Dog War
By Athena Sasso

Herschel Tatum had a dog named Scout, half German Shepard and half Bad Ass. Scout lived at the end of a chain with three too many links in it, so that when he managed not to wrap it around the iron stake, it allowed him to stretch his front legs and slobber-gummed teeth over the curb, into the path of people minding their own business.

That’s how Honey Wilson got bit.

As Honey walked her little Woody, a Springer Spaniel whom she coddled and made excuses for, he strained against his sequined lead and bolted toward Herschel Tatum’s chewed-up yard. Honey chided him ineffectively as he dragged her down the street in her pink jogging suit. When they reached Herschel Tatum’s yard, Scout pulled against his chain, though he needn’t have tried so hard because Woody was about to bound right up to him and lick his face. Woody was two inches from Scout’s savage maw when Honey jerked Woody’s lead and sent him flying into the safety of the street, kicked at Scout, and planted her sneakered foot in his mouth.

By the time Ronald Wilson had told the story a few times of the vicious and unprovoked attack on his defenseless wife, he had worked up enough indignation to confront Herschel Tatum from a safe distance. Ronald stood in the middle of the street and yelled over Scout’s hysterical yowling.

“Herschel Tatum, you get out here. I see that dog anywhere near my wife again, I’ll lead it up. That’s your only notice.” Ronald’s voice cracked as he spoke the last two words walking backward.

Honey’s foot healed, but Ronald never got over it. He forbade Honey taking Woody out of the confines of their yard. Every evening he stood sentinel at the mailbox, staring at the chained dog at end of the street, while Honey walked Woody in circles on their St. Augustine grass. And Herschel Tatum took to standing behind his screen door, watching Ronald watch Scout.

In time, Ronald was keeping his eye on the man behind the screen instead of on Scout, and he had worked it out that Honey’s misfortune was not the doing of the vicious dog but of its owner, the brute Herschel Tatum.

It started with Ronald spitting on the ground to signal the daily walk was over before he followed Honey, glistening with perspiration, and Woody, panting in short huffs, into the safety of their asbestos-shingled home. Before long, he’d whittled a fat stick and stood at the mailbox thumping it against his leg, twirling it like a Bobby on the beat before he followed his charges into the house.

Ronald felt especially proud when he fashioned a huge clown glove with a handle inside it to wrap his fist around. After a couple of false starts, he worked up enough courage to wear it into the yard, struggling to keep the weight from bending him over. He sweated under his cloth cap as he held the overbuilt contraption still by his side, and when Honey and Woody headed for the house, he leaned hard, slung the huge glove into the air in front of him and shot Herschel Tatum a big red clown bird.

Ronald could only hold the thing up there for a few seconds. When his arm gave out and it crashed to the ground in front of him, Herschel Tatum walked calmly into his yard and knelt down next to Scout. He stroked the dog gently, staring at Ronald all the while, then unhooked the chain from Scout’s collar and swatted him on the butt.

Ronald broke for the house, spitting curses, and came back out swinging a .44 in front of him. Herschel Tatum grabbed a rifle from underneath his porch and followed Scout toward Ronald’s yard. When Scout got close, Ronald fired two shots in the direction of the dog, and Herschel Tatum stopped in the street and shouldered his rifle.

Ronald rolled for cover after a shot rang past his ear, stood up partially shielded by his car and — just like in the movies — shot Herschel Tatum between the eyes.

The county buried Herschel Tatum and took Scout away in a barred truck. Ronald lost a hundred-eighty months of freedom on a manslaughter conviction, and Honey visited him every Tuesday in the windowless room with the cot and fluorescent lights. Woody died while Ronald was in prison, but Honey never stopped whispering little stories in Ronald’s ear about the long walks she took with Woody ever since the day he’d made it safe out there.

This story, though it is fiction, was inspired by an account of actual events that occurred in Cocoa Beach circa 1960.

By Rick LaClaire

What better gift than a cactus? Okay, maybe a new car — or maybe even an old one. Or maybe just a toy car… Yeah, as a gift, cacti stink. And to think I once gave them.

I should have known better. My very first experience with a cactus was somewhat tragic. I was in high school and had a buddy named Dale. Dale had the biggest record collection of all my friends and free time was frequently spent in his tiny bedroom, spinning vinyl. “Listen to this,” he’d say, and drop the stylus on the latest platter by REO Speedwagon. Or Jethro Tull. Blue Öyster Cult, Cat Mother & the All Night Newsboys… You name it, he had it.

Dale painted his room black. He was the first guy I ever knew to do that. And, of course, black room? Black light — with a half-dozen of the coolest DayGlo posters you ever saw. It was cramped in there with all those records, but somehow, from somewhere, he had acquired a cactus.

It was bulbous and green, covered with soft white hair. Cacti didn’t happen in northern New York and I was intrigued. Like a fool, I had to touch it. That white stuff wasn’t hair.

It zapped me. An instant mixture of pain and itchiness spread across my fingers. I reacted by impulsively brushing away the offending hairs and as I did, each one broke off in my skin. My fingers began to swell as I continued scratching. What a strange, annoying sensation.

College was rife with cacti. There was even one that made you puke and get religion. But I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about a species even more prevalent in the early ’70s: the ubiquitous “Christmas Cactus,” a tiny reminder of the tropics marketed as “The Perfect Plant.”

Yep, they were cheap. Two or three bucks, tops. Of course two bucks in 1973 dollars was five gallons of hi-test or a pint of Imperial; four loaves of bread or two pounds of baloney (take your pick). It was also an hour’s minimum wage, and if you felt like pushing a broom or washing dishes for that length of time — all for the sake of a cactus — well, that was your prerogative. And, gosh-darn it, they were the perfect plant. The best way to treat a Christmas Cactus was to ignore it. If those aren’t handy instructions for a dormitory-bound sophomore with more important things on his mind (like girls, beer and, uh… girls) I don’t know what is. Your reward for this grueling regimen of non-cultivation? Flowers! Beautiful red ones, supposedly every Christmas.

But most Christmas Cacti had their own clock. Blooms came when they felt like it. Spring, fall, winter — it didn’t matter. One good thing about them was that the spines were short, quite visible, and scattered. There were just enough to tell you not to touch it, but too few to infect you (like that white-haired thing). They weren’t very attractive though, except for the flowers, and yes, it was possible to kill one. Cold would do it, as would over-watering. But only guys were “dumb enough to kill a cactus.” Most the girls I knew had healthy specimens.

One was Crazy Carol. She collected and cultivated cacti. Her dorm room was festooned with dozens of macramé-hanging terrariums. She often gave them away, but if you wanted something special you could pay (she was crazy, not stupid). I’d been seeing a girl for a couple months and Christmas was approaching. I thought one of Crazy Carol’s creations would fill the bill nicely. For seven dollars (a full tank of gas, a fifth of Wild Turkey, twenty-eight loaves of bread, or seven pounds of baloney — take your pick) I got the whole shebang: the glass globe, macramé hanger, soil, and an assortment of four tiny cacti. As usual with cacti, the instructions were simple: “Don’t open them. Don’t water them. Don’t drop them and by all means, don’t turn them upside down.” Crazy Carol also had advice for the care and feeding of Christmas Cacti: “Spit on them.”

As I said, this was my first Christmas with my Sweet Patootie, and she went hog-wild on me. A new shirt, a bottle of whiskey, a gift certificate to the local leather shop (I needed a belt), and a camera! She spent one hundred bucks, and here I was with my paltry cacti in a fishbowl. Well, at least it was boxed and wrapped. What’s the first thing my Sweet Patootie did with them? She turned them upside-down to undo the tape. Then she held them up and said, “Gee… Dirt?”

We fiddled with it as the years passed, salvaging a couple specimens, but that minor earthquake really upset the original arrangement. It was good luck though, because I wound up marrying this girl. She had a thing for house plants, and our first apartments were strewn with Wandering Jew, Arrowhead and Coleus, as well as the ubiquitous Christmas Cactus. It was always fun to hear visitors say, “Nice Coleus, and nice, uh… Dirt?” when they spied that macramé debacle. I don’t know what finally happened to it. We’ve moved so many times…

And finally, we moved to Florida. Florida is cactus heaven — or hell, depending on your tolerance for the plant. Our second home here was a brand-new mainland apartment in a not-so-nice part of town. We did a lot of fishing in those days, not so much for sport but for something to eat. Saturdays and Sundays always found us on the beach with surf rod and sand fleas, and it was usually no trouble to fill a bucket with whiting and spot. I was always searching for new, wild delicacies and one sunny Sunday I spotted a hedge of prickly pear heavily laden with ripe fruit. Much of it had already fallen and rotted pointlessly on the ground. It seemed a shame. I had just read where varieties of prickly pear had been bred that were quite popular in the Middle East. They called it “sabra,” and by golly, the picture of it looked just like the prickly pears here.

Using a sandwich baggie for a glove and my t-shirt for a basket, I harvested a dozen of the ripest fruits and dumped them in my fish bucket. Then I put my t-shirt back on for the ride home. Big mistake. Not two minutes into the ride my belly began to itch. Then it began to burn. By the time we arrived home I had a bona fide rash — quite like the rash I had with my first cactus encounter. It took days to subside, but that evening I had my first taste of sabra.

Wearing rubber gloves, I cut the crown off the fruit, spooned out the purple innards, and plopped it on a plate. Lots of seeds, but so what? Pomegranates have lots of seeds. So do blackberries. In fact, that’s what it tasted like: sweet blackberry jam. Yeah, the seeds were a bit much; flat, sharp and tiny — perfect for getting caught in your teeth — but the flavor was excellent. Come to find out commercial sabra is bred to be seedless. Boy, I’ll bet that’s good.

Soon we moved beachside and I had my own cactus patch. We rented a duplex down Mullet Creek way. Even though we were in a development, we were a long way from town, and these places would have been a burglar’s paradise. Our landlord reacted by planting prickly pear under each window and these were now mature plants. At first I thought this was pretty smart, using thorny plants as a barrier. But what if I were locked out and wanted to climb in my window? Or worse, what if we had a fire and I needed to climb out? A decision was made when I accidentally stepped on a fallen cactus pad.  That experience was so bitter I pulled the plants that day.

Now that I have my own place, I have the dubious honor of being able to choose which plants stay or go. Yes, there was cactus here when I moved in — the “Crown Of Thorns” variety. Gone. The nearest thing to cacti I have now is a small patch of aloe out by the A/C compressor. Aloe’s a succulent, like cactus, and has spines, but there is a big difference between aloe and something like prickly pear. Aloe soothes. Everybody needs an aloe patch.

One final word on cactus: Back when I was a rock star in Buffalo, NY I had a bass player named Mark. Like all fledgling rock stars we had issues finding a place to rehearse. No one wants to live near a rock band. But Mark’s parents, Bill and Betty, didn’t seem to mind. For the entire summer of 1978 we occupied the front porch of their lakeside cottage, holding auditions and lining the pockets of the Genesee Brewing Company, and Bill, I believe, became our first fan. Wherever we played locally, Mark’s folks would be there, picking up the band’s tab and giving moral support. Later in life, Bill donned the persona of “Cactus Bill” and performed for nursing home residents, sometimes accompanied by Mark and Keith, my old bandmates. Eventually “Prickly Pear Betty” and “Cactus Bill” found themselves in a nursing home. Not too long ago, Betty passed away. Cactus Bill met his demise this March. Our first fan…

Cactus connections run deep.

By David Sherman

Long ago there lived a creature called “Man,” a simple beast who did not think too highly of himself. The Earth, the Sky, the Sea, and the Sun, were all clearly more powerful, and those were just the things he could see. What horrors might lurk in the Darkness? So Man became afraid. It’s pretty much all he did in the early days: eat, sleep, and be afraid, with the odd trip behind a bush to “take a load off his mind.” In fact, the very first thing Man invented was a special way to be afraid. He called it “cowering,” and thought it quite clever. He could cower while eating or sleeping; he could even cower during those trips behind the bush. Man was so content with this that for a long time the only other things he managed to invent were the backache, the neckache, and a new use for the leaves on a bush.

One night a Man did something new while cowering in his sleep: he Dreamed. In his Dream, he was no longer afraid, he no longer cowered. He stood tall and upright, and was the Master of all he could see. The Sky was his domain, the Sea was but a playground for his amusement (as well as a handy place to put all of that stuff that kept piling up behind the bushes), and the Earth he plundered at will. More wonderful still, in his Dream there were neck rubs and chiropractors. In his Dream there was TOILET PAPER!

He woke and told the others of his Dream. “You’re mad!” they said. “You need to go behind a bush and take a load off your mind!” Though they did agree that part about the “neck rub” was quite clever. Soon others had the Dream as well, until one day Man rose up as one and set out to make the Dream come true. First they tamed Fire to drive back the Darkness. They also discovered how to cook breakfast, reheat lunch, and burn supper. Next they learned that if they stuck the little crunchy bits in the food down into the Earth, more food would grow, then they wouldn’t have to travel so far to find the next batch. Man’s life became much busier than before. Now there was make Fire, eat, stick the little crunchy bits in the Earth, eat some more, trip to the bush, sleep, and, most importantly, Dream of new things for tomorrow!

Man next set out to bend the other Beasts to his will. First he gave them names so that the stories of his cleverness would be less confusing. For those he liked best, Man kept it simple: Duck, Pig, and Cow, things of that sort. With the other Beasts, he became quite creative, Orangutan and Hippopotamus, for example. Some of these creatures he gathered about him simply because they were tasty, while others could be made to carry things about, thus helping with the backaches. About this time, one Man decided he wouldn’t bother sticking his own little crunchy bits in The Earth. He would let others do it, and wait until their food grew, then simply bonk them on the head and take it. It was a simple process; all that was required was a bit of patience, and a rock or a big stick. Soon many began doing this together, and thus Man invented “War,”which for many still remains a favorite pastime.

Man began to divide himself into groups. Those who stuck the little crunchy bits in the Earth were called “Farmers,” those who worked with the Beasts were called “Herders,” and those who preferred War were called “Warriors.” Those who did none of these things, but were content to simply follow along and do whatever they were told were called “Sheep.” Later he would use the same name for the Beasts that behaved in this way. You might think this last group would not fare well, but, sadly, most of the creatures called “Man” alive today fall into this category.

Man’s next great discovery came as someone was playing in the ashes, and said, “Look! Bright, shiny bits!” At first Man didn’t know what to make of them, but they were bright, and shiny, and new, so he kept them and looked for ways to make more. Man called his new invention “Metal,” and it was to change his life. Eventually Man found many uses for Metal. The Farmers made new things to dig into the Earth, and the Herders made all manner of useful things for their Beasts. But, it was the Warriors who used it the most, for they found that sticking others with a sharp, pointy Metal bit was far more efficient than bonking them with a rock or a big stick. After this, many Wars were avoided by simply saying, “Take what you want. Just, please, don’t stick me with that sharp, pointy Metal bit!” This also led to the beginning of a new group of Man called “Miners,” whose only job was to dig about and look for more bright, shiny Metal bits.

This was the sum of Man’s life for a very long time. Farming, Herding, Mining, and sticking one another with sharp, pointy Metal bits. Then one day a Man said, “Look! I’ve found a clever way to fits lots of tiny Metal bits together. I call it a ‘Machine!’” Soon many others began to do the same and another new group was born. Man called them “Engineers,” and just about everything Man did wrong after this point is their fault.

With the coming of the Engineers, Man began to build great things called “Buildings,” which he would then stand on top of and proclaim his greatness. He built large groups of these buildings and called them “Cities.” About this time Man also began to learn ways to treat diseases and to patch up the holes made by sharp, pointy Metal bits. Those that focused on this were called “Doctors” and, in the beginning were a very good idea. With Cities, Man also began to make up rules for himself, which he called “Laws.” This, too, was a good idea, until it led to a new group who did nothing but make the Laws so complicated, only they could understand them. They were called “Lawyers,” and they were a VERY BAD IDEA! Anything not readily blamed on the Engineers, should be blamed on the Lawyers.

With all of the Buildings, and the Cities, and the Lawyers, Man’s life became very complicated, until it all became too much for him to manage alone. At this point the Lawyers invented a New Beast which could do anything! It could Farm, or Herd, or Mine. It could build Buildings or even Cities. The New Beasts could run all the Machines. They even taught them how to make War! The Lawyers called their New Beasts “Corporations,” and they were the beginning of the End. Today anything that is not immediately recognizable as the fault of the Engineers or the Lawyers, MUST be blamed on the Corporations.

In time, Man gave control over more and more of his life to the Corporations, until one day he looked around and realized that very little was left of the world he once knew. The Sky was filthy and poisoned, the Sea was just as bad, the Earth was scarred in ways that would take ages to repair, and the once mighty Sun, now barely even visible, seemed to be getting much warmer. “This has to STOP!” Man cried, “Are you mad?” The Corporations ignored Man, for Man no longer controlled them. They now controlled him!

Still believing he was in charge, Man tried to stop the Corporations. He tried to use Laws, only to find that the Corporations OWNED most of the Lawyers, and had been writing the Laws for some time now. Writing them to serve the Corporations NOT Man! Man realized that even his food was no longer recognizable. Most of what he ate now was made not grown. When it made him sick, he found that the Corporations now controlled the Doctors, and THEY would decide what got healed. The Corporations had been built to serve Man, but now it was Man who served the Corporations.

Powerless and defeated, Man bowed his head to Corporate will. One Man bowed down so far, he went full circle and shoved his head completely up his own backside! Others asked what he was doing, and he explained that with his head up his backside, he could pretend not to know what was going on around him. He could imagine he was still in control. They asked about the smell, but the Man explained that the air wasn’t much better outside. They were concerned about the Darkness; they had always been afraid of the Darkness. But the Man explained that was because they were afraid that what was in the Darkness was worse than what they could see. The reverse was now true. Faced with such logic, most of the creatures called Man stuck their heads up their backsides too, and they live that way to this day. A few still struggle to ply their trades in the old fashion, but most live with their heads completely up their backsides and serve the Corporations, the Beasts that now rule the Masters.

Somewhere the creature called Man lost his way, and he now lives hanging by a thin thread that is all that remains of his once vast potential, stretched taut between the mountain of things he got wrong in so many of his yesterdays and the scant few things he has yet to get wrong in his few remaining tomorrows. Luckily for Man, he cannot see this because his head is in a very dark place where the only light comes from a small hole behind his left ear, and most of that is blocked by his own shoulders. His only concern about the thread is that the only ones who make scissors any more are the Corporations! For Man everything now smells like the back of a bush, but at least he can take comfort in the knowledge that he finally got to see his Dream come true. At last, Man is the Master of everything he can see!

Top 10 iPhone Apps of 2012

As part of our cutting-edge technology coverage, the editors of The Beachside Resident sent out our very own Dan Reiter to scour the Internet for the most exciting and innovative iPhone applications of 2012. After two months of extensive research, and over 50,000 hours logged on his iPhone, Reiter picked out his ten favorites:

Is it Raining?

This clever application transforms your iPhone into a pluviometer. What’s a pluviometer? Simple: hold your device horizontally and water will bead on your screen when rain is falling in your specific location. Never again suffer the embarrasment of saying, “It’s raining,” when the skies are clear and sunny!

Engaged Parent

Want to connect with friends and associates in real-time, but feel guilty when you aren’t interacting with your children in a meaningful way? With Engaged Parent, you can do both! A second screen attaches to the back of your iPhone, allowing you to work, update your Facebook status, or watch TV on your mobile device while your child observes a digitized picture of your face on the opposite side. Incorporating state-of-the-art graphical and vocalization software, Engaged Parent controls your ersatz face so that you appear to be singing nursery rhymes or telling classic children’s stories. The best part? The child’s screen doubles as a movie viewer and game console!

Occupy Wall Street

The official OWS application lets you take part in the Occupy movement without having to leave the comfort of your home. Features include: streaming audio/video feeds from Zuccotti Park, Make-Your-Own Protest Sign game, free counterculture music downloads, blog tracker, “We Are the 99%” theme and wallpaper, discounts on official Occupy merchandise, Facebook and Twitter integration, and more!

Abridge-It

No time to read books but want to keep up in literary circles? Abridge-It will have you waxing poetic on any tome in a matter of minutes. Plot, thematic points, character analyses, book reviews, and scholarly arguments are all at your fingertips. Surprise even the haughtiest crowd with abstruse Orville Prescott quotes or sarcastic quips from Christopher Hitchens. Classics, new releases, e-books, condensed author bios, and more!

Facenuke!

Your fringe Facebook friends are attacking you! Fight them off with intellect and ballistic nuclear weaponry! Combining elements of Tetris and Space Invaders, Facenuke! is a rapid-action puzzle game which requires you to stack up the profile pictures of your closest friends while you simultaneously blast through an onslaught of not-so-intimate acquaintances.

Real Talk

Simply the most advanced text-to-voice software on the market. Real Talk converts your text messages into the sound of your own voice, adding intonation and emphasis as you type. Select from a long list of moods: energetic, preoccupied, mournful, doubtful, blasé, zealous, and hundreds more. Real Talk even integrates with your telephone conversations: leave voice messages, talk with friends, or dictate notes to yourself. With Real Talk, you’ll never have to say another word again!

Day at the Park

A funky little mind game where you must navigate through a labryinth of celebrity effigies, flaming news headlines, and random, dive-bombing images culled from your browsing history. You’ll be catatonic by the time you make it through the second stage! The goal is to reach “The Park,” where you can relax in virtual sunlight and enjoy a picnic lunch without any words or pictures appearing on your screen. But hurry, before a Kardashian swallows you up!

Duologue

Find it hard to pay attention to the conversation at the dinner table? Do friends accuse you of seeming aloof, preoccupied, or unresponsive? This trend-setting social application trains in on spoken keywords around you and sends alert messages to your screen when it is time for you to speak. With the push of a button, a discussion recap will appear on your screen, along with suggestions for your comments. Duologue integrates with Wikipedia, Abridge-It, and Real Talk, and is sure to transform you into the titillation of the dinner party!

Streetwalker

Breeze through crowded streets, malls, and airports without the annoying interruption of having to lift your head. Forget the awkward name; Streetwalker is the perfect application for urbanites, world travelers, shoppers, and sociophobes. Features include: close-range navigational radar, high-volume alerts, GPS, quik-cam sensors, Facebook and Twitter integration, and more!

Muckraker 2012

Keep up with the latest scandals and allegations on the campaign trail, catch the latest “Oops” moment live, browse through tax returns, mistress galleries, and unflattering red-filtered photographs as you await poll results. Muckraker 2012 includes a number of improvements over the 2010 edition, like PAC Tracker, pocket slanderizer, the Situation Room Blitzkrieg feed, Ron Paul punching game, and more!

Truth (HD)

Experience life on a whole new level with Truth (HD)’s breakthrough virtual reality software. Interface with your surroundings in real-time. Be astounded by your senses of sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. Features include: iPhone “power off” function, lessening of psychotic symptoms, human eye contact (HEC), inner peace, and more! (Caution: Truth (HD) may cause heart palpitations, arrhythmia, general diffidence, convulsions, and cold sweats. If these conditions occur, it is recommended you power your iPhone back on immediately.)

– Dan Reiter

By M. Alberto Rivera

Time was that tattoos that involved writing were short, sweet, and to the point.

“Born to Rock;” “Live to Ride;” “The South Will Rise Again;” “USMC,” etc. — all short, declarative statements meant to let the world know at a glance how you felt about Lynyrd Skynyrd, Budweiser, Mom, and/or Harley Davidson.

Then there are tributes to friends, family, pets, and assorted loved ones. Birth dates, death dates, the names of girls or boys one just met and didn’t want forget, ever… These were tattoos the average person could read and digest in half a glance.

Sometimes these could be just as regrettable as large ones. Size doesn’t have a direct correlation to regret, and just because you can cover it with another tattoo, doesn’t mean it’ll be any better. I bet the guy with the “Where the Down Boys Go” tattoo on his chest has felt sort of stupid since 1996.

But the past few years have seen the trend of people being less pithy and concise. Folks feel the need to start committing not just sentences to their skin, but entire paragraphs. Now, the biblical shorthand of “John 3:16″ is making way for the cramped script of entire verses from the Book of Esther, Steely Dan songs, or poems you, your mother, or Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote.

Now, I hate to be overly critical of something that may have personal meaning to someone, but I remember getting my morning cup-o-joe at 7-11 and standing behind a girl in a tank top with a very wordy back tattoo. I’m halfway (I think) through her poem tattoo — my eyes having read from just below her neck to about the middle of her back — when she suddenly left. I never got to finish reading all her thoughts about motherhood, the anguish of childbirth, the origins of Arbor Day, and a review of season five of “Beverly Hills 90210″ because she’d paid for her energy drink and sugar bomb breakfast and hotfooted out the door to commence her day. And now I’m left wondering what the hell happens next being stuck with all these confused images in my head.

As I look up, the person behind me asks, “Were you able to make out the last two lines?”

I shook my head no, and he countered with, “The meter was sort of off. And I couldn’t figure out if the misspellings were poetic license or somebody’s screwup.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I offered.

The clerk, having heard our exchange said, “It’s about God, the Easter Bunny, and the rapture. I’ve read it about a hundred times and it still doesn’t make any sense.”

I’ve seen paragraph tattoos that look like grocery lists or sports team rosters, but unless you’re 20 inches away from the person it’s all a blurry jumble of letters. And I don’t care enough to ask what the hell it says. After a few seconds, I feel awkward for staring, even though the person who put it there wants you to see it — unless they don’t, in which case they should’ve put some pants on, fer cryin’ out loud.

But the whole tattooing thing is sort of out of control. Same goes for piercing. But please, I’m gonna rant about just one thing at a time. Like so many of my generation I have several tattoos, none of which I regret, all of which are easily covered. I worked at jobs where no one even knew I had a tattoo until they ran into me outside of work. But I see everybody and their stepbrother covered from stem to stern, from the tops of their heads to the insides of their mouths and eyelids in an attempt to have a bit of work weirder — excuse me, more unique — in its artistic delivery than the person next to them.

I decided to sit this competition out. People have a desire to decorate themselves; this is nothing new. Neither is the quest to do so in a unique and individual manner, which is why you should never pick a Tasmanian devil holding a hockey stick to place on your bicep — or anywhere else — at any age.

What is new, at least as far as having an organized and unified voice, is the movement for workplace tattoo acceptance. Okay, fair enough; you and your friends feel like you’ve been given short shrift because of the “Love/Hate” tattoos you got on your knuckles while doing your second stint in juvenile detention.

There really should be some limits here. And I’ll draw some flack here from friends, acquaintances and complete strangers, but so what. It’s hard to take someone seriously as a radiologic technologist when his entire face is tattooed like a Maori warrior. And especially when you know he grew up an oppressed, middle-class, suburban white male in South Bend, Indiana.

Same goes for the service industry. You chose to decorate your forehead with “OI!” in three-inch letters as a proud declaration of your musical preferences. This doesn’t mean anyone has to hire you as a truck driver (translation: face of the company) just because you have a clean driving record and a CDL.

It’s great to be an outlaw/rebel/bad boy or girl like your friends, your favorite rock stars, or perps from “America’s Most Wanted.” Go on, fly your freak flag. But when my CPA has more tattoos and piercings than all the members from Mötley Crüe combined, what is it that’s really been declared here?

You! Yes, you!

You have expressed yourself for all the world to see.

Now cover it up and get to work.

By Rick LaClaire

Every parent’s nightmare:

You’re at work. You’re busy, there are problems to solve, and you are totally engrossed in your daily quest for financial sustenance. The office phone rings. It’s for you. It’s the school nurse. Your child has head lice.

Come on, who hasn’t been in that scenario? My boy supposedly had it twice, though I never found a nit. I’ve still got a supply of Nix and that hincty little comb (are you supposed to throw that out?). Even though I’ll swear my kids came off clean, it was embarrassing. Lice — a personal infestation… Images of filth, poverty, and chickens in your living room…

Every homeowner’s nightmare:

You’re asleep. Typical snoring posture. It’s 5:30 a.m. and you slowly awaken to the faint pitter-patter of little feet. But your children are grown and it sounds like it’s on the roof. Birds, perhaps? You get up. The pitter-patter goes from your bedroom ceiling to the living room ceiling. Something in the attic? You go into the garage for a flashlight and ladder. It’s still dark, so you flick on the light. And there it is: a rat! The homeowner’s answer to head lice. Big as life and twice as real, the ugly beast scampers across a valence and into your soffit — a direct link to the attic. You have rats, sir.

I can live with a lot of unpleasant things. I’ve lived with mice, cockroaches, ants, fleas, peeling wallpaper, and Canadian television. I’ve had roommates even less savory than the bugs. I’ve lived without heat, air conditioning, and even running water. I’ve lived next to a train track. I’ve had neighbors so obnoxious I thought about plugging their plumbing vents with day-old pogy. There’s not much I can’t stand. Okay, clowns make me hurl, but you know that. Yessir, I’m pretty tough. That is, until I see a rat. I cannot abide them. They make my skin crawl.

I have a pest service. This home is the only place I ever subscribed to one. Until the purchase of this humble pile of rocks I left pest control up to the landlord. That, or just lived with it. My first “honey-do” in this first home of mine was to hang a small set of blinds in the bathroom window. For this I needed to drill two holes. When my bit punched through the window frame I thought I had hit an old pipe. What appeared to be a steady stream of rusty water ran smartly down my arm to my elbow. It was there I discovered this was not water, it was ants. Thousands of them.

At first I tried dealing with it myself. For some reason the past owner had a stockpile of ant killer. I sprayed the site where I first saw them, then sprayed around the outside of the place like I had seen the commercial guys do. No go. Everywhere I turned, more ants. There were teensy-weensy black ones; there were brown and black middle-sized ones. There were some that were not only tiny, but transparent. Then, of course, there were fire ants all over the yard. It was just too much.

We already had a termite bond with Sears. We had to have it to get a mortgage. For an extra couple of c-notes they could throw in the other bugs, too. Sale. And man, were these guys good.

The little black ones were called “white-footed ants.” You’d need a microscope to tell that. They and the transparent ones, aptly named “ghost ants,” disappeared in a heartbeat, victims to some kind of bait.  The medium guys, “carpenter ants,” presented a bit of a challenge. It took a couple of months, but the bug tech found the nest (in someone else’s yard) and soon they were goners too.

Fast-forward seventeen years and I’ve still got pest control, but not Sears. They sold out to Terminix. I never kowtow to a railroad job, so I found pest control elsewhere, a company called Premium. These guys are good too, and the very next thing I did after spying a rat in my house was call them. They were here that afternoon.

Premium’s specialty is bugs, not animals. As a courtesy though, Premium baited and set five rat traps for me. I thought that was pretty nice. They also said that if I was “a little old lady” they would even come back and empty them for me.

In the process of placing the traps, the bug guy had to go into the attic. When he removed the access panel rat poop fell on him like hail. It fell on him, the ladder, the floor… Yuck. “Here’s where they’re hanging out,” he said. “Now all you gotta do is find out where they’re getting in, plug it up, and trap out the hangers-on. It’s the standard procedure.”

You’ve seen a rat trap. It’s like a mousetrap on steroids, and those suckers will break a finger. What I suddenly noticed was the trap’s maker, a company in Pennsylvania called Victor.

Many years ago, when I was fifteen and sixteen, I ran a trap line for muskrats and raccoons along the Black River in northern New York. I was no Jeremiah Johnson, but I managed to flesh a pelt or two. My traps were all Victors. They were single-spring, number-one leg-hold traps, illegal now. Just seeing the name Victor brought back a flood of memories. Cold, still winter mornings; the jingle of shell ice on the creek; scouting for sign; skinning my first ‘coon…

“You know, when I was kid in upstate New York I had a trap line. You tell people that today and they treat you like you ate one of your own babies.”

Was that me talking, or was it the bug guy? It was the bug guy! “Wow! What a coincidence,” I replied. “So did I.”

“You’ll have fun with this, then. Rats aren’t very smart. Just keep the traps baited and set until they stop snapping. They can’t resist this secret bait. If you’ve plugged the entry, that’s all there is to it.” Then he showed me the secret bait: a Slim Jim. Three hours later, we heard the first trap snap.

I began with what appeared to be the obvious point of entry. It was a patch of sagging soffit screen above the garage, concealed behind a podocarpus tree. They climbed the branches, tugged away a foot-long section of screen, and had left a greasy spot on the wood with their comings and goings. I spent a Saturday replacing the entire section of soffit, rebuilding, caulking, battening the screen, and painting. What a chore, and all overhead. I then trimmed the podocarpus. Sore shoulders for Sunday.

By this point, the third day of our infestation, I had killed three rats. The third was a pregnant female. It was obvious. Then there was a lull. No sounds in the attic, no traps snapping. I had plugged up what I thought was the egress and felt satisfied. The bug guy was right: This was kind of fun. Easy, too. Then, at 5 a.m. on the third day: Snap! They were still getting in. But where?

Try and find the smallest, most isolated and inaccessible imperfection in your home’s construction. That’s what I had to do. I’d been round the outside a dozen times and there was only one spot I could not see. It was an extremely sheltered corner where the screened porch met the roof in the back. Weeks before,  I had laboriously replaced a rotten plank of fascia, and I’d had to do it pretty much “blind,” leaning over the eave on my belly because the porch roof  wouldn’t support me. It had been a nasty chore, working with my feet angled above my head, and having to use a mirror and flashlight to position the replacement. My working window was about five minutes per session as the blood rushed to my brain. I did a lot of swearing, and rushed to finish. This had to be it.

The moment my ladder clunked against the drip edge I could see it: rat poop all over the screened-porch roof. There, way back in the corner, was a one-inch gap in my hurried repair. The area around the tiny hole was dark with rat-grease and gnaw marks. There were mature trees overhanging the house nearby. This was their egress.

Well, a lot more swearing ensued but I got it patched. Some rather giddy tree pruning followed. Two more trap-snaps later and all is now quiet. The final tally? Five dead rats.

Having rats is not something you want to tell your neighbors — it’d be kind of like saying your kid has head lice — but I did anyway. I discovered I was not alone. Almost every beachside Florida home has a rat story. Or a squirrel story or possum story. I even heard a skunk story.

But, thank goodness, no clown infestations.

CLOWN CAR

By David Sherman

I have gone on at great length in the past likening the effects of the Dubya Bush regime on the American economy to driving a car into a ditch. The analogy still holds. It always will. But now the Republican party has shown that despite their repeated suggestions that the U.S. auto industry should have been allowed to fail, they really like car-themed election strategies, their most recent example being the clown car that is their roster of presidential hopefuls. Let’s review, shall we?

Michele “Crazy Eyes” Bachmann

Claims to have “raised” over 30 foster children, though most of them were in her care for less than a month, many for only a few days. She and her husband rail incessantly about the evils of homosexuality, though he is one of the most clearly gay men the world has ever seen. When pressed, she actually clarified her belief that it’s okay if you have those thoughts; it’s only evil if you act on them. So I guess closet equals “good,” and learning to love yourself as you are is “bad”? Ms. Bachmann and her husband also take in hundreds of thousands of federal dollars a year for their “therapy” business, where they help you to “Pray Away the Gay.” The only comfort this woman has ever given America was when she withdrew from the race.

Herman “The Addled Brain” Cain

Former CEO of Godfather’s Pizza, which he did save from bankruptcy, but does that qualify you to be president of the most powerful nation on earth? In one speech Mr. Cain said, “A poet once said…” He then went on to quote the theme song from the “Yu-Gi-Oh” movie, a Japanese anime cartoon based on a children’s trading card game! Even better though was his famed “9-9-9″ tax plan, which every credible economist denounced as… well, “not feasible” might be the kindest thing said, though “lunacy” and “absurd” were the most frequent. Mr. Cain would never divulge where he got this gem, but the only place it exists in practice is in the video game Sim City! Wow! I’ll give the GOP credit for at least adding a black man to the roster, and he is likeable as hell, but they should have found someone who was also qualified and not friggin’ nuts!

Rick “Secession” Perry

My favorite nutbag of the lot, this Texas cowboy wannabe is the same moron who suggested his state would secede from the United States (again!) if President Obama’s healthcare plan was not repealed. In my book, that is treason, plain and simple. If that weren’t enough, he went on to provide the most inept debate performance ever seen. This man was less well spoken than George Dubya, a feat previously only achieved by fungus! Add his drunk/high speech in New Hampshire and his repeated inability to remember what it was he so fervently wanted to do, and Gov. Perry was a laugh a minute. His last-ditch effort was a video of himself touting Jesus and denouncing gays in the military while dressed in an exact copy of Heath Ledger’s wardrobe from “Brokeback Mountain.” You can’t make this stuff up!

Rick “The Sweater Vest” Santorum

Another gay basher from way back, perhaps the most vitriolic of the lot. This is the man who likened gay sex to — and these are his words — “man on dog.” Because Rick believes that if gays are allowed to marry, then legalized bestiality is the logical next step! He would also outlaw contraception. Let me repeat that: this candidate for President of the United States wants to outlaw contraception. He’s said a lot of equally stupid things, but those two should be enough for anyone. The saddest comment on the Republican electorate is that he’s still in the race!

Truth be told, however, it’s really down to the final two clowns in the car:

Newt “Really a Lizard” Gingrich

This man was found guilty of unethical behavior while serving as the Speaker of the House during the Clinton administration, forced to pay $375,000 in penalties, and then stripped of his office by his own party! He publicly railed against President Clinton’s marital improprieties while having an affair himself at he same time. He betrayed and ultimately abandoned the wife who supported him through college all the way to his Ph.D., a behavior he repeated with his second wife! This man who helped frame the term “moral majority” now claims credit for the budget surplus left by the Clinton administration as well as the successful job programs of that day, though Mr. Gingrich fought them all at the time. Fought and lost, I should add. Hey, Newt, Narcissus called: he wants his disorder back!

Mitt “Stepford” Romney

This tool never met an opinion he didn’t embrace. He was for abortion rights; he’s against abortion rights. He was for socialized medicine; he’s against socialized medicine. He was for gay marriage; he’s against gay marriage. He was for gays serving openly in the military; now he’s against it. But the best part is that in a country where the inequality of wealth distribution is a growing issue, this man released tax returns showing he made over $50,000 last year… per day! Yet he paid a lower percentage in taxes than the average $50,000-a-year household! The Republicans whine because the top 10% in American pay over 60% of the taxes. Yeah, but they have 90% of the money, so cough up the other 30% and we’re good!  Income from interest or investments is still income, and should be subject to income tax. You shouldn’t get a better tax rate just because you can afford to buy a politician to write the laws allowing you to do so, and Gov. Romney is the poster boy for double standards for the rich in America! (But the buying of politicians is for another day!)

Face it, Republicans: if this cavalcade from the clown car is the best you can do, you need to get used to hearing two words for four more years: “President Obama”!

By Rick LaClaire

Autumn is over, and as I write this, the wind is blowing thirty out of the northwest, the temperature is in the 40s, and an incongruous yellow sun is blazing in a clear sky. Winter has descended, and by the time you read this, it will hopefully be on the wane.

My favorite season in Florida has always been autumn, probably because it was my first season here. The temperatures drop to near-perfect, and after the doldrums of summer, the fishing picks up. Great shoals of mullet run the beach, drawing predators in close pursuit. I’m not even sure that happened this past autumn, though. On October 1 it started to blow, followed by the most expansive invasion of sargasso I have ever witnessed. For a full month our beach was covered by this fly-breeding cloak, only to be repeatedly sucked back into the shorebreak, making fishing impossible. What a disappointment during my favorite time of year.

Another name for autumn is “fall,” which seems fitting. A fall is a decline — it can be slow or fast — and as the weather declines into winter, foliage and fruit fall. And so the season is named.

There are other types of falls. There’s that hair extension some women employ — that’s called a “fall.” There’s the one with the capital “F,” which relates to Adam and Eve. There are waterfalls, which Florida seems to lack. Then there is another kind, sudden and accidental, that can come at any time during life, but are most devastating as life itself declines.

Garrison Keillor once did a monologue on falling. The gist of it was that when a fall occurs in public, like on a soundstage or a podium, people tend to think it funny. Garrison is a tall man, and as he explains, when you’re tall, a fall can be especially traumatic. I don’t see how a foot or so in height can make that much difference, falls are nasty for people of any size, but I sure believe it’s rude to laugh at someone else’s misfortune.

For one thing, a fall is embarrassing. It can even ruin your career. Do you remember our only “un-elected” president, Gerald Ford? He slipped on the stairs while de-boarding the presidential jet and it was caught on tape. I must have seen that minor tumble fifty times a day on TV. “Saturday Night Live” built a whole persona around it. Chevy Chase, in the lamest presidential impersonation ever, fumbled and bumbled about the stage as an ersatz Gerald Ford, and at one point tripped over his podium so convincingly he broke a rib. Of course, as SNL always does, they milked the act week after week and then, as it was about to die, Gerald Ford took another tumble while skiing. Apparently no one wanted a clumsy president — whether he was or not, no one cared, the trait had been established by the media — and he lost his only presidential campaign. In my opinion, it was that slip on the stairs that began his political descent.

Ford lost his bid to Jimmy Carter, a from-out-of-nowhere candidate that was in way over his head. Jimmy promised change, a big smile, and physical fitness. To prove the latter, he exited his inaugural limousine and walked the broad avenue, shaking hands and smiling all the way. That Inauguration Day was probably the high point of his career. When not being nagged by the energy crisis, high unemployment, a festering Middle East and skyrocketing inflation, Jimmy would put on his smile and jog. So confident was he in his fitness that he would run in public events. Then he fell — or more exactly, collapsed — during a race. So began his political decline. It seemed from that point onward, his presidency lost support and every twist and turn was for the worse.

Jesus fell. Three times. I know this from my seven years in service as an altar boy in the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Faith. Every Friday during the Lenten season, a somber ceremony known as the Stations of the Cross would take place. It involved, at a minimum, three altar boys: one to carry the cross and two with candles on broomsticks. If any other altar boys showed up, they were relegated to the “skirt parade” — mere groupies.

Have you ever seen the movie “The Passion of the Christ”? The Stations of the Cross is a sanitized, more digestible version of that. No, they don’t whup anybody with fish hooks, as they do in the film; in our case, the theater of the mind was employed via a series of beautifully abstract stained-glass windows. It was performed late in the day, near sunset, and was nature, art, theater, and poetry woven into a single performance. Top that, Mel Gibson.

Clowns fall a lot. They trip and they tumble; all of it choreographed and wildly exaggerated, of course. And people laugh. Well, not me. As my regular readership knows (Hi, Mom!), clowns make me puke. I don’t believe it’s possible to laugh and vomit at the same time.

Slapstick comedians take a lot of falls, too. I never thought slapstick was funny. If you need a cue to laugh (the slapstick) it’s probably not funny to begin with. And what a waste of food: cream pies, seltzer, rotten tomatoes… The phrase “taking a fall” is interesting, though. In street parlance it means that one takes the blame for something he didn’t do. How fitting. No one plans to fall; it’s something that is thrust upon you.

One of my favorite relatives is my Uncle Kris. Kris emigrated from Norway and you will never find a more devoted American. He has embraced the computer age and I believe he is the first real blogger in our family. For years we received his weekly missives on all sorts of subjects, from politics to getting snowed-in with Chuck Berry. He has a way of politely murdering the English language, which I find brilliant; I have often thought he should write a book.

Kris is not young, and about a year ago he took a fall. Like Garrison Keillor, he is a tall man and the results of his accident were traumatic and complicated. I have only received one e-mail from him in the past year. For much of this time he has been literally laid-up, attempting to cope with the pain and lack of mobility, all from a simple fall. Falls are a great fear among the elderly.

Then, this summer, I got the call. Not The Call, mind you, but a call all the same: my own mother had taken a fall. Thoughts of a broken hip, cracked vertebra, neck involvement (like Uncle Kris), and a long bedridden recovery crowded my mind when my sister told me. My mother is not young either, and accidents of this kind can sometimes lead to a final convalescence. Fortunately, though badly bruised, my mother has recovered.

I’ve had many falls. The one with the most enduring effect was not even my worst. I was 13 or so, and fell off the back of a flatbed truck during a jackrabbit start. I fell on the gravel face forward, with my hands instinctively out front for protection. I didn’t break anything, didn’t even bleed much, but the palm of my right hand was sensitive for a decade. Using a screwdriver, a chisel, any kind of an awl or punch — even throwing a baseball — would set it off. It was a burning sensation, very sudden and intense.

I’ve fallen out of trees. Off surfboards. Off bicycles. Off a roof. I even fell off my flip-flop once. Yes, I did. That may sound impossible, and no one would believe me at the time, but that’s what happened, I swear. It is rumored alcohol was a factor. We were walking home from a bar in the dark, and yep, I took a header. I limped for two days. According to my wife, I limped the first day on my left foot, and the second on my right. I told her, “See? It’s so bad, it’s spreading.”

Watch your step.

150 Generations of the Amazingly Ancient Culture Right Here On Our Island

By Rick Piper

A gentleman from Palm Bay representing the agenda of the country of Spain and a group with interests in the upcoming 500 year commemoration of the naming of Florida , is trying to assign a map name for our barrier island itself, from Port Canaveral to Sebastian Inlet, as “Ponce de Leon Island” to honor the Royal Family of Spain. (the Viva500 committee is not actively advocating for this naming)

After presenting his original proposal to the City Council of Cocoa Beach for a resolution of support for the naming of the island after Ponce de Leon, the gentleman from Palm Bays was asked by one city councilman if he had any thoughts on our local ancient culture of the Ays Indians and the way that they were treated during the period of the Spanish occupation of Florida. He said he did and then he looked around himself and arrogantly stated “I don’t see any Indians standing here asking you for anything.” At which the city councilman quite rightly answered “That’s because they killed them all.”

Three of the Eight communities councils that reside on the barrier island in question have voted to support the name “Ponce de Leon”, the other Five communities on the island have voted to not support the naming or refused to consider it. Cocoa Beach recently reversed it’s earlier support and voted 5-0 saying “No” to the naming of the island. Unfortunatley, during the meeting Mr Lopez’s associate accused us all of “Racism” and was escorted from the meeting by a police officer. The gentleman from Palm Bay is still pursuing the name change actively and has stated in the press that those that don’t support the naming are “Hate Mongers”.

It’s phrased that Ponce de Leon “discovered” Florida in 1513 but is widely accepted now that Europeans had been slave raiding this coast of Florida for at least a decade before his first trip, as evidenced by a Portuguese map from 1502  that shows the details of the Florida coast.(4)

Ponce de Leon wasn’t what my old fifth grade history book claimed him to mythically be, an “Explorer” on “a quest for the fountain of youth”.  Not in any form…there is no mention ever in Pounce de Leon’s writings of a fountain of youth, it’s a myth attached after his death. Ponce de Leon was a Conquistador. An out of work soldier given a private, for profit, contract by the Spanish Crown and the Inquisition to conquer, sell as slaves, plunder for gold, and kill resisters among the native peoples he encountered in the Americas. He first enslaved and killed the natives of the island of Hispaniola(5) and was promoted for it.

Spanish Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas who emigrated to the island of Hispaniola in 1502 on the expedition of Nicolás de Ovando and witnessed first hand the brutal atrocities of the conquistadors on that island (of whom Ponce was an officer in charge at that time and led the crushing of the Tainos there).(7) —”Which the Spaniards no sooner perceived, but they, mounted on generous Steeds, well weapon’d with Lances and Swords, begin to exercise their bloody Butcheries and Strategems, and overrunning their Cities and Towns, spar’d no Age, or Sex, nay not so much as Women with Child, but ripping up their Bellies, tore them alive in pieces. They laid Wagers among themselves, who should with a Sword at one blow cut, or divide a Man in two; or which of them should decollate or behead a Man, with the greatest dexterity; nay farther, which should sheath his Sword in the Bowels of a Man with the quickest dispatch and expedition.”(7)

As of the province of “Hiquey” on Hispaniola, the province Ponce de Leon was given to govern after decimating it, he states “The number of those I saw here burnt, and dismembered, and rackt with various Torments, as well as others, the poor Remnants of such matchless Villanies, who surviving were enslaved, is infinite.” The aftermath of the conquistadors brutal task led to the dividing up of the survivors “…they divided among themselves the Young Men, Women, and Children reserved promiscuously for that purpose….And this was the great care they had of them, they sent the Males to the Mines to dig and bring away the Gold, which is an intollerable labor; but the Women they made use of to Manure and Till the ground, which is a toil most irksome even to Men of the strongest and most robust constitutions, allowing them no other food but Herbage, and such kind of unsubstantial nutriment, so that the Nursing Womens Milk was exsiccated and so dryed up, that the young Infants lately brought forth, all perished, and females being separated from and debarred cohabitation with Men, there was no Prolification or raising up issue among them. The Men died in Mines, hunger starved and oppressed with labor, and the Women perished in the Fields, harrassed and broken with the like Evils and Calamities: Thus an infinite number of Inhabitants that formerly peopled this Island were exterminated and dwindled away to nothing by such Consumptions.”(7)

“The Black Legend” is a term a Spanish historian and defender of the realm,  Julián Juderías, coined to deny the wrong doings of the 16th century Spanish Catholic Empire and the Spanish Inquisition. He was a follower of the philosophic ideals that Spain should “recover its 16th-century sense of Roman Catholic mission.” The label was created to counter the attacks by Spain’s enemies in England, France and other non Spanish speaking countries in their fight against the Spanish Catholic Empire by generalizing that the crimes Spain committed in the new world impugned all Spanish (which of course it doesn’t). In this case it has devolved into a term to slur anyone that points to the atrocities that were committed in the Americas by the conquistadors in the name of the Spanish Inquisition.  Other European countries committed brutalities as well in the Americas at that time but the theory of the “Black Legend” would have you believe that anything stated about the Spanish is just propaganda (that the Conquistadors and the Spanish Inquisition were nice and kind). Even though the conquistadors atrocities were recorded by a Spaniard, Dominican Friar Bartolomé de las Casas, that emigrated to Hispaniola in 1502 along with Jaun Ponce de Leon and witnessed first hand the ghoulish brutality and slaughter committed there by the conquistadors. (7)

Bartolomé de las Casas spent 50 years of his life actively fighting slavery and the violent colonial abuse of indigenous peoples, especially by trying to convince the Spanish court to adopt a more humane policy of colonization. And although he failed to save the indigenous peoples of the Western Indies, his efforts resulted in several improvements in the legal status of the natives, and in an increased colonial focus on the ethics of colonialism. Las Casas is often seen as one of the first advocates for universal Human Rights. His book reporting these atrocities to the crown to lobby to write laws to stop the carnage titled “A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies” was presented to the Spanish crown in 1542 and accepted by them as true and was  published in 1552. His account is largely responsible for the passage of the new Spanish colonial laws known as the New Laws of 1542, which abolished native slavery for the first time in European colonial history and attempted to curb the abuse of the native people. (7)
NO ONE denies that this testimony was a true accounting of what was taking place by the conquistadors in America.

Then Ponce de Leon was contracted to do the same to the Taíno natives of the island of Puerto Rico, which he drove to the brink of extinction(8), and was rewarded with a land grant and the Governorship(6) . He did such a good job there that he was contracted to come here, claim the area for Spain and are start doing the same job here(2).

The actual contract from the archives of the Spanish crown commissions Ponce to sail to north to the Islands of Benimi (what the Spanish called Florida, the name the Tiano’s used for the peninsula). They thought it to be a series of large islands. That’s right he was given directions to the place he “discovered”. The contract was worded to be a political maneuver to officially claim sovereignty over the place being visited by Spain and Portugal and others over the last few years. The “discovery” was a cynical reference to taking possession and dividing up the spoils. The contract actually refers to the financial split between Ponce and the crown on any gold plundered from the area for a period of 12 years. It goes on to say that “any Indians” he finds there are to be “allocated” to Ponce for his use(2), like so many potatoes to be gathered and sold. 
*(see link to the translation of the General Archive of Idies, Seville in “The Discovery of Florida and it’s Discoverer Juan Ponce de Leon” by Edward W. Lawson published 1946, below)

The codification of these brutal tactics, that were already being used in the Americas, was discussed and argued for years in Spain as to the morality of their actions. “The Requerimiento” or “requirement” (as in “demand”) is the famous political and religious cover document written by Council of Castile in 1510, commanded to be read aloud by the Conquistadors when they encountered native people in the Americas. It was used to justify the assertion that they were here representing God and that the native people were to submit to immediate occupation and conversion to Christianity. In the last infamous paragraph of “the Requerimiento”, the Conquistadors mission and tactics are made clear -

“But, if you do not do this, and maliciously make delay in it, I certify to you that, with the help of God, we shall powerfully enter into your country, and shall make war against you in all ways and manners that we can, and shall subject you to the yoke and obedience of the Church and of their Highnesses; we shall take you and your wives and your children, and shall make slaves of them, and as such shall sell and dispose of them as their Highnesses may command; and we shall take away your goods, and shall do you all the mischief and damage that we can”… and “the deaths and losses which shall accrue from this are YOUR FAULT”. (1)
*(see link to “Requerimiento” below, from the archives of Dickinson College, founded in 1773, in Carlisle, Pa)

This is what Ponce and the other Conquistadors were ordered to read aloud 500 years ago, to native people like the Ays, in a language they did not understand and then were free to attack and enslave them for profit. This is the factual truth of Ponce de Leon’s time in the Americas, and the only motive for his mission to our coast. And this is the history that the local “historians” are asking us to forget.

The Ays -(or the English spelling Ais ) pronounced – (Ah-ee’s)

Our island home is an amazingly ancient place, and home to one of the oldest established resident cultures in all the Americas. As old as the Aztec era, Right Here. Like a secret hidden in plain sight, they lay among us everywhere.

This island resides in and is part of a province with an ancient name, written and referred to in records and on maps back to the 1500′s, though you don’t see it on modern maps.  A name also from 500 years ago given by the Spaniards themselves, for the native people the ruled here. “Ays”-  the coastal barrier islands and mainland along side the “Rio de Ays” (the River of the Ays), the original name for what the we call “The Indian River”. So marked on early maps by the Spanish as to let sailors and travelers know that an ancient, fierce, free people lived here, the Ays, and to travel here at your own risk.

Evidence of the Ays culture along this coast from north of Cape Canaveral to St. Lucie Inlet to the south shows a stable and established population going back 3000 Years, right here. The earliest pottery in North America is found along the east coast of Florida. The Florida Anthropological Society uses a picture of an Ays artifact mask symbol for their logo because of their ancient past as one of the original peoples. The Ays were tall people described as giants by Europeans. From the burial mound bone records, we know the Ays were commonly over 6 feet tall some close to 7 feet and of large carriage and were impressive physical specimens to the smaller Europeans. They wore their hair in a top knot manner, naked accept for the weaved palm leaf loin cloth and reportedly elaborately tattooed in some cases. The Ays maintained an extensive complex political system throughout the state with ancient connections to the west coast Calusa. It was the Calusa that, on his second trip in 1521 to the west coast of Florida, fought back and shot Ponce De Leon with a poison arrow and he died.

The Ays Burial Mounds, Shell Mounds, Middens and Artifacts have been found North of the Cape, in Cape Canaveral, Cocoa Beach, Merritt Island, Cocoa, Rockledge, Satellite Beach, Indian Harbor Beach, Eau Gallie, Melbourne Beach, Indialantic, Sebastian, on and on and on. Turtle Mound, North of Canaveral stood at it’s peak 75 feet tall, the tallest mound in Florida and the third tallest in the Americas. That’s as large as a six story condo. An earthen pyramid, right here where we make our lives. In Cocoa Beach, “Indian Mound Court” marks the area in Snug Harbor where an Ays burial mound stood until the 1970′s when it’s contents were removed to Gainesville for protection. Snug Harbor itself was and Ays village for perhaps a thousand years, the probable winter site of Ullamay (the summer site was on Merritt Island in the area of Ullamay park). The mouth of the Eau Gallie river still holds the mounds from the summer home of Pentoaya, the winter Pentoaya was in Indian Harbor Beach. They are burial mounds on the crest of Honeymoon Hill in Merritt Island where a village stood over looking both the rivers. The main Ays city of Jece is thought to have been located in the mainland town of Sebastian.  Evidence this thriving established local resident culture abounded along the whole of the lagoon basin all the way to St. Lucie Inlet near Jupiter to the south, all of Ays province. I have heard first hand details from dozens of local long time residents of the discovery and collection of artifacts right in the river shallows of their back yards or wooded areas that were later developed and bulldozed away for the building of condominiums. Towns and even what the Spanish called “Cities” dotted the coast line of the entire lagoon system. In 1597 Governor Mendez de Canco, who traveled the entire east coast of Florida, reported that the Ays chief had more Indians under him than any other.

One story from my own neighborhood that recounts a local man in the late 1960′s running the inboard engines of a cabin cruiser in place to blow out a deeper boat slip at his dock only to discover a buried dugout canoe at he bottom of the hole once the mud had cleared. It was unearthed and given to the state and was estimated to be 1000-2000 years old created with stone tools, lying buried for eons at the back edge of Cocoa Isles.  Another astute individual recognizing a pile of buried mollusk shells in the hole that was being dug for his pool as an ancient shell midden with each mollusk shell having the precise broken hole in exactly the right place to release the muscle from the shell when harvesting them to eat. Dozens of them all piled together as they laid from centuries ago. Only a keen eyed conch harvester would have realized what he was looking at. There are long time locals with bags of the ancient pottery shards found in ankle deep water around the island edge (this pottery called “Orange” is the oldest in North America), it looks black when you find it and has impressions of basket weaving in it’s surface as they used baskets to form the shape when they were first fired. A large hardened disk shaped fire scorch found under the mud in the river while putting in dock piles, the remnant of the ancient shoreline where people had burned the local fire pit a thousand times, with bones of the food they cooked there still embedded in it. Stories of family collections of artifacts found at the feet of generations of local people in their day to day wanderings in this amazing place. The home and resting place of this ancient and intriguing culture that lies forgotten in plain site all around us. Imagine how many stories and artifacts reside in private collection along this river with the long time residents of this entire region, it is probably astounding. Perhaps a future museum should be in mind such as the Timocuan have in Jacksonville.

The Ays were the dominant tribe on the East coast of Florida. The tribes of the surrounding regions payed tribute to the Ays. They were fierce warriors and legendary waterman. Witnessed by the Spanish, they would be seen miles off shore hunting Right Whales (up to 50 feet long) by paddling their dug-out canoes along side a breaching whale, a single man would leap onto the whales back with a mallet and a wooden plug and try to plug the blow hole as he rode him down. If he succeeded, the whale would later float to the surface and be towed in and harvested by the entire community. The Ays skull record shows wide spread evidence of the condition we call “surfers ear”, from being in water on a constant basis. They had collections of river canoes and even large sea going dugout canoes with more than one sail, that may have held twenty plus men.

A stone age people, they were successful hunter/fisher/gatherers. The idyllic nature of the lagoon basin provided plentiful food and allowed culture to grow in one place without need for nomadic migrations. Direct relatives of the original Paleoindian peoples, like the world famous anthropological find of the “Windover” people, whose well preserved remains were discovered outside Titusville and dated to be 8000 years old. In this food rich paradise grew the culture of the Ays.

They fought fiercely to to protect their families from slave raids and invasion and are referred to, by self proclaimed historians, as “Warlike” and “Hostiles”  for defending their home. When labeled by their destroyers as “Heathens, Savages and Cannibals”, take in to consideration the Fact that Queen Isabella of Spain had decreed that Spanish Conquistadors could only legally enslave and sell natives who were cannibals, giving an economic profit motive in making such allegations. This was used as a justification for employing violent means to subjugate native people (3).

After that decree, every group of Indians the that resisted were labeled “cannibals”…Imagine that.

The Ays, as a people, had one fault… They considered themselves to be a free people and they refused to submit to Spain. An ancient culture that claimed this island for thousands of years as their ancestral home land, even before the time of Christ. Driven into extinction by the end of the Spanish reign in the early 1700′s through slaving raids, executions, innumerable wars and skirmishes and of course the European diseases like small pox. Still they never submitted to occupation and paid the price for it.

These people that are still here, buried in this place, where they raised their children for over 150 generations, longer than Spain existed. Their kids played on this beach. They fished out back in this river. Living in this ancient place that I’m sure they loved for the same reasons we love it here. There is a lot of information from individual Ays sites and more anthropological information being pieced together over time, but it is scattered as is the result when one civilization exterminates another. They can be lost and only restored when people take the time to look.

The tradition with the Spanish Crown in the 1500’s was to stick a flag in the sand on any foreign beach and then claim the whole thing for themselves. Now, 500 years later, this naming of our island reflects the same sentiment. What Spain claimed then, is now symbolically finally being given over to them just for the asking. Our island home has it’s own amazing cultural history, and it’s not owned by Spain. It’s ours, we should celebrate and embrace that.

Everyone is looking forward to the 500 year commemoration of the history of our beloved Florida next year, but it should not be an excuse to elevate a single, undeniably violent, mercenary conquistador to some imagined sainthood in place of a celebration of the entire rich history of our state and our island. A park and statue to mark the place where this one infamous character from history may or may not have come ashore is one thing, but naming the island is another.

I believe that this naming of the island under our feet, the resting place of the Ays culture, for a Conquistador that came here to kill and enslave them, would be a tragic insult enshrined on the map long after we are gone. Diminishing and helping to erase the tremendous depth and breadth of our OWN cultural history and heritage, in this ancient and amazing place where we now make our homes… On the “Rio de Ays”.

Please contact your city, county and state government officials to stop this naming and sign the petition to protest the naming http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/say_no_to_ponce_de_leon/

The Requeimiento
(1)Link to an archive of the English translation of the “Requerimiento” -
http://users.dickinson.edu/~borges/Resources-Requerimiento.htm
General information about the “Requerimieto”-

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Requerimiento

(2)Link to the English translation of Ponce de Leon’s contract to come to Florida-

http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00026726/00001/104j

(3)Link to Brief history of cannibal controversies; David F. Salisbury, August 15, 2001, Vanderbuilt University.
http://exploration.vanderbilt.edu/news/news_cannibalism_pt2.htm

1502 map of Florida (11 years before Ponce)
(4)Link to map showing Florida from 1502, 11 years before Ponce de Leon – University of Miami Libraries
http://scholar.library.miami.edu/floridamaps/view_image.php?image_name=dlp00020000140001001&group=spanish
Ponce in Hispanola & Puerto Rico

(5)The subjugation and enslavement of the natives of Hispaniola by Ponce de Leon-
“Juan Ponce de Leon” by Frederick A. Ober, 1908
http://www.mainlesson.com/display.php?author=ober&book=deleon&story=rebellion

(6)The subjugation and enslavement of the native people of Puerto Rico by Ponce de Leon-
ch. VI “The History of Puerto Rico” by R.A. Van Middeldyk copyright 1903
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/12272/pg12272.html

(7) A Brief Account of the Destruction of the Indies – by Spanish Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas in 1542
THE CRUELTIES OF THE Spaniards Committed in AMERICA
http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/20321/pg20321.html

(8)Yale University – Colonial Genocides – Genocide Studies Program
http://www.yale.edu/gsp/colonial/puerto-rico/index.html

IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AND WE’RE GONNA MISS IT

By M. Alberto Rivera

Shopping in bulk feels like preparing for the apocalypse. Surely I can’t be alone in this sentiment. And while I feel as though our pantry is sufficiently spacious, I don’t think it was conceived with BJ’s, Sam’s Club, or Costco in mind.

The once-a-month trip to the bulk emporium finds the otherwise spacious vehicle packed to the gills with absurd quantities of sundries and foodstuffs — 42 cans of cream of mushroom soup, 206 individually wrapped bagels bites, and 56 packages of assorted snack crackers made up mostly of the kind no one likes or wants, the kind that only get eaten out of desperation when everything else snack-like has disappeared from the home.

And if no one’s able to organize the space in a timely fashion, we end up with a helter skelter stacking of boxes, which only adds to the cluttered feeling of living in a Cold War/Y2K bunker. I’m now sidestepping flats of Spam and discontinued flavors of marked-down Ramen that stand waist-high, begging for children of comparable size to come knock them down, and claustrophobia-inducing towers of cardboard and tin. It can all start to feel like hoarding for beginners.

Toilet paper rolls normally come in multiples of 16, but there are exceptions to this rule. There is a 12-pack of available for purchase, but it’s the extra–mega-super-jumbo, industrial-wide girth rolls usually reserved for airports and other impersonal, utilitarian buildings. Try fitting that onto the standard spool in your restroom and you may end up losing a finger.

There’s a false sense of security brought on by this kind of purchasing. Possibly the most infuriating moment related to bulk shopping convenience arrives when something you’ve lived in close confines with for the past three months has finally run out. “Whaddaya mean we’re out? We just bought 209 of ‘em, like yesterday…” This is particularly true of the aforementioned toilet paper. I know some of you still have those rectangular tissues from the 2004 hurricane season MREs tucked away somewhere, just in case.

But a sense of impending doom has been loitering for as long as anyone can remember. Every so many years they change the how-and-why of our ultimate demise as a species, planet, and life as we know it. I think they think we’ll eventually point out that the world didn’t end as predicted and so they divert our attention to something else to fret over.

Nostradamus is usually associated with end-of-the-world prophecies, but no one seems to nail a prophecy down solid until after the event done come and gone — sort of a  “hindsight is 20/20” thing, re. accuracy. Lots of Negative Nancys say Nostradamus predicted the 2012 doomsday to begin with several natural disasters. He also mentioned a planet that is supposed to hit the earth. He didn’t name the planet, but some scientists named it “Planet X.” I don’t want to disparage the storied seer, but timelines were never his strong suit.

Much ado has been made about the Mayan calendar and the year 2012. By the time you read this, it’ll already be 2012 and you can set your watch for extinction. According to the sort of people who worry about such things, on December 12, 2012 — 12/12/12 for anyone needing it spelled out — doomsayers claim the Earth will be host to a veritable smorgasbord of cataclysmic astronomical events, including a Planet X flyby (again), killer solar flares, and a geomagnetic reversal, guaranteeing a very, very bad day for most, but great ratings for CNN. Not to mention that this is set to take place just before Christmas and you probably still won’t know what to get your brother-in-law. And how sad would it be to perish at the mall, waiting in line for some rapping Santa gag gift? Not only is it the end of civilization, but you’ll also be out ten bucks.

My theory on why the Mayan calendar ends in 2012 is simple. The calendar maker died. Quit. Retired. Started selling Amway or Mary Kay. He/she figured by the time they get to 2012, it’ll be someone else’s problem. Say goodnight, Gracie.

The end of the world is relative. I’m not trying to trivialize anyone’s suffering or loss, but if I were stranded outside the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina for days on end, it would certainly seem like the end of the world. The same goes for watching my house, car, and neighbors being swept away by the 2011 Japanese earthquake/tsunami combo. But it can also seem like the end of the world when your girlfriend reads a text on your phone from another girl who’s pretty sure she’s your girlfriend also. The best you can do at this point is go into survival mode, hunker down, and ask your friends if they know anyone who’s currently single.

But I get the distinct feeling that when the world ends, whether the house is stocked or barren or whether I’m prepared or not, I’ll be out of town. There will be a wedding to attend, a family gathering, or God knows what, but the more supplies I’ve secured in anticipation of end times, the better the odds I’ll be far and away. Then I’ll have to ask if someone will let me crash on their sofa until the end of the world is over — or until it has been replaced by the next season of “American Idol.”

I’m thinking of asking for the day off, just in case, to use the time at home to catch up on my to-do list. If it all goes to hell while I’m doing yard work, no one’s going to fault me for not finishing. I’ll give Nostradamus a high five and call it good if there’s a mass checking out that day and I’m among them.

Otherwise, we’ll all just have to brace ourselves for the next sure thing that guarantees our inevitable doom.

AND YET MORE RANDOM NOTES 

By Rick LaClaire

“Capitalism is the exploitation of man by men. Communism is just the opposite.” — Nikita Khrushchev

Yes, another year has passed. They sure go fast, don’t they? It seems like only yesterday I was shaking out my leisure suit, looking for party leftovers. Nowadays I’m more likely to find a suppository wrapper. This phenomenon was best summed up by Bob Dylan. When asked how he felt when he turned the ripe old age of forty, he said, “Ya just can’t help it.” Yeah Bob, you hit the nail on the head. Time passes, and ya just can’t help it. And when time passes, people pass too. Ya just can’t help it.

Now I could begin this new year loudly lamenting the passage of Steve Jobs or Elizabeth Taylor — people with bigger-than-life fame. Or I could do what I usually do, which is doting on the unsung and less significant. The rich and famous get their lion’s share of attention, so I think it’s only fair to elevate the quickly-forgotten. In some ways they’ve affected me more than their much-lauded contemporaries. For instance, Steve Jobs never entertained me for one minute when I was a teenager, but in half-hour increments, Sherwood Schwartz sure did.

Remember “Gilligan’s Island” and “The Brady Bunch”? Yeah, the shows are corny today, but back in ’65 I never missed an episode of “Gilligan.” Part of it had to do with the fact that we only got two channels on the ol’ black and white Zenith (and one channel was Canadian), but you just never knew; maybe this would be the episode when they get rescued. Of course, we didn’t want them to get rescued. There would be no show — and worse, we’d be relegated to watching the curling playoffs in Saskatoon. “Gilligan” was pulled after the ’67 season and it wouldn’t be until ’69 that my attention was captured by the Bradys. It was from that family I learned which paisley shirt pattern best matched my striped pants. Six kids, two parents, a housekeeper and only one toilet? Except for the live-in maid and the gay dad, that sounded like home to me. You know, after watching over my kids’ shoulders as they indulge in their so-called “reality” TV, I find watching “Brady Bunch” re-runs refreshing. They’re still in daily rotation on one of the religious cable stations.

Schwartz laid some eggs, too. Do you recall “It’s About Time” and “Harper Valley PTA”? I didn’t think so, but everyone remembers “My Favorite Martian.” Schwartz had his hand in there, too. The talents of Sherwood Schwartz, to me, fueled what I call the Aluminum Age in TV. Television’s Golden Age was the Fifties. I call the Sixties the Aluminum Age because that was what the ol’ black and white Zenith’s body was made of: anodized aluminum. Mr. Schwartz died last July. He was 94.

Thirty some-odd years ago I was graced with the gift of a “licorice pizza,” which some will recognize as a vinyl LP, by one of my favorite D.C. blues bands, The Nighthawks.  The band has had a variety of lineups over the years (including Brevard’s own Danny Morris) and this album, Jacks and Kings, featured one Pinetop Perkins. “Pinetop,” for those who don’t know, was a brand of cheap rotgut whiskey which circulated among the troops on both sides during our War Between the States, so named for the pungent pine dowel used as a cork. I don’t know if that has any bearing on Mr. Perkins’s moniker, but man, could that guy roll on the piano.

My favorite cut has always been “Pinetop’s Boogie-Woogie,” a “funny little song” in which he extols the listener to “hold it,” then “get it” and boogie. This song rocks. It’s fun to dance to as well as play, and I’ve tried forever and ever to get that Pinetop piano roll down and can’t quite “get it.” His real name was Joe Willie Perkins and he died last March at age 97.

Another loss in March was Geraldine Ferraro. Remember her? If not, remember Walter Mondale? Well, in case you don’t, Walter Mondale ran for president in 1984 and I (and two other people) voted for him. In retrospect I don’t know why I did that, but I do remember he was the first nominee to run with a woman as his vice-president. No, he didn’t make it, and I always thought he had a sex change shortly afterward and became Madeline Albright, but that’s just a rumor. Anyway, in 1984, it took a lot of guts to bust into Reagan-era politics with a woman in tow. And it took a lot more guts to be that woman. Of course the Republicans took her apart piece-by-piece and in the end, well, you know what happened. Four more years of The Gipper — or “The Gypper,” depending on which social stratum you occupied. Geraldine Ferraro was 75.

Has there ever been a more distinctive singing voice than Phoebe Snow’s? You could recognize her in a heartbeat. The first time I heard her was in college, when my then-housemate Sam bought the Still Crazy album by Paul Simon. Simon was always infusing new sounds and Phoebe certainly filled the bill. Despite legal hassles with her labels, she was much in demand and recorded with the likes of Lou Rawls, Garland Jeffreys, Billy Joel and Queen, among many others. She suffered a cerebral hemorrhage in 2010 and never fully recovered. Born Phoebe Ann Laub, she died in April at age 60.

When someone called “Doctor Death” meets his demise, do you celebrate, mourn, or what? Also known as “Jack the Dripper,” his goal was “death with dignity,” and as I grow older and nearer my own time I find myself agreeing more and more with his philosophy. He was not a wanton killer. Yes, his methods were said to defy the then-current moral standards, but did they really? Abortion had been legal for decades. You could kill your defenseless fetal offspring, but not willingly take your own declining life? Kevorkian said it was okay to do that and put his own butt on the line. His goal, he said, was not to kill people, but to end their suffering. He went to jail. After release from prison in 2007, he devoted his life to lecturing and running for Congress. He was also an artist who sometimes painted with his own blood. I find that just a bit weird. He died in June.

Chester, Festus, Miz Kitty, Doc… What do those names conjure? “Gunsmoke”! It is said that the Wild West only lasted seventeen years, but Gunsmoke lasted twenty. There’s something to be said for a TV show that can re-write history. Of course the glue that held the Gunsmoke gang together was Marshall Matt Dillon, also known as James Arness. Born James Aurness and father of 1970 world-champion surfer Rolf Aurness, he was 88 when he died in June.

Clarence “Big Man” Clemons, Jerry Lieber… The arts took a beating in 2011. I was never a fan of Bruce Springsteen, but who could resist that signature sax style of Clarence Clemons? And remember hearing “Jailhouse Rock” for the first time? I was only five then, and ten years later I covered the very same song with my high school rock combo. Someone told me Big Mama Thornton wrote that song, but no, it was a couple of white guys from Baltimore called Jerry Leiber and Jeff Stoller. Clarence Clemons died in June, Jerry Leiber in August.

Finally, does the name Lana Peters ring a bell? Perhaps you would know her better by her birth name, Svetlana Stalina. Yes folks, she was the daughter of that fun-loving, devil-may-care, madcap despot known as Josef Stalin. Now why would the only daughter of the leader of the not-so-free world want to defect to the land of hot dogs and Playboy magazine? Well, why not? Nikita Khrushchev, one of Stalin’s homies, once said he witnessed the “man of steel” grab Svetlana’s mother by the hair and drag her to the dance floor (it’s rumored alcohol was a factor). I hope it was a good song. Obviously, Svetlana had daddy issues, and a few years after his death she defected to America where she took the name Lana Peters. Hounded by reporters and paparazzi all her days here, she desperately sought privacy, winding up back in Russia for a short time in the ’80s. She died in Wisconsin at age 85.

The Memory Season

By Rick LaClaire

“It’s Xmas time again/Has it really been a year?” — Joe Jackson, “Tango Atlantico”

My wife’s family has an enduring tradition for Thanksgiving dinner. After all are seated and grace is said, each person at the table must say what they are thankful for. Of course everybody says “family” first and then something like “the Buffalo Bills” (if they’re winning) or “the Sabres” (if they’re not), but sometimes a valuable nugget of wisdom will be divulged. I could share some of these, but I think it would be too personal. My point is that the holiday season is a time for gathering and reflection, and what better time than at year’s end, Christmas.

For some reason we give each other gifts at Christmas. This can get way out of hand. Why? It is written that the three Magi gave gifts to the baby Jesus, so we do the same to commemorate that act. Well, that’s what I was told… Apparently a lot may have been lost in translation.

Memories are gifts you give yourself. People may share the illusion of your memories, but you will perceive them uniquely, making them truly your own. In other words, the things you remember may not be what someone else does.

We all have different triggers for memories: a song, a sunset, the timbre of a voice. For me, smells are the strongest catalyst. The whiff of freshly cut celery reminds me of my mother. I recently bought a truck that was owned by a smoker. It smells like my father’s Dodge, and it brings him to mind. Wind Song perfume carries me back to college; Patchouli incense to high school. And the smell of a tightly-packed school of mullet gives me Florida memories. The fall run is on as I write this, and the air is ripe with Florida memories.

I have a lot of fishing memories, and as always, it’s not all about the fishing. Like the first time I went for tarpon up Sebastian River. Another summer day in ’87, we put in before dawn so we could net bait before the bite. The sky broke an eerie pink, a foreboding sky, and soon the sun illuminated mammoth sky castles of rain clouds. Lightning flashed. We pulled under an abandoned boathouse to escape a shower. Rain drummed on the tin roof. It leaked, and soon we realized we were going to get wet anyway, so why not fish? Huge tarpon rolled all around us. It was hot and extremely humid, so hot the lens on my Pocket Instamatic fogged up. My old friend Tyler and I jumped more than a dozen tarpon that day and I landed only one. It was the smallest to strike, and after an hour’s fight on gear that wasn’t geared for tarpon, we gently lip-gaffed her. I hefted it for the camera. It is my favorite fishing picture. It’s fuzzy, foggy, and you can barely discern the fish. But it shouts “Florida” in every aspect: heat, sweat, menacing clouds, and a grin on my face that shows how much I love this place.

Florida, to me, means outdoor activity year-round: fishing in the warm months, hunting and fishing in the cool ones. I’d never really explored the interior of the state till a few years ago when I took my teenage son squirrel hunting in Osceola County. We don’t do it much now, his interests have shifted as he has grown, but these are the freshest of my favorite memories. The best was our first foray. We’d seen these woods from a car window but had no idea how beautiful they were till we got into them. It was like going back to the beginning of time.

But I quickly learned that I needed lessons in Southern hunting, and our first experience resulted in not a shot being fired. It was toward sunset, on a gorgeous December day, and I felt I had let my boy down. “Here,”” I said, and handed him the truck keys. “You drive.”
“Who? Me?” His eyes went wide. He was just fourteen. We were in the middle of nowhere, on a well-kept dirt road, no one in sight, and I wanted him to remember this day whether we killed anything or not. He did pretty well, for a first-timer. I figured it would give him something to brag to his buddies about. But he’s not like that, I guess. So it’s just a memory for him and me. He sure was nervous behind the wheel. Still is.

There are older memories. Like voting for Carter in 1980, our first full year here. My wife and I were young and childless — basically freewheeling — and we’d bopped up and down the Eastern States as the mood prescribed. We were renting a house with friends over by the University and, at that age, had just one goal: fun. That we had. The only whiff of seriousness came with election time. As faulty a Chief Executive as he was (aren’t they all?), my wife and I were Carter fans. We registered to vote at the old courthouse on Neiman and dragged our house-sharers with us: we were going to exercise our civic duty. We also discovered that “Vegetarian” was not a political party — but that’s another story.

Anyway, as soon as we registered, the debates began. Not the ones on TV, but the ones at home. Carter was a loser. Reagan was too old. Carter was a wimp. Reagan was a war-monger. Look at the mess Carter made of the economy. Reagan would cause World War III. Look at the mess Carter made in Iran. Reagan is a phony who dyes his hair. On and on… It seemed as if my wife and I were the only registered Democrats in Brevard County. That was proven on Election Day.

Our polling place was an auditorium on the FIT campus. My wife and I worked for the same company and didn’t have to be at work until nine, so we figured on making a quick stop on the way in to cast our ballots. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea. The line was out the door. We had a long wait, and in that line we heard plenty of strong talk, all pro-Reagan. We decided to just wait our turns and shut up. This was not a place for debate. They would have made mincemeat out of us.

Consequently, we were an hour late for work. We explained to the boss we were delayed at the polls, and isn’t it great that you have employees who exercise their civic duty? “Sure,” she replied, “just as long as you didn’t vote for that wimp Carter.”

That night we drank heavily and watched the returns. Other friends joined us. We had a full living room and only two Democrats. The fire flew. Then, before the votes were even tallied completely, Carter conceded. My wife and I looked at each other sadly. I guess Carter really was a wimp.

Why is this a cherished memory? Because it was the first time I ever voted on a voting machine. My first presidential vote, in1972, was cast in absentia, on paper and mailed. That guy lost, too. Then, in 1976, I didn’t vote at all. I forgot to register! This time, 1980, I’d done all the homework and was solid in my choice. So continued a tradition that holds to this day: I have never voted a winner in a presidential election.

Babysitting a parrot, discovering I don’t care much for scuba diving, catching a world-record palometa (and releasing it!), riding out hurricanes… The Christmas tree of my mind is deeply surrounded by gifts of my own making. Now, at year’s end, it’s time to open them.

A Very Small Gift List

By David Sherman

It was my intention to write something of a more non-political nature for the December issue, granting a sort of Holiday ceasefire, if you will. But, as I would be the only one ceasing fire, that idea, however originally well-intentioned, seems a bit pointless, and more than a little naive.

While I still respect the sanctity of all the upcoming Holy Days, I would ask that you still take some time out to remember, and try to understand, that there are people out there in the world fighting for you right now. I do not speak of those men and women currently serving in U.S. Armed Forces abroad, though I acknowledge, applaud, and honor their service. I speak of those civilians currently gathered in protest on Wall Street, and the thousands like them in cities and towns across this nation.

Most people would agree that the men and women of our military are standing up for the rest of us, but too few seem to get that standing up for the rest of us is exactly what the Occupy Wall Street protestors are doing. They are exercising their First Amendment rights to peaceably assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. Personally, I think a little more emphasis on a specific list of grievances would go a long way toward garnering popular support, but I bet half the guys dressed as natives at the Boston Tea Party didn’t know much about the details of any political grievances either. They were just lucky enough to be drunk enough in the wrong tavern at the right time. One minute it’s hot buttered rum at the Broken Barrel, next thing you know, you’re running through the streets of Boston half naked and chucking tea in the harbor. C’mon, who among us hasn’t done that at least twice?

I’ve heard these protestors maligned as hippies. Really? Hippies? What is this, Haight Ashbury? Yes, many of these people are young, and their choice of hairstyle, clothing, makeup, and body art and/or piercings might be different than your own, but there are also many 40-, 50-, and 60-year-olds mixed in there as well — even an entire cadre calling itself the “Granny Peace Brigade.” This wasn’t a drum circle that got a little out of hand. This isn’t just a bunch of rich college kids with nothing better to do for months on end. This a mixed group of Americans whose only common bond appears to be their willingness to stand up (at long last) and decry the outrage of our own political system being openly bought and sold. They dare to cry foul at a system that allows the corporate elite to knowingly gamble with our entire economy for the their own profit, and ultimately the near ruination of our entire nation, and then laughingly walk away from the train wreck they caused to cash the bonus checks they earned causing it. They also seem pretty upset that no one has gone jail. (Me too!)

I wrote a piece in the April 2011 issue of The Beachside Resident entitled “Double Entendre,” wherein I noted that the last time such an inequality of wealth and power existed in western culture was in France in 1789, just before Bastille Day. I warned that such top-heavy abuse of wealth and power had always led to revolt, if not rampant chaos. Six months later, thousands take to the streets. After eight months, it’s tens of thousands in over 450 different cities around the U.S., and in other nations as well. Will their numbers dwindle in the face of harsh northern winters? Undoubtedly. But in what numbers will they return in the spring, or more importantly in what numbers by next November?

Make no mistake, there is a third battle line drawn, aside from those in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is manned by Americans, in defense of Americans, and may well turn out to be the first salvo of another American Revolution. Just to be clear: I do not advocate bullets; I advocate votes. I would also advocate taking the time to actually read the truth about the Occupy movement before simply taking the word of someone desperately trying to keep you in the dark. ”We the People” was never meant to include corporations. The Citizens United ruling of the U.S. Supreme Court must be undone!

That’s my only gift request this year. (And hot buttered rum, a new native costume, and a trip to Boston.)

Great Things From a Roach Motel
By M. Alberto Rivera

Years ago while listening to a cocksure young artist discuss success and her inevitable collision course with it, I interrupted her well-intentioned rant with some questions she could make neither head nor tail of.

“How do you measure success?” I asked. “Monetarily? By fame or name recognition? By those standards alone, Paris Hilton is a success. What about an influential artist or individual who inspired others to create? Would they count as successes?”

She seemed truly flummoxed by the question, ordered another Pabst Blue Ribbon, and disappeared. I am uncertain as of this writing whether or not she has met her goals. I never saw or heard from her ever again.

But I want to tell you about a friend of mine, and the influence he exerted on me. A friend — a good friend — is someone you look forward to seeing and spending time with. For several years I had a subscription to the then-authoritative magazine on all things punk rock, Maximum RocknRoll.

Every month when my copy of MRR arrived, I’d flip straight to George Tabb’s column, “Take My Life, Please,” so I could spend time with a friend. He really seemed to understand my life in spite of us never having met.

George’s column was also consistently the best-written one in the magazine. Plus, they were almost always funny and painfully honest. Most people outside of therapy or “The Maury Povich Show” don’t reveal their shortcomings and daily travails with the candor George brought to the written page.

Punk rock, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” an infuriatingly dysfunctional relationship with his father, and a complete lack of confidence with the ladies were all covered here, and Lord, I had lived it, or was presently experiencing these things. Thankfully, I never endured the familial psychosis he described. With the accuracy of a Tomahawk missile, those stories could have easily been taken from my playbook with names and places substituted.

But even here, he was a Florida punker when such a creature barely existed. In 1980, George had formed the band Roach Motel in Gainesville when punk rock was a scary bogeyman to shield your kids from. Not long before, the Sex Pistols made network news for
throwing up in some executive’s office.

Things had changed somewhat by the time I discovered punk in the humid, brain-cooking heat that is Florida, but not too much. Punk was still a scary word and not readily found on TV or Hot Topic. Little kids with mohawks only showed up on postcards in funky bookstores. Rednecks were still plentiful and short on tolerance. Being out of step with the rest of the world is never easy.

“Hero” is a word bandied about with far too much frequency and misuse. But in a very real sense George became a hero of mine, if for nothing else, by allowing me to know someone who had experienced everything I then faced. Giving someone permission to pursue their ambitions by the example of how you live your life is no small thing. And in his monthly column he frankly discussed his missteps along with his successes, with equal emphasis and humor.

I didn’t have to explain how and why the Ramones had changed my life. George knew firsthand and when he wrote about it; it was a shared experience separated by 15 years and thousands of miles. We’d both undergone the same transformative moment for all of the same reasons, yet he’d found a way to explain what he had seen and heard. And he didn’t care if you didn’t get it. He wasn’t writing for people who never felt the same emotional charge of connecting with something as intangible and abstract as a musical performance. He wrote for himself first, which was a huge lesson to me at the time. And as a musician he wrote and performed what was a good fit for him, rather than trying to cash in on something he wouldn’t be as comfortable with.

By being honest about unflattering moments in his life rather than focusing on the highlights reel, it made him human, likable, and relatable. I also learned, as an artist, that if you are consistently out of step with the masses, your attitude and integrity may be all you have on that long drive home where 97% of the bar wanted to lynch you.

I’ve had two very long telephone conversations with Mr. Tabb, both of which were incredibly memorable, at least on my end. In the first, he allowed me to pick his brain regarding the accuracy of a rock n’ roll novel I’m still not done with. He didn’t seem put off by the mundane, fact checking questions I peppered him with. The second was an in-depth interview with him regarding his musical legacy. I’m still having trouble finding time to transcribe it, and my residual Catholic guilt still gets at me on this point. He’s been involved with or at the helm of such notable underground acts Roach Motel, Atoms for Peace, False Prophets, Letch Patrol, Iron Prostate, and Furious George. He’s authored several books, all of which are by turns painful and hysterical.

Like so many others who lived near the World Trade Center 10 years ago on 9/11, he’s not well, and I worry about him. He made a living via underground media, music, print and television, and multiple health conditions resulting from the collapse of the towers emptied his savings. I wish I had something to help ease his financial strain, but once again, he and I are in a similar boat.

A distant disembodied voice connected with me via print years ago and helped assure me that others felt the same way I did. That voice gave me the courage to believe in myself, even contrary to popular trends. Success measured in units sold or the number of commas in a bank statement is easy to measure. Success by living life on your own terms as best you can, while harder to measure, makes for a far richer man.

For all things George Tabb please visit www.georgetabb.com

She Calls Me

By M. Alberto Rivera

Twenty minutes after we’d talked, she calls me back to let me know about an event she thought I might be interested in. And that was fine. I’d only found out about the event that afternoon, but appreciated the heads-up. But then she started telling me about her day — what went right and what didn’t, and some of her new interests as well. This was okay, too.

We’d spoken earlier when I called to ask a question. I’d sent an email a few days earlier, but never received a response. So I called like it was still 1993 and had never heard of email. She answered my inquiry, and the idle chitchat that followed lasted about four minutes. We’ve known each other for more than 20 years, probably closer to 30. I found it hard to make an excuse to get off the phone the second time around. Not because I was really interested in what she was talking about, or because I couldn’t come up with a lie. But I knew why she was telling me about the minutiae of her day — because I was there. She knew I was awake and available, and this was enough.

I know what it’s like to scroll through 200 numbers on my phone and feel like there’s no one I can call. If you spend a lot of time working alone, which we both do, you learn to miss the mundane water-cooler chatter. There are days you want to have someone to bounce ideas off of… you know, whaddaya think about this or that, or did you see the latest episode of… ? So I couldn’t hang up on her.

I didn’t have anything meaningful to contribute to the conversation other than my voice punctuating her pauses, acknowledging the fact that I heard her thoughts. This, apparently, was enough. Both of us were in our cars driving home in the desolate dark at the tail end of a long, trying day. She wanted to tell someone about the flowers she received. She doesn’t like flowers, because the very idea of them is absurd to her. To her way of thinking, cutting something living so it dies in a vase instead of connected to the plant was unreasonable. But the guy who’d sent these had been thoughtful enough to send her some potted plants that were flowering, so she thought he might have potential. At least he’s thinking differently. Her voice is animated and excited as she talks about the date she has with him this coming weekend. It’s been a while. And he’s our age. Not 10 years older or younger with misguided fantasies about variable age-difference sex.

We’ve never been overly close, she and I, but we used to play in bars together and have known all the same people for forever and ever… you know, that sort of thing. There’s a mutual respect for each other’s trade and skill. Understanding what it’s like to pour yourself into a project or idea just because you love it is a good enough reason to begin in the first place. But I wouldn’t say we’re close despite these parallel lines. I don’t rush her on the phone as I know exactly what she’s doing.

A few weeks prior to this I had interviewed one of my teenage musical heroes. I’ve never made a habit of listening to mainstream music, so when it was over, I knew only a handful of people would even understand who the hell I was talking about. I called a few people who would get it, but no one picked up their phone. No one was available or in the mood to talk. I was forced to keep this one close to the vest. There were others I could tell, but it wouldn’t be the same. I’d have to spend ten minutes explaining who this artist was and the exact nature of his celebrity, and why any of it mattered to me. In the end, I left it alone. It would be days before I could explain to anyone the euphoria I felt from the exchange.

Now she’s telling me about her roommate who’s getting married soon. Typical girl, she says, moving herself in one item at a time. In the next few minutes she covers her car and its required maintenance. then the impending marriage, her own failed one, the last movie she’d seen in its entirety without falling asleep, and she wonders will she keep the place she’s in and find another roomie or move?

She’s driving home to an empty house where she’ll face 5,000 emails that need answering, including mine, among the clutter. And when she hangs up with me, it’ll be too late to talk to anyone else about everything that’s on her mind. The good people on her phone are asleep, or should be, and are preparing for another day of the same thing they did today.

I listen to her intently and ask some polite questions to let her know I’m still there, interested and listening. Soon she says she needs to go. I’m pulling into my neighborhood and she’s still 40 minutes away from her own home. It was great catching up she says, but she’s got to go. I said goodbye, she replied in kind, and I get it. Really.

That’s the last part of the day before being able to shut it all down. It’d be great to recount the day in some part to somebody. The only sound at this time of night is tires whirring on the lonely asphalt. You can hear the sound of tobacco burning in the cigarette between your lips. The radio stays off because there’s nothing on you want to hear and you’re sick of each and every CD presently residing in the car. Watching the headlights cut through the night, you wish there was someone you could shoot the breeze with, someone who understands what it is you do; someone who’ll be excited or sympathetic, even for just a little while.

The phone sits on the empty passenger seat. You feel for another cigarette, but even this isn’t enough to keep you occupied until you’re safe at home.

Wasted Day
• Rick LaClaire

“And the hangovers hurt more than they used to…” — Hank Williams, Jr.

I have a musician friend with a theory about life expectancy. He claims that each of us is born with a preprogrammed number of breaths and heartbeats; that each of us, regardless of how we treat our bodies, is doomed to wear out anyway at a certain specified point.

G. Gordon Liddy once said that the maximum mileage of the human machine is 125 years. If you didn’t smoke, drink, have any stress, mainline meth or get hit by a truck, your body would wear out anyway at one-two-five. I’ve certainly never known anyone to live that long, but I also don’t know anyone who’s never been stressed (maybe it’s because they know me?).

The point is, we don’t live forever. Time is precious, and time lost is exactly that — lost — because we have only so many breaths and so many years. But that’s only if you believe my bass player or a convicted Watergate burglar…

I have certainly noticed one constant: the older I get, the faster time passes. That’s handy in a way, like when you’re waiting for a flight connection or having a root canal. A couple of hours of unpleasantness were hell when I was 21. At pushin’-60 it’s only Purgatory … Or maybe Limbo. Which place has the calypso Muzak?

So you may suppose a mere annoyance like a hangover, at my age, would be a walk in the park. Its only cure is time, and it passes so quickly at age 57 that — pffft — just like that, it’s over. Not so. Why? Because hangovers, at my age, are actually worse than they were when I was 21. And I also believe that when one has a hangover, time is suspended. It sure felt that way a few weeks ago.

I don’t have a lot of free time. Now I know I have friends who will say, “LaClaire, if you’re so busy how come you have time to write these stupid articles?” And I have an answer for that. Writing stupid articles, like having a hangover, is time suspended. It may not take that long, but it sure seems like it does.

Anyway, I have only a certain amount of hours each week to devote to primping and maintaining this humble pile of rocks I call home. This usually takes place on weekends, Saturday mornings being the prime time for outdoor chores like mowing, pruning, mending fence and snaking drain vents. To avoid the energy-sucking heat of the day, I like to be in the yard by 8 a.m. and in the pool by noon. To lose this window is like losing a week’s worth of chores, so I like to arise chipper, rested, and alert. That having been said, it seldom happens. That’s because Friday night is when my wife and I hit the town.

Recently, on one particular Friday, we didn’t just “hit” the town, we kicked its butt. As usual, we began with a cocktail at home and then walked to a local restaurant for dinner. Service was slow, so we managed to down a few glasses of wine in waiting. Then a beer with dinner, an aperitif in the bar, and the next thing you know we’re at the Oasis and I’m slammin’ Cuervo. Of course we run into neighbors there, and they must buy us a round, and what began as one shot for the road turns into three sheets to the wind.

There are as many cures for a hangover as there are ways to get one. One cure that always comes to mind is what I call “The Otis.” You may remember Otis Campbell, Mayberry’s loveable town drunk on “The Andy Griffith Show.” I’m sure you’ve seen the scene: Otis awakes in his personalized jail cell, hungover as all get-out, and Andy enters with the makings of an instant cure. Somehow this mixture of tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and a raw egg performs a miracle I’ve never experienced. An obviously nauseated Otis guzzles this potion, and at the cue of a tympanic boom, he is suddenly well. Oh, how I wish that was factual. Oh, how I wish there were some elixir capable of curing this most miserable state of self-infliction.

Some say “hair of the dog.” I’ve never been able to do that. I can’t even look at a bottle of liquor, much less smell or taste it when I have a hangover. I’ve been told that means I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve also been told it means I’m a wuss.

Others have said you should eat a big breakfast. Nothing light and fruity, but something substantial like eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits with gravy, all washed down with hot coffee or a cold Coke. In my experience, that can help, but there’s no guarantee. Sometimes it only serves as fuel for the malady. Especially if you’re like me, one of the lucky people whose hangovers are primarily in the gastric region.

Many years ago there was an over-the-counter hangover cure called “Quick Over.” Do you remember this? It was a blister pack containing a handful of large pills to be taken all at once. A couple were aspirin and a couple were antacid, combined to supposedly alleviate both the cranial and gastric symptoms of a hangover. I tried this once before a fishing trip. Unfortunately, a couple of other pills were heavy doses of caffeine, for lethargy. Did it work? It made me sick as a dog, worse than if I had taken nothing. If it had worked, it would still be on the market, wouldn’t it? And I’d own stock…

We all know that a hangover will eventually end. The span of that time can vary widely though, depending on what caused your hangover.

Doctors say there are two causes. One is an element known as a congener. Congeners are what make gin taste like gin and sour mash taste so sour. They’re adulterants, mostly. Flavorings. Tannins for color. The Coke in your rum and Coke. So, an easy way to avoid hangovers would be to drink your booze straight, right? Wrong. The other cause is the alcohol itself. Let’s face it, if you drink too much you will be sick. No two ways about it.

Let’s examine the building blocks of my last disabling hangover. A drink at home… well, maybe two drinks. Okay, three bourbon and sodas before deciding on a restaurant. Like I said, service was slow there, so we had some wine. So three shots of bourbon, two merlots, then a Guinness with my grouper sammitch. Then a Drambuie at the rail. So already we’ve had whisky, wine, beer, and brandy. With a nice greasy chunk of fried fish floating around in it. Then the clincher: Cuervo Gold. Three shots. Whisky, wine, beer, brandy, and cactus juice — that’s a certified puker! But I didn’t. Nope. If I had, I probably would have felt better. Instead, I had the mother of all hangovers. I slept through my Saturday morning choretime. Actually, “slept” isn’t the right word. I groaned through my chore time.

Nothing makes you feel stupider than a hangover. It’s not like a regular disease — you don’t “catch” it from somebody. You don’t inherit hangovers through your genes. You bring them on yourself, through a process known as gluttony. And it is a wasteful process. In that case, I wasted an entire Saturday. My most productive hours, hours set aside to enhance the curb appeal of this humble home, my greatest investment, destroyed by wasteful selfish gluttony. Time lost.

Moonrise Serenade (in Gmaj7)

• By Dan Reiter •

Don’t be fooled, friend,
Life undoes itself in every age,
The world cracks and cracks,
Sprouts up again through fissures,
Nothing, everything is new.
Don’t be fooled,
Don’t doubt yourself,
These days are better than before,
These end of summer days,
Swept with wind,
Cusped with gold,
These days of indigo
And storm swells,
Cocoa Beach days,
Days of light,
Days of sadness.

As one empire dies,
And dusts up the skies,
The newborn rose
Pushes up through our toes.

Truth is where it always was,
In the simplest of moments,
In lightning over the islands,
Shivering, pink electric strings,
In gauze-gray clouds,
Smooth as suede,
Smooth as dolphin skin,
In the salt breath of the east,
Or the blue hush of the sea,
In the fading scent of plumeria…
Life undoes itself, always,
Time tangles and untangles,
Twists back onto itself.
(A labyrinth, a haze,
A mangrove maze.)

She wanted you to chart her passage,
To navigate in words her way home:

Align the channel with the boathouse,
Veer right at the sandy outcropping,
Skirt the egret isle,
And take the third tunnel,
(Your oar at your eyes
To protect from spiders)
It will open onto a shallow bay.
Cross these redfish flats,
(Tails like rubber,
slicing stillwater vees)
Turn toward the church steeple…

But such directions are useless,
The maze is always changing,
The mangroves regenerating,
New paths form,
Old ones vanish;
She is lost,
Lost on water like glass,
Water still as ice,
Pink, algae-frozen,
Pooled in heat.

Don’t be fooled, friend,
Claim your time here…
Should thunder roll down on you
And threaten at the second point,
Keep paddling,
Strain through the channel,
Up the fallopian waterway,
Seek out this knowledge:
That life is more than suffering,
More than dreams,
As the river sky opens,
And the low moon
Paints itself
In carnation pink
On the horizon.

What did it mean when she said
“In the lee of life”?

The dolphins have been running lately,
Which might explain it,
All this confusion,
All this paddling against the wind…

She waits for you now,
Waits on the dock,
The moon austere, tangible,
Like a golden coin.

“The flowers smell beautiful tonight.
All is right in the world.”

What does it mean when she says,
“To be present is to be observant”?

These mantras confound you:
“I am peace, I am truth, I am one.”
Are they aimed to convince, to reassure,
Or to transform,
To make it so?

Don’t be fooled, friend,
Remember only what is true,
Forget the rest…
That summer gives way to fall,
Like white hairs
Hiding in temples,
That time sweeps at the days,
As wind leveling the sand.
Remember these things,
The simplest, the best,
That life happens only in the now,
That to be human is a sort of artistry,
And that the waves
Are always better
Than they look
From the crossover.

Political Colic

• By David Sherman • 

Twenty-seven years, two wives, and three kids ago (it’s how I tell time), my first wife, Joie, and I owned two horses: Rigel, a big, bay quarter Morgan mix gelding, and Stardust, a beautiful strawberry roan Appaloosa mare. The divorce left my ex with custody of both, because in Florida the wife almost always gets the kids. Sadly, in this case, the cost of maintaining both horses was more than she could handle, but rather than selling either horse, Joie elected to lease Stardust to a family near Orlando. They would handle the costs of room and board, plus any vet bills, and their daughter would have a horse of her own. The hope was that when Joie’s finances improved she could take Stardust back and all would live happily ever after.

Stardust was delivered along with all of her tack and eight bales of hay. It was stressed that she was “a bit colicky” and needed a good amount of hay in her daily diet, and her new family agreed to maintain this. Despite the scrawny appearance of the other horses in their small barn and the close-cropped nature of their pasture, Joie believed them. Any parent has dealt with a colicky baby knows that there’s lots of crying and nobody sleeps. Though it’s admittedly terrifying for first-time parents, the condition is easily remedied. With a horse, the condition can be much more severe. Too much sand, which a horse might ingest grazing on too-short grass, can cause an obstruction in the bowels. With no fiber to sweep it through, the obstruction will eventually cause the intestines and bowel to rupture, killing the animal…  slowly and painfully.

Stardust’s new family remembered the warnings about her diet until Joie’s car was out of sight. Their word on the matter, given verbally and in writing on the lease agreement, lasted as long the free eight bales of hay. Then she was just turned out with the rest of their near knackered boarders to fend for herself amid the close-chewed pasture and all that sand. The end was inevitable. I will always remember the night Joie turned up at my job to say, “I have the final divorce papers for you to sign, and Stardust is dead.” As in most cases, the love and compassion so prevalent in the beginning of the relationship were in short supply at its end.

I tell you all of this because, as usual, I see parallels between this tale and our own current political climate. In the beginning, a vast untamed nation lay before us, a virgin field waiting for the plow and seed of boundless future generations. We the People held the reins, and the government was both the horse and plow with which our dreams would be tilled. Somewhere along the way we allowed the reins to be passed to political parties, just as Washington himself had forewarned, and We the People became We the Horses, existing on whatever diet our new family deigned to give us. But the nation was vast and each year saw more fields planted, so we went along with it. There was hay.

Today the plow is made in China, and We the Horses are no longer needed to pull it; workers in India or East Timor will do that for a fourth of the cost. Today we languish, our strength forgotten and our potential largely unfulfilled, shut away in ever-shrinking stalls of political impotence. Our new families only take us out for a ride during election years, and even then, the reins are held too tightly by uncaring hands, and the bit is cruel.

There is no more hay, as we are fed a regular diet of sand — purposeful misinformation, with no fiber of truth to push it through — and the more aware among us can feel our insides starting to knot up. Illegal immigration, the need for corporate tax breaks, the wealthy are overburdened, Social Security is broke, Bernanke and the Fed are the worst ever for driving inflation, global warming is a myth, creationism is as valid a theory as evolution — these are all lies, all just so much sand, and they are killing us.

Illegal immigration is at its lowest levels in over thirty years. Corporate tax rates are already lower than they have been since World War II. The tax rates on the wealthiest Americans are the lowest they have ever been since the 1920s. Social Security is solvent through 2038.  Bernanke has the lowest inflation rates under his watch of any Federal Reserve Chairman over the last fifty years. The only scientists who disagree with global warming are paid to do so by those who profit from continuing its root causes. The earth is not 6000 years old, and Sunday school and science class are not interchangeable. These points are all the truth, the hay that could clear out our systems and at least allow us to debate matters political based on fact rather than outright lies.

No one knows how long Stardust lay in agony in her stall until someone found her. It could have been as long as four hours. It was another two hours after that before the vet arrived to announce there was nothing he could do but “put her down.” That’s up to six hours with her intestines so knotted up inside that they burst within her, her own digestive fluids then digesting her, while the rank filth of her bowels exploded within her body made everything around them go septic and rot.

How much longer will We the People tolerate such abuse before we remember that it is we who are supposed to hold the reins? How long before we insist that our facts cannot be dismissed by them as opinions and their opinions will not be accepted by us as facts? How long before we at least start demanding the hay?

O, Pioneers! Part IV: Sodbusters

• By Rick LaClaire • 

It is August as I write this… August in one of the driest Florida summers I can recall. You’ve often heard me warn of dry Florida summers — heat, fire, misery… But that’s on the mainland. Beachside’s a different story.

Dry summers mean that every day is a beach day. The surf warms and stays that way (unless we get an upwelling — we’ll talk about that some other time). So what if your lawn is brown? Lawns don’t belong beachside; too much water, too many chemicals. When you get sick of looking at the hell-on-earth your yard has become, just go jump in the ocean. And be thankful you’re not mowing.

When I began this serial I posed a question: What would have happened if the original Florida settlers had arrived during a dry summer? I remember experiencing my first Buffalo winter and telling my wife, “I think the people who settled this place came on the Fourth of July.” Our original Florida Crackers must have come at Christmas. A dry summer would have certainly been a deterrent, as the earliest settlers were primarily mainlanders. It was considered stupid to build on the beach. Thank God we are now enlightened. I think…

And so it was with the great LaClaire emigration of ’87. We became mainlanders. The house is still there, in Eau Gallie. I have no fondness for the place, but I drive by it occasionally. The memories it kindles are forlorn — homesick, broke, heat-stricken… And all in a dry summer. Add to that the pressure of starting a business, and it was some of the worst stress I’ve ever experienced.

But we were pioneers then. We had taken our future into our own hands and would soon find out what we were made of. We’d provisioned and mustered in Buffalo; had our shakedown in the highways and hills of southwestern New York and Pennsylvania; fought hostile commuters on the outskirts of Fort Mom; reconnoitered under the huge sombrero at South of the Border; and had a hoedown in Florence. Now, when I think back, the final leg of our journey was probably the smoothest.

By this point, I had mastered the U-Haul’s retarded stick shift and had become somewhat comfortable in even the thickest of traffic. That was tested again in Jacksonville, but I prevailed. I’d even learned to live with the intermittent radio (skrrrxx, skrrrxx…). I guess it was like living next to a railroad track; after a while you don’t even notice. Driving that beast had become second nature. Then, an obstacle. Not the largest, but the most embarrassing.

It was a mere curb. We’d arrived at our new home and I was attempting to back the U-Haul up to the front door. In all our miles I had never faced the scenario of backing up. All my motions had been in the forward gears. Reverse, I soon learned, was another acquired skill. I tried and failed, stalling again and again, blocking the road and creating ample entertainment for the neighbors. They soon gathered.

“Whatcha tryna do?” a portly man with a mouthful of chicken asked. It was dinnertime. His was in his hand. Not a mere drumstick, but a whole half a chicken. Grease ran between his fingers. I felt like saying something snotty like “going bowling,” but I bit my tongue. I was hungry, sweaty, tired, and suddenly aware of the skrrrxx-ing radio. “I’m stuck on the curb,” I admitted. “It’s been a long day.”

“You sure you wanna cross the lawn with this thing?” He took a huge bite out of his chicken and chewed vividly.

“It’s full of furniture. I wanted to get close to the door.”

“Well, then –” and he pitched the chicken in the yard “– shove over.”

What? Before I could stop him he had displaced me. He was so big I couldn’t resist. Chicken grease on the shifter, grease on the steering wheel… He slapped her into reverse and in a heartbeat we were at the door.

“Uh… Thanks,” I managed.

“Thank me later. We probably just snapped off a half-dozen sprinkler heads.”

Do things ever turn out the way you imagine them beforehand? They never have for me. Our new home in Eau Gallie was no exception. Yes, I had seen the place and a dozen others in my previous trip to lay down a security deposit. It seemed nice then. In fact, it was the nicest I’d been shown. But now that we were actually in the place… I guess I hadn’t looked too closely.

One of the first chores the coonskin settlers had to negotiate was land-clearing. Before you could build a house, corral the livestock, sink a well or plant a seed, you had to carve your place in the wilderness. My land-clearing chores were discovered at first light the next day. When I had seen the place six weeks before, the lawn was trimmed, full, and neat. That was the last time a mower had been pushed over this property. The lawn was now thigh-high. I didn’t need a mower. I needed a reaper. Apparently my neighbors had also noticed. Parked in the center of my lawn were a mower and a can of gas, courtesy of the chicken-eater. I found it rude, but complied. I spent the first four hours of my first morning in our new Florida digs mowing — or should I say reaping.

There were other problems. The carpet was full of sandspurs; you couldn’t walk barefoot in the house. Our two-year-old found that out right away. The bathrooms were moldy. I opened the dishwasher to discover all its parts sitting on a rack within. The toilet ran — who knew for how long? The fridge was skanky, and our AC consisted of two window units: one in the dining area and one in the baby’s bedroom. And there were bugs, lots of them.

There was a shed in the back, full of old plumbing and an ancient trunk. Hoping for treasure, I flipped the lid. I was horrified at the sight of hundreds of huge cockroaches, fairly seething within. I slammed it shut and shuddered all the way to the house. “Don’t ever go in there,” I said to my wife.

Our little wake-up calls were constant. The water tasted terrible. There were fire ants all over the yard. Half the stove didn’t work. And yes, I had broken off a half-dozen sprinkler heads. Compared to the setbacks and disappointments our pioneer forefathers had experienced, our torments were minor, but didn’t seem so then. All contributed to a heaviness, a burden that grew daily and finally manifested itself in deep homesickness. We had left all our friends, good jobs, family, and a comfortable flat in a nice neighborhood for this: a sweltering pile of moldering cinder blocks in a strange and seemingly hostile land.

This was our “soddie,” this Eau Gallie bungalow. It was the first spindly root of our establishment here. The pioneers of the Great Plains built soddies. Generations later, they became a source of pride, these holes-out-of-the-ground. And that’s exactly what they were: dwellings comprised of the land itself. They represented a make-do spirit in a land of no lumber. Though meant to be temporary, some Midwestern farm families preserved them. They proved to be durable, when built right. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter. And they remind you where you came from.

No, I have no fond memories of our first house here. It was gloomy as a cave and rank as the artesian water that spewed from the sprinklers I eventually fixed. Probably just like a soddie… The place seemed cursed to me. Drug dealers had occupied it before us. There had been a big bust. Children were involved. It was a “marked” house — doomed. Consequently, the neighbors were nosy. We felt watched all the time. There wasn’t a chore I could do without the chicken-eater butting in. Mow the lawn? Yer doin’ it wrong. Here, lemme show ya. Change the oil in the Buick? Ya don’t want thirty-weight, ya want twenny. The clincher came when his wife accused my wife of wearing the same outfit two days in a row.

We lived there for nine months. In the space of a marriage, a good one anyway, that’s not a long time. But whenever I drive by, I still get this “clunk” in my chest. The heaviness comes back. After our two-vehicle wagon train emigration I thought we would be through with our adventure. Twenty-four years later, it hasn’t ended yet.

While We’re Gone
By M. Alberto Rivera

(Note left on kitchen counter next to three $50 bills)

Lurlene,

I can’t begin to thank you enough for watching the place while we go visit my mother. Right now the schedule has us returning in 11 days, but if Roy can stage an accident where nothing important gets broken or he might can get some work, we might stay an extra week or two.

I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble at all with the pets, the house or anything at all, but I left some notes, just in case something might come up. If the porch light doesn’t turn on, just wiggle it a little. If that doesn’t work, there’s replacement bulbs in the pantry next to the cases of out-of-date cough syrup.

The dogs should have plenty of food, but if something happens and you run out, we left some money on the counter. But don’t handle them bills before the 9th on account of the ink needs to dry. Also, you might want to go to the nearsighted cashier at the Piggly Wiggly if you decide to use ‘em. She works early in the morning. (She’s the one that smells of Miller High Life and orange blossoms.) You can distract her by gossiping about the headlines of the World Weekly News. Once she didn’t even ring up a tube of toothpaste ‘cuz she was goin’ on about how Brad Pitt was really an alien sent to mate with Angeline Jolie.

The big dogs get a cup of food at 8:00 am, 12:00 noon and 6:00 pm. The little dogs get a half a cup each at 9:30, 1:00 and 7:45. If they seem mopey, you might have to sing to them, otherwise they won’t eat. They like Willie Nelson the best. If the big dogs try to get to their food, you can take the green broom handle and smack them on the snout with it. Don’t mind Lobo. He’s more bark than bite. Just a 173-lb. baby doll. A lot of that stuff you hear about wolf-dog breeds is made up by the liberal media.

The snake gets a live rat once a week. I think there are still some in the crisper drawer. The cold makes them sleepy and easier to handle. I made the mistake of leaving one rat in the freezer for a few days and it ate through all my frozen spinach. I opened the freezer and saw his little pink eyes and I swear he stood on his back legs and waved to me. I never looked at him the same after that. He was sort of funny, so I kept him for a while. He used to make me laugh and I carried him on my shoulder. It was like the little guy knew what I was thinking. I think there’s a video of him being fed to Mr. Huggy Snake on top of the TV if you want to watch it.

There’s a room that can only be accessed through the closet of the master bedroom. DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. It has alarms and if you don’t give it the proper access code in 1 minute, it will lock the room from the inside. Also, you don’t want your fingerprints anywhere near the room so you can always claim plausible deniability.

If you hear any weird sounds coming from near the compost heap, take a stick with you and maybe 1-3 of the bigger dogs. There’s a raccoon trap that sometimes gets one, and if the raccoon is still alive, it’ll make a racket. You can set it free or club it. I’ll leave that up to you. But you can’t leave them making a fuss, because sooner or later one of them hippie liberals living near here will call the animal cops and we don’t want another Ruby Ridge on our hands. Not like that anyhow.

You’re welcome to watch the movies we have and make use of our home entertainment center. We have a lot of new movies and some that haven’t been released yet because Roy has a co-worker that gets them from the interweb. Some are dubbed in Korean and/or Farsi, but don’t let that stop you from enjoying the sequel to “Thor II: Thor’s Hammer Time.”

The hot tub hasn’t been used in a while, not since Roy’s cousin tried out for the “All-American Skanks” reality show contest. Her audition tape did end up in the bonus features of the Season 1 DVD, but she was mad on account of she didn’t get paid and the producer’s assistant never did call her like he said he would. Honestly, I’d use a lot of bleach and chlorine before getting back in there, but you’re more than welcome to use it.

I don’t want you to get freaked out in case you get curious and start walking around the house, but the middle room is a little odd. It started out as a home office, but when my Uncle Paul passed away we ended up with a lot of his stuff and we haven’t decided what to do with it exactly. Paul was a self taught taxidermist and he used to practice on everything dead he ever found or killed. His wife, my Aunt Beulah, thought it would be fun to dress up all the stuffed squirrels in clothes she made like if they were at a wedding party. I think it’s a Unitarian service, but Paul swore it was Baptist as there was a tiny bottle of whiskey out of sight behind the podium. Aunt Beulah didn’t always take her meds. We’ve been trying to donate this piece to a museum or something, but you’d be surprised at how many people aren’t in a rush to add “Dead Squirrel Wedding” to their permanent collection.

Now there are some buzzers, alarms and the slight sound of running water you might think you’re hearing, but it’s nothing to worry about. The garage is off limits for more reasons than that. We REALLY don’t know anything about that couple that moved in down the street and went missing all of a sudden. And nothing in the garage says otherwise. We re-did the floor because the concrete naturally wore out from the wear and tear of parking a car on it and setting cardboard boxes on it repeatedly.

Thanks again. It’s nice to know we can get away for a few days and not worry about nothing.

As-Salaam Alaikum
By David Sherman

My time of late has been grossly over-monopolized by the silliest of things: a computer game on Facebook. I know it’s a ridiculous waste of time for a man of 50, but I don’t give you grief about golf, so there. For me, one of the fascinating aspects of the game are the Facebook “Friends” I interact with during the course of play. You are encouraged at every turn to add “Friends;” indeed you cannot go far without scads of them. One thing led to another and now I have “Friends” playing this game with me from all around the world. (The game has over 5 million players!)

Reading the posted messages of these diverse people is as riveting for me as the actual game itself. I’ve commented on several, and thus now interact regularly with other players in Scotland, Turkey, Thailand, Canada, and of course all around the U.S. The game is primarily one of industrial development and military conquest, and players are constantly requesting various items from one another. It amused my liberal conspiracy-tinged mind to think of someone in a post-Patriot Act office somewhere whose computer is suddenly deluged with messages from people with names like Ahmed and Mohammed that read “I need torpedoes. Can you send me one?” or “I need to upgrade my bombers!”

This is how I was spending my idle hours when the recent turmoil erupted in Egypt. One of my “Friends” was a man from Cairo named, you guessed it, Mohammed. I inquired after his safety and that of his family and asked him for his views on it all. A series of messages followed, during which virtual Facebook “Friends” became actual friends. Among other items of note, Mohammed once said of Israel, “I do not hate Israel. I do not like them because they kill Palestinians, but I do not hate them. I am neutral.” It struck me that for this alone Anwar Sadat is smiling somewhere. Mohammed also told me that “evil” men who grew rich doing illegal and “evil” things are spreading lies to try to return to power. You all know my liberal mindset, so you should not be surprised that I saw parallels here.

Then, without explanation, Mohammed went silent. His corner of the game was obviously untended. Concerned messages went unanswered, and I began to fear the worst. After two weeks of anguish on my part, Mohammed finally contacted me. He was fine. His father, Mahrous, was not. No bullets, no military police, no rioting accident had befallen him. Instead it was cancer, the spectre that has no regard for political niceties, the reaper’s blade that cuts ever-widening swaths through both the fair and the foul of our world. They gave Mahrous two weeks. Mohammed tried to hide from his grief in this silly game, but it was no help. Mostly, as a good son, he spent his time at his father’s bedside. He asked me to pray for his father.

Many of you know that I am not Christian, but I do pray. Mohammed and I had never touched on topics of faith, but considering his name and his Egyptian heritage, I assume he is Muslim, just as I imagine he assumed I was Christian. It did not matter. He asked me to pray for his father, and so I did. I prayed for Mohammed and his own family as well, for a lessening of their grief. In this I found a greater lesson than any of the trivial, politically motivated parallels that had occupied my thoughts before. This was my newfound friend from the other side of the world, but suddenly the man who had lost his own father years ago found deeper commonality with the man who was facing that loss now. A man named David and a man named Mohammed.

When I first conceived this article, I had thought to ask you all to put aside whatever preconceived notions or fears you may have about Arab peoples, Muslim peoples, and to pray for the father of a man named Mohammed. I just learned that Mohammed’s father went ahead on Friday, in what for Muslims the holy month of Ramadan. I will still ask you for those prayers, but now I would ask that you pray for the safe journey of Mahrous, a father gone ahead. I would ask also that you pray for the son and the family left behind. I would also ask that when you see the chaos in the Arab world playing out on your nightly news, you see not people who are inherently different from you — Arabs, Muslims. See people. See fathers and sons. See mothers and daughters. Maybe it will mean more. And perhaps if it comes to mean more to us, we can make it mean more than profit and military considerations to our leaders. Maybe we can help assure that our nation chooses more wisely which regimes to support in the future.

For Mohammed, my friend, who has a keen mind, a good heart, and a kind Soul. As-Salaam Alaikum. (Peace be upon you.)

Mosquitoes love my feet. There, I said it. I attract biting insects. It was even this way when I was a kid. I complained to my mother once, and she said it was because I was so sweet. My dad said maybe it was because I smelled like something rotten.

For some reason I attract a lot of things, some less onerous than others. For example, babies like me. But then, so do winos and panhandlers. Cats like me. Someone told me cats are good judges of character, and they can tell right off if you’re a decent person. Someone else said maybe it’s because I smell like fish. Regardless, I’m allergic to cats. I think they like me because they like to watch my eyes get all red, itchy and swollen.

There are things that don’t like me, too: Mexican food, hot chicken wings, draft beer… How do I know this? Because I keep trying to make them love me (I love them) and they treat me worse every time I imbibe. Truckers don’t like me either. This I discovered while piloting the only truck I’d ever driven on our great emigration south in May, 1987.

It was our first full day on the trail. We’d mustered, had our shakedown, and were now actually heading south — well, more like southeast, because our next stop would be Fairfax, Virginia, also known as “Fort Mom.” Our entry into Pennsylvania was Route 15, which in those days was a mere two lanes until you were in the heart of the state at Williamsport. Truckers didn’t treat it that way, though. To them, it was a major route. he road was wall-to-wall semis. They had no patience for an old, underpowered, undergeared U-Haul driven by a white-knuckled, inexperienced wannabe trucker tormented by a faulty radio (skrryyxxxx). These hurtling behemoths roared past me one after another, honking and blinking their brights, reminding me constantly that I was out of my element.

Look at a road map of Pennsylvania. Why are the roads so squiggly? Nothing is straight, and south of Williamsport they all seem to slant in the same direction. Then take a look at a topographical map. Whoa! That’s why! Ol’ Pensy is one rugged state. In fact, it looks like a rug from the air. A very wrinkled rug.

There are beautiful river gorges, the West Branch of the Susquehanna and the Juniata come to mind, and everything’s covered with trees. It also means driving a standard shift on hills — not my greatest talent — and my trucking buddies never let me forget it. However, by the end of that day, as we crossed the Potomac into Virginia, I had finally mastered the technique. In fact, I learned more about driving that day, shoulder-to-shoulder with the finest drivers on the planet (truckers), than I had in the past fifteen years. Like the clerk at the U-Haul repository in Buffalo said: “Everybody learns on these things.” Then, right when you think you know it all, you find yourself in Fairfax County, Virginia, during rush hour.

D.C. has the worst traffic in the world. Whether you’re in Fairfax, Arlington, Alexandria, or Vienna, yep, you’re in D.C. Traffic is so bad it spreads like a disease across northern Virginia. If you’re anywhere within thirty miles of the District of Columbia, you are infected. And on this warm evening in May, it was all under construction.

Everything down to one lane, everything dirt, stops and goes over the nastiest of humps… Supposedly this was Route 50, the main trail to Fort Mom. Of course the pioneers had stretches like this — swamps, creeks, broken ground. In a way, they probably had it better in those situations. For one thing, their vehicles were pulled rather than pushed. I think that’s a more efficient way to ford a snag. My wheels spun, my gears slipped, but I did not stall. I wouldn’t have dared. The coonskin types faced hostile natives. This was worse. These were government employees freshly released from work. Tens of thousands of them. If I had stumbled, I would have been trampled. Finally, Fort Mom.

We had a mini family reunion that night; my mother, my sister’s family and mine. Alcohol flowed freely, as it always seems to do, and for some reason (I can’t remember what) I had to practically unload and re-pack the U-Haul. It was a search for something, a toy or teddy bear, and I remember being extremely annoyed. I was also extremely apprehensive. This was the end of our family ties, the southern limit of our blood. From here, we would truly be on our own.

On our first trek South in ’79, I-95 was still a dream. Segments were finished, but there were long breaks of two-lane dirt construction. It was neither reliable nor complete as a North-South route. On many stretches we were the only subscribers. Not so in 1987. Between Washington and Richmond we encountered near-deadly congestion, not with our four-wheeled brethren, but that of the eighteen-wheeled type. I was like a mite among elephants — it could only have been more menacing for my poor wife and child in the Buick. It was white knuckles all the way. Then, an accident. Somewhere… For hours we sat stalled in the Virginia heat as our gas burned away and my daughter filled her pants. Glad that was in the Buick.

In oxen and Conestoga days the going was so slow the trailmasters had to factor in the seasons. This meant setting up a timetable which coincided with places. In other words, you didn’t want to be doing the Rockies in winter (the Donner Party is not just a reindeer’s birthday). One of the most important milestones on that schedule was a place called “Chimney Rock.” No, not the one in North Carolina, but the one at the butt-end of Nebraska. And if you weren’t there by the Fourth of July you would not cross the Rockies before winter.

What a sight this must have been for the old coonskinners. After endless weeks of trudging the vast flat plains, finally, terrain. The Indians had a more colorful name for this landmark but my mother’s probably going to read this, so I’ll let it drop. It is impressive, however — erect like an obelisk and visible for miles. On our route there was a similar location: that big sombrero at “South of the Border” on the North Carolina/South Carolina line. I have a colorful name for that place also: “Tacky Eyesore.” But you shore can’t miss it, and that’s where we decided to reconnoiter our own wagon train after leaving Fairfax.

It was an odd parley, this huge dilapidated sombrero. I guess it was a snack bar of some kind. Our engines echoed beneath the brim. The place was so big and dreary I couldn’t tell if it was open. “Pedro” had teased us for scores of miles: fireworks, food, gas, amusements, rooms… Why was this place so run-down? The sun was goldening and our daughter fidgety. Our decision was “Florence.” That’s where we’d make camp: Florence, South Carolina.

The ideal campground in the pioneer days had several requirements: level ground, peripheral visibility (to detect approaching hostiles, be they white or red), water, fuel, and ample room to circle the wagons and conduct a proper hoedown. A hoedown, you ask? Come on, you’ve seen “Wagon Train,” that endless ’50s western drama that chronicled the endless trials and tribulations of pioneers on the endless trail. In short, they never got where they were going because they were constantly waylaid by subplots. Sounds like everyday life, doesn’t it? And like anybody’s everyday life, we all need a cocktail hour. What better place than around the communal campfire, surrounded by wagons, fueled by jugs of whiskey and a Juilliard-class fiddler?

Florence, South Carolina is definitely level ground. For peripheral visibility we occupied a room on the second floor of the Days Inn. Water? There was a swimming pool! Fuel? Right at the corner. All we needed was to put the wagons in a circle and find stoke-juice for the hoedown.

The wagons-in-a-circle thing wasn’t going to work, not in this parking lot (and not with only two vehicles), and for a moment even the hoedown whiskey seemed in jeopardy. We couldn’t find a liquor store anywhere. So I drove thirty miles in that crummy truck to finally find a booze drive-through two exits back. Never take liquor for granted in the South.

The Conestogans most likely supped on bacon or rehydrated salt-beef and beans. We had similar fare, tastewise, something I like to call “McReflux.” A swim in the pool, then, in lieu of a fiddler we had television, enhanced by bourbon and motel ice. A hoedown indeed.

Little did I know that it would be a long time before I slept in another motel bed or peeled the wrapper from another greasy McReflux. The real adventure was just beginning.

The Big Heist
By David Sherman

It was a brittle, bright Tuesday, not unusual in the middle of January, not unusual in any way, save that this was Audit Day. It happened at the Bank every year. Perhaps the only indications that this was no normal Audit Day were the names of the Auditors themselves.  Credentials presented at the security desk showed them to be Rick Pekoe, Michelle Oolong, and Rand Darjeeling. The head of the team was John Lipton. John had been a member of several previous Auditor teams, though this was his first time heading one. The odd part was that John’s last name had never been “Lipton” before. Many would later surmise that John had changed his name in order to ingratiate himself with his newfound friends. It seemed they had a common theme. They certainly had a common goal.

The Auditors were shown to the offices set aside for them, and apart from a few snickers around the water cooler about the whole “Tea” thing, business returned to normal. Then the CEO of the bank showed up and tried to log onto his computer. The moment his security password was entered his entire terminal shut down, as did every other terminal in the building. Frantic calls to the corporate Tech Division showed that the same thing had happened in every office, every branch, and every home computer affiliated with the Firm! Then came the demands… at which point “ominous” and “weird” were both up-graded to “bizarre” and “stark raving mad”!

“We have seized control of your entire financial system,” said the note delivered by a local courier service. ”We shall not relinquish control of your system until our demands are met. We know you are the largest single bank in the world. We know that with your funds, those of your depositors, and those of your investors locked away and at our control, thousands may suffer,” the note went on to say. ”We do not care!”

The note continued:  “We realize that this may cause businesses to fail, rents to lapse, and mortgages to go into default. We realize that the entire economies of many developing nations rely on this bank, and this may cause their collapse. We further realize that food and medications may not be purchased, and some may even die. To all of this, we repeat: WE DO NOT CARE!” It took every scrap of control the CEO possessed not to smash something. Anything. The note was signed: ”The Tea Party.”

Security rushed to the offices of the Auditors only to find them calmly sitting at their desks. Only the smug little smirks on their faces betrayed the fact they had any hand in the chaos that had gripped the entire building. ”Without us,” John (newly) Lipton calmly told the CEO, “It all disappears! Harm us and it all comes crashing down!” Despite his rage, the CEO recognized the precarious nature of his firm’s situation. He sat down, and after taking a few moments to compose himself, asked about the demands. The demands were without doubt the most mind-numbing twist of the entire affair:

Every account holder in the Bank who had assets in excess of two million dollars would receive a gift of a full million dollars. The money for these gifts would be taken from the accounts of the less wealthy account holders. Also, every corporation with accounts in the Bank would receive a bonus of two million dollars, the funds again to come from the accounts of the less well-to-do. Furthermore, the Bank would amend its bylaws to include said gifts and bonuses every year from that day on.

Beyond these points, on which all the Auditors were in complete agreement, each of the four had their own individual demand as well. Mr. Pekoe wanted Western Union to be forced to change its name to Western You Can All Be Replaced. Ms. Oolong wanted all of those swishy people to stop being so swishy, and to stop calling her husband at all hours and trying to get him to be swishy, too. Mr. Darjeeling wanted somebody, anybody, to make him a doctor, not a pretend doctor, mind you, but a real Doctor, one other doctors would acknowledge as an equal. Saddest of all was Mr. (newly) Lipton, who wanted a lifetime’s supply of spray tan, and a law forbidding that he or any of his descendants ever be picked last for anything or ever be beaten up behind the big slide.

I cannot tell you how this story ends, for as I am writing this, the “Drama at the Big Bank” is still playing out. Rest assured that in the end, in this story, they will all go to prison… for EXTORTION! (There may also be some mental health counseling involved.) What confuses me is why, when the same scenario is played out on an ever grander scale with our nation’s economy, as well as that of the rest of the world, no one is screaming, “EXTORTION!” from the highest rooftop. It is surely nothing less.

What a Rip Off!
By E. Boston

Rip Off: a. rob, cheat, defraud.; b. steal
Synonyms: burglarize, burgle, knock over

Saturday evening July 16 was another gloriously sunny wrap-up to a weekend day here in Cocoa Beach. As there was a bit of swell (considering it is summer, shin- to knee-high constitutes “a bit”), I was out surfing with a friend at 5th Street South here in town. Nothing special — golden, late afternoon sun and fun little curling rides on my 10′ all the way to the sand for an hour or so. It was a picture that was probably painted at all the beaches that early evening from Daytona to Sebastian.

There are things one can try to explain to others, but until you experience it firsthand, you don’t truly get it. Like sex or faith. Understanding something is nothing like experiencing it. There’s a moment when, upon discovering that you’ve been robbed but not yet fully comprehending it, your brain scrambles to process why things are different. Your reality is not as you left it! What was once whole may now be shattered, like your window or door, and what was once yours and secure is GONE! Anyone who’s been robbed, burgled or ripped off is familiar with this moment. You look and look again, almost speechless, muttering, wondering, processing, until finally, realization hits you. You can recognize the “realization” when cursing commences.

The first thing I noticed was the unlocked driver-side door. That set off the alarms in my head and put comprehension and processing into overdrive. I opened the door and my reality underwent an immediate adjustment. My hat and slaps were there, but the other things? GONE! I checked the toolbox in the truck bed, where the key should be. No key, no beat-to-crap backpack with salt-ceased zippers that only served to hold board wax.

I stood there looking walleyed, mouth agape and confused, until my friend stated in words that snapped me to realization: “We’ve been nicked.” I’ll skip over the initial realization/reaction part. Suffice it to say that those of you who know me can imagine the creative outpouring of rage-infused cursing that ensued. But the ballbuster was that they took the key! I couldn’t even drive home! Luckily, some mates were painting an apartment nearby and provided a phone to use.

According to my filed police report, taken were: one Ford electronic truck key, two leather wallets, cash, license, credit cards, my friend’s apartment keys, two pairs of baggies (one Quicksilver, one Billabong, and my friend’s underdrawers), one Blackberry, one iPhone (both in Otterboxes), one pair Spy and one pair Ray Ban sunglasses (mine less than a week old!), and one set of HammerHead darts with blue spinner shafts and white Chicago Cubs flights in a blue, fold-top nylon case. Not a bad haul. Total retail value, plus cash, about a grand. I’d have given $500 to not be robbed and saved the anguish and hassle.

My wife and I had dinner plans at the Fat Snook that evening at 8. Instead, we drove around town chasing the GPS as we traced our stolen phones via my wife’s iPhone. We didn’t catch anyone or find the phones in a dumpster (though I checked many), but we did follow someone from the Lido to Cheaters as they made it rain with our cash. I also filed a police report and rode the roller coaster of anger, outrage, disbelief, and eventually acceptance that the stuff is gone. I took the necessary steps to deal with things and recover. In the end it’s just stuff. On a karmic level, maybe I didn’t need the stuff.

No. You know what? Screw that! There’s no such thing as honor among thieves. Anyone who steals is a worthless turd who needs a good beating. If one is destitute, homeless, hopeless, and must steal, I can forgive stealing my cash. Thieves take it all, and it’s more than just your stuff. They don’t care what hassle, imposition, anxiety or loss they inflict. Robberies happen every second, every day in America and elsewhere worldwide. If prostitution is the oldest profession, theft is the oldest crime. Being robbed is a right of passage in NYC. Here in Cocoa Beach, theft is a scourge that will swell if it goes unchecked. Like cockroaches seeking a comfortable environment, thieves are close to becoming an infestation here.

Part of the processing of being robbed — even if the act wasn’t committed violently or in person — includes feelings of vulnerability and a disheartening loss of faith in the community, which make you wizzed all over again. Yes, wizzed. Ya with me? In the long run, it’s the community that loses. There are no victimless crimes. Crime begets crime and somebody always gets screwed. As more and more citizens become disheartened and lose faith in their community, the more crime will increase. I’m not promoting vigilantism, but any action taken by citizens to confront and/or report thieves will only serve to fortify our community. If I see some fool in my black Quicksilver baggies with the tribal head print and my brand f*@kin’ new Ray Bans talking on my flip-up Blackberry in the black Otterbox and my shooting my darts, I most certainly shall say: “Hello, motherf#@ker!”

In reaction to this unfortunate occurrence we’ve been offered condolences and seen responses from friends. I was made aware of crimebreak@cityofcocoabeach.com and am happy to see reports of arrests, especially of thieves, by our local law enforcement. The officer to whom I reported the robbery treated me professionally. I am also realistic about of the number of crimes, disturbances, and daily occurrences our law enforcement deals with and I applaud them in their efforts to serve and protect.

I don’t hold faith that I will see the return of my stuff. I’ve reported stolen and replaced my necessary IDs and CCs. I bought my friend new shades and he gave me a new wallet. We have replacement phones and are underway with the task of replacing all our contacts. You move on from the stuff. It’s the stuff you don’t move on from that gets you.

I haven’t been surfing since I got ripped off. Someone has a key to my vehicle and knows where I live. I still have feelings of vulnerability, disbelief, anger, and anxiety. Living here in this community and enjoying all it offers is a treasure I relish. To be denied that by criminals is something I will not abide.

So I’ll move on and go on dawn patrol for surf tomorrow and onward, because if I don’t, I’ll truly be ripped off.

Everybody’s heard of Wilbur and Orville Wright, right? You know, the guys who invented the airplane. Some say others invented it, but history books today credit the Wright boys with the first reusable airplane. They were the pioneers of air travel.

Now what if, on that blustery December day in 1903, after strapping himself onto that kite with a motor, Orville Wright suddenly changed his mind? What if, at the last minute, he said, “Hey, Willie (he called his brother “Willie”), let’s bag this flimsy bundle of bedsheets and go back to Ohio and fix bicycles like we’ve always done”?

You know what would have happened. Somebody else would have done it and the Wright brothers would have secured their not-so-lofty place in obscurity just like the rest of us schmucks. And after all that planning, all those trials, all that expense… After suffering all those skeptics… “Hey, Willie, let’s bag this.” What a letdown for all involved.

I’ve let people down in my life. I’ve walked out on jobs, on bands, on friends. Second thoughts are easy to conceive. The night before my own wedding I got drunk in a motel room with my brother. It was probably the booze, but suddenly this freezing bolt of panic hit me and I thought of running. Funny thing: my wife said she had the same experience. No, she wasn’t drunk. She was sitting in a hot bath. But she thought about it. Wouldn’t it have been funny if we’d run into each other at the airport, each holding a one-way ticket to Pago-Pago?

The coldest feet I ever had came in May 1987, when my family and I embarked on our final move to Florida. Like the Wright brothers, we’d spent years planning and suffering skeptics (“Yeah right, LaClaire, you’ll never leave here.”). We’d quit our jobs, cancelled our lease, sold off all that was unnecessary, and crammed everything else in a decrepit U-Haul with no first gear and a faulty radio (“skrrrxx, skrrrxx…”). Our bridges were burning brightly. I’d eaten my first and last Buffalo fajita, and there we were, standing in our empty apartment, about to turn in our keys. Panic.

The first colonists must have felt this way, having lived in the same town, the same country, eating the same cuisine, and enjoying the comfort of generations of family and friends, and then, after severing all those ties, facing the great unknown. What if the Pilgrims had said, “Hey, let’s bag this”? You know what would’ve happened. Instead of the Plymouth Fury, we’d probably be driving the Jamestown Fury. (Ahem…) Anyway, someone else would have gotten the credit. Confucius said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Our first steps were downstairs. To the landlord’s. To turn in our keys. My wife, our baby and I crowded into the tiny alcove and rang their bell. This was hard. This was final. I was scared. The door creaked open.

“Hi, Mrs. — ”

I couldn’t get another word out. She began screaming at me. She was a tiny old lady, 80 years if a day. I didn’t know so small a package could pack such a wallop.

“What’s wrong with you people? You left the side door open all night! We could have been robbed! We could have been murdered! I could have been raped!” We had sold the washer and dryer the day before. Apparently, the buyers had left the door ajar. “Don’t you have any sense of responsibility? I could have woken up dead! I could have been raped!”

I looked at her tiny shriveled presence. In your dreams, lady. I handed over the keys. She kept yelling. “Irresponsible! That’s what you are! You never think of anybody else! I could have been raped! Murdered! Robbed!” My wife and daughter were already gone. I softly closed the door. “Raped! Murdered! Robbed!” I heard her all the way to the truck. In two years of tenancy we’d never exchanged a harsh word. I guess she’d been saving them up. All second thoughts on leaving evaporated. Goodbye, landlord. Goodbye, Buffalo. And good riddance.

The coonskin pioneers would begin their emigration with a muster. That is, they would gather. Ranks and rules having been defined, the initial leg of the journey was known as a shakedown. This was when you found out if your rig was sound. It also tested your commitment. We U-Haul pioneers had our shakedown.

Our first leg involved the Scajaquada Expressway, the New York State Thruway, State Route 400, and a somewhat hilly passage known as Route 16. Our mileage would have been a major feat in coonskin times. Conestogas, at a max, might make 12 miles per day. We’d covered 60 miles in less than an hour and a half. Regardless, our experience was still a shakedown.

I’d discovered this ancient truck was horrible on expressways. It was slow. It crowded the lane. Wind blew it around. And even though I was sitting way up high (so it seemed, compared to a car), the visibility was bad. I got lots of honks.

Hills were a new set of procedures. I spent five minutes trying to get into gear without stalling when traffic was stopped on a grade. This was embarrassing. People were honking, yelling. And that radio: skrrrxx, skrrrxx…

At last we’d reached our first destination: the in-laws’. I climbed down from my cab and banged the old beast on the fender. “Cheated death again,” I muttered and headed straight for the saloon — that is, my Father-In-Law’s built-in bar. My wife and baby had been there for 15 minutes (they drove the family Buick). I was greeted with, “What kept you?”

“Traffic was stalled on Route 16,” I half-lied. “Some jerk in a broke-down truck.”

I didn’t stay long at the bar. I needed to learn how to drive this thing, even if it meant practicing all night. And that’s about what I did. As soon as the dinner dishes were cleared I was back in the cab. For the next two hours I circled the neighborhood, clanging and grinding, in a desperate attempt to decipher the standard shift. I even parked it on a hill and tried to put it in gear. I don’t know why, but that skill kept eluding me. Finally I was satisfied, or at least sick of it, and resigned myself to take what the road may give.

I won’t say our departure the next morning was tearful, but it certainly was somber. At this point in our marriage, my wife and I possessed the first and only grandchild in the entire family. I suddenly felt selfish. Here we were, pursuing some half-baked dream while denying our in-laws the access to their greatest object of affection. There were promises to visit, to keep in touch, handshakes and hugs, and then we were off. It’s best to do these things quickly. It’s less painful. Or so I thought. A heavy sense of guilt fell upon me as the U-Haul lurched into gear. What would the coonskin crowd have done? Mail delivery was sketchy (that hasn’t changed). There was no long-distance telephone service then; no direct flights; not even buses or trains. A separation like this would’ve been final. Then I realized that in those days, the in-laws would have probably come along.

I pondered that scenario. We would have shared the same Conestoga. The women would have slept inside, up off the ground and the men beneath. We’d share every meal together. We’d work together, or try to. We’d have cholera together. And when we finally reached our Promised Valley, we’d probably spend at least a year together under the same roof, if not longer. Hey, I love my in-laws, but…

If there’s one thing to be said for driving an over-stuffed, under-geared antique U-Haul with a radio going skrrrxxx every six seconds, it’s that there’s never a dull moment. My depressed ponderings disappeared a mere five miles later. I was stuck. On a hill.

It wasn’t really a hill; it was a little hump over an intersecting street. But any obstacle is huge when you’ve no low gear. I was like, snagged. Five, then six times I started, only to flub the clutch and stall. A kid yelled from the corner; something about giving me a driving lesson. People honked. I needed to back up. Finally the guy behind gave me some rocking room. The gears engaged, and I was on my way.

There comes a point in every emigration where there’s no turning back. With the Pilgrims, it was the open sea (though one of their ships, the Godspeed, actually did turn back). With the coonskin types, it was the Mississippi. With us U-Haul pioneers it was a mere sign: “Welcome To Pennsylvania.” Now we were definitely on our way; committed, as it were.

Southward ho!

Ah, the days of summer are here. After our very enjoyable two-month spring, the days are longer and hotter. Not “Dog Days” yet — those insufferable August and September days which make our streets a ghost town in mid-afternoon, everyone seeking the relief of shady, air-conditioned homes, bars, and movie theaters — we’re not there yet.

We’re just in the warm-up phase. The smell of charcoal on the grill is appetizing and swimming pools and the ocean are refreshing and not just liquid relief from the oppressive heat and humidity. The NHL Stanley Cup and NBA Championship are decided and their accompanying parades and riots are completed. Interdivisional Major League Baseball is in full swing and though not halfway through the season, the Cubs manage to be eleven games out of first. The saga of the Casey Anthony trial plays out daily on all three network channels. Folks have many varied discussions on that story… Some guys just think, “If she let her hair down and put on a little makeup, she’s hot!” Hey, how many women marry death row inmates? Charles Manson still gets mail from chicks. I can’t explain it, but like one of our good friends says, “You can’t fix stupid.”

I’m reminded of a childhood summer, 1973 I believe. It was a typical Chicago summer; hot steamy days building up to terrific weekly thunderstorms. This predates central air, and like most of our neighbors, the window unit air conditioner stuck out of the window in the dining room, hanging over the gangway or sidewalk beside the house. The units typically were about the size of an MG convertible, meant instant death if per chance it fell on some unfortunate passing below, ran 24/7 from June through August, and were in every house citywide. In our house it cooled the living room, dining room, and our parents’ bedroom. Maintaining the coolness in those rooms was paramount. Children were required to use the back door all summer; it entered the back porch and then the kitchen. Woe to you lest you forget and enter through the front door or leave the kitchen door open, letting the cooled air escape. The only problem was that we had one bathroom, located off the dining room, in the Air-Conditioned Zone. I was 7, and thus made many a heated, sweaty dash into the house to use the facilities.

“Close the door!” “Don’t let the cool air out!” “We need a bathroom in the basement!” These were refrains I heard daily, all summer. I couldn’t distinguish this summer from another but for what was on the TV. As I passed in and out the house numerous times each day, the Watergate hearings were always on the tube. I never stopped to watch, or cared about what they were, but they were like a backdrop for that summer.

I get a similar feeling in regards to the trial currently ongoing. It’s sort of become the TV backdrop for summer 2011. Should I be more concerned or attentive to its process and outcome? It’s a three-year-old story and the trial has sunk to the depths of theater of the absurd, which only the televised American justice system can provide. My participation, even on a mere observational level will not affect the outcome or possible years of appeals to follow.

Meanwhile, Congress is back to work… or are they still on vacation? It’s hard to tell since they do nothing either way. But about a month ago, as I readied for Memorial Day weekend, eagerly awaiting the aroma of grilled meat and the taste of cold beer, I saw a flash, a glimmer of hope, in the television news industry. For a full week or so, I saw concentrated, sober discussion about the federal debt ceiling, the enduring mess of our economic status, the possibility that the United States could default on its debts, and the ensuing catastrophe that would ignite worldwide. I was rapt, almost giddy that real issues dominated coverage not only on the networks, but on CNN, MSNBC, etc.

And then… As if someone decided we were way out of whack with all this intelligent discourse, like a buffoon farting loudly at a debate, it happened: WEINER!

I try not to be a conspiracy theorist, but I swear both political parties keep an ace up their sleeve and when real attention shines brightly on their ineptness and lack of work towards progress. BAM! Weiner Roast! Truly I say, “You can’t write this stuff!” Young Democrat golden boy named Weiner sends package pics on the web. Um, debt ceiling? Financial ruin of the country? Fuggedaboudit! WEINER! WEINER! WEINER!

Each day brought new revelations, more kink, denial, and accusations of hacking and character assassination, until finally, a mere 15 days later, Weiner was a blackened, split-skinned and blistered hot dog on the grill of the news media and our mindset. You couldn’t not see it if you tried. It was like a third grade classroom with a substitute teacher, or the opening riff of Rage Against The Machine’s “Renegades Of Funk,” or French police sirens in a Bourne movie: WEINER! WEINER! WEINER! WEINER!

Alas, he’s disgraced, banished. The Democratic majority is now in danger. A month passed with nothing done on the real issues, time having been spent instead investigating and commenting on the young perv Democrat and whether he should resign, his ethics… blah, blah, blah. And for what? What did he do? Send some horndogs pics of himself and his manhood?

BFD! What he did wouldn’t have gotten him invited to a Ted Kennedy barbecue! Was it that long ago that our president was defiling an intern with body parts and Cohibas, staining her dress, and not paying for the dry cleaning? I’m not saying Weiner’s not a kook, but take a look at Myspace, Craigslist and Facebook; many folks are doing the exact same thing and teenagers are sexting like crazy monkeys. We got duped again by the real criminals; they shifted the attention to some rube caught in the crosshairs with his pants down, or rather on the web. It’s shameful for the news media, our government, and our society that it was a story for more than a week. The efforts, rhetoric, time, money, and career that have been wasted, while the big issues are ignored and worsen daily is shameful.

Light up the grills, everyone! Roast them weenies, grab a cold brew, and have a great summer… before hurricane season ramps up.

By the time you read this it will be July and summer.

I often write about the seasons in Florida. We do have them, contrary to popular belief, and though it might feel like May in January, there’s no way you’re going to confuse July with anything but July. It’s hot, and it’s gonna stay hot probably till November.

If we’re lucky, it rains every day. Yeah, I get sick of the rain too, but it sure beats a dry summer. Those mean only two things: record-breaking temperatures and fire.

I wonder what would have happened if our first Florida settlers had arrived for a “dry summer.” Would they have stayed? The crops they planted wouldn’t grow. There probably weren’t any fire departments; there would be the constant threat of being burned out. I wonder if they’d seen that, in their initial encounter with Florida, if they’d just figured “Hey, this place sucks” and headed back to… Well… Wherever it was they headed here from.

Anyone who leaves somewhere of their own volition has done so for a reason. Usually it’s economic, but it can also be the climate, politics, or even the neighbors. It can be a combination of these things too. Prime examples were America’s early emigrants, the pioneers, as it were. Most left their homes for the promise of free land and a place to make their own life. That’s economics. Some left to escape religious persecution or bigotry. That’s politics. Others left because of famine or crop failure. That’s climate. And probably a few split because a storm flattened their crops, a mob burned their church, and the neighbors played a continuous ear-splitting tape loop of “That’s the Way (I Like It)” by KC and the Sunshine Band. That’s economics, politics, climate, and bad neighbors. Regardless, they became our pioneers, the ones who risked everything to build a better life.

Unless you’re a member of the extinct Ais tribe, or were born in Florida, you too are a pioneer. I like that notion. The common image of the American Pioneer is the coonskin-hatted, rifle-totin’, buckskin-wearing, ox-driving, covered wagon pilot. It’s time to shatter the stereotype. If you went anywhere to escape something and make a better life, in my opinion, you’re a pioneer.

So there. I’m a pioneer. Let’s compare Now with Then and see how I stack up.

First, you gotta be from somewhere else and you gotta have a reason to leave. Okay, I used to live in Buffalo, New York. Do I need to list reasons? Just kidding… Buffalo, to the folks born there, is the only place in the world to be. When I announced to my landlord that I was moving to Florida, her immediate reaction was: “Oh! I’m so sorry! You have to leave Buffalo!” But I was not born there. Those ties were not that hard to cut. My reasons for leaving were two: I was going to start my own business and I was going to do it where there was better fishing. Now that’s not to say the fishing in Western New York was bad, I’d had plenty of fun, but in Florida you could fish year round. So there are the reasons: economics and climate.

Once the decision is made, the pioneer must pack and provision. This involves choosing what to bring that you already have and what to purchase to get you there. The buckskin crowd would gather the Bible, the muskets, a stick of furniture, and maybe a hand mirror and hook up with an outfitter or trail master. Provisions such as bacon, hard tack, and dried beans would be loaded into the U-Haul of its day, the covered wagon, or more succinctly, the Conestoga wagon. Have you ever seen one of these things? I have. They’re pretty hefty, about twenty feet long, and built like a ship. Big iron-rimmed wooden wheels and no suspension nearly guaranteed a bumpy ride—kinda like a U-Haul! And that’s what my family packed for our great migration: a U-Haul, the Conestoga wagon of the 1980s. And like a Conestoga wagon, the U-Haul was barely equipped.

Over the phone I was promised a recent model, automatic shift, A/C, and AM/FM/cassette sound system. I was psyched. I’d never driven a truck before, at least not for 1,500 miles, and the fact that all would be up-to-date was reassuring. They had my deposit a month in advance.

I remember the scene well. They tossed me the keys and I strode into the lot. This beast was 30-years-old. There was paint missing, an oil puddle beneath, and the seat was covered with what looked like chicken wire. “That’s to keep the springs from stickin’ you in the butt,” the trail master — I mean, the clerk — said. No A/C. AM radio. And worst of all, a stick on the floor. “I can’t drive this,” I admitted.

“You can’t drive a standard? What are you, retarded?”

“Uh, yeah — I mean, no! I just, well… Yeah, I’m retarded.”

“You want your money back?”

“Well… They told me automatic, A/C, AM/FM… ”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“I booked it through the main office. Phoenix… ”

“This ain’t Phoenix. It’s Buffalo.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“You want your money back?”

We’d sold almost all our furniture. We had two days left on our lease. Everything was in boxes on the porch. “No,” I sighed. “I have to take it. Can you… I never… ”

“Aw hell,” the guy laughed. “Everybody learns on these things. You’ll get the hang of it!”

Yeah, I got the hang of it. I also learned it had no first gear, but soon I was barreling down the Niagara Extension, anticipating the wife’s reaction. The pioneers used oxen, for the most part, to haul their Conestogas. If things got real bad on the trail, you could eat an ox.

Even if a 1956 GMC oil-bath air filter V8 was edible, I wasn’t about to eat this one. This truck was a turd. Even the AM radio — the only amenity — was a bust. Every six seconds, no matter what channel, it emitted a loud skrrxxx. I jiggled the knobs. Skrrxxx! I banged on the metal dash. Skrrxxx! One of the euphemisms the early pioneers had for their experience was “Seeing the Elephant.” I was riding one.

Have you ever been on the verge of something — a great adventure like going off to college, or marriage, or a new job — and suddenly wanted to rethink it? Maybe even … back out?

I’ve had my share of life-changing precipices — all the above and more — but the “rethink” urge never came on as strong as it did the afternoon we left Buffalo in May, 1987. My last meal in the Queen City on that day was lunch. One thing Buffalo did have was a plethora of great eating establishments. And on this day, our last day, we discovered a brand new one. It was the first time I ever sampled a fajita. Don’t laugh folks, but that fancy taco almost changed the course of my history. The truck was loaded, the last of our furniture had been sold, and we were waiting for the baby to finish her nap before turning in the keys. We sat on the floor of our bare kitchen and my wife said: “Why don’t you go down to the corner and pick up something for lunch?”

Sadness fell upon me as I walked our street to Hertel Avenue. It was a beautiful day, a weekday. I was never home on weekdays. The lawns were green, the trees were lush, and neighbors smiled as I passed. Why would I ever want to leave this place? Shortly I was amid the bustle of Hertel Avenue, with its bars, bistros, and boutiques. I could smell souvlaki, garlic, and sausages mingled with “that old Detroit perfume” (car exhaust), and for the first time in ten years I felt at home in that city. Here was a bar my band used to play in. There’s where I bought my olives every Thursday. Here was my bus stop. There was my newsstand. And there… There… Was a fajita joint. It wasn’t there a week ago. Hmm…

The owner was a kid. Or at least he looked like a kid to me; maybe twenty-five. He had that eager look of a first-time entrepreneur. “What’ll it be?” he greeted.

“What’s good?” I’d never had a fajita before. I didn’t even know how to pronounce it.

“It’s all good,” he urged. “Order the beef.”

I did. As the meat sizzled, I looked around. “This used to be a music store,” I commented.

“And a sausage packer before that,” the kid added. “Got a beautiful clean room in the back. My Dad worked here.”

Peppers and onions hit the griddle. The smell was intoxicating. I wondered if I would ever smell it again. “I bought strings here just a year ago.” There was one of those old glass stand-up coolers stocked with Canadian beer. I wondered if I would ever taste that again. The meat was flipped, the whole shebang was herded into soft shells and wrapped deftly in deli paper.

“Onions too strong, maybe?” the kid asked as I fished a couple of bills from my wallet.

“No… Why?”

“Your eyes… They’re watering.”

My first fajita.

It was delicious.

How could I leave this place?

Cocoa Beach has a Vision Plan for its downtown. But a vocal minority stands in opposition.

It’s summertime, and somewhere near Minutemen Causeway, some stalwart young gentlemen emerge from a yellow Mustang, hats angled sidewise, necklaces glinting in sunlight. They flick their cigarettes to the curb as they unburden their car of beer, footballs, snack bags, beach paraphernalia. One of the gentlemen squares himself up to an abandoned building, unzips, and moans gratefully as he relieves himself upon the stucco wall.

This is downtown Cocoa Beach: a wasteland of asphalt, overhead wires, tattoo parlors, neglected commercial facades, memories. The years have not been kind. Iconic restaurants have locked their doors. Another bank has been boarded up. What’s left for this beachside town? Have we been reduced to this… a urinal for weekenders and Orlando day-trippers?

It’s summertime, and the waves are gone. With nothing else to do, I find myself shambling to City Hall, climbing up to the office of Tony Caravella, Director of Development Services. He invites me to have a seat and presents me with a pamphlet, something he calls a “Vision Plan.”

The Vision Plan — 136 full-color pages — was drawn up by Bernard Zyscovich, an urban planner with intimidating credentials, wire-rimmed glasses and a basso profundo voice. Packed with photographic spreads, soaring descriptions, and design initiatives to add character to Cocoa Beach’s downtown district, the Vision imagines a surfside town adorned with shade trees, shopfronts, wide sidewalks, gardens, permanent art installations, awnings, restaurants, bike paths, retail shops, boutique hotels, and residential apartments.

“In order to thrive as a community,” Caravella says, “we have to become economically competitive. How do you do that? First, you show that you’ve thought about it.”

A few months ago, Bernard Zyscovich hosted a public workshop to flesh out the ideas outlined in the Vision. Citing historical buildings like the Cocoa Beach Casino and the Starlight Motel as possible inspirations for a new architectural code, he stressed the importance of respecting history, and promoted eco-tourism and green initiatives. He described the barrier island as one the world’s greatest natural treasures — a narrow stretch of land dividing two great bodies of water.

On July 7, the city commissioners will vote to pass an ordinance — ordinance 1528 — which would allow the city to re-zone the downtown in accordance with Zyscovich’s Vision Plan. Once passed, the City will begin the long process of redevelopment.

There’s only one problem. Ordinance 1528 will not pass on July 7. Or anytime in the near future.

Look carefully at the language, and you’ll see that 1528 “allows for mixed residential and commercial land uses on the same tract,” within the downtown core area. There’s the rub. In 2003, during condo-mania, the city passed a resolution which banned the commission from increasing “density or intensity” without unanimous approval of all five city commissioners. While mixed-use is not technically an increase in density, it brings up the issue of higher population, and so 1528 has been deemed by the City Attorney as needing a 5-0 vote.

“There are a lot of great things in the plan,” says commissioner Skip Williams, who has promised to vote against any increases in city density. “But they could have built a plan that didn’t break the rules.” Williams is concerned that adding residential units might have permanent effects on downtown, not all of them positive. “Under this plan, there could be 545 more people living downtown, which would mean at least 290 more cars.”

In the past seven years the population of Cocoa Beach has decreased by over 600, so the addition of 545 new residents would not significantly increase the total city population. And Zyscovich’s plan calls for parking structures, accessible via alleways, which would accommodate the additional vehicles.

But does the Vision Plan hinge on mixed use in the downtown district? Many argue it does. Mixed use is a vehicle to “attract people to live and socialize and shop,” according to Zyscovich. “By increasing the downtown’s overall population, we foster social interaction, generate foot traffic, and help create a more memorable image of downtown.”As examples of the success of mixed use, he gives Cocoa Village and Melbourne. Both towns were in a comparable state of degradation in the 1980s, but have since become prosperous, cultural hubs.

Tony Sasso, who was elected city commissioner in 2001 on a “control growth” ticket, and who helped pass popular height restrictions in 2003, hopes the Vision will come to light. He sees it creating a successful and vibrant downtown center while maintaining a small, quaint downtown feel and a sense of community. He backs the idea of mixed use downtown. “More residents downtown will only benefit the area,” Sasso says. “Locals take pride in ownership. They’ll help to regulate the noise, the litter, the crime. Locals decide what kind of community we live in.”

While Sasso supports the plan, he urges caution. He wants the City to outline in more detail the height and setback regulations before this goes to a general ballot. Regarding commissioner Williams’ promise to vote no on 1528, Sasso says, “I wish he would just vote yes. It would make it easier on everybody. But how can we fault an elected leader who keeps his promise?”

Commissioner Kevin Pruett, a longtime resident of Cocoa Beach, hopes residents rally behind the Vision Plan. “If the whole city could paddle the boat in the same direction for one year, we’d make huge progress.” He urges people to educate themselves by reading the Vision Plan, which suggests limiting storefronts to two stories, and setting the third stories back from the road. “Nobody wants 45-foot boxes,” he explains.

What is the cost of waiting until the next election? Redevelopment could bring much-needed jobs and money into the area. “The longer we wait, the harder it will be to turn it around,” says Pruett.

Unless the anti-growth faction suddenly decides to take up the oars, Cocoa Beach’s downtown will remain zoned commercial for now. It could be as long as January before the voters decide on this issue. Unfortunately, most locals will never read Zyscovich’s plan. The people of Cocoa Beach will likely cast their votes based on hearsay and 75 ballot words, one of which is sure to be “density.”

“I read the proposed ballot language,” Williams says, with a hint of irony in his voice. “It sounds like roses and champagne. I’m not sure why people would vote against it.”

While we wait, the ocean draws up steam, another shop shuts its doors, and the Kelly Slater statue glistens in the noonday sun. A few cafés provide peaceful bastions among the asphalt jungle. You can still get a slice of pizza, frozen yogurt, a shaved ice. You can get your hair cut, go to the dentist, buy plumbing supplies. But don’t go downtown on the weekends. And don’t imagine that it is a safe, family-friendly venue at night. Look carefully into the heart of Cocoa Beach, and you will see a squalor, much like the black rot which has been eating away at the Glass Bank for over a decade now, growing on its walls.

Somewhere in the world, the light is waning along some tree-lined street. A family sits in repose beneath a café awning, the adults discussing politics, or art, or metaphysics. They tilt their champagne glasses to the afternoon light. The windows above them are draped with rose bushes, which dance in the sea breeze.

Roses and champagne? Or Natty Light and Marlboro Reds?

Cocoa Beach is torn between two visions. Both are ridiculous. Only one of them is real.

Read the Vision Plan at: www.thebeachsideresident.com/VisionPlan.pdf

Dim Light
By David Sherman

For all of you conservative readers who have cringed, if not outright railed and raged, every time I have sung the praises of our current president, this is the article you have all dared me to write. At least it’s as close as I can get, which is much further than any of you probably ever thought a self-proclaimed, far-left, tree-hugging, hippy wackjob would dare to go.

I recently found myself in a political discussion with a gentleman who is highly placed in conservative politics — and “highly” in this case is a conservative estimate. (Pun intended!) He asked me if I ever felt that “my president” had lied to me. I equivocated, reluctant to air my home team’s dirty laundry in front of the opposing bench, but the gentleman pressed on. Surely there must be some things that Obama promised during the campaign on which he failed to deliver. I had to admit it was a valid point. Sadly, it was a whole fistful of valid points. I even went so far as to list the most disappointing of the lot:

* The codified bigotry of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was to be abolished. It’s still there.

* The elimination of Bush tax cuts for the top 2%. He caved!

* The closing of Guantanamo as a prison site. It’s still there.

* The reestablishment of the Rule of Law, in that accused terrorists would be publicly tried in open court. He caved.

* Holding Wall Street accountable for the nearly averted financial collapse that began with the failing of Lehman Bros. Still waiting.

* Comprehensive, socialized healthcare, built around a single payer, public option. He didn’t really even seem to try. (You’re welcome, Insurance Industry.)

* The reining in of industrial control of Federal watchdog agencies. Check who got the first new oil leases in the Gulf of Mexico, with safety plans that pre-date Deepwater Horizon.

This was just my bullet-point hit parade, but it was enough for my conservative friend to reply with, “Then why do you still support him?” That answer was easy: ”Because even with all that, Barack Obama is still a better alternative than allowing the Republicans back into the White House.” Reasons for that viewpoint abound in every state where the GOP took control in 2010.

GOP-controlled Wisconsin and Ohio have tried their best to destroy union bargaining rights in those states. In Maine, the GOP is actually trying to roll back child labor laws! In most of these Republican-controlled states several laws have been passed to make it very difficult, if not impossible, to have any sort of voter registration drive. Many also go so far as to restrict voters’ accessibility to vote! None of these is the act of a Free Democracy.

In Michigan, the Republicans have pushed through a law which allows the Governor to declare a city fiscally unsound and then appoint one person, an Emergency Financial Manager, to take over that town. That person has unlimited power to void any union contracts entered into by the town’s duly elected officials. He can even sell off property in that town, including property he seizes through eminent domain. This is not an exaggeration. It’s happening right now in a small town called Benton Harbor.

Lastly, in every Republican-controlled state multiple laws have been passed, or are in the works, to restrict a woman’s right to choose. In our own Florida, any woman seeking an abortion must listen to her doctor reading a prepared text citing false medical information specifically geared to dissuade her from her choice. This from the party that just two years ago was screaming that “government has no business coming between a doctor and their patients”? The Republican Party, in flagrant pandering to their most conservative base, will stop at nothing until Roe v. Wade is overturned. The problem is that this will not eliminate abortions in this country; it will merely drive them underground to back-street butchers and fly-by-night after-hours charlatans. Thousands of women will die.

That’s what a Republican-controlled White House in today’s political climate will lead to. With that as my alternative, even a watered down Obama is better than any Republican alternative. Could “my president,” as the gentleman called him, do more to live up to his campaign promises? Absolutely! Has he proven to be everything I had hoped he would be? No. I guess what I really want in a president is a man (or woman, I don’t care which) who has the bulldog tenacity of Winston Churchill, the compassion of Mother Teresa, the strategic acumen of Scipio the Elder, the swagger of Teddy Roosevelt, and the oratorical skills of…  well, Barack Obama. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to make do with one-in-five and hope for the rest. I’ll still take dim light over total darkness. If nothing else, “my President” got Bin Laden!

Reality TV Gets Really Real
By M. Alberto Rivera

Every time I watch a reality TV show, I feel a bit of my brain begin to atrophy. After enduring five minutes of mind-numbing, scriptless drivel from self-absorbed halfwits, I feel dumb for having believed this show might be different. My thought processes shut down like Levi Johnston attempting to utter a coherent sentence.

Since reality TV appears to be here to stay, for a while anyhow, I wondered what could be done to improve upon it. Hiring writers and actors seemed like a good place to start, but too obvious and contrary to the premise. But after musing a while, I considered that the shows need to be more adventurous. And audiences, not having changed all that much since recorded time began, will continue to have the depth of an inflatable kiddie pool.

Here are my suggestions for the new lineup of reality TV shows. So if network executives are reading this (reading; it’s like TV, but without the pictures), feel free to get in touch. We’ll do lunch.

Commanding male voiceover: Next on Monday night’s primetime lineup: “Dancing with the Porn Stars!”

Male announcer: First up, the star of over 200 feature films you love but won’t admit to having watched, Lance Manly!

Female voiceover: I hear this is the closest he’s been to a woman since he was born.

Male announcer: You’re probably right! What’s this? He’s waved off his partner and now he’s making shadow puppets of all 50 states in alphabetical order by himself!

Female announcer: He’ll lose points for that! Puerto Rico is a territory, not a state… Next up is adult film starlet Lotta Honey, legendary for being double-jointed and her complete lack of shame. Both served her well last week when she was able to curry favor with the judges and avoided being voted off. Tonight she’s wearing — correction, she was wearing a slinky red gown by Dulce & Yo’Mama. Still, it looks nice on the floor there!

Male announcer: Isn’t that split normally performed with the feet on the ground? … And now here’s the crowd favorite, Ron Jeremy! To the delight of the audience, he’s performing no handed push-ups! (cheering and applause) Would I be wrong in saying that we’ve never seen a cattle prod used as a prop before on this show?

Enthusiastically excited male voiceover: Wednesday Night you don’t want to miss “What’s Cookin’”, where celebrity chefs get back to their roots. Tonight we’re visiting the hottest young chef from southeastern central Malibu, Taylor Von Haus Frau! (The camera pulls in close on a chef in a pristine and heavily starched white jacket. There is a cutting board, a knife and a variety of vegetables on the shiny stainless steel table before him.)

Chef Taylor: Hey there everybody, I’m Chef Taylor and we’ve got a great episode in store for you. Today we’ll be working with arugula and romaine…

Disembodied male voice: Taylor! Knock it off! (The camera pulls back and a large man in a too-tight polyester shirt and hairnet comes into frame.) Arugula ain’t comin’ in today! He got picked up for not payin’ his child support — again! And Romaine was huffin’ floor stripper, so he’s makin’ burgers. I need you on the drive thru an’ the fry machine! (The yelling man throws a headset at Chef Taylor.) Now! The cars is startin’ to pile up!

Chef Taylor: Hi there! Welcome to Wunder Burger! How may we satisfy your palate today?

A man’s voice comes through the headset, punctuated by profanity-laden hip hop blasting from his car speakers. ”Yeah, do you still haaaave the half-dollar menu?”

“Why yes we do, sir! Might I suggest the double-battered, deep-fried, jalapeno pork rind casserole on our classic off-white bread?”

“Yeah, gimme six of those, the colossal defibra-fries, upsized, and a half-gallon of Ultra Jolt.”

“A splendid choice, sir. Please pull around to the window.” Chef Taylor looks directly into the camera and says, “I love making people happy in the kitchen!”

Assertive and confident male voiceover: Here’s a Thursday night doubleheader you don’t want to miss, unless you’re a sad excuse of a life form: two hours of “Trailer Trash Housewives!”

It’s been a hectic week here at Toxic Trails Trailer Park, where life is always sunny in the shade of the aging power plant located directly behind us! These ladies — Trixie, Bijou, Oksana, Naydeen, and Daquiri — are going to allow us into their trailers and into their lives to see how the other, other half lives!

The scene cuts to the inside of a trailer, and a woman with a platinum blonde haystack of hair with black roots stands adjusting her self in the mirror. “Hey ya’ll, I’m Trixie. This one — the left one — is bigger than the right one by almost half a cup. That’s the whole reason I wanted to go up in size to begin with. My right was a C, and the left was a B … More like a B flat!”  She lets out a too long, braying laugh that causes the cigarette behind her ear to fall and become tangled in her hair.

“Anyhow, the Doctor says he done did it right, but I can’t hardly trust him. He did the surgery in a Motel 6 out by the interstate, behind Buck’s Bait N’ Stuff. Said his office was being repainted. Oh well. Least now they’re bigger and paid for. Don’t have to worry about them being repoed.”

Camera cuts to Bijou, a rail-thin brunette with a bad spray tan, Nascar tank top, and pitch black shag hair covering her hair like a sheepdog. She’s filing her nails while blowing a bubble half the size of her head.

“I’m excited ‘cuz I started another job to supplement my income. At first I was thinking about getting another webcam, but Tremaine, he’s not really the jealous type, but he wasn’t crazy ’bout it on account of how we met that way. But he ain’t here much since he got that job transporting federal inmates, what with all the insider trading guys being extradited. So my choices were either nail salon, meth lab, daycare, or hosting oil wrestling.”

“The secret to a good oil wrestling match is preparation and talent. If you put up enough industrial plastic and prep the room ahead of time then it’ll take care of itself.”

Camera cuts to the other “Real Trailer Trash Housewives,” Oksana, Naydeen, Trixie and Daquiri primping and preening in a cramped space, vying to see themselves in one small mirror. They apply lipstick, glitter and tease their hair while thumping hip hop plays at a volume that sets off car alarms. Camera follows the four of them to the trailers living room where sheets of clear plastic and blue tarps cover the entire space.

Approximately 75 people scream in unison in the cramped space. A beer bottle flies in front of the women as they walk to the makeshift ring. Naydeen looks nervously at Oksana. “Bottle is plastic. I make sure with vendor,” Oksana says matter-of-factly.

Bijou addresses the camera directly. “That’s where the real money is: concessions. The ticket sales just cover the cost of glitter, baby oil, painkillers, and the clean up. But we should do really well after this so long as no one gets carried away and has to go to the dentist.”

She smiles and turns her head to show a smile like a jack-o-lantern. “Let’s get this started!”

Now that’s TV worth watching!