyon in turn had six children. Two of these kids, Harrison and Lyon, Jr., were born when their father was in his 70s, in 1924 and 1928 respectively. Both Harrison and Lyon, Jr., now in their 80s, still live in Virginia.

Incredible. In the span of three directly connected generations we go from the horse and stagecoach as the fastest mode of transportation to the space shuttle; from the penny newspaper and town crier as the best means of communicating news to the internet and Face Book; from powdered wigs to spiked hair and nose rings. It seems breath-taking. It IS breath-taking.

Something very similar happened to me a dozen or so years ago. I was working on a book about the Indian wars on the American high plains. After a neat tip from a friend, I one day found myself in a Kansas City assisted living home doing an interview with a lady in her 95th summer . . . her Kansas mother had been captured by Indians in 1874. A short time later, I had another meeting, this with Agnes Shrader of Topeka, Kansas. Mrs.Shrader was 92 at the time and her aunt had suffered the same fate in the same state in the same year as the other lady. Mrs. Schrader was as lucid and bright in her chat with me as most people half her age. She still lived in her own home and kept it neat and tidy. Indeed, it was immaculate. Mrs. Schrader even walked around the block every day for exercise. Although neither woman knew much about the ordeal of their loved ones, this to me was unimportant. Just sitting and talking to someone who was a single generation removed from Custer, Crazy Horse and the Little Big Horn was everything. It was something akin to time travel.

When most folks think of American history a certain disconnect unavoidably sets in. After all, much of our colorful history occurred well over a century ago and to most people anything that far back seems as remote and distant as the Bronze Age. I felt much the same until these two interviews. But that quickly, just as quickly as millions felt stunned after learning of the Tyler grandchildren, history went from something dark and dead to something now very, very close.

For me, from that moment, history lived!

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Photo of the Day

Notions On Motion

2012-01-26T16:17:00.000-05:00

A van nearly clipped me last week here on Beach Road. It was at night. I was in the bike lane but I was forced to swing a few feet into the road to avoid a lady walking her dog. My bike is lit up like an eighteen-wheeler at night--lights, reflectors--and the van approaching from my rear certainly saw me and thus had plenty of time and the entire road to swing out and give us all a ton of room. But nope, this doltish driver chose to honk, then brush by me and miss my handle bar by mere inches. And yep, I let out the loudest yell I have uttered in decades. In one burst—“YOU DUMB SOB!"--I vented into those glaring taillights still aglow in my face.

We see them everyday, we see them everywhere: Small crosses by the roadside. As we flash along the interstates and highways of America they look distant and lonely on the grassy shoulders. Over the past decades they have sprung up with alarming regularity until now, they hardly elicit our attention anymore. If we think about them at all it is only for a second or two and then they soon enter our rear view mirror and are forgotten. One such cross is painful enough to behold, but when two and three share the same spot we are horrified. Whenever I am biking a new territory, I try to stop and read the inscriptions at these markers. Almost all of these tiny shrines have the mandatory white cross, perhaps some faded plastic flowers, a trinket or two, maybe a weathered teddy bear toppled by the wind. These pathetic little memorials mark the end of some lost love's final journey on this mortal blue marble.

The saddest, to me, are the crosses on lonely roads. No matter how warm and fuzzy the bereaved try to make them, they still look so lost and forlorn out there.

Along the Myakka River where I used to bike every day I passed a little cross near a horse farm. A young volunteer fireman, 19, died fighting a barn fire a few years back and some thoughtful person saw the pathos and placed a marker. Deep in the heart of Texas I stopped on a gravel road miles from any highway and read the inscription: A Mexican, far from home, was killed ten years before. Whether he died in a car, truck or motorcycle accident, it didn't say. A few miles south of Hays, Kansas, at a wind-swept crossroads, three teenagers will forever remain teenagers. It's a colorful little spot in the midst of brown grass and plowed fields--deflated balloons, flowers, bleached photos.

I ride my route--from the island, to the mainland, and back to the island--virtually every day. In all that 17 or so miles there is not one little white cross by the wayside. Considering that so many bikers use this same route every day, maybe that should be considered a serious miracle. I hope a little cross with my name on it is not the first one planted here.

UPDATE—Last night, in virtually the same section of Beach Road that I was almost hit, at virtually the same time, I was chased by the biggest, meanest Rottweiler I have ever seen. The ugly brute was loose, naturally, and until I let out my best imitation of an angry 500 lb. gorilla, he was closing on me fast. The terrible primal scream caused this beast to slow for a second, but once more he bounded after me. Fortunately for both of us, my bike is way to fast for something like this to catch me after its initial burst and I managed to escape. I was so angry that I considered going home, getting my pistol, then hunting down this dog and terminating him on the spot. Tonight, I will take the same route as before and woe unto this thing if he is still running loose. First shot into the air; second shot straight into his head. In my opinion, this dog had deadly intent and was large and mean enough to do some real damage had we gone at it hand-to-hand.

Really bizarre. The attack was even more sudden and startling since nothing like this had ever happened before. And honestly, this island would be the last place on earth one would expect something like this. Perhaps some worthless oxygen-thief was visiting and thought he’d bring his “great with the children” meat grinder with him.

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I was watching something the other night on tornadoes. This young stunt monkey was chasing tornadoes and was actually standing very close to one without knowing it. Only when the small twister hit ground nearby and began sucking up dirt did the monkey realize his peril and flee.

Tornadoes are nothing but wind and--until they pick up something--are invisible. If they are crossing a lake or river they will appear white; when they go through dusty fields, they look light brown; through muddy fields, black; and so on. I suppose if twisters plow through large fields of alfalfa they must become green; if they swirl through a ripe wheat field, they must become golden. And if a cyclone passes through a large clump of red buds in blossom or a ripe cherry orchard, then these terrors of the weather world must turn a very sissy pink. In theory, I guess, a tornado could actually be candy striped if it swept through a large patch of strawberries and a cotton field both at roughly the same time.

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Funny For the Day

Deadly Disconnect

2012-01-24T16:39:00.002-05:00

There was a two-hour TVprogram the other night about a horrific murder case that occurred years ago onTampa Bay. The perp in that unimaginable crime was finally put to deathhere in Florida last November. Lethal injection.

Back in 1989, one Oba Chandler befriended three female tourists down here fromtheir dairy farm in Ohio--a mother and her two teen daughters--then invitedthem out on his motor boat to view a Tampa Bay sunset before their return triphome. A smooth-talking con with a history of violence, Chandler raped thehelpless women that night, bound their hands and feet, taped their mouths, tieda concrete block around the neck of each, then dumped them overboard into theblack water . . . while still alive. Understandably, the people of Floridaare elated that the 65-year-old murderer is now dead and rotting and no longerstealing the valuable oxygen needed for the rest of us. While evenChandler's own daughter waited outside the prison and was happy to hear of hisdeath, many are nevertheless upset that this monster's demise came no wherenear fitting the crime. Check out a sampling of some as-they-appeared"letters to the editor":

This piece of shit should be taken out ina boat, tied up, raped by a cattle prod, and thrown overboard alive with acinder block tied around his fucking neck. Go to hell, scumbag, where youcan be tortured by demons for eternity. Should have happened about 20years ago.   ---BRAMBLES

why on earth should this poor excuses for a human being be allowed to not feelthe horrific pain of death, when his victims endured more than he ever will.FRY HIM WOULD OF BEEN THE BEST AFTER YOU THREW ACID ON HIM!  ---SHEILA

The most humane death for this dirt bag would have been to slice him up forawhile, tie some concrete blocks around him and drop him in a pool ofgators   .        ---HONDO

GOOD RIDDENS TO A MONSTER...   ---JOY

I spoke to God last night. I was asking him if he could give the [Tampa Bay] Bucs a push this week in Green Bay and we ended up talking aboutthis guy lmao

Anyways, he said Oba's in hell and the devil has him burningcoal. So let this be the last article on this guy. He's in hell, it'sconfirmed. ---THE KING IS BACK

Your comments "King",despite what you may think, aren't humorous at all...in fact, I was wondering,while you and God were chatting, what arrangements have YOU made to escapeGod's judgement when you breathe your last? ---SERVINGHIM

I thought the King's comments were funny. . . . Hey Serving, it'ssure bet that God has a far greater sense of humor than you do.. ---DEATHMETAL

Serving Him: Last time I spoke to God,he told me that he doesn't really exist and admitted He is the biggest fraudthe world has ever seen. He said he was created to control the masses and thatwhen I die, my corpse will rot away and get eaten by maggots in my eternaldirtnap... just like everyone else's does. ---MARTY MCFLY

Mcflyyou piece of filth. You are worst than oba. I hope you rost inHELL!!!!! ---ANON

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Geezer in a Freezer--Up at Panama City, Florida, cops found 80-year-old RayGsell in his own freezer frozen as stiff as a mitten. Seems that over theweekend, the homeowner's sweet, loving wife, 47-year-old Lynn, had gotten intoan argument with Ray over some money that she needed to buy more "spacerock." The woman was coming down hard from a crack high and she was wildto get back up there again. When her cranky meal ticket refused to forkover the dough for the hundredth time, his enraged bride and another woman,27-year-old Dawn Ross, simply strangled Ray with an electrical cord and tookthe money. After stuffing the stingy old coot into the freezer, thecrazed murderers promptly returned to smoking crack. An anonymous tipsent cops to the address.

Thus, it would seem that this will prove avery expensive high for the lovely Widow Gsell and her associate, Ms.Ross. Wonder if these whacked-out crack heads thought they could simplyfreeze the old bird when he was in their way, then thaw him out again when theyneeded more drug money?

And so, just as Florida rids itself of an Oba Chandler, two more monsters takehis place. Sigh.

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Dog on Dog--Karen Miller of nearby North Port wrote a letter to the editor theother day., describing just one among what must be thousands of"non-newsworthy" events that occur each day across Florida andAmerica:

"One of our neighbors was walking her chocolate Lab on a leash . . . when two pit bull dogs running free attacked her Lab. Her Lab requiredsurgery and is very lucky to be alive. A police report was taken. What has been done about it? Nothing! This is not the first timethese same two dogs have attacked other dogs that are being walked on aleash. They are not fenced. They are roaming around free."

I once thought that Florida's "conceal-carry" law was passedprimarily to protect humans from humans. Now, I'm not so sure. Perhaps it was passed to protect people from pit bulls. Before I met her,Michelle was riding one of her horses once on a back road when a pit bullleaped from an open truck window and attacked with fang and claw. Thehorse survived but had a horrible chuck removed from her neck. Michelle made the local news on that one. My wife now carries acop-in-the-pocket where ever she goes to protect herself from the pit bulls ofthis world, man and beast. Every woman should.

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Caricature of the Day

No Shirt, Shitlock!

2012-01-16T16:04:00.000-05:00

Michelle and I cruise one of our bike trails just about every week. We pick up a little Edam or Gouda at the store, some crackers or bread, a pear, maybe a plumb, and wham! our lunch is set. If the fire ants behave, and if the old, hairy-bellied grossers keep their shirts on, our day, like yesterday, is perfect.

Speaking of biking without helmets. . . . Oscar-winner, Gene Hackman, was riding his bike down in the Florida Keys the other day when a pickup truck plowed into him from the rear. "Hackman was riding without a helmet," sniffed the silly writer of the piece (because that's what every other silly news writer without a brain writes). What this twitty reporter failed to mention was, "Yep, Hackman was not wearing a helmet and it's a damned good thing the 81-year-old actor was NOT since a blast from the past like that, and the additional weight of a helmet, could well have snapped his neck from whiplash." As is, this tough old bird--made famous by the hit movie, "Bonnie & Clyde"--was in and out of the hospital that day and was riding his bike again in no time . . . sans helmet.
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Geezers Gone Goofy--Up the bay, down Punta Gorda way, an 88 year-old man armed himself, barricaded the door, and refused to leave his condo. After a two-hour standoff--cops, guns drawn, dogs, bullhorns, the works--the gentleman finally forgot what it was that had pissed him off in the first place and surrendered without further ado. The old dude was taken away to the hospital by men in white for "evaluation."

Like the old fellow above, except for a random otter attack or a golf ball from the blue, it seems that geezers down here never die, they just renew their drivers' licenses and keep crashing into post offices. And so, when one actually does give it up in an accident it seems somehow surreal, and almost bizarre. Well, no "almost" to it; it IS bizarre.

Over at a golfing community the other day near Melbourne, Florida, 75-year-old Elizabeth Sherman was zipping along in a golf cart, heading somewhere in a hurry. With the pedal to the metal, Ms. Sherman was flying along at a crisp 5 or 6 MPH, or about as fast as a gopher tortoise can crawl. When she made a sharp right turn, the woman miscalculated her terrific speed and lost control of the vehicle. The cart bumped into a wall, dumping the woman to the ground and . . . killing her dead as a mackerel. Unbelievable. She was not wearing a seat belt, of course, because none were available. Had she been wearing a helmet it wouldn't have mattered either. Her time was clearly up.

Not sure what news category Elizabeth falls under. "Bad Ways to Go?" or "Geezers Gone Wild?" Perhaps "What the Hell is Going on at Florida Golf Courses?" is apt. A professional golf ball diver drowns last week, a gardener minding his own business is brained by a nine-iron shot last month, a golfer is eaten by a gator last year--Florida golf courses must be some of the most dangerous places on earth.

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Caricature of the Day

Stalking the Great Political Grin

2012-01-12T17:20:00.000-05:00

Politicians are known for their lies and their toothy smiles. Like hogs and slop, they just kinda go together. This current crop of corrupt smiling liars are setting new records in both areas.

Americans love beauty contests, especially if it involves politics. Voting for a candidate based solely on his or her glittering smile beats work, I guess; beats actually reading and learning about a politician's position. Generally, the best smile money can buy wins. Simple. This week Mitt Romney wins my "Frozen Smile Award." I can honestly say that since the campaign began I have yet to see "Mitt the Flip" sport anything other than that trademark ear-to-ear tooth-skinner of his. Perhaps Mitt's smile is painted on, or plastered on, or what not. Perhaps Romney is just Happy, Happy, Happy all the time; just a-beaming from ear-to-ear when he goes to bed at night, beaming when he gets up in the morn, when he takes his shower, when he eats his breakfast, when he jogs, when he dives into his swimming pool. I do declare that Mitt's smile is so permanently frozen on his mug that even if a Greyhound Bus fully loaded with news cameramen rolled over his foot Mitt would somehow manage to smile for the cameras as he was being wheeled away to the hospital ER.

Last week, Rick Santorum won the smile award when he showed his ivory for a solid 56 hours straight without his face ever once breaking into a studied, serious or intelligent expression--nope, just that same idiotic grin from ear-to-ear for two and a half days running.

There are other candidates for the Frozen Smile Award but no one even comes close to the grin of that total loon, Michelle Bachmann (above). Ms. Bachmann's smile-on-steroids is in a category all unto itself. Add those two glassy eyeballs staring into space and the picture is pretty much complete. Now that she is mercifully out of the race and has been sent packing back to where ever it was that she came from, it may take some serious surgery to remove that grinning iron mask that seemingly is welded on her face.

The only candidate who does not smile non-stop and who actually frowns by turns, and grimaces, and ponders, and thinks, and hence, actually looks human, is Ron Paul. His seems the only normal face in this entire political space race. Speaking of space, if aliens land in the midst of this political side show I'm sure they will take the good Texas doctor with them since they would rightly conclude that NO ONE--not in this world or theirs--could be that madly, insanely happy 24/7 as the others candidates appear to be.

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Man's Best Enemy--Cops were called to a local home on the mainland the other night when a local dog bit a local man, and bit him, and bit him, and bit him. Seems the 40-year-old owner of the--SURPRISE!--pit bull had been bitten by the dog numerous times before but these recent "nips"--arms, legs, buttocks, chest, belly, head, hands, ear lobes, you name it, and down to the bone, too--were a bit over the top. The owner and his family were so frightened by the pooch that when the critter was not out running loose terrorizing the hood they had to keep him locked on the lanai, or porch, for their own protection. A bloody mess in shredded clothing, the victim was taken away to the hospital for maybe one thousand stitches and $30,000 worth of fix-up work while the pit was taken to doggie prison.

Sometimes I wonder why the cops even bother. Surely they had better things to do that night than saving this rocket scientist from . . . himself.

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Funny For the Day

When The Fit Hits the Shan

2012-01-09T17:32:00.000-05:00

It’s funny. Weener natives (Michelle included) break out the coats and gloves, turn up the heat, and generally shiver their way to cover when the temperature gets down to a sub-arctic 55 in South Florida, as it did last week. Northlanders like me just flap our wings, roll in the rays and squawk our ridicule. Such weakness!

Heads, You Lose!—Over in one of the numerous hobo jungles that shames affluent Sarasota, three habitually homeless bums were holding high carnival the other night. Seems one of the thieves had “borrowed” some steaks from the local grocery store and the three were having an old-time cook out. During the party, as the gentlemen were guzzling stolen rum and swapping lies about jobs they had never held, one of the rioters accidentally kicked the grill and plopped the sizzling steaks plunk into the sand. Seems this awkward act upset one of the revelers just a tad. Ranting and raving, the hungry hobo jumped up, cussed a few licks, knocked down the clumsy hobo, then grabbed a nearby machete and let him have it. Five minutes later, when the hungry hobo was finished, he dropped the bloody machete, wiped the sand off the bloody steaks, placed them back on the grill, poured himself another shot, then relaxed and quietly watched dinner cook.

The next day the angry hobo was sitting in the county calaboose without bond. Not far away, the clumsy hobo was laying in the county morgue without his head. Never a dull moment down here among the savages.

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Great Balls of Fire—Seems Florida’s risky roads just got riskier. If the senile geezers don’t get ya the stoners will. Up at Lakeland, two gentlemen—let’s call ‘em Cheech and Chong—were just cruisin’ along in their van the other day, ‘joyin’ the weather, cooking a load of meth, proud to be ‘Mericans. As Chong was making a batch in the back using the new ‘shake and bake’ method by simply pouring the various acids and poisons into a whiskey bottle and shaking it, the mess suddenly exploded. Poor Cheech was killed stone dead in the driver’s seat but Chong went flying down the highway in the flaming van like a coon on a comet. When the fiery mess crashed into a ditch, Chong made a break but the cops soon caught the singed wretch and toted him away.

Texting ? Cell phones? Drunks? Add flaming meth meteors to the perils of Florida travel.
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Over Miami Way--Old Ida Ginsberg celebrated her 100th birthday or something the other day. When asked what she attributed her longevity to prim Ms. Ginsberg mentioned that she never touched tobacco or booze. Okay. Ida added that she also “avoided salt, sugar and dairy products” like they were the black plague. Hmmmm? Sounds noble, but how does anyone in these here United States, the “Home of the Hungry, Land of the Obese,” reach a hundred or something without having ever eaten a potato chip, a candy bar or a milk shake? Wonder if Ida’s second hundred years will be as exciting as her first?
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Bummer—In the past I have mentioned good ways to go and bad ways to go. One way to deaprt this realm that certainly has to be entered into the latter category happened last week up at Tampa. David Voiles, a 43-year-old professional golf ball diver—that’s right, a professional golf ball diver—was found floating like a dead carp in a lake at the Sherman Hills Golf Course.

“Voiles was discovered along the course’s 10th hole shortly after 10:30 a.m., Tuesday,” ran the official report. “The cause of death could not be determined immediately.”

Not only is that a bad way to die, but that is truly a trivial way to go, something about as pathetic as being flattened by a cement truck while chasing a rolling penny onto a busy freeway. And excuse me! “Cause of death could not be determined?” Ha! What in hell do they think happened to Dave? He’s found drowned in a lake at a golf course and he dives after golf balls for a living! Does anyone think that a gang of tough golf course gophers killed Dave over a drug debt and then dragged his body into the lake to cover their tracks? “Death could not be determined. . . . ” Jeeeesh!
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Caricature of the Day

Ugly Presidents

2012-01-05T16:46:00.000-05:00

After viewing the flashing ivories and fancy doos of the top two winners in Iowa the other night, it occurs to me that America’s spiral downward began when women got the vote.

Prior to women’s suffrage, men folk had selected their leaders and they were not swayed by toothy smiles, over-eager handshakes or straight-faced lies. As a result, the nation not only survived and prospered, but flourished. When women got the vote, the dynamics changed, the synergy was altered, the plummet began. When woman got the vote a new presidential sub-species made his appearance. This gentleman was not judged on his intelligence or ability to lead but solely on sex appeal. Women didn’t give a flying fig about such frothy concerns as economics, leadership or international relations; they cared instead about a man’s hair, his smile, his eyes, his voice, the cut of his clothes, the shape of his butt.

It is no coincidence that the first two presidents elected after women got the vote—Warren G. Harding and Calvin Coolidge—are to this day still two of the most handsome men to ever enter the White House. After that came other good-looking men like John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton. Google these pretty boys, then google John Adams (above), James Buchanan and Abe Lincoln and you will see what I mean.

Now, just because a man may be good-looking does not necessarily preclude him from high office nor does it mean he is either stupid or an incompetent boob. It does suggest, however, that since most handsome fellows spend half their lives primping and admiring the reflection in their mirror, that their actual education, experience and ability may be considerably less than a normal man. Fact is--with the exclusion of Ron Paul and the inclusion of the late and not-so-great Michelle Bachmann--if I was walking on a street and saw any of these candidates approaching me with those ear-to-ear smiles and an extended hand, my first thought would be: "Better watch my wallet!"

Knowing full well that their looks will get them absolutely no where in the world, common-, ugly- or beastly-looking men realize that only study and hard work will get them where they want to get in life. Next chance, check out the current crop of presidential beauty contestants. Not an ugly mug among ‘em. Women will have a rapture ogling such cute eye-candy but we men know we are skrewed for another four years.

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Now that I am back from an extended absence, I hope to blog with increasing frequency. I already have some ideas bubbling for tomorrow or the next day and so, to you my loyal blogologists—and to you disloyal ones as well--I am as happy to be back as I hope you are happy to have me back. And no, Rick, Tira, Trish, Ann, Baily, Mr. Big, Ralph, and the rest of you—despite some scares and “mild” unpleasantnesses, I did not fall overboard or die of food poisoning; nor was I kidnapped. Still alive, still happy as heck to be harassing my wife (not widow) Michelle and our Boston, Disney, and still full of P & V. Thanks for thinking of me!

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Ads from the Past

'Tis the Season. . . .

2011-12-09T17:23:00.001-05:00

Out our front door, we have hundreds of walkers, joggers and bikers who breeze by on the beach road every day in their attempt to fight fat and get fit.

I have noticed that just around this time of the year—the day before Thanksgiving, the day before Christmas, the day before New Year’s--lots of folks (like the above) make their cameo appearance and try to shave off a quick stone or two in one day or less in anticipation of the upcoming Lard Holidays. One day after Thanksgiving, one day after Christmas, one day after New Year’s, one seldom sees these individuals again until the following year. Obviously, their appetite has once more planted its conquering jack-boot squarely on the throat of their will and the onset of another cycle of defeat, depression and guilt-eating is nigh. Poor people; their heart is in the right place but their stomach is captain of the helm . . . and a cruel captain is he.

I really do understand these folks who try to lose weight for I am one of them mostly, with one exception. Although I can gorge with the best of them, I seem to have been endowed with more than an average amount of will power. Whether it be food, tobacco, drugs, or drink, I have been able all my life to muster up the necessary will to turn on and turn off any and all addictions at my heart’s desire. They say that meth addiction is the worst of all addictions and that 95% of its users are hooked for good. If I were a meth user I am confident that I would be among the other 5%. Thus, through no fortune of my own, I know what a lucky, lucky person I am. And yes, how I do commiserate with the others.

Whatever, when it comes to addictions it’s not so much a question of “will” power, as Michelle’s mom was wont to say, but a question of “won’t” power.

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Amazing—Over at Fort Lauderdale, Phillip Winikoff came up with a brilliant scheme. Seems poor Phil never quite got his fill of female breasts in his life, dang it. What to do? Should he surf porn? No, not that; he wanted his boobs up close and personal. Should he hang out at “Hooters”? No, not that; one might only gawk at that joint, and Phil wanted his “hands on.” Should he jump in and join the dating scene? No, not that either; too tedious and it would only be one rack at a time. And so, Winikoff came up with a novel idea--he would pass himself off as a physician; a physician who goes door-to-door and gives breast exams, for free!

After “examining” only a few fine “chesticles,” however, “patients” became suspicious when the “doctor” seemed to be taking way too much time with his tests and taking way too much pleasure in his work. Indeed, when Winikoff’s quivering hands moved to other parts of the victims’ bodies during the exam, there was no longer any doubt. Cops were called in and “Dr. Phil” was quickly “busted.”

Just last week, Winikoff was sentenced to a year in the “jug” for his sex scam. The shameless wretch will also serve 18 years probation. Okay then, when added up that means that Phillip Winikoff will be an even one hundred when his libido is finally released on society again since this pervert and viagra junkie is today a steamy 81-years-old! Surely, there has to be some kind of record here for Florida’s oldest active sex predator.

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Times is Hard—What’s a poor boy to do? Stephen Michael Kelly thought he might drop by our local Walmart yesterday and lift a few items before his one o’clock parole hearing. Little did Kelly imagine that this would prove one very expensive shopping trip. When he was spotted pilfering the thief soon learned that “when the going gets tough, the cops get going” . . . er, “when the tough get going the cops get tougher” . . . er, “when the cops get tough the tough gets going” er, . . . oh, whatever! Kelly learned real fast that he had made a BIG mistake.

While tattooed Walmart freaks and sudafed-shopping meth addicts stood and stared in amazement, several puffing fat men chased Kelly out the store and into the parking lot. As he ran for his life, Kelly looked over to see and hear the first screeching cop cars make their appearance. Sprinting around the huge store the culprit dashed into a large field behind the building. With cops shouting, dogs barking, bullhorns blaring, sirens screaming, and the Charlotte County Air Force whirling overhead, the affair more resembled a big prison break from San Quentin than it did some two-bit booster engaging in a five-finger discount from a Florida Walmart.

When Kelly, now panic-stricken and gasping for air, was finally “cornered” between two homes the law closed in. But there was still some run left in the frightened thief. Spotting a canal, Kelly jumped head first into the gator-infested mess and swam for it. A few minutes later the moss- and mud-covered fugitive was spotted crawling from the canal looking more like the “Creature from the Black Lagoon” than a human. Cops quickly closed the distance. Finally, when the fugitive from justice made motions to fugit some more, a lawman brought out his Buck Rodgers Ray Gun and gave Kelly a tasing on the buttocks that he would never forget.

But really? Was a 74 cent candy bar and stick of beef jerky worth that grueling hour-long run and swim marathon? It depends. If you are Steve Kelly, who sits now in the calaboose and is facing a 20K bond, the answer would be a definite "no." If you are a taxpayer of Charlotte County that answer would also be an emphatic "no" since the $75,000 price tag to catch a petty thief is way over the top. If you are a Walmart freak or meth addict witnessing the free show, however, the answer would be a resounding "yes." Never a dull moment at Walmart.

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Caricature of the Day

Pistol-Packing Pest Patrol

2011-11-30T15:31:00.001-05:00

Davie, Florida, has certainly seen its share of excitement lately. It was mentioned in the last blog that a cop struck and killed a drunk cyclist over there on the Atlantic side of the state. Now, a second Davie biker has made a bit of news, though for reasons vastly different from the first.

On Thanksgiving morn, an unidentified biker was out trying to lose a little lard before hammin’ down later that day. No problem here, as I see it, but. . . . Enter one “Scooby,” a large, loose canine of the Doberman persuasion. When Scooby spotted a “slow deer” (i.e., a moving bike) there was never a doubt what he would do next.

Okay, now Florida is a “conceal-carry” state. That means a person can tote for protection as long as they have a permit. And since bikers have been not only the victims of armed humanoid attacks, but armed dog attacks, this prudent biker was packing pocket heat. When Scooby gave chase with deadly intent, then lunged, the bikologist did not hesitate; he let Scooby have it. And so. . . . Cops came. Cops saw. Cops left. No charge. No problem. No Scooby.

According to his distraught owner, Dan Abou, Scooby was a truly marvelous dog, both friend and pet; in fact, the sweet-hearted pooch was in training to be a “therapy dog” (just what kind of “therapy” an animal like that could render one can only guess).

“It’s very alarming that someone would be riding a bike with a gun,” whined Abou.

Ho, Dan! I can go you one better! It’s not only “alarming,” but actually criminal, that some certain someone would allow a large and vicious dog to gallop loose around the hood free as a T-Rex. Had it been a kid, and not an armed adult, the outcome might have had a much more terrible outcome.

The owner also insisted that Scooby would have never harmed anyone, “not in a million years,” said Abou. Well, once again, Dan Abou might know that—check--and Scooby Abou might know that—check--and All God’s Chillun might know that—check--but trust me, when you are hanging out there on the line to dry like a beach towel, a biker has NO way of knowing that an attacking 80-pound dog is really just a big teddy bear rushing to shower him with lots of loving licks. It’s a pretty scary scenario when a large set of snapping jaws, flecked with foam, are running side by side with you and but mere inches from your ankles and legs.

I have been chased a number of times on my bike. Generally, it’s small mutts who do the chasing—weener dogs, terriers, curs. Even if they could catch me, these tiny pests would not know what to do once they caught me. Not so these big ‘uns. Not only can they catch a biker in a short burst, but they act like they would definitely know what to do with one once they caught him. My maxim: Let little yappers yap but shoot dead the big, mean ones.

This marks the second time in a year that someone in Davie has plugged a dog running loose. People in Davie and elsewhere are not gunning down random poms, poodles or pekes; nope, it’s the pit bulls—or in this case, Dobermans—it's these animals who seem to lead a semi-permanent existence running wild in the neighborhood that people are fed up with.

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Toys from the Past

Beam Me Up

2011-11-26T11:43:00.002-05:00

A really rough day for ankles yesterday. . . .

While weed-eating in the a.m. I momentarily forgot where the "eating" end was and when I squeezed the trigger the dude did a dido on my left ankle. No blood, just painful welts. And in the p.m., while Michelle and I were on a bike trail, I dismounted at trail’s end and plopped my flip-flop plumb onto a fire ant mound. In the two seconds or less it took for the pain to flash from the foot to the brain, these devils delivered enough “fire” to make a grown man yell.

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On the Road to McCovery--When a Florda judge sentenced George McCovery to jail for driving while suspended, she made the 345-pound man a deal: For every pound the fellow shed while in custody, the court would subtract a day from his sentence. Now really? Is this is, or is this ain’t, a hands-on correctional carrot any offender can understand? And thus, after sticking to a largely veggie diet, at the end of twenty days the prisoner had shorn 25 pounds from his lard-like load. The result: Nearly one month was whacked from George’s sentence.

McCovery? Sounds like a half-way house funded by McDonalds, Inc., where the obese who live on a diet of pop and Big Macs can come and lose lots of McPounds.

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Bad Santa? Bad Teacher? Bad Rescue? It’s a pity that we can’t just pick and choose who is rescued and who is not. For instance, we have the wonderful miracle of that little Jessica something-or-rather who was plucked from that Texas hole in the ground years ago; and the miracle of all those Chilean miners saved from certain death; and plenty more wondrous miracles around the globe. But then we also have the Florida Coast Guard miracle up at St. Pete the other day which rescued a guy from a small sinking boat. When the grateful gentleman’s name was run for warrants, it turns out that he was wanted for a probation violation regarding sex crimes against children. Is this is, or is this ain’t, an instance when the rescuers should have simply ordered the rescuee back onto the sinking boat and let nature correct one of its mistakes?

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Bad Cop/Good Cop—If you are a Sunshine State cyclist, life is tough. It’s bad enough skating through wave after wave of senile seniors down here who are not only bat blind but bonkers too. When cops get in on the act, however. . . . Such was the case over by Davie, Florida, yesterday when a detective ran over and squashed one of our number. Well actually, seems 47-year-old party animal, Doug Beebout, may have contributed to his own demise just a wee bit.

Seems Doug was totally tanked at the time. Also, the drunk was wobbling recklessly along with one or more cases of brewskie balanced on his bike. Whatever, whether a bike rider for recreation and health (like myself) or a bike rider from necessity (as per dead Doug), it seems like three or four of us are flattened every day in Florida just like wild squirrels.

On a happier note, a cop up at Lakeland returned home the other night to find two burglars ransacking his place. Hmmm . . . care to guess the outcome of this one? Score: Cop 2, Thugs 0.

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Over at nearby Port Charlotte, an inmate at the local nursing home is now in jail after he dealt an unwelcome visitor some serious senior justice. When an addled 84-year-old Alzheimer resident wandered into his room and refused to leave, old Tom Rhine grabbed his cane and gave the victim several hard cuffs on the coconut to consider. Of course, five minutes after receiving his beating, the victim could not remember how he got the knots on his head, much less who put them there. Fortunately, cops quickly solved the case when they spotted Tom still waving the cane.

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Caricature of the Day

More Squidbilly Wisdom

2011-11-20T16:43:00.000-05:00

Krystal (large thing in purple shorts; local whore): How is your daddy?

Rusty (little green squid with red mullet): Oh, he's good, he's good. Just got out of prison not too long ago.

Krystal: No, I'm sorry, who . . . I mean who's your daddy?

Rusty: Uh, Early Cuyler.

Krystal: Tall guy?

Rusty: No.

Krystal: Big belly?

Rusty: No.

Krystal: Red hair?

Rusty: Not the one.

Krystal: Kinda looks like Charlie Sheen?

Rusty: Not him neither.

Krystal: Or IS Charlie Sheen?

Rusty: No, not Charlie Sheen.

Krystal: Is he a football team?

Rusty: Nope.

Krystal: Is he the groundskeeping crew for the football team?

Rusty: No.

Krystal: Are you sure it's not Charlie Sheen?

Rusty: No, Mama!

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While laying today on the park bench, on my back, on my mid-day mid-way daily bike torture, I listened to a rather young, long-haired fellow reading a book to a child under a shade tree. That seemed very nice. As I listened to his soft words, I watched buzzards high overhead, maybe a thousand feet high. I was surprised when I spotted a “V” formation of five pelicans also up there. It never occurred to me that pelicans might soar like eagles and vultures but then I considered their large wing span and figured, “Why not? It’s a great day to be alive, man and bird.” Since both the buzzards and pelicans were far above their food source I realized that these big birds were just enjoying the warm day in the lifting thermals. In almost no time—maybe two minutes--they rose so high that they were barely visible.

As I left the park I gave a “how ya doin’?” to the guy and the kid. I really wanted to say something more, like, “I used to read to my kid too,” or “Enjoy it . . . it’ll be over before you know it,” but the man’s curt response suggested that his joy with the child did not extend to strangers and I let it drop.

As I was pedaling along in Englewood, I noticed an older gentleman outside a small barbershop; I was also surprised to see him holding a handmade sign and sitting on a motor scooter. “More haircut, less cost,” he hollered to me as I passed on the sidewalk. When it finally dawned what he had said I merely pointed to my bandanna and shouted back, “No hair!” Poor guy. Times are tough. I almost wish I had hair, just to give him some business. I’ve had similar feelings when passing shoeshine stands wearing sneakers. “No sale,” the faces of old black men seem to say as they glance forlornly at my feet.

As I approached the south drawbridge—no bad karma here--I looked at a sign I had seen a hundred times outside one of the deep-sea fishing docks. “Jumbo Shrimp,” read the sign. Isn’t that an oxymoron, I asked myself? I think it depends, I answered myself, on which came first, the adjective (“shrimp,” meaning a small, puny person) or the noun (“shrimp,” meaning that shelled delicacy so many people peel and eat with shrimp sauce).

Finally, after I reached the island I stopped at a bar and went in. I had long ago noticed a sign outside advertising special prices on this or that product and since I was in the market for such a sign I asked the owner where she got it. Nothing came of the affair but I was surprised how large and clean the tavern was. I’ve gone by here a thousand times but never gone in.

So ended yet another exciting and adventure-filled 20-mile ride on my bike. Wow, blogging is slow stuff these days; I need some geezer gas pedal crashes or a major pit bull outbreak to liven things up.

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Ads From the Past

Life is Just a Bowl of Pit Bulls

2011-11-17T13:55:00.001-05:00

It’s a slow week in Florida for geezers and gas guzzlers. Pit bulls, however, are never in short supply.

Over at Boca Raton last week, a mother was outside her home enjoying a sunny Sunday with her tiny flock. When the startled lady looked over and spotted a neighbor’s pit bull—which had once again escaped from the fenced-in back yard--she raced to get her children inside the house. After a frantic few seconds, all were safely inside . . . except the mother. Before the woman could close the door the animal grabbed her leg and clamped down hard. Fortunately, the first cop on the scene, after “repeatedly” being charged by the dog, ended the incident with a terminal slug of lead.

No comment was forth coming from the distraught owner, poor boy. Almost certainly though, this worthy, like all the rest of the pit bull-owning crowd, was “confused” and searching for answers. Like other owners of these four-legged meat-grinders, this guy was no doubt trying to comprehend how such a “sweet-natured” teddy-bear could just up and attack someone so viciously.

No further word on whether surgeons were able to save the mother’s leg or not.

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Bad JuJu, B’wana--Some really freaky Steven King type karma is occurring between me and the north drawbridge on this island. Two days in a row now that otherwise beautiful bridge has almost caused my soul to depart its mortal vessel and be sent winging toward either heaven or hell. For two days running now, just as I was to cross over at mid-point of said drawbridge, the bell begins ringing loudly on the crossing gates signifying that a boat is coming and that the bridge is about to open. Thus far, there has been no boat in sight.

Now, me pedaling furiously out there as the bell clangs and the bridge opens is about as close to a nightmare as I can conjure at this moment. It’s like I’m in some sort of horror movie in which the bridge senses my coming and plots my demise . . . hmmmm. Now that I type this out, I think to myself: Perhaps the young bridge-keeper in his little office? Maybe he’s out to get me? Maybe this is how he gets his kicks?

As the old saying rolls: Just because I’m paranoid does not mean someone isn’t following me.

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Ophid Hell--It now seems sorta semi-official: The Burmese Pythons have arrived. Michelle was talking with a friend and fellow horse-person the other day, a man who gets around plenty into the outback as well as the inback. Alas, this fellow is certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the giant, man- and woman-swallowing nightmares are not only up here in Charlotte County, but IN ENGLEWOOD! Lovely. Just lovely. And so, since it would not take the Michael Phelps of Burmese Pythons to swim the mere mile or so across Lemon Bay and set up shop on this island, it’s not hyperbole when I say that, as much as Michelle and I enjoy Florida, we will be moving to Europe as soon as we SEE with our own eyes our first monster reptile. Then, as they say, we are sooooo outta here!

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Dr. Who?--A while back, 73-year-old Fred Gronkowski was having memory problems and sought treatment at a local clinic. Fred mentioned to a friend the other day that the treatment seemed to be working well but when the man asked what the name of the clinic was, Gronkowski drew a blank. Fred thought and thought, then finally a smile broke across his face.

"What do you call that red flower with the long stem and thorns?" asked Gronkowski.

"You mean a rose?"

"Yes, that's it!"

Fred yelled into the kitchen to his wife.

"Rose, what was the name of that clinic?"

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Ads From the Past

Unhappy Camper

2011-11-15T15:29:00.001-05:00

Every now and then I have to vent. This is one of them “now and thens.” Pardon the rant.

Thought--Wouldn’t it be great if some day America held an election and no one came? Fact is: The fraud of the “two-party system” becomes clearer and clearer with every election. Let’s face it: The more we vote the worse things get. No matter which side of the same coin is elected, a Democrat or Republican, the standard of living in America falls, the number of wars rise, corruption increases, happiness decreases, and, of course, we go another trillion or two in debt. So, unless there is a viable Third Party candidate, this tax-paying, bike-riding, Walmart shopping American is not voting next year. As I see it, by staying away from the polls I will for the first time in my life become a part of the solution, not a part of the problem. Last time I looked, fifty percent of Americans or more felt as I do.

Another thought--Why is it that we must always witness soldiers and sailors marching in the flag at sporting events? Who gave these people a corner on “patriotism?” Why must patriotism always be associated with wars and murder? Why not allow doctors or firemen or brick layers or electricians or students or housewives to present the colors? After all, do they not too represent America? Indeed, are there not many more of us than the soldiers and sailors? Do not we also make a nation strong and safe?

The reason members of the armed forces always must represent us, of course, is that the old America has been usurped by the same “Military-Industrial Complex” that outgoing President Eisenhower warned us about; we have been taken over not by the peace-makers, but by the war-mongers; we have been hijacked by those with a vested interest in perpetual war. Indeed, the average tattooed American sitcom-watcher is so busy waving flags, tying yellow ribbons, supporting troops, honoring heroes, and threatening the world with destruction, that “peace” is a word hardly heard anymore.

Expressing the wishes of the media, all the presidential candidates, with the exception of Ron Paul, are bible-beating, desk-pounding war-mongers. TV runs an endless list of old war movies reminding us how glorious war is; there is even a military channel showing all the up-to-date and fun ways we might murder other people. One cannot watch a sporting event on TV w/o several military recruitment commercials trying to woo the young and the dumb to join “the few and the proud” or to join the navy and be “a force for good around the world” (“Good,” of course, depends on which side of the sidewinder missile you happen to be on). Video games are all about combat and slaughter, past, present and future, and impressionable teens snap them up. Our holidays—Christmas, included--have become little more than war commemoration days in which we give solemn thanks to all the “heroes” who keep us safe from all those bad boogie men around the world. “Peace on earth, good will toward men” is now but a quaint slogan with zero modern relevance.

“Support the Troops!” This phrase has become the universal cry. Why? Why support the troops any more than we support the cops, the firemen, the sanitation workers, the school teachers, and so on?

“Support the Troops . . . They are fighting for our freedoms.” Ho, ho, ho! Sorry, but NO ONE five thousand miles away killing with drones and missiles is fighting for my freedom. Last time I looked no one any where in the world was trying to deprive me of my freedoms except perhaps my very own federal government. And so, until we come to our senses—not likely--or suffer a defeat so deadly and devastating that no American will even mention the word “War” for a hundred years—very likely—I expect to see so-called “heroes” in military uniform cranking out the flag before every sporting event.

Apology--I wish I could say that my anti-war impulses were all humanity-based and spring from motives benign. Alas, my hatred of these innumerable and non-stop wars are mostly self-serving, viz., I fly a lot, I travel a lot, I move in other countries a lot—I would like to continue to do so without being killed simply because “my” bloody-minded government thinks murdering people around the globe 24/7 is just jim-dandy. Indeed, I can think of no other nation on the planet more geared toward war and destruction than this one!

The American military neither defines me nor speaks for me. Had I the power I would bring home virtually all U.S. troops from around the globe, find them good civilian jobs or place them on our southern border with Mexico. Not only would this move save U.S. taxpayers trillions and trillions and stop millions and millions from invading us, but it would help heal all the angry scars we have created around the world.

Geezers Gone Wild #2

2011-11-10T14:13:00.002-05:00

Way back when, way back to my days of green gullibility, back when I was filled with romantic nonsense and all aglow with naive moonshine . . . well, anyway, way back a year or so ago. . . .

. . . I once foolishly assumed that with age came peace; that as a person grew older they gradually left impulsive and rash behavior behind and settled into some sort of golden bliss. With years and experience, I reasoned, came maturity and wisdom; with age came a cooling of a once-fiery soul. And as animal passions chilled and the libido mellowed, I surmised, reason would at last gain the throne and tranquility would reign supreme.

Well, Bull Sheet! From my observations down here at Senior Central, more people than not seem to grow old disgracefully. . . .

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The other night, over at some miserable swamp clearing in central Florida, seems Doris and Chester Smith had a tiff. Nothing rad here. What couple doesn’t have a spat now and again? Well, this little argument escalated until the wife grabbed a knife and let her husband have the business end . . . over and over. When cops finally arrived they found Chester dead as dead could be and Doris “distraught and disoriented.”

Now, awful as it is, even a spousal argument that ends in murder is not really that big a deal here in depression-era Florida. It seems to happen every day. What makes this incident noteworthy is that Doris is 87-years-old and her hub, now newly deceased, was 93! My God! Is there no limit? Are some humans murderous all their existence? Now, I am assuming that Doris did not kill Chester for his insurance money (what would an 87-year-old person do with sudden wealth? Go to Vegas? Buy a new boat or sports car? Party 24/7?) And so, the only answer I can come up with that makes any sense is that Doris was a victim of domestic abuse. Domestic abuse! At that late stage--180 years of cumulative living--and two people, with virtually all four feet in the grave, yet still fighting and resorting to violence as if they were empty-headed children.

If ever there was a case for easy divorces in this country, this is it. Imagine: A man seven years short of the century mark working over his 87-year-old wife! How did he even find the strength to beat her? And why did she not flee from him, or, in this case, why did she not just creep from him on her walker or in her wheel chair? If this has been going on for long, why did they not just get a friggen divorce fifty or sixty years ago?

Horrible.

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Boca Beat Down—Down at Boca Raton the other day, several local trouble-makers were playing a game of eight ball at the Palm Beach Country Club. When tempers flared an argument erupted. Grabbing for something to throw, one of the thugs, David Hartstein, found some pool balls handy and bounced a few off the coconut of one brawler. When another hoodlum stepped in for his friend he too received a couple of bonks on the block, just for good measure.

When cops arrived Hartstein was charged with “aggravated battery with a deadly weapon” and taken to jail. The two knot-headed victims were wheeled away to the hospital for treatment. David Hartstein is 61-years-old. His two victims are 91 and 79!

Unbelievable.

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Another “young” demon, 61-year-old Edward Frederick Glowitz of here in Englewood, was in a foul mood the other night. Actually, like the pit bulls he probably owns, and the meth-addicted wife he probably beats, Ed Fred is always in a foul mood. Tonight, the more beer the outlaw biker guzzled at the Time Out biker bar, the more pissed off Ed became with life, the world in general, and a fellow biker in particular. Anyway, the verbal spat quickly ratcheted to a physical spat and Ed Fred threw a punch (which missed), then tossed a bar stool (which didn’t). Now thoroughly roused, Ed finally broke through several booze bags trying to break up the fight and managed to grab by the throat the object of his rage. What followed was pretty gruesome.

No mention on how old the victim was but whatever his age, he got a beating he would never forget. The beater first knocked the beatee down behind the bar. Then, as he straddled him, the attacker ripped off a soap dispenser from the counter and hit the man over and over again in the face and on the head. The dispenser finally shattered. Grabbing an empty wine bottle, Glowitz continued the vicious assault until that too finally broke.

With the victim now totally unconscious and perhaps even dead, Ed heard that the barkeep had called 911 and he decided to seek safer surroundings. His Harley didn’t get him very far, however, before he was arrested without incident and escorted to jail. No mention yet on the condition of the victim.

Stuff like the above, as well as the great many childish-acting old people I see all around, convince me that most folks may indeed mellow with age but for others, young fools become old fools, and hearts filled with rage in youth are generally hearts filled with rage in fossil-hood.

Depressing.

Bahama Blood Lust

2011-11-07T13:45:00.001-05:00

Just back from the Bahamas. Beaches great, weather perfect, people mellow. Ho-Hum. ZZZZZZZ. What’s new? Actually, this cruise was all about 1) Michelle and 2) Halloween. Since she won the costume contest last year in Costa Rica--and had a groove doing it--her sights have been set on the Bahamas for the past twelve months.

Unlike last Halloween, where there were maybe twenty contestants with questionable costumes, this year’s contest had over a hundred entrants, a panel of judges and some outstanding outfits. There were seven categories: “Scariest” (won by a couple from Miami dressed as zombies), “Funniest” (a little black guy in prison stripes), “Most Original” (I forget who won that), etc., etc. We won “Best Couple.” In fact, after I bribed the judges with little skeletons before the vote, only ourselves and another winner won a bottle of some really decent, very dry champagne. All seven winners received some pretty poor fountain pens. Okay. Then the party, some really sweaty dancing in costumes to non-stop music, then to bed and forget it, right? Not.

Very early the next day as we walked around the ship we discovered that people were staring and pointing at us. Then more and more some would shyly come up and say, “Aren’t you the Dracula couple?” At first I just assumed these people had been at the party. But, if anything, over the next several days this stuff intensified until we could not even go out without every other person waving, pointing or approaching us. We finally discovered what the deal was—the ship had taped the Halloween contest and they were playing it on TV several times a day.

Eventually, at some point, everyone, including the two thousand passengers and one thousand crew members, saw sexy Michelle baring her fangs and the bald Dracula staring hungrily into the camera. Also eventually, when someone would come up to me in the halls, by the pool, on decks, or in the dining hall, and ask “Excuse me, arn’t you the Dracula on TV?” I would just bare my teeth and go for their jugular. One of the crew just called me, “The Legend of the Ship. We will never forget you!”

Ah fame, you fleeting flame, you!

On Lemon Bay

2011-10-28T18:03:00.003-04:00

As I left on my daily bike ride yesterday, I realized that there was twice or thrice the amount of traffic on the road as normal. I chalked it up to oldsters returning from the northlands and I quietly prayed to heaven that all had something of their mental faculties remaining yet and that all had vision a bit better than 20/200, or those termed “legally blind.”

So, I pedal five miles up to the north draw bridge and, as I have done every day this week and last, I cross over and do the “big loop” into Englewood. This route, about twice my normal round trip island ride, is 20 miles in toto. But hey, now that the heat has abated somewhat the weather is gorgeous and I am in absolutely no rush. So. . . .

As is my wont on these longer trips, I pause to rest at Indian Mound Park. It’s nice and quiet at this park on Lemon Bay. Standing by the water’s edge, with our backs to the lapping waves and our vows aimed at the preacher woman, this is where Michelle and I were wed two years before (above, minus the regatta; oddly enough, almost directly across the bay is where we live). Anyway. . . .

On this day I just lay on a bench with my feet up (avoiding the fire ants below) and while I sweated and rested, I listened to “and I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?” by CCR playing on some sun-bathing fellow’s cassette. When I saddled up I made quick chit-chat with the guy and he said something like, “Yeah, I'm really enjoying this—blah-blah-blah--and it's better than Manasota Beach—blah-blah-blah--today and with the bridge—blah-blah-blah.” I didn’t catch the last part but I laughed and agreed with the man even though he may have just warned me that an asteroid was scheduled to hit Englewood in five minutes. Okay. . . .

After another three miles with the mid-day sun now beating down, it dawned on me what the man had said. A sign ahead announced “Bridge Out” and sure enough, as I slowed for the obvious, the deputy directing traffic to turn around laughed, “You can go on ahead if you want but you’ll need to pedal pretty fast to jump the two spans.” It also was now clear why there had been so much traffic earlier on the island road. And so. . . .

With the south draw bridge (below) stuck in “open,” that left me only four choices: Since 3 of the 4 options involved my demise--1) laying my tired bones down forever and dying of hunger, thirst, etc., 2) stepping in front of a truck and suiciding then and there on the spot, and 3) swimming Lemon Bay with the bike on my back--I decided to honor my marriage vows by sticking it out through thick and thin. Slowly, I began to pedal back the loooong way I had come. Where the necessary energy would come from I had no clue, but. . . .

An hour or so later, I completed my 40-mile marathon with zero mishaps but so tanked and tuckered that today the light rain provides the perfect excuse to let my suffering bones be.

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Several blogs back I mentioned that when navigating parking lots here in Florida, this Jack is indeed very nimble and quick. Why?

Michelle told me a story yesterday related to her recently. Seems this elderly couple stopping at a local grocery store had parked and while the wife got out with her walker the husband screwed around trying to remember how to turn the car off. As the woman was passing slowly behind the vehicle, one of the legs of her walker slipped on a piece of gravel causing her to fall. Well, since he was so preoccupied with the car keys the addled husband naturally didn’t see his wife disappear and, of course, he naturally chose this moment—of all things--to back up. Now, rolling over something similar in size and shape to a large log might cause most folks to stop and check it out; but not this old fellow. And again—and in the face of all logic--Instead of continuing backwards, the man now found his “drive” gear again, then drove over the “log” once more. Had not passersby stopped him, the husband might have remained in that parking lot all day, rolling backwards and forwards over his dead wife.

That’s why!

On John and Jesse

2011-10-26T20:39:00.001-04:00

Some thoughts on notoriety and nothingness.

John Dillinger (above) was the last great outlaw of the Wild West. If one replaces the horse power in his Ford V-8 for a real horse, exchanges his sub-gun for a six-gun, there is little to distinguish Johnny from Jesse. Both had rural roots, both rose during tough times, both led gangs, both robbed banks, both made dramatic getaways, both captured public imagination, both were filled with bravura, both shared that something-special which separates legends from common thieves, and both outlaws were laid low not by sworn enemies but by sworn “friends.” More importantly, neither John or Jesse allowed their “profession” to trigger the worst in each. Many a time, had stress won and nerve failed, or had a sadistic streak surfaced, the scenes of their robberies would have been awash with innocent blood. And yet they never were.

I once visited Dillinger’s hometown and the scene of his first petty crime in Mooresville, Indiana. I spun around on the same streets young John spun around on. I saw many of the same sights he saw as a kid. On my way out of town I took some photos of his old boyhood home. Interestingly enough, on my tour that morning, the fellow who eagerly told me where all these places were was a Mooresville policeman. Judging by his enthusiasm, it was obvious the cop was as fascinated by Dillinger as I was. But there was something more. I believe the gentleman secretly admired Johnny. And I see nothing wrong or unusual with this.

I have had numerous law enforcement types on my Jesse James bus tours. I think we all, cops included, secretly admire the successful bank robber who avoids violence whenever possible. Honestly, 99% of us are about as noteworthy as an ant on an ant-hill. We shuffle through life, running from the light, going along to get along, fearing to risk, fearing to fail, fearing to fall out of step or fall from fashion. And we do this with all the mind-numbing anonymity of those professional street crossers in Grade-B Westerns. We read history, we write history, but we don’t make history. For whatever reasons – guts, brains, talent – almost all of us lack what it takes to be remembered even 15 minutes after we are dead. We are intrigued, fascinated, and awed by those who take the risks and make the history. We live our lives vicariously through them. I think inside all of us there is a Jesse James or John Dillinger banging to get out.

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NOT Great With the Kids—A 13-month-old child was attacked the other day by the family pit bull in nearby North Port, Florida. The toddler was dragged across the room and would have been killed and perhaps eaten had not the father forced the animal’s jaws. Even so, the little boy underwent major surgery to remove part of a crushed skull and repair damage to his horribly mauled face. Since the standard refrain following such an incident—“he was great with the kids”—wouldn’t wash after this almost-fatal attack, the father simply shrugged and admitted that he had no idea what set the dog off.

When I was four-years-old, I too was attacked and almost killed by a dog. Unlike the above animal, however, I know very well what the cause of my attack was—this big, healthy farm dog that I wanted to pet was chained up and angry with the world. And who could blame him? Such was not the case with the pit bull above. He was fed and unfettered and should have been happy with his environment. But he wasn’t. Allowing a child to “play” with a breed of dog hard-wired for vicious, unpredictable and bloody attacks, is like allowing that child to play with a live hand grenade.

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Photo of the Day

Under the Rainbow

2011-10-25T11:15:00.009-04:00

Yet again, yet another person tried to stop me in the middle of the road today, on a dangerous blind corner, to ask for directions.

And yet again, the driver seemed PO’ed when I just blew right on by. Now, this individual with his large dog sticking 3/4 out the window, surrounded by two tons of steel frame, an air bag and a seat belt, may have felt entirely safe stopping dead in the road and he may have known that there were no cars coming soon behind him but I, hanging out to dry on a frail bike, had no way of knowing. So sorry.

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'Til Jail Do Us Part—A local homeless couple—let’s call them Mork and Mindy--do their grocery shopping in the predawn hours. They walk into a Circle K or 7-11, pick out what they want, stuff it under their shirts, then mosey back to the van where dinner is served. It usually works. Yesterday morning, however, as they were shopping for expensive power drinks and cheap honeybuns, security cameras caught the couple in the act. The vigilant clerk called the county and advised them that the van in question had pulled into the gas station just a block down the street. When he saw the po-po drive up, Mork made a break for the palmetto jungle behind the store. After a two hour manhunt with dogs and helicopter infra-red, the quarry was finally flushed from hiding. And, following a brief chase in which some serious voltage to the posterior zapped him off the wall he was scaling, Mork gave it up. Together he and Mindy were escorted to jail. Since Mindy had warrants, she clearly could expect three hots and a cot for considerable. Her hub, Mork, though, seemed more interested in his own empty belly than an extended separation from his wife.

“Thank God,” said the starved thief when told lunch would be served in a few hours. “That’s all I did was steal some honeybuns because we wuz hungry.”

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Ain’t Enough—Apparently, Florida has made some feeble attempts to reduce the number of DWS’s (Driving While Senile) by annually revoking twice as many licenses for age/medical reasons as they were doing ten years ago. Well, good. Taking even one crazy and/or blind person off the roads is a net gain of one. But really! We here in Charlotte County alone have hundreds, if not thousands, who are still plowing through post office walls or driving off piers, yet still hanging on to their coveted driver’s license to crash and kill another day.

Right now, state law requires that a driver age 80 or older must have their eyes tested every six years. EVERY SIX YEARS! What kind of a friggen law. . . ? With the rapid decline of the body at that age, a person could go from passable vision to being blind as a bat in two years or less. EVERY SIX YEARS! Give me a break!

And as for dementia . . . ha! One Florida woman’s case is typical. Her husband, a former professional, is deep in the throes of Alzheimer’s. Although she has tried to get the attention of the state, the wheels of bureaucracy creak slowly at best, or fall off completely, at worst. Recently, the husband plucked the car keys from his wife’s purse then drove to a nearby hardware store . . . in his underwear. As of this writing, the man still has a valid driver’s license.

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For Example—Last Sunday was a gorgeous day and 65-year-old Bob Schneider of here in Englewood was enjoying every minute of it. Normally Bob’s wife, Mia, would be with him on the big Harley but today the loving “soul mate” was busy at home. She expected Bob back by six. Up the same road a piece, 89-year-old Evert Gustafsson pulled up to a stop sign. Since he didn’t see any other cars coming Evert pulled out into both lanes of the highway. Of course, the elderly driver didn’t see the motorcycle. Of course, the motorcycle slammed into the car. Of course, Bob didn’t make it home that evening. Of course, Mia Schneider is now a widow. Of course, the driver of the car and his 86-year-old wife were uninjured. And, of course, that’s the end of the story.

For what's it worth, Bob was wearing a helmet.

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Historical Headwounds: Abe “Bullethole” Ellis

Designated Maniac

2011-10-22T12:00:00.003-04:00

Some folks just don’t want to be saved from themselves. Some folks just want the freedom to be stupid.

The other night, in a pub over on the mainland, a bunch of biker booze bags were holding high carnival by loudly celebrating one thing or another--perhaps a new break-through in brain surgery, perhaps some advance in rocket science, perhaps Nate “Hammerhead” Sharkey’s parole and release from prison. Anyway, after several hours of such revelry one of their number drunkenly announced that he was “outta here.” Now, since this individual, aptly named Bryan “Boozin” Boozan, was in no condition to stand upright and blink at the same time, much less drive a big Harley on dark streets, the idiots’s pals snatched his keys and refused to give ‘em up. In theory, right move; in practice, wrong reaction.

For some reason, the subject of this well-intended altruism took umbrage not with his friends, but with the poor pub which had served him only too well. In a wild rage, the blotto biker unleashed a one-man demolition derby upon the contents of the establishment. Chairs, tables and pool cues were broken against the bar and floor and reduced to match sticks; beer bottles, glass mugs and pool balls were hurled into mirrors, windows, light fixtures, and whisky bottles. When the brave bar tender unwisely tried to micro-manage the situation, she was smote by a flying beer bottle for her efforts. When the blue lights finally arrived, Boozan the Barbarian had pretty much destroyed the saloon single-handedly.

Somehow in the pandemonium, Boozan managed to recover his keys and made a wobbly getaway. When the cops ran him down after a one-mile chase they found the drunk arguing with some poor devil in a driveway. Nearby lay the wrecked motorcycle. Boozed-up Boozan (sorry . . . just couldn’t resist one more) was cuffed, charged with a year’s worth of offenses and carted off to the calaboose.

As for the good samaritans? Well, so much for trying to help a friend! A demolished biker bar, an injured biker bar bartender, a wrecked biker’s bike, and a jugged biker buddy with a laundry list of charges— could it have been any worse had they just let the damn fool leave?

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Photo of the Day

Monday Mutterings

2011-10-17T17:04:00.001-04:00

With the waiting line getting longer on death row, Florida is considering a return to its electric chair, “Old Sparky.” Aiming to please, the state may also offer its murderers the buffet choice of a firing squad.

With all the controversy surrounding lethal injection, Florida folks are frustrated. Murderers keep killing, juries keep convicting, but Florida ain’t executing. One killer--and not just any killer he, but a cop killer--spent three (3) decades on death row before he was put down by lethal injection. And even then, attorneys had begged the court to spare the poor boy because of the uncertain nature of the chemical “cocktail” used. “Cruel and unusual,” they argued.

“So, I say let’s end the debate,” one Sunshine legislator recently growled. “We still have Old Sparky. And if that doesn’t suit the criminal, then we will provide them a .45 caliber lead cocktail instead.”

Years ago, Florida dropped the electric chair largely because of the 1990 execution of Jesse Tafero. When the switch was tripped and the juice flowed, smoke and a foot-long flame shot from Jesse’s head. Horrified, officials quickly stopped the proceeding for a moment . . . then tried again. The result was more smoke, more flames, more horror. Again they stopped and again they retried. The third time was the charm, although it took over five minutes to fry the man well-done.

I do hope the state sorts all this out in time to deal some justice to a notorious murderer here in the state, scheduled to take the walk in one month. Oba Chandler, a life-long con from Tampa, befriended a mother and her two teen daughters on vacation from rural Ohio in 1989, then took them out in his boat one night and raped them. When the devil was through, he bound the women, taped their mouths, tied concrete blocks around their necks, then tossed them into the black waters of Tampa Bay.

“Cruel and unusual”. . . . There’s that phrase again. What social sissy-men, bleeding-heart whiners and other moral misfits just don’t seem to get is this: Many, maybe most, Americans, totally fed up, totally outraged, totally wild and savage after decades of TLC to the most loathsome and beastly of killers, don’t want no more nice and neat executions; they want cruel and unusual executions, and the crueler and more unusual, the better. I personally would have no problem if they treated this creature above, this Oba Chandler monster, to the same torture he visited upon his victims, provided that the event is shown on pay-per-view so that all such beasts-in-waiting around the globe could see that this is the way Florida deals with such sadistic crimes.

And what of these two demons who raped and burned to death that brave and beautiful mother and her daughters in Connecticut? I think there are a great many folks in that state and elsewhere who would relish it if these two were burned at the stake, very slowly, on public TV. I personally would not watch it but can well understand those who would.

The annual whine about how much it costs to put prisoners to death, or how much it costs to keep prisoners alive, is getting stale. I venture that there would have been millions of viewers and billions of dollars generated had the slow torture of Scott Peterson been televised on world-wide TV.

What am I advocating here? Not totally sure. Perhaps a punishment to fit the crime, no more, no less. Whatever we are doing now, it just ain’t working.

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Michelle and I were headed up-island the other day bound for Venice (“Venice,” as in Venice, Florida). This pretty little town of draw bridges and art deco architecture is where the 9/11 terrorists learned to fly jets. Venice is also home to Michelle’s favorite vinegar and oil shop (now THAT’S a specialty shop, only flavored vinegars and olive oils here).

Anyway, even before we got off the island, we spotted something moving in the road. One could hardly see it, so tiny it was. It looked no bigger than a tumbling leaf. It was, of course, a turtle. Actually it was not a sea turtle (these have either hatched by now or their eggs have been destroyed in the tidal surges). No, this was just a baby gopher tortoise. At maturity, these creatures can get as big as a wash tub and they are a treat to see on this island as they lumber through the dunes. When we finally realized what it was we had travelled maybe another hundred yards up the road. Michelle’s request to turn around fell on receptive ears and we returned. Once there, my better half jumped from the truck and carried the little thing to the grassy shoulder. Sure enough, another car was coming and I allow that the little "tumbling leaf," at the pace he was setting, would have been just about where the rubber met the road had he continued.

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Photo of the Day

Friday the 14th

2011-10-14T15:37:00.000-04:00

One more way the economy can kill you. . . .

Just out of high school? Can’t afford college or vo-tech? Wouldn’t go even if you could? No jobs to be had? Why not join “The Few, the Proud, the Marines”? Or why not be a “Force For Good Around the World” and join the Navy as we attack, invade and occupy the majority of the globe? Well, as a young person learns quickly, there really is no free lunch in this world. There is a price to be paid for everything. With the U.S. Government starting more wars than we can count, any young man who enlists stands a good chance of getting himself killed, at worst, or coming back to Sally Hussenfluff a legless, armless freak, at best. Unless one is some sort of super patriotic macho meatball, at some point it does occur to most kids who enlist that if not for an awful, no-options economy they would not be risking their lives and limbs just to stay fed.

That’s one way to die, but a suck economy has a thousand other ways to kill you. Job loss and domestic stress leads to drinking and drugs which lead to poor habits and poor health which leads to cancer and heart attacks which lead to a wooden box and an early grave. Inability to make an honest living also leads to the ability to make a dishonest living.

Up in Michelle’s Olde Quaker State the other day, locals were surprised one morning to wake up and find their bridge was missing. That’s right, a 50’ bridge that had been there one day just disappeared overnight. No wash out this, either. During the night, thieves had used blow torches to dismember the steel span and truck it away. Sold as scrap metal, officials estimated that the bridge would bring a cool $100K. Low risk, high yield--not too shabby for one night’s work. We have all heard of the raging market for copper wiring and tubing, but a steel bridge?

And so, let’s just assume you are flying down a familiar road some night doing 60 or 70 and uh-oh, that bridge you had been counting on seems to be missing. By that point, it’s far too late to save your bacon but in that final split second of life you will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that it was a poor economy that got you in the end. That’s another way a bad economy can kill you.

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Coming Soon--This blog receives roughly 30-50 email responses per week, with a record high during one seven-day period of 127. Some are rants and diatribes about one thing or another. Some are just “How-dee-doo’s” and “keep-up-the-good-works.” Some, however, are personal accounts of things this blog touches upon, be it the weather, politics, pit bulls, travel, or crime. More than a few of the notes I receive are hilarious stories concerning “geezers.” Although tales of oldsters confusing the gas for the brake pedals predominate, others write about old Edna trying to bake cakes with unusual ingredients, Chester putting his clothes on backwards, and Mabel just walking to and through the mall as nature intended her to. With permission only, I will soon print a few of these emails on this blog. I think you’ll get a kick.

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Headlines You Might Have Missed

Whatever

2011-10-12T10:30:00.000-04:00

Well shut my mug! That rarest of all things . . . two pits NOT running loose!

Up and over at Daytona Beach the other day, a cop and his K-9 buddy were hot on the heels of some perps who had just crashed their stolen vehicle and fled on foot. Anyone who has watched a few episodes of COPS on TV knows just how dangerous these foot chases are. Anyway, soon after bolting into a fenced yard, the K-9 was attacked by two pit bulls who charged from a screened-in porch. The handler immediately forgot about the escaping car thieves and reached for his pepper spray. The stinging liquid had no effect on the pits and they continued their savage mauling. Fortunately, another officer soon appeared at the fence and this dude was taking no prisoners. Six shots—three for each mutt—settled the issue once and for all. As for the K-9, he was rushed to an emergency animal clinic in pretty bad shape.

Even though these dogs were two of the rarest of all creatures—pits in their own yard--cops must be able to perform their duties free from attack and injury. IMO, a home owners right to keep murderous “pets” ENDS when a cop’s life--and I include the K-9 in this category—is at risk.

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Kinky Lizards—I reported last week on a lizard so dry that he tried lapping the sweat as it fell from my head and puddled at my feet. Well, since that time we have had a ton of rain on Manasota Key and funny thing--today the same lizard—or a remarkable facsimile--tried virtually the same thing. Now that’s one weird liz!

Also, as I prepared to shave this morn, I lowered my restroom window and a large gecko fell on my hand. %?X&8$@?! These gecks are really cute and everything but I don’t like shocks that early in my day. And so, I finally herded him down from the wall, then squashed the little sucker as flat as a dime with my shoe—just kidding! And so I finally herded him down from the wall and shooed him out the window. It was clear to me that the rubbery white thing with suction cups for fingers didn’t really want to go, but so sorry.

Must be the year of the lizard.

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Photo of the Day

Monday Morning Meltdown

2011-10-10T14:27:00.000-04:00

So much for dry spells and thirsty lizards. Old Manasota has received a year’s worth of rain in a total of ten minutes. There are no gullies here to wash--just sand--but if there were it would have been “a real gulley washer,” sure.

I am always on high alert in the mall parking lots down here. I always do a quick spot check as I proceed from the car to the store or from the store to the car. I am looking for 1) autos with their engines on, 2) human shapes or profiles in the driver’s seat and, if possible, 3) I try to determine the age of the driver. And I do this, of course, not out of idle curiosity, but as a survival tactic.

Last May, the lady who does the little cooking demos in our local Publix grocery store, 76-year-old Betty Henley, was walking through the parking lot where she worked. This is the same parking lot Michelle and I have trod scores of times. Unlike us, Betty either was not paying attention or was just too slow when “an elderly motorist” mistook the gas pedal for the brake. Unfortunately, Betty was passing directly in the path of the car when old Percy panicked.

Now, Betty is a pretty stout old gal which undoubtedly helped to cushion the blow somewhat. It is unclear at what point the crazy old loon who was driving first realized he had run over Betty but it would have been something akin to running over a saw log.

Long short: Betty survived . . . but just barely. She had a cracked skull; she had a leg that was totally crushed; she had a pelvis that was broken in four places; and naturally, she had serious internal injuries. Betty was hurt so badly, in fact, that only just yesterday, after four months of recovery, did she take her first step. The woman is learning to walk all over again.

Now, “which is the gas pedal and which is the brake?” ain’t the only significant issue oldsters face when operating horseless carriages. Yesterday, a measly two miles from this cabana, 89-year-old Gladys Holmbeck thought she was on the way to Manasota Key when she mistook the opposite traffic lane for the turn lane. Instead of correcting her mistake with a simple touch of the wheel she became “confused” and simply froze right in the middle of traffic. Of course, when she did finally move it was to lurch into the opposite lanes of traffic and plow right into some poor dodger who was out just enjoying a beautiful day's drive.

Now, since this occurred at about the same time as I was on my bike ride, for all I know some one else’s misfortune saved me from a fatal rendezvous with Gladys on this narrow island road. If she could mistake clearly marked traffic lanes and signals for a turn lane, why not confuse a bald biker for a pelican or a large lizard?

This kind of stuff is not an anomaly; it happens all the time. At what point will the families and caregivers of these ancient menaces stand up and yank the cars from these people? It certainly looks like the State of Florida could do more testing for those drivers 100 years and up.

Are people living too long? Not sure, but one thing I am sure of: They are damn sure driving too long!

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Another Really Crummy Way To Go--A 77-year-old Ukrainian man recently came in first at a dumpling eating contest—ten of those large suckers in 30 seconds. The Grand Prize? A one-liter jar full of sour cream. Bizarre, you laugh? Big deal, you grunt? Spare me, you insist? Well, before Igor could take a victory lap or try to beat the old world record of eating a giant jug of sour cream in ten seconds or less, the Ukrainian glutton just pitched over and dropped dead. What rotten luck! And what a rotten epithet for his rock: Igor Lardinski, born in Kiev, 1934; died in Kiev, 2011, of dumpling overdose.

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Bad Joke of the Day

“Doc, I can’t stop singing ‘The Green, green grass of home!’
“That sounds like the Tom Jones Syndrome to me.
“Is that common?
“It’s not unusual.”

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Photo of the Day

"Michelle, Michelle" or, A Hot Vampire’s Sex-capades From Milan to Minsk

2011-10-08T13:10:00.000-04:00

It’s dry on old Manasota. How dry? So dry that the lizards are literally drinking my sweat!

This morn, as I stopped at Blind Pass Beach to rest on my daily bike ride, a lizard actually darted in between my feet. The little devil startled me so that my natural reflex scared him away. But as I sat on the bench he reappeared in a few seconds. As I watched in disbelief, the lizard tried to lap up the sweat that was dripping from my forehead onto the wooden deck. Now, in several hundred stops here over the past two years, I have NEVER witnessed that before. Since my sweat is probably a thousand times saltier than the sea, the lizard soon scooted off.

But anyway. . . .

The Right to Keep and Bear . . . Baseball Bats? Bikes? Maybe Midgets?--According to a report, because it is beyond the means of most people now, cocaine consumption in Florida has tanked. Since addicts will be addicts, however, and In keeping with the suck economy, most have turned to cheaper drugs in their quest to microwave their minds. Meth slamming, paint huffing, glue sniffing, and now incense smoking are street sports among Florida’s mildly underprivileged and wildly underintelligent underclass.

Up the wide estuary at Port Charlotte, a sixteen-year-old got into a tiff with his old man the other night over something, over anything, over nothing--what do it matter? Seems junior had been frying away what little remained of his brain by smoking something called Kryptonic. This crap is apparently a cheap incense now in vogue among the poor-of-purse but rich-in-stupidity Beavis and Butthead addictive personality types.

Now, junior’s old man might guzzle Bud Light with the best of his beer-bellied friends but all this illegal drug stuff just didn’t seem American to the seldom-sober patriotic dad. And so the arguments began. One thing led to another and finally the whacked-out son grabbed a sword and tried to skewer his surprised sire. From that point, the race was on.

After chasing the old man up, down and around the house for a spell, the teen pitched the big blade and seized a baseball bat instead (after all, it is major league play-off time). With junior right behind him and swinging for the yard with every strike, the desperate dad dashed from room to room. Finally, the old man flew out of the house and into the night. By now, junior was totally pissed off at his inability to kill his dad. Dropping the bat, he grabbed his bike. Of course, using a bike as a weapon makes no sense but nothing about this story makes much sense. Flinging the bike at his father, junior quickly reached for the crossbow. No luck. No arrow. It then occurred to the spazzed son that he might sic the two pit bulls, “Bonnie and Clyde,” on the old man. But alas, and of course, the canines had broken their fence earlier that day and were off killing things in another part of town.

Finally, the half dead drunken dad was able to reach a phone and call 911. The cops came, the cops caught, the cops cuffed, and the cops carted junior’s sorry ass off to the jug. Junior was charged with plenty, including aggravated assault with more deadly weapons than the cops could count!

This type of stuff is no big deal down here. It happens all the time. As Old West newspapers used to say about local shoot outs, "It has become too common to note."

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Dumb Joke of the Day

Two termites walk into a bar and one asks the other, “Is the bar tender here?”
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Another “Good” Pit bull—Despite what owners of canine killing machines called pit bulls argue, the only time we normal folks can be sure these things “wouldn’t hurt a thing” and are “great around the children” are when they are dead. Up St Augustine way, “Sampson” got loose for the three or four hundredth time the other day and immediately set out looking for something to sink his teeth into. The playful pooch had already bitten a dozen or so humans in his earlier history and today it looked like Sampson wanted to take it up a notch by killing someone. Unfortunately for Sampson--and fortunately for all Florida life forms--he picked a cop to kill.

When the dog saw the policeman he did what any self-respecting pit bull would do, viz., he attacked. After clubbing the animal’s rock-like head several times with his baton, the cop drew his pistol and let Sampson have it eight times, transforming the "sweet-natured" and “great with kids” critter into indeed, a truly “good” pit bull.

"Once I got home, the dog was lying over there on the concrete. He was dead and you could see where they shot him at pretty close range," said twenty- or thirty-something Michael Mickler, Sampson's owner.

"He meant the world to me. He was my best friend," Mickler added. “He pulled me to the store on my skateboard and whatever. I just wished they could a just, you know, tased him or something.”

Sorry about losing your “best friend” Mikey, but this country needs cops who can shoot straight a hell of a lot more than it needs “best friends” whose sole mission in life seems the destruction of every living thing it encounters. Now hurry up and smoke your meth Mike, or you’ll be late for the cock fight.

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Photo of the Day

A Bird In the Hand . . . Then Count Your Fingers

2011-10-06T14:25:00.000-04:00

Michelle and I have just returned to this island from Italy and Africa. While the island woman seems no worse for wear, the island man is just a draggin’ his wagon.

Unlike our last trip to the Med earlier this year, things were library-like and stable as stone this go around. In a word, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Hmmmmm. I think if she had to pick, the cowgirl’s single best memory might be her first camel ride in Tunisia (the great brute she chose must have been a nasty piece of work since I noted he was the only hump wearing a metal anti-spitting, anti-nipping mask).

If I had to choose right now, I think my favorite memory would be scaling Mt. Vesuvius with Michelle. This was actually my second fling on the ever-so-active volcano (above). When he was eleven-years-old, my son, Clip, and I hiked up this classic cone overlooking Naples; but since we were with some Swedish friends we had met earlier, there were just too many distractions for me to enjoy the mountain to its fullest. The day with Michelle was glorious.

Or maybe my best memory was when the lights were turned off three hundred feet down and the glittering boats glided through the pitch blackness on the underground lake. When the musicians within the boats began solemnly playing Chopin there was not a peep from the two hundred spectators. I have been through Carlsbad Caverns, Mammoth Cave, and maybe two dozen others, but never have I seen such a place or experienced something so moving as the Dragon Cave of Mallorca Island (below).

On our way home from the Tampa airport Tuesday night, we stopped and picked up a little white parakeet in Tarpon Springs. Michelle’s son, Matt, and her daughter-in-law, Danielle, will spend the next five weeks in Africa dodging wild beasts and Somali kidnappers and we will spend the next five weeks trying to avoid having our fingers severed from our hands by a two-ounce bird.

A few months back, Matt was out washing off his jet ski when lo and behold down fluttered a parakeet squarely on his shoulder. With no visible means of support, the couple placed ads in hopes of finding the owners. Zero. And so, the two adopted the feathered waif. Very quickly it became crystal clear to Matt and Danielle why this parakeet was looking for a home. Indeed, I have already found that this little white devil can really put a chicken licken on your finger or hand. One would never imagine that such a tiny creature could have such strength in its beak, but mercy me he sho do! My theory? Someone just got tired of that constant pain and tossed the bird out the window. Whatever, for the next 4 weeks, 5 days, 6 hours, 24 minutes, and so many seconds, we have a feathered can-opener in the house and we'll have to cope as best we can.

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Coming Tomorrow, or the Next Day:
Michelle’s Forbidden Sex Secrets REVEALED!
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Nonagenarians in the News

2011-09-18T13:34:00.001-04:00

If 60 is the new 50, then is 90 the new 80? And if so, at that age does it really matter?

Up the coast a piece, up yonder at Sarasota, ninety-year-old Edmond Baclawski was blithely riding his bike the other day without a care in the world. Had a man ten years shy of the century mark been wobbling along on a quiet suburban street in Sarasota or even a bucolic bike path around a lake it would have been cause for concern for all concerned; but in this case the older than dirt gentleman was navigating through six lanes of heavy street traffic in 90-degree heat. Only someone completely crazy or someone extremely lucky could escape such a situation with their life. Fortunately, Ed was a lot of the former and a little of the latter.

Of course, just about as quick as he could, old Ed pulled right into the path of a speeding car. Of course, the last thing the poor driver of the car expected to see was a ninety-year-old man pedaling toward her. Of course, she hit him. Of course, a crowd gathered. Of course, paramedics arrived. Of course, Mr. Baclawski was dead. Of course . . . wait! Funny thing: Whether old Edmond was slightly killed or seriously injured, medics couldn’t seem to agree upon since at ninety years of age it’s sometimes hard to tell if one is dead or alive. And so Ed was taken away to the hospital where at last report he seemed to be living yet. No mention if the victim was wearing a helmet or not, as if it mattered.

But really, a frail old man on a frail bike skating through heavy traffic in the middle of a scorching hot Florida afternoon! Obviously, this gentleman didn’t have a clue as to what planet, much less what city, he was pedaling around in, which raises the question: Where the devil were Ed’s family or his caregivers? How on earth can anyone allow such an accident-waiting-to-happen to just sail out the door? It’s about like allowing a three-year-old child to just wander away and hope for the best. I guess the moral of the story is: You can’t keep an old coot down or, never bring a bike to car fight. Lord!

Update—Last week I reported on the 90-year-old woman who was attacked by an alligator just south of us. I mentioned that authorities were trying to find the offending reptile in hopes of recovering and reattaching the woman’s leg. At the time, said leg was thought to be in said gator’s gizzard. Well, it seems that the scaly culprit was at long last found, and killed, and gutted, but alas, no leg. It’s just as well. Can you imagine the condition of that leg after it had sat digesting in a gator’s gullet for a week? Disgusting. As for the victim, she is doing amazingly well, considering.

“An investigation continues into the attack and could last for several weeks as witness interviews continue,” said a spokeswoman for the Florida Wildlife Commission. “Witness Interviews”? “Continue”? Really? Just who in the heck could they be interviewing anyway over the next several weeks? A gator attacked an elderly woman walking along a canal. In the tug-of-war, the lady lost her leg. Interviews? Perhaps authorities need to locate and question other suspicious alligators who may have been hanging around outside the Canal Bar and Grill that day to make sure the right gator was bagged? Bizarre!

Whatever, the fact that the two 90-year-olds above are still moving around making news says something about the changing times. Shoot, fifty years ago if you were ninety-years old it meant that you had already been dead, buried and forgotten decades ago.

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Stake Out—Up by Tampa the other day, a mentally disabled man at a care center was accused of filching money from staff members. In an attempt to make the crazy fellow talk, as well as to inflict some good old-time medieval punishment on him, a young staff member staked out the culprit on an ant hill. Actually, the accused was forced to merely stand on an ant hill. Now, take it from me, being forced to endure repeated fire ant stings would be more than enough for most sane folks to quickly lose their minds. Fortunately, since the victim had no mind to lose in the first place he was no worse for wear and is now safely back to his old ways, stealing the staff’s money. When one witness stepped up and corroborated the above story to cops, he too was threatened by the accused with the dreaded fire ant torture. That’s quite a “care” center they've got up there.

Florida. . . . Who could make this crap up?

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Madame Goodrich and I were lounging on our rubber floats the other day, just happy as ducks, when Michelle began scooping something from the water. It proved to be ashes. Since there is nothing between this island and Texas save 800 miles of salt water, we assumed this was ash from the wild fires sweeping the Lone Star State recently. When we looked closer, there were numerous such ashes and blackened leaves landing around us.

This reminded me of the day I was on the telephone back in Kansas talking to someone about a tornado that had just hit Wichita (150 miles southwest of us). As I spoke I noticed something large and black fluttering down rather suddenly into some timber across the road. My curiosity was naturally stoked and when I finally found the thing, I realized it was a piece of black roof felt. Like Dorothy of old, the tornado had obviously sucked that sucker straight up to Oz and I was a witness to its return to Kansas.

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Illusion of the Day

So, Sue Me!

2011-09-14T12:37:00.001-04:00

Some random, not-very-well-connected thoughts on law suits.

Imagine you are Roy Kronk (above). You are a blue-collar stiff. You have worked hard all your life. No one ever just walked up and gave you a flippen thing. You scrimped and saved for every thing you’ve got. Except for a lifetime of bad hair days and an unfortunate surname that harkens back to the stone age, you’ve gotten along pretty well with your life. You've avoided most of the land mines of life by toeing the straight and narrow, by paying your bills, by helping others, by doing the little things that make the world go 'round.

Now imagine you are Roy Kronk just sitting down at the breakfast table. For an old guy who looks like Ralph Kramden, you have awakened this fine morning feeling pretty chipper. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, you open your newspaper, you read the comics, you check the names in the obits, you scan the local headlines, you see that the same 85-year-old woman who drove her car through the wall of the local post office last month did so again this month, you buzz over the national headlines, you read that you have been accused of not only murdering someone’s child, but of “inappropriate behavior” with your own kids. . . . Say what? You read it again. It’s true. There it is. Your face! Your name! You have been accused of hideous crimes. My guess is that reading such “news” would not only spoil your cup of coffee, but ruin your morning, your day, your week, your year, your life.

Well, such were the headlines Roy read one day. Roy Kronk was the Florida meter reader who stumbled upon the remains of little Caylee Anthony. Thus was Roy involuntarily dragged into the whole sordid mess that became the Casey Anthony-Circus-Come-To-Town-Midway-Carnival-Geek-And-Freak-Side Show trial. Now, on a world stage, poor Roy Kronk was being dragged back into that morass when he was accused by that scurrilous, sensation-seeking rag, the National Inquirer, of not only murdering Caylee Anthony, but of sexually abusing his own children.

At this point, Roy Kronk could do one of three things: A) He could ignore the baseless charge and try to get along with his life, knowing full well that this meant he would become a marked man for the rest of his existence. B) He could allow his growing rage to run riot by grabbing a shotgun, hunting down the vile creature who would write such things, then terminate his miserable existence in one flash-boom of vengeance. C) He could do the modern, civilized thing (which means, the sissy thing) and file a multimillion dollar law suit.

Roy, of course, is opting for plan C and I do hope this gentleman is awarded a bazillion dollars.

In the old days, back in the Wild West, much such similar slander was dealt with very quickly. Some offensive rascals were called into the street and flogged within an inch of their life by an aggrieved man or woman wielding a cowhide. Some slanderers did not get off that easy and sundown found them fertilizing weeds on Boot Hill. So, perhaps, it is indeed more civilized today--if less satisfying--to sue someone rather than blow their damned heads off at the shoulders or cut them in half with a chain saw.

Law suits. . . . Who of us has not seen those scenes caught on tape of those who try to stage an accident in hopes of wringing money from some store? I recall one overweight woman in a grocery store (where else?) who slyly scoped both sides of the aisle before she deliberately spilled some vegetable oil on the floor. The "victim" then proceeded to fall ever so slowly and carefully to the ground. Once she was wallowing in her place she really let the thespian out of the bottle; from her screams and groans one might have thought the unfortunate lady would be a cripple for life. Customers ran over to help the poor thing. "And to think," the rescuers thought, "all because of the beastly negligence of the store!" Thank heaven for the video tape. Though I hope the wanna-be thief got nothing for her disgusting efforts, I do hope that she was given a month or more in jail. She deserved it.

Law suits. . . . Unless one counts trying to make a dead-beat renter pay up in court, I have never sued anyone in my sumpin-sumpin years on this blue rock. Certainly, there were multiple ops in my life for such legal monkey business but, no matter how remiss in other capacities I may have been in my past, suing people to get something for nothing is not in my genetic makeup.

Law suits. . . . I personally believe that we are responsible for roughly 99% of all bad things that happen to us. Joining a class-action law suit against big tobacco because they gave you lung cancer? Did they put a gun to your head forcing you to suck that coffin nail when you already damn well knew it was horrible for your health? Suing a hamburger chain because you have grown so large from eating their greasy food that you cannot fit in their seats any more? Poor fellow. Those fat-hating meanies must be compelled to place more distance between their tables and chairs—say three feet more--to make room for that sofa growing from what used to be your lap.

Law suits. . . . If I am sauntering along a sidewalk, gazing up at a flying pig, and I then proceed to tumble head first into a hole, is it the pig’s fault? Is it the sidewalk’s fault? No and No, it is my own fault for not paying attention, regardless of whether the city had “adequate” warning signs there, or any signs at all, for that matter. If a waitress gives me a hot cup of coffee and I mismanage that cup so as to spill what feels like molten mercury on my leg, it’s not the waitresses fault, not the cup’s fault, not the restaurant’s fault--it’s my own damn fault for not being more careful. For the most part, this approach is how I deal with every mishap I encounter in life. And yes, should some old coot proceed to run me over on this narrow island road, in my opinion it is not their fault; I knew the risks of riding on a dangerous, twisty road filled with senile drivers and I willingly accepted those risks. And so on. It goes without saying that the legal profession would shut down overnight were everyone like me.

Is there ever a time to sue? Speaking for myself, perhaps. Speaking for Roy Kronk? You go, Roy!

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Headlines You Might Have Missed

Geezers Gone Wild

2011-09-10T14:33:00.001-04:00

There has been precious little sun in the Sunshine State during the past several weeks. Maybe that explains why old folks down here are acting crazier than normal.

Went for my daily bike ride today and was caught in a tropical deluge. Too far along to turn back, not far enough along to find shelter. And so, I just gutted it out and hoped like heck that all vehicles could see me clearly. One individual saw me all too clearly , I allow, and he could not resist the great temptation to hit a large puddle just as I passed. No big deal really--I was already drenched--and what’s a few more buckets of water, more or less? I did, however, give this mirth-minded miscreant the universal symbol of contempt and disrespect. Cold comfort. The good news: Although the road was filled with puddles, everyone else I encountered went out of their way to avoid splashing me.

Getting caught by an act of nature is one thing; getting splashed by an act of a moron is another. Both, however, are nothing compared to what happened to one old bucko just down the road.

Over near Punta Gordo (“fat point,” in Spanish ), 75-year-old Raymond Haskell was riding his bike back one evening from “bingo night” at the American Legion. Unfortunately, about the same time as old Ray was saddling up, eighty-four-year-old Irene Flora was also calling it quits at the same bingo parlor. Of course, with a combined age of 159 years on the narrow road, a recipe for disaster was already in motion. As soon as Irene got her car moving the first thing that she did was run over and kill poor Raymond.

Ray Haskell, who had just recently given up driving (mercifully) and opted for a bike to save some dough, “was not wearing a helmet at the time of the accident,” sniffed one sanctimonious little reporter. For the young lady’s benefit, it might be added: “Nor was old Ray wearing a coat of chain mail and a full suit of body armor that night, nor was his bike equipped with an air bag, nor did the bike contain a Buck Rogers ejection seat like those used on fighter jets. A helmet looks pretty silly, my cheeky dear, sitting up there on one’s totally undamaged knot when a two-ton car has just crushed one’s ribs, one’s chest and one’s pelvis and when it has also just squashed one’s liver, one’s spleen, one’s lungs, one’s kidneys, and one’s heart. Not wearing a helmet. . . !”

But anyway, about the same time, up the road in nearby Nokomis, 77-year-old Walter Crosby was boiling with a red rage. Seems a former friend’s wife had stolen--or criminally borrowed--a bracelet from Walt’s wife. Sitting in his trailer, ready to explode over the incident, Crosby finally grabbed his pistol, pointed his wheelchair toward the door, then disappeared into the night, rolling away for some old time revenge. Walt Crosby was coming to town . . . and hell was coming with him. To Walt’s Old West way of thinking, sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and sometimes he has to stand up--or in this case, sit down--for what he believes in. One can almost hear the theme song to High Noon wafting in the background.

Rolling his wheelchair up to the wretches’ house, Walter, in no uncertain terms, angrily demanded return of the jewelry. When the accused mocked the old dude and refused to cough up, Crosby whipped out his pistol and began blazing away. Between steering his wheel chair through the house and trying to aim at the flying targets, Walt missed his marks every time. When cops finally arrived on the scene they arrested Walter “Hell-on-Wheels” Crosby without incident. The culprit now sits in the county calaboose without bond.

Meanwhile, over at nearby Englewood the other day, a 77-year-old woman had just received a new bed. When the deliverymen cleared out, it finally occurred to the old gal that she had hidden several envelopes filled with $8,000 between the mattress and box springs of her old bed. Moving as fast—or, in this case, as slow—as possible, she checked under the old bed and realized the money was gone, gone, GONE. Calling police, the woman said that the deliverymen did it, adding that the two had “left in a hurry.” When cops contacted the men, they denied even seeing, much less stealing, any such envelopes.

But really? Just a moment! If a person is so addled that they forget they even had eight grand hidden under a bed, can they really be trusted to remember anything? Did a thieving neighbor, a treacherous relative or a trusted “friend” get to the money first? Did the bonkers old bag remove the dough long ago and give it to the first drug addict she met because little green men in space suits were coming to take her away to the planet Zydron? And if the deliverymen “left in a hurry,” as the woman stated, well hey, yoo-hoo? what deliverymen do not leave in a hurry? Every deliveryman that I have ever seen was in no mood to loll around, have a long smoke, maybe swap yarns and reminisce with a total stranger after their business was done.

The above mental case reminds me of yet another senile senior down here who fell for the old phone scam a few days ago of wiring money to a bogus address to get her dear, dear grandson out of a Mexican jail. Only when the fool lost her first few thousand did it even occur to her that she might CALL her grandson to find out the truth for herself. “You did WHAT, Grandma?” From that point on the irate lady was on the phone hourly, cussing and hounding the cops to get her money back for her!

What a place! With dumb suckers like the above, no wonder Florida has such a crop of greasy scammers and oily con men crawling all around.

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Illusion of the Day

Manasota Mania Man

2011-09-08T17:13:00.001-04:00

The following article appeared in yesterday’s Englewood (Florida) Sun. . . .

Manasota Key (AP)—Local resident, Michael Goodrich of Manasota Key, awoke to a big surprise Tuesday morning.

“I was having my first cup of coffee when I glanced out the patio door and saw it,” said Goodrich.

What Goodrich saw was a twenty-foot Burmese Python coiled in a palm tree above his back yard.

“I knew these things were down in the Glades,” said Goodrich, still visibly shaken by his encounter, “but I never imagined I would have one of them in my own back yard. First lizards and geckos in the house, then Palmetto bugs, which in Kansas we call just plain cockroaches. Now this. What a place!”

“When we first arrived on the scene we spoke with Mr. Goodrich inside the home,” said Jason Lambert of the Charlotte County fire/rescue unit responding to the 911 call. “As you might imagine, he was pretty shook up. We noticed that Mr. Goodrich was drinking heavily from a large liquor bottle and his face was very pale, very ashy. His hands were shaking badly too and he was also talking sorta like ‘in tongues,’ you know, something like those religious sects do; just mumbling strange sounds, not really words. I guess he was in a total state of shock.”
For years Burmese Pythons have been spotted throughout South Florida. but never has this large invasive species been discovered so far north as Manasota Key.

“I guess the things have learned that they can swim across Lemon Bay and take root here on the island,” said Goodrich. “That pretty much does it for me and Florida. I’m out of here!”

Goodrich’s wife agrees.

“If we wanted to live around these huge monsters we would have moved to Burma,” said Michelle Goodrich. “I have a 9-year-old Boston Terrier that would be just a snack to one of these big things. We just can’t take a chance. Unlike Michael, I don’t mind snakes much. But this thing is off the charts.”

The python was removed by professional trappers later that morning. Authorities are still discussing what to do with the animal.

(The above article is not true . . . yet. It WILL be if such a nightmarish visitor swims Lemon Bay and takes up lodging on this island, as it is perfectly capable of. At that point, Michelle and I will be so outta here.)

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Funny For the Day

Bad Animals Gone Worse

2011-09-01T16:21:00.000-04:00

For one reason or another, Michelle and I often ponder cancelling our local fish wrap. Too far left . . . too far right . . . too much clutter . . . too many dead trees. . . . But then, we pause. If some junk in the rag is tedious, other junk in the rag is priceless.

Down by Naples, Florida, the other day, Margaret Webb was taking her daily stroll along a canal that bordered her home. The 90-year-old woman had creaked this path a jillion times and never once did she have a problem. This day was different, however. Before Margaret hardly knew what had happened, she found herself in a tug-o-war with an eight-foot alligator over ownership of her leg; after 90 years, Margaret had grown fond of the leg and was determined to keep it; hungry, tired of a diet of poodles and possums, the gator was determined to claim for himself the human drumstick. After a terrible battle, the gator won his bloody prize and sank beneath the murky surface. Mrs. Webb thereupon entered upon a new battle; this one to save her life. The severly injured woman was flown to the nearest hospital and at last report, the lady lives yet, but barely. Meanwhile, a professional has been hired to hunt and kill the gator as quickly as possible. The hope is that the victim’s leg can be retrieved from the gator’s gizzard and reattached.

Monday evening, over by Miami, a 53-year-old woman was sitting on her patio minding her own beeswax, just a chillen' and joyin' the weather. Her lazy cat lay nearby. Now, cats may not be the brightest bulbs in the animal kingdom, but no one will ever accuse them of being suckers. Cats seem born with an innate suspicion of everything and anything and in a pinch, a cat will not rely on a human for jack squat. Nope, a cat can save its own bacon without any help, thank you. Thus, when two loose pit bulls stormed onto the scene looking for something small and slow to kill, the cat was up the tree quicker than you can say “Osama bin La. . . .” And so, if the disappointed pits could not find something small and easy to kill, they turned their attention to something large and a bit more difficult to destroy. By the time the frantic woman made it into the house she was a bloody mess. When cops arrived, the hounds naturally attacked. The result: Miami cats and humans have two less “loose” pit bulls to worry about.

Not to be outdone, an “out of control” human pit bull slugged a policeman who tried to evict him from a homeless shelter up in the Florida Panhandle. Seems the homeless sapien, 31-year-old Karim Bien-Aime, had earlier fought with shelter staff members and when he would not leave the vexed staff called the cops. After sucker punching one of the cops, Bien-Aime then grabbed the officer and began gnawing on his head. From the sound of it, seems Karim was one hungry cannibal and he apparently would have eaten the cops head right down to the shoulders had not another policeman nearby given the maniac a healthy jolt from his Buck Rogers ray gun. The only good thing to transpire from all this is that Karim, with all that juice coursing through him, fell and hit his worthless head hard on the curb. A pity the fall was not fatal--tax payers picked up Karim's hospital tab.

Florida!

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Ads From the Past

Belizing is Believing

2011-08-30T14:37:00.000-04:00

Michelle and I are still recovering from a short jog to southern North America, viz., Mexico, Honduras and Belize. A few comments on the latter nation. . . .

Back when I was a kid, I used to collect stamps from around the world. My favorites were the colonial stamps issued by France, Belgium, Portugal, Holland, and especially Great Britain. Portrayed in elegant, detailed etchings were the scenic beauty of the colony itself, the flora and fauna found there, the historic buildings, and, of course, the subjects who lived in these exotic places. Typical of the English colonial stamps were those from British Honduras. The stamps were ornate and gorgeous and each gave me a snapshot of life in that country. I never thought I would ever get to a place like British Honduras . . . and I never did. But I did make Belize, which is what the tiny country was named after the Brits left in 1981.

Belize is a very poor country. Crime is rife. Nothing is doing. As I looked into the miserable huts and shops of the capital, Belize City, I wondered if Belizians don’t secretly long for the bad old days when the British kept the economy running. Blacks congregate in the cities and the descendants of the Mayas seem to rule the countryside. Dreadful as the urban areas are, if one can get beyond the cities to the jungles and highlands they are in for a treat. Jaguars, tapirs, sloths, parrots, toucans, leaf-cutter ants—truly one has reached the tropics when they venture here.

Other than scuba diving, one of the neat things to do in Belize is cave tubing (above). For over a mile Michelle and I floated underground on a crystal clear river as it gently carried us through a system of enormous caves; since I have been in a lot of caves it was a very odd feeling to be riding on water past stalactites and stalagmites rather than walking. At times, the only sounds were of the water dripping down from the cave ceiling. Occasionally, the current would carry us into a clearing and our senses would be blasted by a bright blaze of greens, golds and blues. Then we would reenter the cool darkness of the caves again. It was wonderful.

My reverie ended quickly when we suddenly burst into another jungle clearing and our local guide pointed to a spot at the water's edge and said he had sighted a 20’ python a few days before “right over there.” If a guide waits this long, I thought to myself, to tell us about huge snakes nearby why wouldn't he wait just as long to tell us about piranhas in this very river where our butts are now so exposed in these tubes? Plus, Belize is home to the deadly Fer de lance, the so-called “three-step snake”—three steps being about as far as you can go after one bites you.

All in all, Belize, with its mahogany and coconuts is an exotic slice of the world but not a place Michelle and I plan on relocating to any time too soon.

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Stamp of the Day

Beach Bike Bingo

2011-08-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

Some stupid little armadillo tried crossing the road this morning and, of course, like virtually every other armadillo who tries crossing a road, he didn’t make it. I did not see or hear him get it—thank God—but he left a pretty big mess. Yet, when I got back from my morning bike ride (about an hour), there was no longer a trace of the little armored thing—the buzzards are that quick. Speaking of my bike ride. . . .

As often mentioned in this blog, pretty nearly every day I tool this island from tip to toe on my self-mobile (bike). In all, it’s about 11 miles. There is only one road on Manasota Key (above) and it is a paved, narrow, windy way framed by Lemon Bay to the east and the Gulf to the west. Speed limit is 30-35 MPH; there are no shoulders. Anyway, the ride, though scenic, fragrant and canopied by tropical trees and flowers, has pretty much become rote for me and I hardly notice it any more.

Funny, but hardly a week passes without some motorist trying to flag me down in the middle of the road to ask for directions. When we first moved here I made it a practice to stop and answer what questions I could for any and all. And I was happy to do so.

Mom and Three Kids: “Can you tell me where Blind Pass Beach is?”

Me: “Um . . . yeah, just keep going . . . it’s about a mile ahead. You can’t miss it.”

Two Hot Babes: “Hey, where is the best place to party around here?”

Me: “Hmmmm. . . . My place in five minutes!” (just kidding, Michelle)

Senile Man: “Do you know where a post office is?”

Me: “Over on the mainland . . . at Englewood. But there is a mailbox here up at the roundabout.”

Senile Man: “Where is it?”

Me: “Which one, the post office or the mail box?”

Senile Man: “Post office? Mail box? What are you talking about?

Me: “Oooookay then . . . just remembered that I’m late for a balloon ride. Good luck, and once you get there, remember: Your brake is on the left side and the gas pedal is on. . . .eh . . . Oh, just forget it.”

But any more, when someone tries to flag me down dead in the middle of the road, I do not stop. Nope. First of all, it is too dangerous. Thirty MPH may not be much, but on these narrow curves it is something, especially with so many old people driving and me hanging out there to dry on a bicycle. Also, there is the matter of physics and the problem with momentum. Lost souls looking for help, spot me, the biker, and imagine that I am pretty much the same as a pedestrian; or maybe a slow-moving information center pedaling up and down this island just to aid visitors. What motorists don’t realize is that it takes a ton of work to get a 21-speed bike going after you stop. Now, stopping is not that big of a deal early in a trip, but later, when you are blowing sweat from every pore and sucking wind like a beached sucker fish on the shore, it’s a chore. Thus, much as I hate to seem unfriendly, when someone stops in the middle of the road waving their arm for me to stop, I just blow on by.

I just blow by, that is, except when a couple of swell-looking dames ask for directions; then I always slam on my brakes to help (again, just kidding, Michelle).

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Sign Sentence of the Day

More Madcap Mayhem From Those Marvelous Mutts of Murder and Mutilation

2011-08-16T16:28:00.000-04:00

‘Tis August, Paddy, and ‘tis the dog days we’re in, sure! From sea to shining sea, all around this great big “land of the free, home of the Pit Bull,” those cuddly canines we’ve all come to know and love are at it again.

Up near Tampa the other day, old John Ashmore went out for his morning walk. As was his custom, the 84-year-old took advantage of the quiet mornings to stay fit. For nearly a million years Ashmore had managed to stay alive without fuss or bother, but on this day. . . . Little did the spry old dude realize that this morning his neighbor’s two pit bulls were--you guessed it--loose again. After the bloody mauling was over, somehow John found himself yet alive. Paras on the scene were horrified by what they found, however. Ashmore suffered “major trauma” to the body—that’s fancy lingo for being torn limb from limb. When the dogs turned on the first cop to show, the officer proceeded to remove from this earth two pit bulls more. Nice shooting, O'Malley!

Out San Francisco Bay way, a husband returned home from work last week to find his pregnant wife covered in blood and quite dead. Standing over her, also covered in gore, was the couple’s pit bull. After calling for help, the husband put the pit bull in the back yard. Of course, when cops arrived soon after, the pit bull naturally jumped the fence and attacked. It took three slugs from a service pistol but this killer was finally sent to another realm.

I have known two pit bull owners in my life, as well as one wannabe. All three individuals have been three of the most ignorant cretins you will ever find on the face of God’s green globe. All three have committed criminal acts. All three can barely spell their own names. All three are a total drain on society. Point #1: These ignorant and irresponsible individuals are why so damn many pit bulls are always running loose, i.e., because the owners are either too lazy, too stoned or too stupid to keep their fences up. Point #2: Why should the rest of us put up with these rocks in our midst who want to keep killing machines around for God knows what reason, and who have not the intelligence, ambition or sobriety to keep the killing machines penned up?

As one of these mental giants said, “Our pit bull was the best dog you’d ever want [shaking head in confusion]. And he was that way up until he killed the neighbor.”

Such retarded comments remind me of the murderer, Perry Smith, from the book In Cold Blood: “I thought Mr. Clutter was a nice man. I thought so right up until I cut his throat.”

Don’t wanna hear no more lying BS from the “confused” owner after a fatal attack about how “loyal” and “sweet-natured” his perpetually loose animals are. I, for one, would like to see ALL pit bulls neutered and when the last killer dies it will be a felony to own one in the United States. After all these vicious attacks across the board, any homo sapien that cannot see the merit of such a law must have more loose screws than a hardware store in an earthquake.

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On a happier note: Chicken lovers of Charlotte County rejoice! Our local government will allow us to keep chickens as pets, limit three per chicken lover. Although I will not rush right out and get myself three chickens, there are those who will. As strange as it might sound, some of my happiest moments as a child were spent feeding, watering or just watching the chickens down on my grandma’s farm. When helping grandma with some drudgery (like snapping beans or shelling peas) I would seat myself under the little cottonwood and watch the goings and comings of a hundred or more chickens. After a time, I found those hours to be not only entertaining, but very restful. Chickens are actually extremely friendly and curious if one allows them to be. Sometimes old hens would wander over to where I sat and just be social. When hens are content, they make a gentle cooing sound. Each old clucker has a distinct personality, or chickenality. As far as a “pecking order,” too true. Always sad to see the lowest little hen on that pecking order for she truly was an outcast and had to really hump for her living.

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Three swims? . . . one day? . . . third degree sunburn? . . . priceless. The first dip was up at Blind Pass during my bike ride; another dunk was across the road on my air mattress at noon; and finally, another was with my boobed and bootied bikini-clad beauty at five p.m. As a result, I got a pretty good skin sizz. I actually imagined that I had a decent tan and that frying would not be an issue. Wrong!

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Ad Irony From the Past

Off the Top

2011-08-13T16:32:00.004-04:00

I watched a few minutes of the Liz Murray story the other night, then changed channels.

Liz is the young woman (above) who grew up on the streets of New York, literally. Her parents were stone drug addicts; they died of AIDS. Liz slept in alleys and door ways. She ate from garbage cans. On the few days that Liz attended school she was mocked and bullied; she was dirty and her hair was filled with lice. Her clothes were hand-me-down hand-me-downs. There should have been no hope for the child, no possible way she could survive, much less rise. And yet. . . . Years ago I saw a documentary about Liz’s life and I never forgot it. It was so sad, compelling and so well done that the movie version this week—Homeless to Harvard: The Liz Murray Story--was a very pale version of the true life account. If you get a chance to see either the movie or the documentary, do. Liz Murray is my hero.

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Please Let Me Off—Is anyone else already sick and tired of all this Republican presidential campaigning? With the exception of Ron Paul (who media “experts” already declare has no chance at all of winning—at least they PRAY he doesn’t), all these other characters, women included, bore me to death. The “same-old-same-old” comes first to mind. All are career politicians (read: professional liars, hustlers and useless eaters), all smile from ear to ear (like car sales persons or TV evangelists, take your pick), and all strike me as not an atom better than the grinning zero currently sitting in the White House. All, save Paul, plan on more war, more taxes, less freedom, and less accountability in how “our” government operates. When/if aliens from another planet do arrive, I for one want to go with them. Almost anything would be better than this bad dream we Americans have endured dating back at least to Baby Bush, but perhaps even back to Bill and Hillary Flintstone.

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More Words--I read an article in the paper the other day in which Florida will allow an Asian company to “harvest” our fresh water turtles. Seems some folks over in the Orient have a fondness for not only stewed dog and fried cat, but turtle pot pies and are willing to pay top dollar to get it.

But anyway, the above gets me to thinking on words and how they are used. Every so often I read in the newspaper or hear on the TV some very official-sounding buzz-cut referring to an upcoming hunting season somewhere and talking about all the deer, elk, pheasants, or whatever, that will be “harvested.”

Sorry, gizmo, but I find it offensive, obscene and Orwellian to talk of “harvesting” creatures who, like ourselves live, breathe, bleed, eat, sleep, play, nurse, nurture and above all, creatures who, like ourselves, feel pain. The use of this sanitized word, “harvesting,” is supposed to conjure wholesome images, I suppose, of yeoman farmers “bringing in the sheaves” and preparing for some sort of Thanksgiving. Actually, in the context of killing animals, “harvesting” is a very new word. It is corporate greed-speak for slaughtering. Simple. “Harvest” might put a candy coating on the bloody business and it might make the whole meat/hunting industry less repellent to modern men and women, but meat and blood is what it is---meat, blood and murder! To corporate America everything is a commodity to be bought and sold for profit. If a law was passed permitting it I am sure corporate America would “harvest” humans too, in a manner similar to the Chinese who “harvest” human organs.

Harvesting is a word that works well for wheat, corn, apples, and pumpkins. Slaughter is the more accurate word for killing deer, pigs, cattle, chickens, and virtually everything else that can’t stand up and speak for itself.

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Ads From the Past

Never A Dull Moment

2011-08-02T17:19:00.003-04:00

Maybe it’s just the heat and humidity, or maybe it’s the local economy that's making the 1930’s look prosperous by comparison, or maybe it’s hurricane season and “Emily” bearing down on south Florida—whatever it is, white folks down here in the weeds are sure acting strange, even for this place.

Over the last few days we have had some spectacular crimes over on the mainland. Across Lemon Bay in Englewood a few days ago, a young female drug addict, a slammer panhandling downtown, was given a roof over her head for the night by an elderly cripple who may have had motives in mind other than benign. That night the wheelchair-bound benefactor was found as dead as a door nail with fifty stab wounds perforating his body. A bullet or two were added for good measure. After trading the victim’s coin collection for one last fix, the dope slammer now resides in the city slammer (sorry, couldn't resist).

Then, the other night, over Punta Gorda ways, a tiff between ten-year-olds over ten-year-old stuff quickly escalated into a regular red neck rodeo when two neighboring clans came to blows. Amid a bedlam of screams, shouts and curses, the fray spread like fire among all the tanked-up “adults.” When the warring families jumped on scooters, pickup trucks and anything else that could be used like a tank, the fight began to resemble a demolition derby with everyone trying to run over the other.

A few doors down, the 70-something grandparents of one of the feuding families heard the wild commotion and decided to ride to the rescue. Jumping into their golf cart the elderly couple sped toward the sound of battle. At some point during this retarded skirmish, the golf carting grandfolks brought their vehicle to a sudden stop. Perhaps the angry grandpa mistook the brake pedal for the gas. Whatever, the cart came to a grinding halt directly in the cross hairs of one Roy Lee Poore and his big pickup truck. Wham!

Today, poor Poore (sorry again) is facing a murder rap and grandma golf cart has gone to that big family feud in the sky.

Also over at Punta Gorda, laying under an oak tree, two bodies were discovered by a pastor the other morning behind the Methodist church. One of the bodies, that of a 60-year-old man, was missing most of its head. A shotgun lay nearby. Beside him was his 57-year-old wife, also with a head wound. A rifle lay near her. Although scant is known of the couple, it appears to all that the horrible event was the result of a double suicide. As it turns out, the man and woman had been married in the church forty years before. The two had lived elsewhere since that time, most recently Las Vegas, and it appears they returned to the church for the sole purpose of ending their lives together on the same spot where they had begun it together. Drugs? Debt? Sickness? Whatever the cause, the childless couple apparently took their vows--“Till Death Do Us Part”--very seriously. A tragedy, sad and heartbreaking.

Quite a place this Punta Gorda. Always something.

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What’s In a Name? Ask Andy Dick. He’s scheduled to go on trial in West Virginia, not for robbery, murder or dope dealing, but for felony sexual abuse. Now, although he may be totally innocent of the charge, with a name like “Dick” how much extra effort will it take to prove his innocence in a sex crime? Hopefully, none, but my bet is some. If Andy was just a Smith, Brown or even just a Badman (see "Florida: Stick It Where the Sun Shines," 7.28.11), would he even be on trial now?

If you think tags don’t matter, just consider what happened to the “Hydrox Cookie.” Although it entered the market first and was perhaps an even better-tasting product, Hydrox lost the war to a better-named copy-cat, Oreo. As marketeers then and now know, it’s easier selling a product whose name rolls off the tongue and sounds like something good and happy and virtuous rather than trying to peddle a product whose name grinds out like some hideous monster from a bad dream (above). Hydrox v. Oreo? Although I actually preferred the former cookie, shopping moms and hungry kids nation-wide voted overwhelmingly for the latter.

Try telling the former makers of Hydrox that a name doesn’t matter. And as for Mr. Dick and his trial, the only worse name I could think of in this case would be Andy Raper. Words count, names matter.

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Daydream of the Day

अमेरिका से भारत प्यार के लिए के साथ,

2011-07-30T15:18:00.000-04:00

Bad news or not, it will be a good day to live today, a good day, indeed. I just looked out my window a moment ago and beheld that rarest of rare sights—an armadillo successfully crossing the road!

Code Red! Geezer Alert!! All of my loyal readers between Manasota Key and the North Pole need to be on extra high alert for the next several weeks. Seems George Sutherland of here in Charlotte County, long since diagnosed with Alzheimers, got PO’d the other day at the behavior of his bossy family. Seems the family in question who was looking after him tried to force George to start wearing clothes when guests came to the house and to stop him from walking naked around the neighborhood at night.

Steamed, George threw all those duds that he never wears anyway into the back seat of the car, then announced that he was moving to Massachusetts to live as nature intended him, i.e., stark raving naked. And that's the last anyone has seen of him. Of course, even with the Olde Bay State on his brain it’s anyone’s guess where the addled 92-year-old man will ultimately smash up his car—Key West? Guatamala? Yankee Stadium? The bottom of the Grand Canyon? In the meantime, no telling how many restaurant walls George will crash through, how many post offices he will demolish or how many poor cyclists he will run over before he is caught.

Truly, a 90-something person driving a car is, in and of itself, a scary, scary thought; add Alzheimers to the mix and it is something akin to a nuclear tipped mine floating loose in the ocean but no one knows where. Primary care-givers who allow their crazed relatives easy access to car keys should be held responsible for the consequences. If the seniles raise hell with them about “needing more freedom” and demand “greater independence,” then the care-givers should give them toy car keys to play with and perhaps buy them an auto-gyro whizzo float-a-boat (below) to pedal around in the garage--they’ll never know the difference. But for God’s sake, hide the damn car keys!

When George is finally found, or when he finally kills a dozen or more people—which ever comes first—I’ll give a full update.

Update: Well, now THAT was quick! Safe, if not sound, old George was located 24 hours after leaving Florida. Since he was found in Atlanta it seems he was headed in the general direction, generally. No mention yet of deaths or the debris field left in Sutherland's wake as he consistently confused the gas pedal for the brake and crashed his way north. No mention either of any penalties placed on the family who would allow George access to a two-ton torpedo.

Postscript—For reasons not clear, a large number of retarded people in India read this blog (second only to the USA). The title in Hindi of this particular post--"From America, To India, With Love”—is a tip to those folks. To my Indian friends: Good Luck, God Bless, and Practice Birth Control!

Florida: Stick It Where the Sun Shines

2011-07-28T17:34:00.001-04:00

Never a dull moment in Charlotte County, never a dull moment. Between the drunks and the senile drivers, it's enough to keep a bike rider like me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory.

What’s in a name? A local thief and all-around sneak was arrested a short while back for stealing a check from his boss. Said sneak was also charged with threatening said boss with a major beat-down if the latter went to the law. The ever-so-apt name of this thieving, threat-throwing gentleman? Mark Anthony Badman. Because he left threatening messages on the victim’s cell--which, of course, were turned straight over to the cops—perhaps this stupid crook should have instead been named Mark Anthony Dumbman.

Anyway, if one of Badman’s ancestors had done the right thing years back and had changed the nefarious name to say Goodman, would we even be talking today about Mark’s theft and threats? IOW, did Mark live down to his name? I’m sure that if the accused could say something on the subject it would go something like, “We’all come from a long line of Badmans. We’all be proud of that old name. Ain't a changin' nuttin' fer nobody.” If I could toss a chunk of advice to Mark and his dad, John Dillinger Badman, and Mark’s teenage son, Jesse James Badman, it would be: “Y’all need to change that friggen name already, or y'all need to accept the fact that y’all are dooming future generations of Badmans to be, you know, convicts, jailbirds and such. Just sayin'."

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Jennifer Buckley was feeling no pain. The 37-year-old Tampa woman was totally blitzed. Weaving down busy I-75 the other morning, the drunk drove on the right side, the left side and occasionally Jennifer even managed to drive on the correct side of the road. It was about, oh, say 8:30 a.m. or so. Suddenly, near Venice, juiced-up Jen decided she needed a pit stop; not only was she anxious to dump a liquid load but she wanted to add another liquid load. So, the boozed-up broad pulled her SUV into a fast stop parking lot and “staggered” into the bar, I mean store, and did her business.

Lurching back outside, Jennifer dropped the 16-ounce can of Bud Light she had purchased and after several attempts she managed to locate it rolling around on the pavement. Once back in her weapon, I mean her car, Jen then made motions to head for the interstate again. Fortunately for all Florida life forms in the path of this woman, a cop in the parking lot spotted the sot and walked over. Slurred speech, foggy thoughts, a cold beer between her legs, a hot beer nearby, two empty vodka bottles in the back, Jen’s trip was clearly over.

When he asked where she was going, was the cop surprised at Ms. Buckley's answer? Maybe, but probably not. Jen was on her way to a neighboring town to face the music for a previous DUI rap. It was her third such in seven months. This raises the obvious question: At what point in this woman’s drunken career does a bicycle enter her future? Did some one down here in the swamps pass a law stating that a person can continue to drive drunk right up to and until the time they kill a van full of children coming home from church camp?

Speaking of drunk drivers: Local lush, Bill Doyle III, of wherever, is back in the news (“No Harm, No Foul” 6.27.11). Seems despite his inability to draw a sober breath, and despite not having a driver’s license for four or five years now, and despite his penchant for vehicular homicide, seems Bill the Third is back out on bail, back raiding the liquor stores and back tearing up the roads. Guess you can’t keep a good man, or a bad driver, down.
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It’s bad enough to lose a loved one any old time. When that loved one is taken as a result of a crime, we know it is doubly painful. When that loved one is taken as a result of their own stupidity, I suppose that cross is the hardest of all to bear since there is no one and no anything to blame but themselves. Perhaps that is why the parents of one of the young people who were swept over the Yosemite waterfalls last week (“Ways to Die #2” 7.22.11) are now making noise about lawsuits. Seems the ambulance chaser this family chose to shake down the National Park Service (that’s you and me, folks!) is convinced the steel barrier designed to keep stupid people from jumping off the three hundred foot waterfall is “frail” and “flimsy”--it's too easy for idiots to scale. Also, the half dozen signs warning everyone that there is a very good chance they will DIE if they cross the barrier are simply not large enough or clear enough for some morons to comprehend. Perhaps if they made the signs as large as billboards, threw in some neon, then added graphic images of dead bodies, perhaps retards would get the message. Keep in mind that all this law suit talk is occurring before the three bodies of the dead have even been found.

Whatever, one might imagine that the parents, recent immigrants, would be so saddened by their loss that suing anyone would be the last thing on their mind; that they would be ashamed to sue anyone for the obvious rash act of their loved one, much less sue the nation that so generously took them in. One might imagine that this would be the case but one would imagine wrong, wrong, WRONG! Money is the life blood of this materialistic nation and greed is the engine that pumps it; this fact of American life the new arrivals must have quickly discerned. Sad fact of the matter is: The suit will probably squeeze another million dollars from the Department of the Interior and force the park service to close the falls altogether or perhaps build a monkey cage ten feet high to keep stupid idiots from killing themselves.
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Sand Sculpt of the Day

A Grain of Sand

2011-07-26T13:11:00.001-04:00

I was pedaling down by the south drawbridge last week, on my way home from a morning swim. . . .

In the middle of the busy beach road up ahead I could see what looked like a bird of prey about to eat a baby turtle (the latter are now hatching on this island and the former are thus plentiful). As I got closer I realized that it wasn’t an osprey, frigate bird or heron about to eat a baby loggerhead, but instead a mother duck trying to coax her tiny baby from the road. Since there are so many young and dumb humans speeding on the road I didn’t want to take any chances. I laid my bike down on the path and quickly herded the baby to his mom who was by now waiting near some backwater. Anyway, after my feat of derring-do I got the “thumbs up” and horn honks from folks grateful for what I did. One feels a bit like a cowboy on a white horse during such moments.

Odd. The day before Michelle and I had witnessed something similar. In this case, though, there was no audience present to view the tiny drama, no one to see but she, me and a bee.

It so happened that the day before the duck encounter my French/Russian wife and I were swimming at our beach across the road from this place. Actually, there's no "swimming" to it; we merely loll on our floating chairs in belly-deep water. The blue Gulf was neither choppy or flat, just gently rolling, and soothing.

After a half hour or so, I noticed Michelle dipping something from the water and then placing it on her chair arm. It was a honey bee. He, of course, was long since dead and so he just lay there in the sun, small and unmoving. Without saying a word, Michelle watched the tiny insect for a very long time.

My wife has a fondness for bees. Once upon a time her dad--like my dad--kept bees. Michelle remembers how much her dad—a professional welder--enjoyed tending to his little tribe of bees when he returned from numerous jobs across the continent. He loved and admired those busy little troopers; their tireless work gave him pounds of thick honey. One cold, cruel winter, his bees froze to death. Strong, tough man that he was, her dad quietly cried over the loss. He knew how hard these thrifty little creatures worked for their fare. He felt that he was responsible for the disaster; felt that he should have wrapped the hives in more insulation. The daughter learned to love honey bees by watching the kindness and patience of the father.

Michelle and I continued to loll in the water, drifting about as before. But I noticed that my wife had grown quiet and remote, as if thinking back to another point in her life. Neither of us spoke for quite some time. Although I could not see her face I sensed that she was tearing up.

Then, Michelle suddenly broke the silence.

“I think I saw his leg move. . . ,” she yelled over to me. “I think he’s still alive.”

“Aw, come on. He’s been dead for an hour or more,” I said with doubt in my voice. “It was probably just the wind blowing on his wings.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Michelle continued as she stared at the tiny thing. “Look! Another leg is moving. He is alive!”

By this time I had paddled over to get a closer look.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I muttered. "You’re right. Good golly!”

Carefully, Michelle made her way to shore. Finding a sea shell, she delicately placed the bee inside, then walked beyond the beach to some weeds and bushes. There, in the sun, she safely placed her tiny patient until he could fully recover.

I, of course, was very proud of my wife. She had not given up, though the world would have. Miracles come in all shapes and sizes. Miracles can be as big as the universe or as small as a grain of sand.

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Puppy of the Day

Ways to Die #2

2011-07-22T16:56:00.001-04:00

Back last winter I mentioned that there are good ways to go and bad ways to go. Is there really a good way to die or a bad way? If you give a rat's about the legacy you leave, sure.

Good ways to die? No one wants to go, but if one must. . . . How about exiting the stage like a true super hero, e.g., 1) rescuing every last child in a burning orphanage and just as you push the last tot to safety, you succumb to smoke. You might get a statue for that one. Another excellent way to go would be 2) just before the cops mistakenly pump you full of lead, you shoot and kill all three thugs that are raping a screaming woman. That just might get a new law passed in your name that makes aggravated rape a capital crime, as it should be. And so on.

Some examples of bad ways to die are: 1) The poor Brazilian man who was swallowed whole by the anaconda (can you guess what the topic of conversation was at that funeral?), or 2) the ninety-year-old man who was killed by an otter here in Florida. Nearly a century of valuable contributions; almost a hundred years of accomplishments and right straight living, and yet, the last thing remembered is “Poor old Roy, all that only to be killed by an otter, of all things!” 3) or, the local motorcyclist that I reported on the other day who rocketed through the intersection and ran into the car. Not only did this old man kill himself and his female passenger, but he flew through the car’s window like a missile and killed the helpless driver. Now, taking innocents with you . . . that is a REALLY bad way to step off the stage.

Recently, there's been a spate of bummer ways to go, among which are:

1) The young Texas fireman who dove for a baseball at the Ranger’s ball park and fell twenty feet to his death--a fuggin’ baseball, for crying out loud! He gave his life for a effin' $10 ball!

2) An 83-year-old Tampa man, who was lured into a motel room last week by a 21-year-old hooker, then robbed and murdered. Now, that is a mighty disgusting way to go. After eighty plus years of screwing like a rabbit you might think that a man’s libido would just chill out and relax a bit, but noooooooo, old Ralph just had to have one more $25 crack whore. Few people will mourn Ralph’s passing, I suppose, save the $25 crack whores he kept supplied in crack.

3) This week three absolute and utter fools fell to their deaths at Vernal Falls in Yosemite National Park. Witnesses state that the three, all in their twenties, despite the warning signs and desperate pleas of bystanders, decided to wade into the swift river just yards above the falls to have their pictures taken. It’s one of those brainless stunts that provides bragging rights if all goes well, but if all fails. . . . Soon after reaching the rock the young woman lost her balance and was swept away, soon followed by the two young men who tried to save each in turn. And then, for the final seconds of their short lives each person had ample time, in slow motion, to revisit their folly. Stupid, senseless deaths like this cause conflicting emotions in us all. We are horrified. But we are angry, too. “They got what they deserved,” is a sentiment heard most often. Some among us—like the three above--just don’t get it. So detached are they from the natural world that they honestly believe life is one big reality show in which winning is easy and losing is not that big a deal. One of the witnesses who watched the horrible event said he will never forget the look on the face of one young man as he went over the 300 foot falls (btw--that is about the same height as a thirty-story building). I suspect that the look the witness saw was that of a dead-man-dying—white, terrified eyes, ashy, gray pallor and the awful realization written across the face that this is for real; not a TV show, not a game, but a real screaming death rushing down in Three . . . Two . . . One . . . NOW!

4) And finally, the “Here’s Your Sign Award” goes to that former soldier with no legs who seated himself on one of those death-dealing roller coasters near Buffalo, New York a few weeks back. What in the name of God was he, or the equally idiotic ride attendants, thinking? The man had no legs! Once the safety bar was lowered down on what should have been his lap, there was nothing to hold him in the thing. Absolutely stupid . . . and horrible. Here is a guy who literally gets his butt blown off in war, but survives, only to be shot out like a cannonball from some stupid roller coaster. I’m sure the amusement park will be sued into another zip code over this incident but really, what were those young attendants to do? No doubt the vet’s friends and family put the hammer down on the kids to allow this ex-soldier onto the ride. “Come on, what’s it going to hurt? Fuck the rules! He’s a hero, for Christ’s sake. Let him on!” My sympathy goes out to the damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t attendants since this they will carry forever..

Ironic Ways To Go—Last week, a guy up in New Jersey was struck dead by lightning. This event, horrible in itself, became vastly more terrible when it was learned that 48 years before the victim’s dad had gone the same way. Imagine the thoughts of the woman who lost not only a husband, but a son, to such a rare event. If the most recent deceased has a son, then my bet is that he grows to be one paranoid young man. Who would blame him if he never went outside? (for a look at my own feared ironic death, see blog “Oh God! Not Another!” 11.10. 08)

Memorable Ways To Go—For those of you hoping to exit this mortal coil in an interesting way: How about committing suicide while standing right in the middle of the Four Corners Monument down in the American Southwest (below). Pretty cool, don’t you know, if your tombstone reads: “Born in Mudville, Missouri, 1965; died in Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico, 2011.”

To Catch a Hypocrite

2011-07-20T17:21:00.000-04:00

Over the past few years I have noticed those individuals who haunt high profile murder cases and lead a semi-permanent existence there. Day after day the same faces appear on the 10 o’clock news. Most must be on welfare since no one else could miss that much work and still keep a job. Some of these folks carry signs, most are shouting. None of their shouts are about fair play or justice; no, all scream for vengeance. All want blood, NOW!

To this humble observer, I have found that the mobs screaming for blood outside courtrooms to be even more revolting than the murderer on trial inside. In my opinion, the drunken ghouls holding up signs, “Burn Ted, Burn!” outside the prison where Ted Bundy was executed were pretty damn scary all by their lonesomes; so-called humans hardly better than the serial killer whose death they were celebrating so rapturously. Indeed, the only difference between the mob and the murderer may have been that the mob lacked the intelligence and daring of Bundy to commit such crimes for no one could doubt that the mob’s thirst for blood was fully as gluttonous as Bundy’s.

Recently, those outside of the Casey Anthony trial here in Florida reminded me of those medieval mobs who grinned and rubbed their hands together while savoring the spectacle of an accused witch being roasted over hot coals. The faces on modern TV were, I noticed, the same as those in Middle Ages woodcuts, only the centuries have changed. True, some of these pathetic people were merely hoping to get their mugs on the news for five seconds or so (what satisfaction anyone can gain from that I have not a clue).

Anyway, the blood-thirsty mobs around courthouses have become as much an American fixture as the shopping mobs outside Walmarts waiting for the doors to open following Thanksgiving.

Admittedly, To Catch a Predator was one of my favorite programs. I know them all by heart. Each month the sting operation would set up in a different state and there they would lure internet predators into a home with the promise of meeting an underage boy or girl for sex. Some of these “predators” were little more than kids themselves and clearly the law should bend a bit in those cases. But the rest, in their thirties and up . . . My God! Some of these lecherous wretches should be locked up forever!

The host of To Catch a Predator was one Chris Hansen (below). Chris is a tall, smart, witty media type who clearly enjoyed his work. Hansen took devilish delight in surprising these sexual predators soon after they entered the house; he loved tormenting these perverts caught in his web by reading their internet chat transcripts. He was very, very good at dragging the torture on and on.

“Do you want to explain yourself? You come in here, John, with a six-pack of beer, with condoms and a bottle of lubricant, in a home where you were expecting to meet a 12-year-old girl home alone, you come in here with all that, and here you sit in a strange home butt naked! What can you possibly say for yourself, John?”

"John,” of course, sitting stunned and stupid, can say nothing for his naked self and as the cameras roll, the sadistic grilling continues. This scenario was played out dozens of times per program and Lord, but how we did love it. I mean, these loathsome characters deserved what they were getting, and more. But really, after a while I could not help but notice how much Hansen was enjoying himself; how much he savored the moment. "Maybe Chris is enjoying this just a little too much," I thought to myself. After a few months of this sort of sadistic torment, I began to see that Hansen was perhaps little better than those he caught. Maybe not even as good. Maybe it takes a big rat to catch a little rat?

Anyway, I find it both poetic, as well as just, that the Grand Pious Inquisitor of Perverts himself now should face the same torture he put these people through. Chris apparently was filmed recently here in Florida having secret sex with a woman who was certainly not his wife or the mother of his two children. Do I doubt it? No. Am I shocked by it? No. Am I happy about it? No. But my God, what on earth was Hansen thinking?

“Hey Chris, you wanna explain yourself? What’s a grown man like you, a grown man with so much going for himself, what’s a man like you doing in a position like this? What do you have to say for yourself? And before you leave, Chris, please finish your cookie . . . and don’t let the hypocrisy hit you in the butt on your way out!”

Yeeee-Haw!

2011-07-17T17:37:00.002-04:00

Ho-hum. Yawn. zzzzzzzzzzz. I guess a blogger could blog a pretty big blog each day dawg, each day down here in South Florida on the subject of senile seniors, gas pedals and the wild havoc they cause down here . . . blog each day and still never cover it all, dawg.

Seldom doth a day passeth, it seems, unless some local Sunshine senile confuses the gas pedal for the brake pedal, then proceeds to blast a large hole through a post office wall, rocket right off a tall bridge or mow down a row of innocent mail boxes. Two cases in point:

Up at nearby Venice the other evening, old David Rosenberg and his bride, Sue, pulled into the parking lot of a local seaside restaurant. ‘Twas Sue’s 75th and the couple planned on a nice, quiet, uneventful dinner, just the two of 'em.

Of course, David was just a normal old dude as Florida old dudes go; just one of our average senile seniors who become befuddled by seemingly anything and everything that shares their environment. And so, as soon as Dave spotted a vacant parking place he did what any other normal 70-, 80-, or 90-year-old Florida driver would do, viz., he became “confused” and instead of tapping his brakes for a nice, gradual stop, he hit the gas pedal and floored the sucker. Like a cruise missile, the Rosenberg’s car rocketed through a fence, flew over a low seawall and speeeelash, the vehicle sailed right out into the harbor.

Fortunately for the now nautical couple, a number of Lone Ranger types saw the flying car and quickly rode to the rescue. Said one of those would-be heroes who dove in:

“When my head comes up out of the water I’m right by the driver’s side. The guy looks at me like I am a burglar or an alien. I am pounding on the window, telling him to take off his seat belt. I see the woman. They are staring at me like, who the heck are you? They are in shock.”

The Rosenbergs were in a state of “shock” alright, but it had nothing to do with the deep sea plunge; it was their natural condition. Despite the frantic attempts of the rescuers, the couple seemingly would do nothing to save themselves and continued to just stare at the efforts of the men outside. Finally, one of the men grabbed a hammer from the dock and beat out the back window. Just as the water was up to the Rosenberg’s necks and the car prepared to take the plunge, a strong arm reached down and lifted the couple to safety.

One might imagine that after such a close shave, the Rosenbergs would be profuse in their gratitude. One might imagine that after a narrow escape from death the soaked couple would get on their knees and thank not only the men but God almighty for deliverance. If one imagined all that one would imagine all wrong. There is nota jota whatsoever that the elderly couple even said “thanks” to the good Samaritans. I suspect that even days after the mishap Dave and Sue still haven’t a clue as to what happened and by now both have probably driven off several more piers around the region.

Regardless of the Rosenbergs, the City of Venice held a ceremony to honor the rescuers and the three heroes were awarded . . . were awarded . . . were awarded . . . well, they were awarded awards, that’s what they were awarded. My suggestion to Venice is to place another order for a dozen more such awards and have them handy since there are plenty of seniles out there like the Rosenbergs who’ll need rescuing after they drive into the bay or crash into burning buildings.

One might think that such an incident would be more than enough excitement for one week, but no. . . .

Just up Charlotte Bay, at North Port, some crazy old loon, “for reasons still undetermined,” suddenly turned off busy U.S. Highway 41 and, in broad daylight, headed straight down . . . a bike path! The driver continued speeding along the narrow paved trail for a quarter of a mile! She might have continued on and on in her lala-fruitcake-whacked out ride had not a bridge stood between her car and a gator-infested creek (by smashing into the bridge the addled woman just missed soaring straight into the creek).

I wonder if ANYONE—say a politician who doesn’t give a flip about getting reelected--has considered making it much tougher for senile seniors down here to renew their driver’s licenses. Certainly a significant percentage of these people are perfect menaces and should be stripped of their God-given right to kill the rest of us. I am so tired of reporting on these endless stories that I will ignore them hence. The reader must just assume that with every week that passeth two or three such senile things occur down here.

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Cartoon of the Day

Guys, Geckos & Geezers

2011-07-12T15:30:00.001-04:00

More wars than you can count, the U.S. Department of Torture soon to be a cabinet-level position, a bazillion bucks in debt, an economy that is the envy of any Third World republic, smiling con men running the government, crime right outside our bolted doors—all that is apparently small tacos compared to guys and gals calling gals “guys.”

Below is a “letter-to-the-editor” in yesterday’s daily fish wrap:

How About Some Respect For Women?

Guys, guys, guys! It appears that whatever restaurant one goes to, even the plush restaurants, that when the server comes to greet newcomers it’s always, “Hi guys! How are you guys today?”

Well, I am not a guy and I am sure that many of the customers are not guys either. This irks me to no end. Can the server see that I am not a guy? Can’t a server be a little polite and say, “hi folks,” instead? Why do the managers of the restaurants allow this? I have gotten to the point that I say to the server, “Are you talking only to my husband, as I am not a guy?”

The management of any restaurant should make their servers aware that “guys” should not be used to address mixed-sex couples. Just plain “folks” will do. This use is demeaning to females. We had the woman’s suffrage, and back in 1920 the right for women to vote was enacted. Well, I think now it is time for we women to get together once again and stop this “guys” bit and demand some respect from our servers in restaurants.

Adeline M. Radford
Englewood

Now, I am no spring chicken but if my memory serves me, we--men, women, boys, girls, butchers, bakers, candle-stick makers, AND “servers”--have been calling each other “guys” since at least the early 1960’s. Why? Well, probably for no better reason than because it’s quick and friendly. “Hi, men and women,” sounds retarded. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” sounds stilted and 50% of the time those being seated are neither “ladies” or “gentlemen.” “Yo, you low-life POS scum-suckers” might be more accurate but it takes too long to spit out and such a greeting could get yourself killed. “Hi folks” is nice and homey, I suppose, but if the diners are teens, drug addicts, a group of young girl Goths in purple hair and black lip stick, or a bunch of homos just stopping in for crepes and daiquiris after the gay pride parade, calling them “folks” seems pretty weird.

“Hi guys!” is two syllables, is friendly, is informal, and it just rolls off the tongue. Not once have I ever heard any person under the age of one hundred complain about “womanly respect” when they were greeted thusly by a “server” or anyone else.

Since calling guys and gals, or just a bunch of gals, for that matter,“guys” is generally accepted by perhaps 99.9% of all Americans, I suggest that Adeline, Theodora, Clara, Hortense, and the other one tenth of one percent from the dinosaur age move along to some more pressing issue, such as reviving the Whig Party or abolishing these noisy horseless carriages or working to insure that Calvin Coolidge gets reelected. Certainly, if Adeline gets “irked” and bent out of shape at something so blithe as the above, what must she think of internet pornography, a Chris Rock performance or Bill Clinton and his cigar tricks? Wonder if she can find some “respect for women” in those places.

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Overrun--In the past five days I have removed from this house not one, not two, not three, but four geckos. Michelle has no problem sharing her space with the beasts and argues that these jelly-like little creatures keep the insects down. My counter argument: I much prefer a few insects to a herd of geckos running across my head when I am trying to sleep at night. Unlike the leaping lizards outside which are longer and slimmer and dash like darts, these geckos are shortish, plumpish, not nearly so fast, and cuter, by far. And they are white like cold cream. I deduce that they have turned thus to blend with our walls. Anyway, although I do not want them in the house, I can honestly say that I am not troubled by them too much. They are just too slow, cute and harmless for that. And how they get in is still a mystery.
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Mein Gott! Whether coming or going, it pays to be on your toes when Florida oldsters get behind the wheels. This past weekend, some fossilized feller older than dirt was at a Punta Gorda strip mall doing something (though I doubt if he even knew what it was). Anyway, for some reason old Ebenezer was backing his car up and as sure as shootin’, he confused the gas pedal for the brake and sent his vehicle plowing ass-backwards into a local restaurant/gift shop. The good news: The place had already closed for the day and no one was injured. The bad news: The cute little cafe/shop was utterly demolished.

Unfortunately for all of us here in South Florida, the addled old coot was not killed in the mishap and no doubt he is right back out there today, backing into buildings, cars, cyclists, pedestrians, drug addicts, prostitutes, and anyone else haunting the strip mall. Pretty frightening when I consider that I actually share the road, not with just a few, but with thousands of such drivers. I think it only a matter of time before I encounter some old person’s gas pedal with my name on it.

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Coming Soon--Michelle’s Secret Sex Life
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Photo of the Day

Nightmare . . . Daymare . . . Morningmare

2011-07-09T10:07:00.006-04:00

Fire Ants, Killer Bees, Piranhas, Monitor Lizards, giant African rats, and other unwelcome newcomers are making Florida a trickier place to tread. One invasive species, however, trumps all the rest combined.

Our friend, Ernie, of nearby Naples, Florida, tells us that last year he and another deputy sheriff were called to the local airport on an emergency. When the two arrived they gazed up in the girders of a airplane hanger and there, snugly ensconced, was a large python. Yep. And this one, of course, was no escapee from a zoo either. No, it was a wayward monster from the nearby Everglades, the first of many to come, no doubt. Ernie, formerly from the human zoo of Brooklyn, NY, takes it all in stride. Me? Ha! Anyone who doubts my credentials as a card carrying ophidiophobic need only consult past posts on this blog regarding snakes.

As most Americans are probably aware of by now, the Florida Everglades has a major problem with Burmese Pythons. How these nightmares reached Florida matters not; they are here in numbers now and unless we throw some serious money and effort at the problem, they are here to stay, with all the terrible ramifications for our native species that one can imagine. Problem on problem: As per Ernie, and as a news note from nearby Ft. Myers mentioned last month about one spotted in a backyard, anyone who thinks these ugly monsters will remain politely within the bounds of the Everglades is kidding themselves.

Now, Ft. Myers is a mere 30 miles due south of this island Michelle and I call home. As I see it there is absolutely nothing to prevent an eighteen foot python from reaching Manasota Key save a short swim of a mile or so from the mainland. I am girding myself for the day when I walk outside and see one of these beasts hanging from a palm tree or laying under the car.

Alaska is looking better and better every day.

Postscript--Since there are pythons here in Florida, then 'tis almost certain that there are cobras, too. Nice thought. Pleasant notion. One invasive species can crush you like a beer can and swallow you whole, another will kill you with poison in thirty seconds or less.
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More Invasive Species—The U.S. Coast Guard this week successfully returned over 120 Haitian and Cuban criminals who were trying to enter Florida illegally by boat. Unfortunately, once these invasives reach their original starting point they will immediately reboot for another attempt. Much like the millions of human locusts sneaking across our southern border, the few this government manages to catch are treated with all the rights, courtesy and human dignity a nation in duress can muster. It is clear to this humble observer that this tired approach just don’t cut it. Instead of being fed, watered and politely returned to their homeland—“. . . and thank you, ma’am, come again!”--I think we should begin adding some “risk” element to this criminal game. Although sinking a few Haitian boats or shooting dead a dozen or more illegals swimming the Rio would work wonders for the problem, the U.S. government clearly prefers droning to death innocent stone-age families half way around the globe rather than defending this nation's borders against an illegal invasion. Perhaps making those criminals who are caught clean up the trash along our highways for several weeks, or until they have earned enough money to pay for the trip back to their homeland, would work as an anti-incentive to entering this country illegally.
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What Goes Up. . . . (photo above) Florida has had a number of parasailing deaths lately. One occurred up in the Tampa area; another just north of us on Longboat Key. Whoooeeee! A three-hundred pound dude down from Michigan for some fun in the sun, some sand and surf, snap some shots, buy a baby gator, some sex memories, chug some brewsky at a tiki bar, life is a groove, then BANG!!! a rope snaps and down our tourist comes like lead, all three hundred feet, all three hundred pounds, until he splatters like a tomato on the water. Apparently, a female parasailer was killed when the pull-boat engine suddenly stopped dead and down the woman came like a rock. Guess it is all in the para and there is no “sailing” to it. Murder! And I assumed these things were safe!
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The Original Parasailer

Why the Wheel Was Invented

2011-07-02T17:40:00.000-04:00

It's no coincidence that the Tunisian, Egyptian, and Libyan revolutions exploded in the wake of the Wikileaks revelations.

When it was learned through those leaked cables just what was taking place, what their masters were saying on the one hand, and what their masters were really doing on the other, the slaves in those countries were outraged. These people knew something serious was wrong with their lives but seeing it spelled out in black and white was the spark which ignited the powder.

Like it or not, Wikileaks in some form is here to stay. So many brave souls around the globe, those in sensitive government spots, have become so angered by the corruption, greed, lies, deceit, and indifference of their leaders and the dangerous course the world is on, that they were, and are, willing to risk life and limb to air what they know. Young, but brave, Private Brad Manning of the U.S. Army comes first to mind; when Manning perceived crimes committed and concealed by his superiors, including cold-blooded murder, he reported it. Before young Manning stepped forward there was the Abu Ghraib whistle-blower who shocked the world by revealing those hideous photos of torture and humiliation inflicted on helpless prisoners by U.S. soldiers; who with a soul can forget those sadistic thugs mugging for the camera?

Funny thing--revolutions are contagious. They awake and embolden, they speed the heart rate, they raise the cripple, they revive the dead, they light fires, they lend hope to those who have known only darkness and despair. There is indeed a revolution boiling in this world and I am not simply speaking of the Middle East. I am speaking of everywhere, and especially here in America. If one places their ear to the ground and listens, they will detect a rumbling sound, faint right now, but growing. Many of the preconditions for revolt already exist in the U.S. Bankruptcy, unemployment, poverty, wars, a rotting infra-structure, a growing police state, an unresponsive government, a "two-party" system that is a sham, voter disempowerment--these and other deeply-rooted problems clearly portend that America will not be spared by the fire spreading around the globe.

The veiled threats of torture and the possible assassination of Wikileaks founder, Julian Assange, by the U.S. government clearly illustrate the stakes involved and how frightened these cowardly time-servers are of detection. So concerned is he that murder may indeed be in his future, that Assange has threatened to divulge all about the inner workings of the U.S. government should he turn up dead from “suicide” or disappear forever into the growing gulag archipelago of the American judicial system.

As devastating as the leaked cables have proven in Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, and elsewhere, they are nothing compared to what Assange and Wikileaks will unleash about the U.S. government and what it has been up to over the past decades. Trumped up wars around the globe, “false flag” operations, 9/11 and the “special” role of Israel and it’s sinister secret service, the Mossad; laughter in high places at the helplessness and ignorance of the American people; these and plenty more will engage, then enrage, all who read. It will be no less than a sea change in how we view "our" government.

I, for one, look forward to the day when we Americans clean house and send the rats packing who infest the federal government and its hand maiden, the major US media. Long Live Julian Assange and transparency in governments. Long leak Wikileaks!
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That’s One Dirty Meatball—Haitian immigrant, Marie Joseph, was swimming at a public pool last Sunday afternoon up at Fall River, Massachusettes. No one noticed when poor Marie panicked at the deep end, then went under. And that’s the way it remained for the next 48 hours, until the woman’s body was finally discovered. Although swimmers had continued to use the pool after the drowning for two-plus days, no one could see the dead body laying on the bottom because the water was so “cloudy.” Un-Effing-believable. Do ducks and geese swim freely in the pool? Does Fall River ever clean its pools?

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Cartoon of the Day

Sam the Sham and His Shameless Scam

2011-07-01T14:12:00.000-04:00

The title of this blog has nothing to do with its content but hey, what can I say?

I read something the other day in our local fish wrap. The article in question announced that the average person who learned a useful trade right out of high school is now actually making more dough than a college graduate. This comes as no surprise to me. Today’s college education is waaaay overrated. Mostly, today’s college is for those who can’t. A reasonably intelligent person with a twink of ambition will side-step four years of pointless time waste and get busy with their life right out of the shute.

I have heard that one of the richest men in the world, Bill Gates, either never attended college or dropped out early. Some of the brightest people I have met in my life have never even whiffed a college classroom. While some people clearly don’t need college, some obviously do. Like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, some people have the brains but lack the confidence that only a piece of parchment can provide.

Alas, many college degrees today are good for lining a bird cage, and little else. For decades now we have been spitting out over-educated insurance agents and fast food workers and calling the scam “higher education.” The sad fact is, nine out of ten of those currently in college have no business being there. Most of these dolts enroll in college to party on their parents’ dime for the next seven to ten years where they then proceed to major in drinking and minor in screwing. College athletes--semi-literate and barely able to spell their own names upon graduation--also make a mockery of pomp and circumstance. Many of these “stoont-afleets,” at the same time as they are committing crimes on campus, major in “criminal justice” in the hope that it will help them escape that same criminal justice system when they join the “work force” after graduation.

Of course, the current river of college mediocrity began its flow from the headwaters of the American high school system. Long ago, a high school education lost its credibility. Increasingly, a secondary education seemingly does little more for our kids than run them through metal detectors, dispense condoms upon request and offer them a diet of sports. Teacher morale long ago sank lower than a toad’s belly in a wagon rut. In addition to long holidays and a two-week “spring break” siesta, numerous “in-service” hiatuses mean today’s high school and elementary teachers spends less and less time in the class room (given the sad state of education among some teachers, keeping them out of the classroom may not really be such a bad thing).

Here in Florida, high school officials are considering a “pay to play” scheme in various districts. I like the idea. As America settles solidly into a “Second World” status and lags further and further behind First World countries, this old scam of kids in high school spending three-fourths of their school time as a cheerleader or working out all day as a 4-sport letterman is losing its cachet with taxpayers.

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A “Good” Pit Bull--Seems that this most news worthy of all American dog breeds is back in the news again, but this time in a much more positive light. A pit bull over at Rockledge, Florida was--ho-hum--running around loose this week, looking for just one more thing to kill before he curled up for the night. However, before the hundred-pound killing machine could latch onto a poodle, pom or peke to tear into shreds, a ten-foot alligator latched on to the pit bull instead. The result: The Sunshine State today finds itself minus one more murderous mutt. Unfortunately, instead of giving the gator a medal and a live chicken or two as a reward, a trapper has been hired to hunt down and destroy the armored hero. I hate stories with bad endings.

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Photo of the Day

Muscles

2011-06-29T13:33:00.000-04:00

Right or wrong, true or false, some folks—like the gentleman yesterday and a lady the week before--express astonishment when I tell them how old I am.

Depending on which way the wind is blowing and what direction the sun is shining, many guess my age at from five to ten years younger than I actually am. Although some days I feel and look every inch the three score and three that I am, such words, of course, make me mildly happy. Despite a life devoted to termination during my green years—booze, drugs, tobacco, feral living—it would seem as if a decent diet, regular exercise and a sex-crazed woman have, outwardly at least, turned the train wreck around. But more than food, sweat or hot smooch, I think something else has a large role in holding back the slide of old age.

I say straight: Like any other in our body, the mind is a muscle—you use it or you lose it. I will go further: The mind is our most important muscle; without an active, curious, strong mind, the rest of the body will wither and die. All my life I have been curious about what is over the next hill, so to speak. Thus, too, has my better half.

Michelle, with a note of quiet pride and sadistic satisfaction, loves teasing me when younger dudes hit on her. Hmmmm. Although I hope she will always repel such damned advances, I am mildly pleased. Before I had even met her Michelle was staying in great shape via a combo of veggie diet and horse-back riding each day; she was also teaching herself the piano; she had also been a proof-reader for one of the largest law firms in the US. When we did meet a couple of years ago and I mentioned that I might be moving to Portugal, she starting teaching herself Portuguese. When some doubted this slim red-head could, given her gender and age, survive the mental and physical rigors of a Florida law enforcement academy, she blew through it and finished second in her class. Point I am making: Michelle’s mind is always working, just as is her body. The two are a team and as a result Mrs. Goodrich looks ten years younger than she actually is.

Passionate about politics? Pissed off at the Marxists and PC cowards on your local school board? Sit down and compose a killer letter to the editor. Go over the piece again and again, making it better with each pass. Then let ‘er rip.

Feeling ignorant? Feeling stupider than normal? Go Google nuclear fission or quantum physics and really try to comprehend them. Pick up a copy of Shakespeare at the library, then read “King Lear” or “Richard the Third.” Go slow, take your time, try to understand, then enjoy.

Do Illegal aliens point and laugh at you? Suspect that they are talking malo when they call you “gringo gordo,” “mierda de cerdo,” and “hombre de marica”? Learn their language, then get even.

Write poetry . . . compose music . . . be mental. Bust your brain. Think beyond the box. Make that weak muscle between your ears strong; make it work; make it scream; make it holler. Athletes who perfect their bodies have the saying, “no pain, no gain.” For the mind, let me add: If it ain’t hurtin’, it ain’t workin’. The mind, like any other muscle shies from labor; it is inherently lazy; taking it from its normal rut causes the brain to bitch and balk. Kick the lazy thing out of that rut it's in. Only via exercise will it grow and become stronger.

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The Shrinking Dollar

No Harm, No Foul

2011-06-27T15:37:00.001-04:00

Here in Charlotte County we are tough on crime, serious tough. Here in Charlotte County it’s ten strikes and you’re out . . . kinda . . . sorta . . . maybe. . . well, not really. . . .

Now that we are dog deep into the dog days of summer, seems our local courts, in their attempts to do less and less are inadvertently providing more and more amusement for we, the sun-scorched, free ranging homo-sapiens of Charlotte County. Send in the drunken clown, one William F. Doyle III.

A year ago, 48-year old William the Third smashed his Jeep Cherokee into some old rudder sitting quietly on his Harley at a red light. Wham! The 66-year-old gent was blasted a hundred feet or so into outer space and straight off this mortal coil. Not only did the biker hardly know what had hit him, but Bill 3 hardly knew what he had hit either. Seems boozed up Bill was blotto when the crash occurred, and dang it, he was also killing without a license. In fact, Bill had lost his driver’s license years before for similar light-hearted stuff; a DUI here, a wreckless driving there, drunk in public everywhere . . . ho-hum. zzzzzzzz.

But then hey! what’s a drinkin’ man to do? Walk to the bars? Right! Indeed, Bill had been stopped by cops so many times and released that, like a welfare mother trying to count her children, there does not seem to be any accurate record of the number. Even after killing the above motorcyclist, Bill was not arrested. Nope, not this sot. Instead, a sample of his blood was sent off at surface rates to some remote mountain top in Tibet for lab work and our local high-tech detectives began a grueling, exhaustive nine-month investigation to determine if Bill had been drinking at the time of the crash.

In the meantime, Doyle was out and at it again, drinking, “driving like a crazy man,” living a charmed life, t’would seem. Though this booze bag is seemingly incapable of drawing a sober breath, not once did cops frog march Bill to the drunk tank. One month after the Harley fatality, Bill smashed his vehicle into a car driven by an 85-year-old man. The old coot survived, I guess (tho at that age it's pretty hard to tell). Poor Bill, however, was forced to pay a few fines on this one; but with a tip of the hat and a promise to do some community service, Doyle was out that morning just in time for the bars to open up.

I noticed the other day that Doyle and a lady love were in the news again when they were nabbed at a local Wal-mart for boosting some printer cartridges and a TV flat screen. Although both were already under trespass orders because of previous thefts at the store, as of this blogging the couple are out stealing and boozing it up right now.

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Photo of the Day

The Grinning Ass

2011-06-26T14:34:00.000-04:00

Perhaps it takes a stranger standing on a high mountain top shouting down to us on how we might escape the dark forest we are currently stumbling through. Perhaps we will hear and heed the stranger. Perhaps not.

The following quote comes from a small European nation, the Czech Republic. It is a translation of an article that appeared in a Prague newspaper.

The danger to America is not Barack Obama but a citizenry capable of entrusting a man like him with the Presidency. It will be far easier to limit and undo the follies of an Obama presidency than to restore the necessary common sense and good judgment to a depraved electorate willing to have such a man for their president. The problem is much deeper and far more serious than Mr. Obama, who is a mere symptom of what ails America. Blaming the prince of the fools should not blind anyone to the vast confederacy of fools that made him their prince. The Republic can survive a Barack Obama, who is, after all, merely a fool. It is less likely to survive a multitude of fools such as those who made him their president.

How so many people here could be fooled by the smiling lies of Obama and his shady handlers is something the rest of the world simply cannot understand. Conditioned by a steady diet of frivolous TV sit-coms for the past fifty years, Americans have now devolved to the point where perception is more important to them than reality; a toothy smile and lies are more important than the hard truth and depth of character.

Although I still consider George “Mission Accomplished” Bush to be the worst, and most disastrous, president in U.S. history, the current clown in the White House may prove worse still. But like the above comment so sagely notes, there is no one to blame but ourselves; we are getting the leaders we deserve, no better no worse. These two buffoons are a direct reflection of ourselves, our values and our morals (or lack of). Unless a majority of voters in this country start paying much closer attention to politics, both domestic and foreign, and less to sports, sex, and royal weddings, we can totally kiss this mother good-bye.

I am voting for Ron Paul this time around. . . . I see no other option.

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Photo of the Day (squint until you see the old man)

War #359

2011-06-25T14:38:00.000-04:00

War on Terror . . . War on Drugs . . . War on Fat . . . Fat?

Jeez! Just once I wish Big Brother would wage peace on something. Vain hope! Vain thought!! Seems the U.S. Government is not happy unless it is waging war on some one or some thing some where in this world. I hear that the feds are now cracking down on domestic obesity. Next year the caloric content of foods served in restaurants, snack bars, bakeries, and other fat factories must be marked on menus. The assumption is, I suppose, that when we customers waddle in to one of the lard labs above and see just how fattening something is, we will back off. Right! The number of cals has never yet kept me from indulging in something I really wanted. There is also talk of taxing fat folks since they use up twice and thrice the precious natural resources than slimmer earthlings do. I’m sure that next on the bureaucrats hit-list is the taxing right out of existence of the million or so truck stops and stuff-a-gut buffets spread around this country.

In addition to its numerous wars abroad—indeed, seems this out-of-control gorgon, in our name, wageth war on most of the globe--Big Brother is also still waging war on tobacco. The latest attack--as reported last week--are new and more graphic warnings on cigarette packs (above). When this too fails to halt smoking, I reckon the feds will booby-trap each pack so that they explode upon opening. Nothing like killing us to save us--sound familiar?

Personally, I am tired of this eternally encroaching entity legislating my morality? Sorry, but I do not think, I know, that the federal government has never had my best interests at heart. I’m sure they could care less whether I live or die really, so why this con with cigarettes? I honestly do not know. Perhaps they are simply trying to squeeze more productivity out of Americans and increase their longevity in hopes that they will pay taxes longer. Whatever, I instinctively smell cash somewhere in all this anti-tobacco business, just as anyone with a nose to smell gets whiffs of narco-dough in the so-called “War on Drugs.”

And for the record, I am not advocating that anyone take up smoking--I personally believe it is as bad as bad can be for your body and soul. Michelle has never smoked in her life and I do so only rarely and when I feel like it. No, I simply do not like the feds snooping into every aspect of my life. And just like the prohibition of liquor, no federal law will ever prevent me from exercising my cosmic right to smoke a cigarette if I choose, or smoke a joint, for that matter, or even eat a ton of Twinkies if I so desire. Bad laws beg to be broken.

Whatever . . . Wake me when the feds go to war on hypocrisy.

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Continuing the thread on names begun last week. . . .

At nearby Nokomis last Saturday night, a group of teens were walking along the beach road when a car swerved as if to hit them. No doubt the kids shouted something in return and one of them admittedly flicked a cigarette at the car as it passed. So, around whips the car, stops near the kids, the 26-year old driver jumps out, runs up to one of the teens and smacks him in the chops with brass knuckles. Not satisfied, the driver then pulled a knife. Naturally, when the horrified victim saw this he bolted into the night, with the knife-wielding maniac right behind.

“Get him, baby! Cut him! Cut him! Cut Him!” yelled the driver’s girlfriend from the car. “Get him, baby! Cut him!”

With his cheerleader urging him on, “baby” did succeed in slashing the fleeing victim twice. When another kid tried to help his frantic friend, the attacker turned his attention to him. This young man was also stabbed twice.

The following morning, cops finally ran down the romantic couple above and booked them on several charges. The charming cheerleader's name is unimportant, but “baby’s” zinger name? Neil R. Rager.

There was a drug-related murder over at nearby North Port this week. It would seem that two utterly worthless oxygen thieves shot up the humble abode of a man and woman over a drug debt. The dead man’s name is irrelevant but that of the surviving woman’s? Katrina Stoner.

Do people live down to the names they are born with? Judging by the two tags above, the answer would seem to be “yes.” Maybe those with names such as Jesse James Outlaw, LaTrelle KeShawn Raper, Jimmy Joe Shoplifter, and Gary Gilmore Killmore should be forced to wear ankle monitors and then watched closely throughout their lives under the theory that where there is smoke there must be fire.

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Ads From the Past

Geezers, Gas Pedals and Here We Go Again

2011-06-21T18:56:00.000-04:00

In the past I have noted old people who confuse the brake pedal for the gas pedal . . .

. . . then proceed to mow down everything in their path, be it garage doors, brick walls or unlucky human beings. Well, here’s a new wrinkle: A few days ago, another senior had problems with his gas pedal. In this case, however, the old dude was driving a large motorcycle. Seems he and a female passenger were cruising through a deserted industrial park over at Punta Gorda--the kind of ghostly project which was stopped dead in its tracks when the Florida boom went bust several years ago. Anyway, as the motorcycle approached a four-way stop, a vehicle driven by a lady who was actually one of the few people to work at the park also approached the stop. For reasons that will now never be known, the 70-year-old motorcycle driver not only failed to stop but suddenly accelerated through the intersection. Wham! The bike rocketed into the side of the car. The motorcycle riders were blasted straight into outer space, of course, and, as it proved, right out of this world of the living. Unfortunately, the motorcycle struck with such force that the car’s driver was also killed. Other than the irony of three people being killed at an all but abandoned intersection, there is also the weirdness of some panicked fool confusing the brake for the throttle of a motorcycle (having owned and ridden motorcycles, I can state that this would be hard to do). Without knowing full particulars of the accident, I think it is still safe to say that one must have fallen pretty far from the nut wagon to confuse a brake on a motorcycle for the throttle.

Meanwhile, up near Tampa yesterday, an 89-year-old woman drove her car into the local post office—literally. When old Phyllis Slaunwhite reached the parking lot curb--yep , you guessed it--she did what any other senile senior would do, she floored it. The car blasted through the front wall, crashed through the lobby, smashed into the back room scattering two postal workers who were sorting junk mail and fifteen more who were loafing, then slammed into the rear wall where it came to a halt. Although the old lady could have easily killed a dozen people, it must be considered a minor miracle that no one was even scratched in this wild demolition derby. Police are investigating the incident. Just exactly what the cops could possibly investigate was not made clear.

My advice: If you see some really old, addled-looking person pulling up to an intersection or into a parking lot—be they on a motorcycle or in a car—stop what you are doing and SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY!
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Gorgeous. I mentioned one or two blogs back the unearthly Banyan Trees down at Naples, Florida. Since writing that piece, I have noticed many of the same species growing on this sandy island. One tree that we do not seem to have on Manasota is the one I consider the most beautiful on earth: The Jacaranda (above). When Michelle initially pointed out these trees to me, my mind almost refused to believe it. The trees appeared three parts floral bouquet and one part oak tree. I never dreamed there was such a thing. I still love the snowy apple trees in spring and the red buds of my native north land, but nothing compares in dazzling beauty and size to the Jacaranda.
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Handicap Parking at the Beach! On my morning bike ride I noticed for the first time an abnormal amount of parking slots devoted to those who are supposedly handicapped. Sorry, but anyone who can make it from the busy parking lot, cross this scorching hot beach road full of traffic, then negotiate a hundred yards of soft, shifting sand, whether via wheel chair, walker, cane, or crawling on all fours, whatever, anyone who can do all that and still manage to swim in the surf against rip tides and strong currents is, in my books, certainly no cripple. I looked all over the beach today and saw no one who would qualify as “crippled,” and yet the dozen or so handicap parking slots were full. I rest my case.

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Photo of the Day

Wake Me When They Drone Arizona

2011-06-17T17:47:00.000-04:00

I noticed on this morning’s bike ride a Frigate flying overhead. These gallow birds can only mean one thing: It’s turtle time on the island; turtle as in baby turtle. I also noticed on my daily swim the appearance of sand crabs. These little ghouls too have arrived for the banquet. Gets me thinking on predators and prey.

More and more we Wal-mart zombies and American sports fans are beginning to look around and wonder where all these wars Obama is currently screwing with came from. That’s good, I guess--good that even the knee-jerk flag-waving Rotary types and the portly yellow ribbon tiers are scratching their confused coconuts and wondering just who we are at war with this week. Indeed, without a program one can hardly name all the wars we are engaged in at this moment. Yep, despite his campaign promises to stop the murderous madness and quit toadying to Israel (as his imbecile predecessor so shamelessly did), it is now clear our current grinning zero never meant any of those promises about stopping all these wars in the first place. Indeed, Barack “Change” Obama, with a teleprompter under one arm and a basketball under the other, seems bent on bombing his way through his first term and making George “Chimp” Bush look like a peace-loving Hippie, by comparison.

Fact is, whether it was The Chimp or Mr. Change which started them, there are not just three U. S. wars in progress, but at least four, and probably more. There is our Sand-Nam in Iraq and our Rock-Nam in Afghanistan, both now approaching one decade long, and counting; then there is the new war on the block, the Oil-Nam in Libya; and, of course, as I type, we are droning down death and destruction on Yemen. We are probably doing the same in Syria, Somalia, Sudan, and perhaps some other Third World sink hole that also begins with the letter "S". There is also the continuous chatter--with Israel urging us on--of starting a vastly larger war with Iran. Goodness gracious! At some point, I suppose, this peace-loving land of freedom will run out of nations to attack and the only ones left will be those countries which can actually defend themselves. Oops. In that event, under the maxim of “use it or lose it,” I suppose Obama the Liar, or the next liar who follows him into the White House, will turn the U.S. military machine inward, i.e., against us, against We the People.

"U.S. troops won’t fire on U.S. citizens," you say? Ho, ho, ho! I can name a dozen times in our history when U.S. citizens bet wrong on that account, most famously during the American Civil War One. The current crop of robot-like U.S. soldiers--its ranks heavy with soulless gang-bangers and Abu Ghraib hillbilly jailers--would mow down we civilians as quick as they would eat buttered popcorn. Exciting times ahead, I guess. Whatever, I don’t think, I KNOW, that if our Founding Fathers could come back now they would prefer to see a big smoking hole where Washington now stands, rather than view the abomination this government has become.

And BTW, speaking of Frigate Birds eating baby turtles: I find this rage for droning to death our numerous enemies around the globe to be cowardly and unmanly. Some neatly dressed nerd in uniform (above), sitting in an air conditioned trailer in Nevada, playing at his monitor like some emotionally arrested video game warrior, directing these multi-million dollar missiles down on some ragged beggar half way around the world--a beggar who as likely as not is just some stone age farmer and not a dangerous enemy of anyone--well, I find it sissified and uncowboy-like; a far cry from our ancestors who fought face to face, toe to toe, on main street with six-guns blazing. If one must start wars all over the planet, at least have the nads to “meet the foe in manly combat on the field of battle,” (as Gen. Patton might say) and not hand over this drone business to some bed-wetting troll sipping Dr. Pepper at a Mission Control trailer somewhere in BFN.

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Illusion of the Day (move back and squint)