River Fishing Report: August 2010
By Captain Rob D’Andrea
www.orlando-fishingcharters.com

When you stop and think about it, fishing is a lot like a game of chance. Just as many folks head to the casino to try their luck at hitting a jackpot, and a fisherman or woman heads out on the water in hopes off catch “the big one” against many odds. The question is, how can an angler increase his or her chance at success?

A savvy gambler would never play a game he doesn’t understand, and a smart fisherman needs to understand the rules of his game just as well. Different species of fish prefer specific baits, techniques, and habits you need to be familiar with to stack the odds in your favor.

Preparation is an oft-overlooked key to fishing, and very important because you can control it to your favor. You can make sure your rods and reels are properly maintained, lines are undamaged, knots are properly tied, and hooks are sharp. Many people fail to practice this, including several excellent anglers I know. I have one friend who is a very talented fisherman but based on what his tackle looks like, I don’t know how he ever catches a fish! When he breaks off a fish he gets mad that the knot he tied three weeks ago failed.

We can’t control the weather, tide, the water level or the fish, but we can control our preparation and knowledge. So the next time you head out to your favorite fishing spot, take a little time to prepare and know how to stack the odds in your favor to make your next cast a winner!

Indian River and Banana River

Bass Assassin Sea Shads and D.O.A Shrimp have been productive first thing in the morning for cruising redfish of all sizes on the flats. Pine Island and the Cocoa Beach area have been the best bet. Trout fishing during the day has been a little slow, but I’ve been having success fishing at night soaking live pinfish and pigfish around structures. When the fish are found, they range from 3 to 5 lbs. Fun-sized snook have been plentiful throughout the rivers and Mosquito Lagoon; look for rock piles and mangroves that have at least 2 feet of water underneath them.

Offshore

The colder water along with a lack of current and dirty water has slowed the bottom fishing for grouper and snapper. Look for this fishing to improve in a couple of weeks. There are still some kingfish off the beaches, but they have thinned out a bit; fish the Pelican Flats or 8A reef with live bait for success. Cobia can still be found, but not the numbers we saw over the last couple of months. Keep a jig rod ready though!

The other side of the Gulf Stream has been productive for yellowfin tuna weighing 40 to 60 lbs., big dolphin up to 70 lbs. and blue marlin in the 250-lb. range. Finding the birds and trolling big lures 70 to 90 miles out of Port Canaveral is the name of the game.

St. John’s River

The bass fishing on the St. John’s River has been good in the morning and evening. From July to September I normally do half days in the morning and afternoon. I’ve had success on some schooling fish early and late. Rattletraps and soft jerk baits have been working well when the fish are up on the surface feeding. When the fish go deep, Carolina-rigged lizards and craws have been taking some decent fish. Most of the fish have been 2 to 5 lbs. with the occasional leviathan weighing 8+ pounds. The channel catfish bite is still on for those who want to dunk chicken livers or cut mullet. These fish are delicious and perfect for a summer fish fry.

Catch ‘em up!

Capt. Rob D’Andrea runs Hooked On Fishing Charters (321) 514-2967 and specializes in both saltwater and freshwater fishing. Full, half, and 3/4-day charters available. He is also available as a Captain-for-Hire.

Summertime surf fishing will be slow, with little wave action in the surf and cold water on the beaches. If we get a small rolling swell and a little chop, your odds might increase. The lack of sand fleas around doesn’t help the shore bite, but look for a few whiting and the occasional pompano. Most of the anglers are trading their pompano gear in for heavier rods and are targeting the large schools of bait moving along the beaches and catching tarpon and snook.

The massive bait pods full of pogies, greenies, glass minnows or mullet will gather along the beaches as far as the eye can see. Watch for baits exploding through the air as predators from below make their attack. Tarpon will roll in the bait pods or blast out of the water onto their backs when they are in a feeding frenzy. Look for jacks, redfish, blues, snook, and bonito to be mixed into the action along the edges of the schools. Keep an eye on the surf later in the month, because an early run of mullet can march down the beach, and you don’t want to miss out on that. Snagging some bait with your net or casting large, shallow diving plugs, swim baits or topwaters will let you cover more water and stay up with the moving fish. Several sharks might make a run through the schools, so keep extra plugs ready to go for cut-offs and break-offs. Kayak fishing from the beaches can be the best this month, as the action is right along the beach or just offshore within a mile.

The offshore reefs are chilled to the bone. The summertime cold water currents are here, and who knows when the bottom will warm up. Bottom temperatures have been reported in the low 50s. Several snapper, moray eels, and smaller fish are already lying dead on the bottom. With all the changes in our fishing regulations, the best way to get any bottom action is to strap on a scuba tank and harvest some lobster. You will want to layer up with a heavy 3- to 5-mil wetsuit and a full hood.

Lobster season begins August 6 and continues through March 31. Most of the inshore ledges and 50- to 60-ft. reefs have shown good numbers of lobster prior to the start of season. With calm weather conditions, most divers should have a good chance of harvesting a few nice-sized lobsters and shooting a few mangrove snapper for dinner.

Remember: the bag limit is 6 lobsters per person with a 3″ carapace. Also, take a good look at your catch and make sure the females do not have any eggs. If you do catch one with eggs, use great care in releasing her unharmed to help ensure that we have good lobster stocks for the future.

Scattered weed lines seem to be holding some flying fish and live bait around 120 to 180 feet. Sailfish and dolphin are residents there and a sure catch if you slow-troll live baits or drag a few dead ones. Don’t overlook the 50- to 60-ft. range; there have been large schools of flying fish inshore and they are sure to bring in some big pelagics. Several cobia have been lingering along the offshore bars and swimming right up to the boats. Always keep a pitch bait or buck tail close by because cobia are known to make a surprise visit and leave just as quickly.

Kingfish are scattered all over the offshore bars, with most fish in the 8- to 15-lb. range, along with a few smokers from 25 to 30 lbs. mixed in. Live baits on the surface will attract an aggressive strike, and with flat water conditions, look for the kings to rocket out of the water with the bait in their mouths. Large bait pods of greenies and a few pogies are several miles off the beach with a greater concentration south of the inlet for now. The bait pods will be moving and there could be fish hanging on the edges, so cast a bucktail or a swim bait a few times into the ball and see if you get any strikes.

The bite at Sebastian has been fairly predictable recently and should remain so through August. Snook, reds, mangrove snapper, and the occasional flounder have been coming over the rail fairly often. Outgoing tides seem to be producing a good number of reds, whereas the incoming tides have been producing the snook. Shrimp, mojarras, and pinfish have been the baits of choice unless you can find any of the elusive croakers, which will surely draw a strike. Most of the snapper have been caught during the incoming tides or slack tides using shrimp and mojarras.

River fishing has been good in the early mornings to midday. Good numbers of redfish have been seen laying around on the grass flats mixed up with a few snook. Get out and wade your favorite flats with topwater plugs or live shrimp. Get out early before the heat of the day warms the shallow waters.

Lots of fish to go after this month; you can save fuel and fish from land or head offshore several miles and grab a few grouper and lobster — tough choices!

www.whiteysonline.com

I recently had to take a couple of days off to clear my DVR. It was almost at 97%; what other option was there?

It’s not like the shows will be shown again later on! Whatever the case, after a couple of hours of forensic science and cop shows, I end up at that show about whaling or saving whales, however you see it. Thanks to the environmentalists’ saddling and bridling of the NMFS like a Mexican burro, my tolerance for the enviro movement is nil. Did anyone else cheer when the Shonan Maro 2 smashed into the Ady Gil? I laughed, I cheered… Hell, I shed a tear… in laughter. That was by far the highlight of my 12-hour couch trip, TV-a-thon! It’s not that I’m pro-whaling, it’s just that I’m anti-enviro. The more I see of these people, the less I like about them. Just take the word “environ-mental-ist” for example. As you can see, without rearranging letters, mental is as much a majority of the word as it is in the movement. Need I say more?

Okay, if you say so.

In my estimation, there are two kinds of environmentalists. There’s the 99-percenter and the 1-percenter. Of these, the 99-percenter is by far the worst, both ethically and morally. The 99-percenter is the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing capitalist who finds a cause to exploit to the 1-percenter and other bleeding heart types who believe everything the media tells them. The 99-percenter uses a cause they don’t give a crap about to keep the cash flowing in the direction of their cause, which is more than likely their own pockets. Like the good capitalists they are, they use that money to further manipulate the media, governmental agencies, and general public to solicit more support for” the cause.” Hey, I just noticed that governmental ends in mental, too… Correlation? You bet! In case you missed the point, I’m saying that 99% of environmentalists are both morally and ethically bankrupt. They find a cause, use propaganda in the media to sway the public, then ride the wave all the way to the bank!

On the other hand, there’s the 1-percenter. The 1-percenters actually believe in the cause they support. It’s admirable, but unfortunately, in my estimation, often driven by mental instability and fueled by the propaganda spewed by the 99-percenters. Which brings us back to the War of the Whales…

Hooray for the Shonan Maru 2! (Sorry, couldn’t help it!) Seriously though, if you watch the show, you may see some of my theory in action. Very few of the 99-percenters appear on the show; they remain in the shadows counting the TV royalties and donations. The 1- percenters remain on center stage willing to die for the whales. Really? How much good can you do for the whales if you’re dead? That’s just mental! “… Here lies so-and-so. He died in vain so a whale could later be harpooned and eaten in Japan.” Not on my tombstone. I just don’t see the draw. It should probably say: “Here lies so-and-so. He was a sheep. Baah, baah.”

Speaking of sheep, the water on the bottom is freezing and the sheephead are feasting on the lobsters. When the water approaches the mid-50s, the lobster can hardly defend themselves. It makes them easy targets for the hardier packs of sheephead roaming the reef. If you’re lobster diving anytime soon, spear a couple of sheeps for the cause.

Unfortunately, the cold water has negatively impacted much of what we fish for offshore. The bottom fishing last month was poor, except for a few areas where the amberjack and mangrove snappers rose above the thermocline to feed. In addition, the pelagic reef fish like kings and cobia were very sporadic due to the lack of bait on the reefs. The cold water sends the sardines, cigar minnows and greenies looking for warmer conditions.

As far as bottom fishing goes for August, we will be at the mercy of the thermocline. Typically, by mid or late month the cold will be gone. As long as it stays cold, look for the fishing to be rather slow. The key will be finding areas where the fish are holding above the cold layer. If you can find them up in the water, the mangroves will bite both Spanish sardines and small live baits. You will have to fish flourocarbon leader and may have to go as light as 20#. Fish with as heavy of a leader as they will bite, because they tend to run straight to the wreck when hooked. If you find the amberjacks in mid-water, large live baits will work best, but they may fall victim to speed jigs also. Chances are, when fishing for either mangos or ajs, the elusive red snapper will eat you alive!

The live baiting on the reef this month will likely remain sporadic. To put together a decent day, you may have to try several different areas. Just keep moving around until you can find a little action. Your best action will likely be a few kings and bonito, but a cobia is always a good bet too. You should probably expect to catch a few sharks and barracuda also.

I must go now to formulate a plan to make the cold-water upwellings my new cause.

Wanted: Sheep to support my cause.

See ya on the pond!

Baah… Baah…

Be one of the first three to email: info@crsurf.com with the name of this break and win a sticker pack from CR Surf Travel Co. ~ Photo: GG (Last month’s photo was Ollie’s Point)

Costa Rica Surf Report and Forecast

By Greg Gordon
www.crsurf.com

FORECAST

Caribbean Coast: Expect drier conditions for this month, with an increased number of tropical systems pushing in surf. Most swells won’t push in anything over head-high, but if a hurricane passes over Nicaragua, it can send down some heavy waves with it.

Pacific Coast: The hurricane season peaks along the Pacific Coast, so there tend to be more onshore conditions in the morning along with strong thunderstorms both in the morning and afternoon. This allows for only a small window of epic surf, so my prediction for the best catches are from August 17th to the 20th. The tides will be right for dawn patrols at the beach breaks. The 10th to the 12th will also have some major tidal swings, so it could be knee- to waist-high at low tides and overhead at high tide.

New Moon: August 9

Full Moon: August 24

TRAVEL

The toll road highway from San Jose to Puntarenas is back open, but drivers should still be careful of falling rocks since it’s the rainy season. It cuts the driving time to Jaco down to 80 minutes, and you can be in Dominical in 3 hours. Here are the directions on how to find it from the airport: www.crsurf.com/news/community/Toll-Road-Directions.html

If it’s your first surf trip to Costa Rica and you want to learn to surf, or you come here four times a year for strategic strikes, CRSURF.com is where you go to find out where the conditions will be best for you. I understand how tides and swell direction affect wave size at most every break in the country and can put you comfortably on the beach that suits your skills. We visited every hotel and house rental on our site, so we know exactly which fits your lifestyle and budget. To start planning your winter getaway today, just fill out this easy form: www.crsurf.com/inquiry.html

Best flights found for August: Spirit Airlines $9 fare club members can fly from Fort Lauderdale to San Jose from $159. Jet Blue has flights from Orlando to San Jose for $236.55. The cheaper flights are on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

Best deals: Witch’s Rock Surf Camp has announced that it is offering a 25% discount for surf camp packages in September and October. Cabinas Las Olas in Avellanas has limited rooms for $65 per night. Email travel@crsurf.com and mention The Beachside Resident to get your discount.

CONTESTS

Gilbert Brown was the champion of Luz de Vida Pro in Santa Teresa back during July 9-11. He pocketed a cool $2,500 for his surf skills. Nataly Bernold tooks the Women’s crown and Anthony Fillingim won the Junior division. You can see pictures and the results here: www.crsurf.com/news/contests/luzdevida2.html.

Gilbert Brown was also part of a Tico team, including Isaac Vega, Frederico Pilurzo, and Carlos Munoz, that competed in the Quiksilver Pro in Puerto Escondido in July. Sick, sick barrels… And Frederico made it to the quarterfinals. See the videos here: www.quiksilver.com/puerto

The Puerto Viejo Open will take place on August 14 and will offer $2,000 in prizes for Open and Women’s divisions. Find out more on their site: www.puertoviejoopenpro.com. Wave conditions will determine if it’s in Playa Cocles or Salsa Brava. Recommended accommodations are Apartamentos Agapi and Hotel Totem.

ENVIRONMENT/COMMUNITY

The Caribbean coast is hosting ArteViva, from August 20 to the 31. The festival will feature live music with well-known national bands, theatre, folkloric dance, art exhibitions, culinary events, sport tournaments, a circus, alternative medicine workshops, and much more. The EDACS Asociation is a non-profit agency whose primary goal is to afford alternative educational opportunities in the arts to disadvantaged young people of the Southern Caribbean. They will involve every educational center in the South Caribbean with workshops and students exhibitions. Go to this site to learn more: www.arteviva-puertoviejo.com

The Second Annual Sea Turtle and Dolphin Festival will be held around Marina Ballena National Park on two weekends, the September 1-3 and 8-10. Here is the calendar of events: www.crsurf.com/news/community/whale-festival-2010.html

To find out other events in the beachside communities of Costa Rica, just sign up for our surf report: www.crsurf.com/subscribe.html

CRSURF eco-T-shirts are on still on sale for only $10! They are made in Florida from recycled plastic and cotton, and we are donating $3 from each shirt sold to the Surfrider Foundation’s Tamarindo Chapter, PRETOMA (to stop illegal shark finning) and the Dominical Lifeguards. You can also buy leashes and boardbags from WaveTribe, made from hemp and recycled materials. Visit: www.crsurfshop.com

Linda Cole

Jazz phenomenon Linda Cole began singing with her father and mother at the age of three throughout her hometown of Freeport, Illinois. In the following years, as the family added six more singing Cole children, Linda became instrumental in the formation of the “Singing Cole Family,” known throughout central United States during the early to mid 1960s.

After 17 years singing gospel and pop with her family, Linda branched out into rhythm and blues while traveling from Manhattan to Detroit as an opening act for the Motown Review. Once in New York, Linda released several hit singles and was the leading lady in the stage play and television film “Talkin ‘Bout Love.” From there, her career took her Los Angeles, where she worked with Billy “Spinner” Henderson of The Spinners and Billy Davis, Jr. of The Fifth Dimension.

Linda served as musical director and vocal coach for a children’s gospel choir in Pasadena during the ’80s, and by 1991 she had relocated to central Florida to begin singing straight ahead jazz and standards. Now acknowledged by many of her peers as having one of the smoothest voices in the business, Linda began her career when many of the great songs were written. She can talk about the authors first hand and has many original scores, some written specifically for her.

Recognized as a skilled interpreter rather than a vocal stylist, Linda brings a conversational intimacy to the most familiar standards. On stage, Linda is always keenly aware of what’s going on around her, both rhythmically and harmonically. A self-confessed “frustrated bass player,” she sometimes mimes a bass line with one hand while holding her microphone in the other. She likes to sidle up behind her bassist when he solos, soaking up the warm tones as they emanate from the back of the instrument.

Linda has shared the stage with many jazz luminaries and has headlined scores of concerts and festivals. She’s currently appearing at a number of jazz spots, nightclubs and restaurants throughout the southeastern U.S. and continues to mentor young students and children’s choirs. In 2008, Linda co-directed and starred in the historical play, “CROWNS,” a commissioned work to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the NAACP for a celebration in Bunnell. She is currently performing as guest soloist with the internationally known Nancy Waldman Trio, featuring bassist Doug Matthews and drummer Warren Cohen.

Evelyn McGee Stone, a jazz singer a generation older, has said that Linda Cole reminds her of the late Carmen McRae, and is the best singer she has heard since moving to Florida. “She has the feel of what I grew up with, singing with the great artists in the late ’30s and early ’40s,” McGee Stone said. “I just think she’s delightful. I know that she’s going to go far.”

Linda Cole performs on Saturday, August 21 Heidi’s Jazz Club (7 N. Orlando Ave.; Cocoa Beach; 783-4559). For more details, visit www.heidisjazzclub.com, or visit Linda’s website at: www.lindacolesings.com.

Jedi Grind Tricks: August 2010
By Scooter Newell

While in college I refused to schedule my life around television shows and decided to use my television only as a monitor for my VHS player.

I’m holding to my promise of being largely TV-free. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve logged plenty of hours as a kid watching “Family Ties,” “The Incredible Hulk,” “The Young Ones,” “The Smurfs,” “Moonlighting,” “The Honeymooners,” “Lassie,” and even “The Beav.” The list goes on and on. And even these days I do enjoy a good “OHHH” from Tony Soprano when something just ain’t gonna fly or a goofy, rat-faced hasty “Newman!” when Jerry discovers that he’s been had yet again by his mailman enemy. But looking back, I realize I’d only watched those shows after went into syndication. Yes, I encourage you to boycott the primetime schedule. Who knows, by the time I’m 50 I may sit back and watch a collection of X Games shows and and manage to get into the series. X Games shows?

I’m glad I’m not watching these TV these days, because I’d most likely be spreading a stream of hate tweets all through the web while watching the X Games. Okay, so I did see a little of them while eating at Javos Tacos in Cocoa Beach, but it was only BMX, so I didn’t really pay much attention.

Could my friends be right? Are the X Games judges even paying attention? So far, the local skate community seems to have a problem with the outcome on some of the latest results from X Games 16. Was Ryan Shekler awarded extra points due to his larger- than-life image in the skateboarding world? Did Nijah get ripped off due to his past complications with “industry” contracts? Are the judges influenced by anything other than the actual skating going down? Costumes perhaps? Makeup? It is a TV show, right? Like I said, I’ll never know until I get the boxed set well after the show has been taken off the air.

Now I do have respect for the entire cast of X Games competitors. They are all legit professionals with amazing talents. Adam Taylor from Cocoa Beach is one of them. But sometimes I just find myself wondering about the production-end of the competition. From what I’ve read online, the judging even went south for Adam. Adam was throwing down tricks during the rail jam that are, as any skater knows, more technical and with a higher level of difficulty than some of the other tricks scored, yet still he got scored lower than he should have. I’ve yet to speak to Adam about the event, but I do know that in the past he’s always had a positive outlook even in the event of a clear judging error.

It happens at all levels of skate competitions: someone gets a score higher than they should have or lower than deserved. Too bad there’s no real scoring system designed to be as finite as far as determining point-value parameters. Maybe each trick landed should be considered a touchdown — “Six points for that ‘smith grind’!” But wait a minute, what about the frontside nosegrind? I mean, isn’t that harder than a smith grind? Should it be more than 6 points?

I guess I’ll need to watch the entire season after syndication until I can make that call.

Beach Bash
By Kimberly Stone

www.beachinmommies.com

Starting in the late ’80s, a clutch of American bands have redefined reggae by blending it with rock, ska, dub, and hip-hip. A new wave of bands have now made that uncertain redefinition a wholesale transformation, further blurring the lines separating traditional genres with an improvisational, experimental and adaptive approach without losing the fundamental beat that drives pure reggae. On the national circuit, bands like Sublime and 311 paved the way for a new movement whose adherents form bands almost daily to keep up with fans’ swelling numbers.

On Saturday, August 28, Deuterman Productions.com is bringing another Beach Bash event to the Space Coast, this time at Coconuts on the Beach in downtown Cocoa Beach. The all- day festival will celebrate the rock reggae style in all its forms. Headlining again are Orlando’s Supervillains, but a new lineup of some of the best touring rock reggae bands in the southeast will be enhancing the vibe for this event.

From Atlanta, Groove Stain mix reggae and punk to create their unique sound. They’ve shared the stage with Snoop Dog, Less Than Jake, and Ludacris and have four live CDs and four studio albums under their belts. Ft. Lauderdale’s Spred the Dub blend dub with jazz, funk, and soul. The trio, comprised of bassist K Jo, guitarist/vocalist Mickey and guitarist Corey have opened for Yellowman and Eek-A-Mouse. Hor!zen from Orlando label their sound as “dirty south dub rock” and sing of life growing up on the streets of Orlando. El Matamugu, from Pinellas County, will perform roots reggae influenced by strains of Sonic Youth, Fishbone, and Lee Scratch Perry. Other performers include Inner Coastal, the Ovni Sound System, Sir Veza, Pakalolo’s Up, B-liminal, Trip Don’t Fall, Dj Frankie Sly, MC Longneck, and special guest D.P., the up-and-coming hip-hop phenom from Gainesville.

Each of these young bands have incredible stage presence and potential for worldwide notoriety. Come see why these performers are selling out and rocking each venue, one at a time.

The Beach Bash is set for Saturday, August 28 at Coconuts on the Beach (2 Minutemen Cswy.; Cocoa Beach; 784-1488). Tickets are $12 presale or $15 on the day of the show. The all-ages Bash will be held from 12 to 9 p.m. with 21 and up after party until 2 a.m. For more ticket information, contact Deuterman Productions.com at 508-5141 or visit www.ticketmaster.com.

Big Dave Fiester’s Blues-A-Que

On Saturday, August 21, E.A.R.T.H. Awareness, in cooperation with many friends, relatives, and former band mates of late local guitar legend Dave Fiester, will be presenting Big Dave Fiester’s Blues-A-Que at The Beach Shack in Cocoa Beach.

The tribute event, held from noon to midnight, will feature four live bands, two hours of inspirational jamming, a beach bonfire, raffles and rare memorabilia, and barbeque prepared by Barrelhouse Barbecue of Brevard. Organized in memory of Fiester, Legendary Groove Monsters frontman, the non-profit event will donate proceeds to E.A.R.T.H. Awareness, a group of entertainment industry professionals dedicated to the preservation of creative outlets and natural experiences for Central Florida youth.

E.A.R.T.H. Awareness was created to promote quality family time in a natural setting, with programs in music, art, drama, planet-protecting education, and fun. The organization raises funds to help with their “Stephen Miller Music in The Schools Program,” which is a direct-to-teacher classroom supply program for artistic programs in Central Florida schools. Fiester had long been a big supporter of their cause, and this year, musical instruments will be donated through them to Fiester’s alma mater, Satellite High.

For over 15 years, Dave Fiester & the Legendary Groove Monsters enjoyed popularity as one of the best blues bands in the region. Fiester was 12-years-old when he fell in love with the blues. It was the Muddy Waters’ song, “Mannish Boy” that did it for him. “I thought it was the coolest music I’ve ever heard,” he remembered. His first stage appearances with a high school band made him a local star. After playing in several illustrious local bands, Fiester helped form the Legendary Groove Monsters in 1985, and they immediately developed an immense following. They went on to headline dozens of blues festivals and opened and performed with artists like Johnny Winter, Buddy Guy, Delbert McClinton, the Allman Brothers, Charlie Daniels, Molly Hatchet, and many more.

Sadly, Dave Fiester passed away on August 20, 2005, at the age of 52. With his passing, Brevard County lost one of its icons, and the music scene lost an inimitable inspiration. Come celebrate his life and work with bands like Blox Electric, the Queen Bees, the Steve Thorpe Blues Orchestra, and the Bone Dogs with special guest Austin Pettit. The evening winds down with a 10 p.m. invitational jam featuring Ron Teixeira, Kenny Cohen, George Wilson, and others.

Big Dave Fiester’s Blues-A-Que will be held on Saturday, August 21 at the Beach Shack (1 Minutemen Cswy., Cocoa Beach; 783-2250). For more information, visit www.earthawareness.org.

Hank III

Call it hard-twang, punkabilly, cowpunk, alternacountry, slacker swing or honky punk. It’s certainly not your grandfather’s country music — nor is it your father’s, unless your grandfather happens to be the legendary Hank Williams and your father Hank Williams, Jr.

Like his famous forebears, Hank Williams III is a rebel to the country establishment, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it from his 1999 debut, Risin’ Outlaw, which takes the music two generations back to the raw, urgent roots of its melancholy, sad-eyed troubadour, who died at the age of 29 in the back seat of a car.

“I listened to my grandfather’s music when I was four years old,” Hank III says, “but at the same time, by the time I got to ten, I was listening to KISS, Black Sabbath, AC/DC and Ted Nugent, too. I didn’t really start listening to country from a singer/songwriter’s point of view until I was 20 or 21. Back then, I was just screaming my head off and playing drums. I was into anger and chaos. I’d never tapped into melodies, touching people’s souls and making them cry.”

While his name (and his uncanny vocal and physical resemblances to his grandfather) could have guaranteed Williams a thriving country audience with Outlaw, Hank III had little patience for the often predictable Nashville sound, nor for even the minimal constraints on behavior his promoters required.

His live shows typically follow a Jekyll-and-Hyde format: a country music set featuring fiddle player Adam McOwen and slide guitar player Andy Gibson, followed by a hellbilly set, and then set backed by his band, Assjack, who mix heavy doses of metalcore, psychobilly, and hardcore punk.

It’s that dichotomy that makes Hank III a star in the making. It’s a rare performer who can mix amphetamine-laced punked-up honky-tonk like “Blue Devil” with a plaintive, wistful number like “You’re The Reason,” all while wearing a Black Flag t-shirt. His songs touch on the eternal verities of country-blues as they do his own hard-living past and present: treacherous women, dancing with the devil, dalliances with drugs and booze, the loneliness of the road, and the Lord and redemption.

Hank III performs on Sunday, August 28 at 9 p.m. at Levelz Nightclub (4250 W. New Haven Ave. in downtown Melbourne; 409-5385). Doors open at 8 p.m. For $18 advance tickets to the 18+ show, visit http://www.ticketmaster.com/ or check Deuterman Productions at 508-5141 or online at www.deutermanproductions.com.

Jack Johnson Wins the Heavyweight Crown

There was Muhammad Ali, of course. Before that, there was Joe Louis and Sugar Ray and Henry Armstrong explaining how you can’t discriminate against a left hook. “But in 1908,” says Ron Flatter of ESPN.com, “39 years before Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in major league baseball, there was Jack Johnson (1878-1946) — the first black man to hold the world heavyweight championship.”

Winning the title was the easy part for Johnson, easily the greatest boxer of his era and one of the most powerful counter-punchers ever to put on a pair of gloves. The hard part was getting white champions to fight him. The great Jim Jeffries retired without even giving Johnson a chance. This merely fueled Johnson’s mission as he demolished all comers — white and black — and cultivated a high-profile public image. Sooner or later, there would be no one else left to fight.

“It wouldn’t be until December 26, 1908, that Johnson would finally get his shot at the title. He got it for the simplest of reasons,” explains Flatter. “Champion Tommy Burns was guaranteed $30,000 to fight him.”

Burns was no match for the much larger Johnson and referee Hugh McIntosh stepped in to stop the bout in the 14th round before the world could witness a black man sending a white champion to the canvas.

Johnson was an outspoken champion… unafraid to make his mark in an openly racist society. “He had his own jazz band, owned a Chicago nightclub, acted on stage, drove flashy yellow sports cars, reputedly walked his pet leopard while sipping champagne, flaunted gold teeth that went with his gold-handled walking stick and boasted of his conquests of whites — both in and out of the ring,” says Flatter.

The new champion’s public image along with his defiant nature lured Jeffries out of retirement. The beloved former champion said, “I am going into this fight for the sole purpose of proving that a white man is better than a Negro.” More than 22,000 fans came to Reno, Nevada on July 4, 1910 to watch the first “Fight of the Century.”

“Johnson was faster, stronger and smarter than Jeffries, knocking him out with ease,” says sportswriter Dave Zirin. After the fight, Jeffries admitted, “I could never have whipped Johnson at my best. I couldn’t have hit him. No, I couldn’t have reached him in 1,000 years.”

Jeffries’ honesty aside, the image of a white hero being humiliated by a superior black athlete was more than 1910 America could handle. “After Johnson’s victory, there were race riots around the country — Illinois, Missouri, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Colorado, Texas, and Washington, D.C.,” says Zirin. “Most of the riots consisted of white lynch mobs attempting to enter black neighborhoods, and blacks fighting back.”

Racist America fought back, too. If Johnson could not be defeated in the ring, the powers-that-be had to devise another method. Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the future commissioner of baseball, charged Johnson with taking his white girlfriend, Lucy Cameron, across state lines for “immoral purposes,” a violation of the Mann white slavery act.

Johnson was convicted, jumped bail and spent seven years in exile. An obviously out-of-shape, 37-year-old Johnson returned to the ring and the public spotlight in Havana, Cuba, on April 5, 1915 to fight the giant challenger Jess Willard. Johnson dominated the fight until the 20th round but, unless stories of him throwing the fight are to be believed, he soon faded and was knocked out in the 26th round (at the time there was no limit on the number of rounds).

Johnson eventually surrendered to federal authorities in 1920 and remained in prison until July 9, 1921. According to the “Ring Record Book,” Johnson retired with a record of 79-8 with 46 knockouts, 12 draws and 14 no-decisions. He was a charter member of the Boxing Hall of Fame. His athletic exploits, however, cannot fully reflect Jack Johnson’s impact, on sport, culture, and society.

Zirin sums up: “Today when ‘Driving While Black’ is a daily reality for millions, and blacks suffer mass incarceration, learning about Johnson and his era can inspire us toward the kind of defiance we must bring into our own era.”

There’s a reason you hear so much local talk about Honey Miller.

Comprised of some talented musicians from various, now defunct projects, the Cocoa Beach-based quartet bring with them a solid reputation and the tunes to back it up. Describing their sound as “sideways surf” and the result of “the city and the country meeting the beach,” principal songwriter, vocalist, guitarist, and co-founder “Anywave” Dave Miller seems to have hit the nail on the head. As vague as that description sounds, it’s a spot-on categorization of some original songs couched in waterbound imagery and played with a level of sophistication heard rarely in the local music scene.

Dispensing with the loose blues heard from earlier offshoot bands, Honey Miller anchor their sound to a layer of crisply clear atmospherics provided by Laurent Magniez’s sighing electric guitar lines. Thanks to this undercurrent, their debut live release, Stuck Outside, breathes with quiet life, and favorites like “Two Steps” and “Permanent Wave” are lent a dose of patient confidence that was lacking in earlier versions. The effect is pleasantly soothing — almost mesmerizing — but it’s more likely to draw them attention than see them fade into the background.

On the strength of these songs, Honey Miller (which also features percussionist Jazzy and stand-up bassist Aren) have been enlisted to contribute to the soundtracks of some locally-produced films. They’ve also garnered the band bookings by many local bars and restaurants, places that prefer their music to be simultaneously engaging and unobtrusive.

Other bands might balk at this seeming incongruity, but as seasoned professinal musicians, the members of Honey Miller understand its efficacy. We have always maintained a humble yet steadfast approach to the local music scene,” says Miller, “so we’re blessed that so many listeners within the surf community are embracing our sound. We hate playing soulless cover music. We interact with the crowd to keep them involved.”

Mixing popular originals with obscure b-side covers, Honey Miller are also happy to play requests, and they’re available for private parties, museum and gallery openings, special events, and festivals of all kinds.

Honey Miller perform every Sunday (from 3:30 to 7:30 p.m.) and every Monday (from 6 to 9p.m.) at the River Roost (1891 E. Merritt Island Cswy. in Merritt Island; 452-6606) and will appear at the Hunker Down Lounge (7 S. Atlantic Ave. in Cocoa Beach; 613-3802) on August 7 starting at 6 p.m. Visit Honey Miller online at www.myspace.com/anywavedavehoneymiller or at www.spacecoastlive.com. For booking information, call 328-6058 or email anywavedave8@aol.com

Haley Ryan of Main Street Pub
By Paddy McDrinksey

Welcome to one of my favorite haunts, the cozy Main Street Pub in historic downtown Melbourne.

Where else can you find three distinct full-liquor bars under one roof? Well, two places come to mind, actually… And then there’s that other one I forgot about back home in Killkilly…

Okay, so there are several places out there that have three bars under one roof, but none have laid them out as attractively as Main Street Pub. Downstairs you have the historic feel of their classy Whiskey Bar and out back you can catch the breezy island-vibe of their Tiki Bar, while upstairs boasts a chic, metropolitan-style Lava Bar with an outdoor balcony overlooking New Haven Avenue. Whatever your taste, Main Street has a place for you.

But what ties it all together for me is the lovely Haley Ryan, one of Main Street’s most popular bartenders.

Let me introduce you…

How long have you been tending bar at Main Street?

Four years in August! Wow, time flies!

What is your favorite thing about bartending?

The person I’ve grown into and the people I’ve met — those I’ve served and made friendships with that will last a lifetime, the people I work with, and the people I work for. I also enjoy the chance to make someone’s day so much brighter or the make the grumpiest grump smile. Something bartenders, servers or people in general forget is what an impact two minutes of your time, a positive attitude, and a smile can have on someone’s day. Had a bad day a broken heart? Here’s a painkiller!

What’s your least favorite part?

You can’t win ‘em all. Sometimes no matter how optimistic you are and how friendly you are, there will always be that one person trying to bring you down. And let’s face it: my job is to make you happy. It’s hard to be on your game 24/7 when someone is trying to bring you down. But regardless, you’re expected to do just that — smile when you’re sick, hurt or upset… Oh, and empty bottles, dry kegs, and frozen beers! Try to smile, smile, smile… And repeat: “I love my job!”

What quality do you most admire in a customer?

I love a customer who knows what they want but is still willing to trust you when they’re not sure. I also adore patience when its very clear I’m working my butt off to get to you and make your fresh-squeezed Long Island or Screwdriver. But most of all, I love it when I’m so busy that my head is spinning and then you smile.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen go down at the bar?

Let me count… Let’s just say very little surprises me these days. Have you seen “America’s Got Talent”? The boyscout stripper act is repeated often at our tiki bar. Enough said?

What’s the strangest pick-up line you’ve ever heard?

“Did you fart? ‘Cause you just blew me away…” I’ve heard ‘em all!

Do you have your own signature cocktail?

“Haley’s Comet.” It starts with our freshly made sour, watermelon vodka, banana liqueur, Midori, and a touch of Bailey’s shaken vigorously and then poured into a hurricane glass. Finally, you add a floater of Blue Curaçao, which beautifully separates into three alternating layers of green and blue.

If you could serve any celebrity, who would it be and what would you serve them?

Ella Fitzgerald. I’d serve her a Tuaca Sidecar — classy, sweet, and smooth with a kick!

You’ve finished your shift it’s time to relax. What drink do you mix yourself to wind down?

After my Wednesday lunch shift I generally enjoy a delicious Dogfish Head 90-Minute IPA. A pub favorite here is our 5-Second Martini and sometimes I like to be educated on one of our new tequilas, rums, or whiskeys. You can’t sell it until you try it!

Main Street Pub (705 E. New Haven Ave. in historic downtown Melbourne; 723-7811) is open Monday through Friday from 11:30 a.m. to close and Saturday from 4 p.m. to close. They’re known as much for their expertly made, fresh-squeezed concoctions and draught beers as they are their for their great menu, which features items like their famous roast beef sandwich, miso mahi sandwich, homemade soups, and delicious appetizers. Visit them online — www.mainstreetpub.cc — to see their live entertainment calendar, food and drink menu, an extensive list of daily drink specials, and loads of photos.

ON BASE
By Staff Sgt. Leslie Kraushaar, 920th Rescue Wing
920th Rescue Wing deploys for Naval exercise

As the Rim of the Pacific exercise entered its final two weeks, more Air Force Reservists have winged their way to Hawaii to participate.

Two HC-130s Hercules aircraft and three HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopters from the 920th Rescue Wing arrived there July 17.

The 920th RQW had a total of 117 Air Force Reservists participating in the exercise through the end of last month.

RIMPAC is a series of multinational maritime exercises currently underway in the Hawaiian operating area. Held biennially by U.S. Pacific Fleet, the 2010 RIMPAC exercise is the 22nd time it has been held. Fourteen nations, 32 ships, five submarines, over 170 aircraft and 20,000 personnel participated in the exercise in the Hawaiian operating area. In addition to U.S. military forces, military units from Australia, Canada, Chile, Colombia, France, Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Netherlands, Peru, Republic of Korea, Singapore, and Thailand participated. The countries of Brazil, India, and New Zealand sent observers.

RIMPAC helps improve leadership at all levels, increase personnel proficiency, and hone leadership’s ability to adapt to rapid changes. For the naval forces involved the exercise offers the opportunity for forces to hone their skills — from disaster response to anti-piracy operations — in a complex, challenging, multinational environment designed to improve cooperation and command and control operations.

Immediately after their arrival on July 17, the 920th members unfolded their helos from the C-17 Globemaster IIIs and C-5 Galaxy aircraft used for shipment, participated in local in-briefs and began flying local familiarization flights around the island. The mission of the 920th is to search for, locate and recover U.S. Armed Forces personnel during military operations. Their arrival at Hickam AFB allowed them to enter the exercise during the tactical phase where participants transitioned into the execution of a combat operations scenario consisting of unscheduled events where participants had the opportunity to operate as they would during actual real world contingency or conflict operations.

The 920th brought an array of equipment and talent to this year’s exercise. In addition to the Pave Hawk helicopters from it 301st RQS and Hercules tanker aircraft from its 39th RQS and Guardian Angels combat rescue officers and pararescuemen from its 308th RQS, there were also aircraft maintenance, an operations support squadron and intelligence personnel.

Colonel Hannon, 920th RQW Operations Group commander, said the benefits of participating in the 2010 RIMPAC would result in enormous training opportunities for the 920th. “The Air Force is the only service that has a dedicated personnel recovery force that trains for combat search and rescue operations in a major task force environment,” he said. “This exercise gave us an invaluable operational opportunity to practice safely deploying, employing, and re-deploying combat search and rescue assets.”

He continued, saying, “This was a great opportunity to train our Combat Search and Rescue Task Force skills including working with C2ISR, AWACs, fighters for rescue combat air patrol high-up fighter protection, fighters/attack helicopters for low environment protection similar to operations in Afghanistan, helicopter air refueling with the HC-130, as well as rigged alternate method zodiac drops which is parachute operations for our boats and Guardian Angel teams to the ocean.”

The colonel said the Reservists also practiced high altitude operations, brown-out landings, and transload operations.

“They gave us quick medical patient transfer from the combat zone to a rear hospital,” he said. “We were conducting our rescue training both day and night using night vision goggles and practiced one our special deck landing mission qualifications by landing on U.S. Navy ships.”

The rescue teams also worked with the U.S. Coast Guard’s Maritime Safety and Security Teams in conducting helicopter visit board search and seizure operations.

“As we get ready for our deployment to Afghanistan next summer, this exercise will also give us an opportunity to train inexperienced wing personnel on deployed operations prior to our AEF,” Colonel Hannon said.

The colonel said the joint and combined experience RIMPAC 2010 offers close ties to current military operations in Afghanistan working with the International Security Assistance Forces.

“We hope to gain joint operational experience and cross-tell rescue tactics, techniques and procedures. We see this exercise will give us an opportunity to demonstrate U.S. Air Force CSAR capabilities to the sister services and the forces from the multiple participating countries while also receiving an excellent opportunity to hone our skills.”

The wing mobilized to Afghanistan in 2009 under Operation Enduring Freedom for 14 months. While there, they were credited with more than 1,100 combat saves.  Most recently they were activated from January through April this year where the Guardian Angels from the 304th, 306th, and 308th Rescue Squadrons completed four months in Afghanistan. Previously, the wing mobilized to Afghanistan in 2005 for Operation Enduring Freedom, making 54 combat rescues, including U.S. Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell, who documented his ordeal in the best-selling novel, “Lone Survivor.”

Surfrider News & Events: August 2010
Surfrider Foundation, Cocoa Beach Chapter
By John Hearin
surfrider.cocoabeach@gmail.com
http://www.surfrider.org/cocoabeach

On June 26, the Cocoa Beach Chapter of the Surfrider Foundation helped organize the local “Hands Across the Sand” event to protest the Gulf Oil Spill and efforts by some Florida lawmakers to allow drilling near Florida’s beaches. Over 500 volunteers turned out at Lori Wilson Park to show their support and to call for a permanent moratorium on drilling in Florida waters. Our efforts will continue until a permanent moratorium is in place. For more information on this event, go to www.handsacrossthesand.com.

On July 24, our chapter participated in Surfers for Autism at Lori Wilson Park. We were part of a group of over 250 local volunteers who helped over 200 special needs children go surfing, many for the first time in their lives. It was a very rewarding experience for both surfers and volunteers alike. For more information on this event, check out their Facebook page.

We are still working with Keep Brevard Beautiful to organize volunteers for Oil Spill monitoring and response. Anyone interested in volunteering for Oil Spill monitoring in Brevard County should go to www.keepbrevardbeautiful.com to sign up.

We also urge all Brevard County residents to sign the petition calling for a moratorium on new offshore oil drilling. Go to www.nottheanswer.org for Spill information and to sign the petition.

On August 21, we will conduct a beach cleanup at Lori Wilson Park. The cleanup is being sponsored by Barefoot Wine, a corporate sponsor of the Surfrider Foundation. There will be a post cleanup party at Rum Runners Tavern on A1A in Cocoa Beach.

Upcoming Surfrider Events:

Every Wednesday: “Surf Chicks & Surf Flicks;” Rum Runners; 5 p.m. to 8 p.m.

August 13-15: Surfrider State Conference; Cocoa Beach Hilton

August 17: Chapter meeting; Cocoa Beach Surf Museum; 6 p.m.

August 21: Barefoot Wine Beach Cleanup; Lori Wilson Park; 9 a.m. to 11 a.m.

August 21: Barefoot Wine Post Cleanup Party; Rum Runners; 12 Noon to 2 p.m.

Whether you surf, bodyboard, swim, fish, bike, walk or just enjoy a clean, healthy beach, please consider joining the Surfrider Foundation. We hold regular meetings on the third Tuesday of every month at 6 p.m. in the Cocoa Beach Surf Museum, located at the Ron Jon Watersports Building, 4275 North Atlantic Ave. in Cocoa Beach. Hope to see you there.

Leah Dawson

New exhibit opens at CBSM
By Lani Mucha

On a July Saturday morning just south of Lori Wilson Park, head-high sets made their way onto the shore, and on this stretch of beach, several dozen women had the local sand bar all to themselves. The Cocoa Beach Surf Museum’s Women’s Surfing Social was just one of the activities in a full weekend opening the new exhibit, “Florida Women of the Waves.”

The weekend had begun the previous evening with a full house at the Cocoa Beach Library for the women’s surf movie, “Dear and Yonder,” and ended with the exhibit opening at the museum. Among the 129 Florida women featured in the exhibit are 47 Eastern titles, 22 U.S. titles, 18 N.S.S.A. titles, 9 world titles and 10 East Coast Surfing Hall of Fame honorees.

Spend a little time in the exhibit and you’ll see that women experience the surf no differently than men do. But spend a little more time there. Read the women’s biographies that are compiled in booklets and situated on pedestals accompanying each decade’s photographs, and you’ll begin to see why their time in the water may be a little sweeter — for the effort it took to be there, to compete there, to stand out there and, ultimately, to blend in there. The exhibit runs through the fall.

Next up, join us for the 4th annual Balsa Bill and Ocean Natural Paddle Challenge on August 21 behind Balsa Bill’s Surf Shop (1773 Hwy. A1A, Satellite Beach). Learn more at the next volunteer meeting, first Wednesday at 7 p.m. All are welcome.

For more information about “Florida Women of the Waves,” as well as all the other great museum opportunities, please visit our website at www.cocoabeachsurfmuseum.org, or call Tony Sasso, (321) 258-8217. The Museum is located at 4275 N. Atlantic Ave., Cocoa Beach, in the Ron Jon Watersports Building.

Recipes: August 2010
By Samantha Deebel

Hey, Resident readers!

My “cousin” Micky King is a fabulous chef. Micky was First Chef on the RV Arctic Discoverer, which recovered the lost treasure from the SS Central America that sank in 1857 during a hurricane, and on land he’s wowed our family for years with his culinary creations.

Here’s a taste of some of Micky’s summer barbecue and a fab vegetarian side dish that can also be made into a mushroom burger (just put it on a bun and add condiments!).

More treats from Micky to come in the future. Thanks, Micky. And thanks to Sean O’Hare for taking some excellent photos.

Portobello Napoleon

This big, stacked ‘shroom is simple and tasty and there’s no end to the ingredients you can add if you’re feeling creative.

6-8 large portobello mushrooms
1 block of cheese
2 large tomatoes
1 sweet onion
1 large avocado
Fresh basil leaves, de-stemmed, washed and patted dry
Marinade of your choice

Marinate mushrooms for two hours in your favorite marinade (my choices are balsamic vinaigrette, Italian vinaigrette or mojo criollo). Grill mushrooms until they start to get tender, then remove from grill and put back into marinade. Cut cheese block width-wise into 1/4-inch slices. Slice tomatoes into thick slices and thinly slice the sweet onion. Peel and slice avocado into thick slices length-wise to fit the mushrooms. Remove mushrooms from marinade. First stack mushroom with cheese followed by whole basil leaves, tomato slices, onions and then avocado slices. You can add another slice of deli-style cheese of your choice atop the avocado. Bake for 20 minutes in a preheated 350-degree oven and serve.

CKN Ribs

What are CKN Ribs? This recipe is my alternative to pork or beef ribs. It’s also a much more way economical way enjoy chicken wings.

1 whole chicken
Your favorite barbecue or wing sauce

Using a good cleaver, cut knuckles off each leg. Lay chicken breast flat on cutting board and cut breast width-wise into three sections. Cut thighs length-wise. Grill chicken pieces on medium heat until cooked. Toss chicken “ribs” into your sauce and spread on a cookie sheet or wrap in aluminum foil and put back on grill or into an oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Serve with carrot sticks and celery sticks and plenty of napkins!

* Note: Leaving skin on the chicken is optional, but it does help keep the meat moist.

Predators

Producer Robert Rodriguez (“Sin City”; “Desperado”) has employed up-and-coming director Nimród Antal (“Control”; “Armored”) to direct the latest episode of the “Predator” franchise. Royce, played by Adrien Brody (“The Pianist”), leads a group of soldiers from different origins through an alien jungle after being sedated dropped into a Predator game preserve. At its core, this installment is a throwback to the ’80s Schwarzenegger original but with a few new twists. There’s nothing better than science fiction mixed with action, yet in this case, there’s so much more in the way of blood and thrills that it should be really be categorized as an alien slasher flick. The only things missing here are Action Jackson and Arnie, though “Predators” makes up for it with an impressive cast, including Topher Grace (“Spider-Man 3″) as Edwin, the young doctor, and Danny Trejo (“Heat”) as Cuchillo the cartel enforcer. Even veteran actor Laurence Fishburne (“The Matrix”) makes a small cameo as a hunted survivor from previous Predator excursions. Bonuses are all the imaginative futuristic weaponry on view, from the mini-gun and full auto shotgun Brody’s character carries to the Predators’ laser cannon and the arm-knife slashing thingy. It’s also exciting to see the little guy get the better of a Predator, even if it’s just for a moment before the Predator rips his spine out through his keister. If you’ve decided to see “Predators” you probably know what you’re getting into; if you’re new to the series, it’s okay to start with this one and work your way back later.

Eclipse
Directed by David Slade

Director David Slade (“30 Days of Night”; “Hard Candy”) brings us the third installment of Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” saga, in which a teenage girl named Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart) is in the midst of dating 100-year-old vampire Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson) while leading on Indian werewolf Jacob Black (Taylor Lautner). Edward and Jacob are sworn enemies but are brought together to fight an army of newborn vampires bent on pillaging cities and turning any and every teenager they can find into one of their own. I have a lot of problems with this film — the werewolves are just dudes who morph into huge, cute Lassie-like dogs and the vampires don’t die but merely “sparkle” when exposed to sunlight — but it’s all in good, escapist fun, as the movies and books are obviously intended for teenage girls (and, apparently, my 29-year-old girlfriend). Bearing that in mind, “Eclipse” is filled with more action, cool flashbacks, and supernatural magic tricks than its predecessors. So what if there are over ten scenes in which Bella, Edward, and Jacob discuss the same topic as if they hadn’t already covered it before numerous times? Listen: if you’re a thirty-something guy who’s forced to watch this, there’s a good chance you may not hate it. If you’re a 15-year old girl, on the other hand, you’ll freakin’ love it.

Inception
Directed by Christopher Nolan

“Inception” asks the age-old question, “Are we living in a dream world?”… and proceeds to ask it like fifty-two times in two hours. I actually loved this movie; you can always count on Nolan (“The Dark Night”; “Insomnia”) to give you your money’s worth. “Inception” revolves around freelance “dream spy” Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) who, with the help of Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and Ariadne (Ellen Page of “Juno” fame), is given a mission to spy on unsuspecting billionaire businessman Robert Fischer, Jr. (Cillian Murphy of “Batman Begins”) while he sleeps. This is one of those movies that layers plot upon a plot and revels in keeping you guessing for the duration. In a way, one could describe “Inception” as intellect-teasing fantasy noir, but I enjoyed it on a more visceral level. It’s visually striking and offers some great acting, especially from relative newcomer Tom Hardy (“RocknRolla;” “Bronson”) as a charismatic forger who can change his appearance within people’s dreams. The majority of my friends speak in hushed, reverent tones about this film, and describe it as the pinnacle of motion picture genius; in fact, I even heard someone shout out “Genius!” as I left the theater. In my opinion, “Inception” was very good and highly entertaining… though not as much Nolan’s “Dark Knight.” That said, if you’re going to the theater and don’t want to be let down, then put your hard-earned money on “Inception.”

Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse

It’s a testament to Danger Mouse’s skill and cachet as a producer that Dark Night of the Soul was already being hailed as a classic long before its completion. Everything he’s touched thus far, from Gnarls Barkley to the Good, the Bad, and the Queen, has garnered critical, commercial, and artistic acclaim, and Dark Night’s promise of Sparklehorse’s insightful songs sung by a slew of guest artists refracted through the skewed prism of visionary David Lynch had fans chomping at the bit. Add to this unprecedented expectation a tortuous release history, a heated label battle, and the subsequent suicides of Mark Linkous (the brains behind Sparklehorse) and collaborator Vic Chesnutt, and you have the makings of a grim masterpiece — all before you’ve even heard track one. Plenty of other vaunted classics have survived on much less (see Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music), but Dark Night has the dual attraction of looking good in your discerning collection and sounding beautiful. It’s downfall, however, is its one-note outlook. After several spins it becomes merely a good mood album, one you might pull out when you’re feeling lower than Nick Drake could take you. The first half is inspiring enough, but the latter part is the sound of unsettling, almost perverse introversion, the equivalent of several egos beating a dead horse. Still though, Dark Night of the Soul is essential listening, whatever your frame of mind. — T. Bennison

Herbie Hancock
The Imagine Project
Hancock Records; 2010

And so begins another chapter in the ongoing deification of John Lennon, an artist whose inherent bitterness and cynicism seems to have flown over the heads of subsequent generations of misguided idolators. You’d think someone like the legendary Herbie Hancock would be above such nonsense, but you’d be wrong. Here he is trotting out every World-Peace-”It’s a Small World”-trope — as part of a collaborative, continent-jumping “musical concept” his publicists insist is unprecedented — all while presumably paying Yoko Ono handsomely for the use of the word “imagine.” It’s heavy baggage he’s carrying, to be sure, but it becomes an even heavier encumbrance once you see the roster of artists he’s enlisted to realize his vision. Witness P!nk (!) rubbing elbows with John Legend, Seal, Lisa Hannigan, Jeff Beck, and James (not “Jim,” mind you) Morrison, a chap whose dubious claims to fame include an unmemorable hit UK single and the fact that he’s opened for Jason Mraz, as if that counted for anything. Elsewhere, you find the Chieftains trying their best to mingle with Kokono No. 1, Los Lobos, and Chaka Khan, while Susan Tedeschi, Derek Trucks, and Wayne Shorter are left wondering where on earth Hancock went off to. To make matters worse, Lennon (the album’s other implied selling point) is dispensed with after the first track, only to be revived one more time for a meandering, lackluster take on “Tomorrow Never Knows,” courtesy of a disinterested Dave Matthews. A nice idea squandered. And all under the auspices of the great Herbie Hancock. Imagine… — T. Bennison

Various Artists
Broken Hearts & Dirty Windows: Songs of John Prine
Oh Boy; 2010

I’ve always been a fan of tribute albums. When done right, they both pay homage for inspiration and make the old new again. They also bring classic songs from well-known artists to younger generations with unique new delivery. I guess I just like lots of new and old mixing together — renovated furniture, cooking styles, and of course, this album. For it, twelve tracks were pulled from John Prine’s prolific song writing career, and in each it’s possible to trace both the original man and the new mouths singing along. My Morning Jacket take on the ironic “All the Best” and the Avett Brothers sing about a “Spanish Pipedream” that’s as sweet as peaches. Elsewhere, Josh Ritter croons about a sweltering “Mexican Home” and Justin Townes Earle sounds like he could be Cory Brannan’s brother on “Far From Me.” You’ll also hear Old Crow Medicine Show doing a beautifully authentic “Angel From Montgomery,” the Drive-By Truckers serenade to “Daddy’s Little Pumpkin,” and Those Darlins do Prine proud with their breathy version of “Let’s Talk Dirty in Hawaiian.” I’m missing “Glory of True Love,” “In Spite of Ourselves” and “I Just Wanna Dance With You,” but here’s hoping Broken is just one of many attempts to make John Prine new again. — V. Bormann

The xx
xx
Young Turks; 2009

Aptly labeled as dream pop, this three-piece London band recorded this debut album in a small room in the dead of night. Judging by these lusty, atmospheric tracks, it’s no surprise the curtain of darkness would have been an inspiration for the collection. XX is at once as beautiful and as dangerous as meditation; go too far and you might never quite return to the same place from which you started. From the album’s release in late 2009 to the present, various songs have been featured on “Grey’s Anatomy,” “Gossip Girl” and “Law & Order.” The catchy and unique “Intro” earned the group some notice in an AT&T commercial during NBC’s coverage of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games as well. Part sexy lounge soundtrack and part deliverance of modern soul, the xx here have produced a varied simulacrum of a lucid dream. With elemental themes present throughout (air, earth, fire, water), you find yourself drifting off into the clouds with a handful of soil. From the glory-of-love “Islands” to the wickedly sexy “Shelter,” xx is a landscape of evocative lyrics, with Romy Madley Croft’s vocals wrapping you gently into crisp basslines. Most noticeably though, there’s an empty-room quality to this album; it’s like being lured by music coming through an open window at the end of a long dark hallway. You just kind of let go and follow it, more because you want to than because you must. Regardless of the impetus, you should. — V. Bormann

Boardrider of the Month: Kelly Branagh
• Interview by Alex Joy •

Kelly Branagh has been surfing the local waters since he got his first taste at Surf Road in Melbourne Beach back in the ’80s.

From Gemini to Mel High, Kelly fully embraced the surfing lifestyle. His first sponsor, Spectrum Surf Shop, helped him get to contests up and down the East Coast in the Spectrum Team Van. With Trip Freeman heading things up as the Team leader and trainer, good times and and many a crazy moment were the highlights of every road trip.

Kelly has seen many changes in surfing, but one thing has remained constant for him: getting stoked. He has lots of respect for his mentors and told us that John Holeman was one of his biggest influences; watching Jim invent airs like the 360 and a variety of others must have made for great inspiration and entertainment.

But Kelly also loves seeing talented young surfers on the rise, many of whom keep him stoked on the future of surfing. He’s a great surfer with loads of talent; his smooth and solid surfing makes him stand out in any lineup. Kelly has also worked within and around the periphery of the surfing world his whole life. About three years ago, he started the indispensable used surfboard source www.anotherride.com. Check it out, and give Kelly a hoot next time you see him ripping it up.

What’s the best part about living here in Brevard County?

It’s laid back and not too far from Orlando International Airport when you want to get away.

What was your first surfboard?

An $8 custom 4’8″ round-nose concave-deck single fin found at a garage sale. And I still have it.

Where was your first surf trip?

First trip out of the country was Costa Rica in 1988.

What would be the best surf trip ever?

A boat trip though the Mentawais with my best mates.

What makes a good surf shop?

A good, knowledgeable staff that knows the product lines and a great selection of boards.

What boards are you riding right now?

… Lost.

Do you think fins make a difference in how well a board works?

The right fins for the right rider will and do make a huge difference. FCS has helped with one board being able to handle more conditions.

Who would you like to see make a big name for themselves in the surf world around here?

Tommy Coleman.

Where is your secret spot?

2nd Light.

Best local surf spot?

2nd Light.

How would you react if we had a similar disaster to the BP Oil Spill here on the East Coast?

I’d move. I couldn’t bear to see all the animals die.

If you were the president for a day what would you do?

Find an engineer who could design and build a real wave pool in Florida and hold events there year-round.

If you could pick one spot to surf forever where would you choose?

Restaurants or Pavones.

Do you think the other Kelly will make world title number 10?

I think he gets underscored in critical situations in heats, so I like “yes,” but “no” if the judging is not in his favor. We all know he’s an animal and still the king.

Local hero?

C.C. Rider.

Any words of wisdom for all the groms out there?

Be happy… SURF!

Any last shout-outs?

Quack quack!

Mobula hypostoma, the Atlantic devil ray

Betcha didn’t think we had two similar looking manta-like rays in our waters, did ya? Well, I couldn’t write about last month’s species and not tell ya’ll about this one, could I? Our area is home to some amazing species, and I never knew about this one till I started working out on the local fishing boats.

Even I was confused when I first saw it; although it looked like a baby manta ray, there was something about it that looked… well, different. The captain of my vessel looked at me and said: “That ain’t no manta, that there is the devil.” And so went my introduction to this month’s species: Mobula hypostoma, the Atlantic devil ray.

Although this creature is remarkably similar to its larger cousin, the manta, there are many differences between the two. The devil is a considerably smaller species, only growing to lengths of up to 48 inches from tip to tip. It does differ from other species of ray in the fact that it is has certain fins on either side of its head that allows it to feed as it swims slowly throughout the water column filtering plankton. These fins on either side of its mouth face forward, as opposed to sideways in the manta ray.

The Atlantic devil ray inhabits our waters in during the summer, when it is busy both feeding and breeding. Color ranges from grayish to brownish, and there have been reports of a bluish variation with a lighter underside. Other indicative characteristics are wide, wing-like pectoral fins, projection-like fins on either side of its mouth, and a small, spineless tail. It is nearly impossible to mistake this species for anything other than a shark fin in the water, as the tip of its wing often resembles a shark as it feeds.

Historically, the devil ray has been found along the coastal areas of the western Atlantic. Little is known about its reproductive habits, but it is believed that this species has only one offspring per year. Prey items are planktonic species, and this is the reason that the devil ray appears along our coasts this time of year.

This species has never been implicated in a direct attack on humans, but they have been known to jump out of the water quite often. Its large size and frequency in our waters make it a potentially hazardous factor in any nearshore trip in our waters, although it is very unlikely to be hit by one.

The Atlantic devil ray has been commercially fished in the tropical Americas and the flavor of their flesh has been described as quite good. However, the low numbers in which they are caught make them of little importance to many commercial fisheries. Atlantic devil rays are not currently listed by the IUCN, as there is little to no scientific or fisheries data regarding them. It has been speculated that this species could become threatened if fishing pressures increase similarly to other sharks and rays.

Like all species, the devil ray is an integral part of our ecosystem and deserves our continued respect, conservation, and admiration. Please help to conserve and protect this amazing creature.

Mahalo,

Bloody Bill

For more information visit: www.flmnh.ufl.edu

Between a Heart and a Rock Place: A Memoir
By Pat Benetar with Patsi Bale Cox
William Morrow; 245 pages; $25.99

Memoirs clutter the literary landscape these days. They tend to be very personal in nature, and are often written by people unknown to the masses. Pat Benatar doesn’t suffer from such a malady. She was one of the biggest selling acts of the ’80s, and arguably the biggest female rocker since Janis Joplin. She came out of New York, and stormed across the country winning millions of fans and four Grammys in the process. Most people have at least an awareness of the public Pat Benatar, and now comes a glimpse behind the scenes at that creation.

Patricia Mae Andrzejewski was born into a lower middle-class family in Brooklyn. It was 1950s America — the Cold War and Davy Crockett; Vietnam was nothing more than an odd word. Her vocal talent was recognized early on, and she was soon spending hours in classical voice training. But “there wasn’t much room in classical music to go crazy;” her true love was rock ‘n’ roll, and the harder the better.

She married high school sweetheart Dennis Benatar just before he shipped out to Vietnam, and declined a scholarship to Julliard because of him. They moved around to different Army posts after he returned, and she began singing in local clubs. After some success in Virginia where they lived, she took off for New York City. She landed a recording contract, and met the love of her life while auditioning band members. Neil Giraldo had just come off the road as the guitarist in Rick Derringer’s band, and he turned out to be the soulmate she needed to turn the sounds in her head into music.

This memoir is ultimately about the two biggest relationships in her life — the one she shared with second husband Giraldo and the other with her record company. Giraldo is the one who fashioned the sound of the band (though they were billed as “Pat Benetar,” it was a band). He produced much of their catalog, even though he didn’t receive much of the credit. Benatar gushes when talking about Giraldo, so much so that it is sometimes difficult to imagine her as the tough rock-n-roller that was part of her stage persona.

Her relationship with the record company was the exact opposite. Their contract gave the record company almost complete artistic control. Benatar unfortunately relied on a club manager and friend to guide them through the recording industry maze, and he was not quite up to the task. She declared the record company “officially the enemy” after battling them to grant Giraldo the production credit he was due on their second album. It was only after she fired her manager that she found out she could renegotiate the band’s contract, and gain artistic control of their music.

Pat Benatar, a devoted wife and mother, has led a boring life compared to other artists of the era. There are no destroyed hotel rooms or tales of drunken debauchery. The fact that she is a female in a male-dominated world makes this an interesting story. Although she touches on the inspiration for some of her songs, her fans might appreciate a little more focus on the music. But Benatar is still young and continues to record; there’s time to add more chapters. Time is still on her side.

Tossers! In May, Britain’s Norfolk District Council banned the traditional barroom game of “dwile flonking” just as the inaugural “world championships” were to take place at the Dog Inn pub in Ludham, Great Yarmouth. The game, which some believe has been played since “medieval times,” calls on players to fling a beer-soaked rag from the end of a small stick toward the face of an opponent, and in the event the tosser misses the target two straight times, he must quickly down a half-pint of ale. The council called the game a “health and safety” problem.

Unfairian Virginia state inmate Kendall Gibson, who is serving 47 years for abduction and robbery committed at age 18, has spent the last 10 years in the prison’s “hole,” 23 hours a day in a cell “the size of a gas station restroom” (wrote an Associated Press reporter), not because he’s a danger to the prison population, but because he won’t cut his hair. Gibson is a Rastafarian and says his dreadlocks are devoutly authorized by the spiritual Lord, Jah. (A 1999 Virginia prison regulation requires administrative segregation for long-hairs.)

Great Expectorations People who live or work in New York City believe themselves to be among the world’s toughest and hardiest, but at least 51 of them are apparently legendarily soft: the 51 city bus drivers who between them took 3,200 days of paid leave last year to “heal” over the single workplace “injury” of being spit on by passengers. (Thirty-two other spit-upon drivers did not request leave.) An official with the Transport Workers Union called spitting “physically and psychologically traumatic” and requiring “recuperat(ion).” In related news, the prominent Howrah bridge in Calcutta, India, has become a serious safety risk, according to a May report for the Calcutta Port Trust, because the steel hoods protecting the pillars holding up the bridge have been thinned by 50 percent in recent years. Engineers believe the corrosion has been caused almost entirely by the chemicals in gutkha, the popular chewing tobacco/herb concoction, which produces expectorants routinely hocked onto the bridge by the 500,000 pedestrians who cross it every day.

¡Viva Las Ardillas! Arizona (viewed by some as hard-hearted for its April law stepping up its vigilance for illegal immigrants) showed a soft side recently, implementing a $1.25 million federal grant that it believes will save the lives of at least five squirrels a year. The state’s 250 endangered Mount Graham red squirrels risk becoming roadkill on Route 366 near Pima, and the state is building a rope bridge for them to add to several existing tunnels.

By The Book In May, the chief media spokesman of the Nye County, NV, sheriff’s office, Det. David Boruchowitz, announced to the press the arrest of a man charged with burglary and assault. The suspect’s name, he reported, was Det. David Boruchowitz. The chief investigator on the case, Det. Boruchowitz told reporters, was Det. David Boruchowitz. (Three days later, the charges were dropped, but that announcement was made by someone else.) Also, in Rehoboth Beach, DE, it is illegal for men and women to publicly reveal their genitals and for women to reveal their breasts, but Police Chief Keith Banks, confronted in June with complaints about some beachgoers flouting their shapely breasts, said there was nothing he could do. Banks said the offenders were actually biological males in the midst of hormonal transgendering. As Banks explained, “(T)hey had male genitalia. Therefore, they were not guilty of a crime.” Lastly, in April, Prince Edward Island (Canada) judge John Douglas acquitted minor league hockey player Chris Doyle of assaulting his former girlfriend, though Doyle had arrived at her home uninvited, had annoyed and berated her, and would not leave. The girlfriend was injured when Doyle punched a door, causing it to smash against her face, but Judge Douglas accepted that Doyle honestly did not know she was behind the door. Said the judge, “If he was charged with being a colossal a**hole, I would find him guilty. Of ‘assault causing bodily harm,’ I find him not guilty.”

Flagrant Fragrancy Homeless New Jersey man Richard Kreimer said in February (2006) that he had settled, on undisclosed terms, part of his most recent lawsuit, against a transit company and two drivers, for having denied him rides because of his foul odor. Kreimer’s history includes a $150,000 settlement with the public library in Morris County, which had tried to keep him out because of his odor, and, by his count, $80,000 in additional lawsuit-related income (though some went for legal expenses). Kreimer filed another foul-odor lawsuit in February against a transit company and a train station in Summit.

Pesky Doctrines! Many jihadist recruiting pitches are dry and pious, but in May, the Somali activist Abu Mansoor al-Amriki, 26, who was born in Alabama, began streaming Internet rap “music” videos to encourage warrior sign-ups. (Sample verse: “It all started out in Afghanistan/When we wiped the oppressors off the land/The Union crumbled and tumbled/Humbled, left them mumbled/Made a power withdraw and cower.”) Actually, there was no music but merely al-Amriki singing, presumably because in the version of Islam favored by Somali jihadists, “music” is not permitted.

In my capacity as a diplomatic intern with the U.S. Embassy to the DPRK (more commonly known as North Korea), I have met and worked with many brave dissidents. One young woman I’ll call “Kim” escaped over the border recently into China, and I’ve been working with her closely, helping her get acclimated to her new life. As you might expect, I’ve fallen in love with her. Kim is a beautiful, highly intelligent girl whose courage in the face of oppression is remarkable and inspiring, but my relationship with her has compromised my job as well as my belief system. Part of me is more than willing to give up my career for true love; the other more sensible part is feeling cautious about making such an imprudent, at least professionally speaking, move. But each time I look into Kim’s eyes, all I see is a lovely, spirited girl from Pyongyang who risked it all and defected for the sake of freedom. What on earth should I do?

“In Love with a Defector”
Beijing

Dear Sir, you seem like a very smart, sensitive young man, yet I find myself very amused by your letter. You know Romeo’s attitude toward romance, so what advice are you expecting me to dispense? By all means, give up your job and devote your life to the enchanting Kimberly. She sounds very intriguing, but I fail to share your admiration for her “courage,” as you say. Being a defecator hardly makes her unique. All women are defecators, whether we like it or not. Defecation is part of what makes us human, regardless of gender. We all do it, often several times a day. I hardly think this simple activity should bestow us with any degree of courage. Please do not revere her unduly for what is a natural human function. I suggest you concentrate on exploring her pyongyang and pay less attention to the state of her bowels. Best of luck!

Romeo,

All I ever hear is women complaining about how they can never figure out what men are thinking. I don’t understand this at all! Our thoughts should be as clear as day. And our needs are very simple. The real puzzle is what goes on in a woman’s mind! Take me girlfriend, Liz. I’m a very understanding boyfriend and try to do everything Liz tells me, but it’s never good enough for her. It’s like she’s playing some kind of weird game with me. It’s like she’s speaking in a secret code that I have to figure out. It’s very exhausting. I know I’ve got it good — Liz is beautiful and smart and down to earth — but I just can’t get into her head. Can you unravel the mystery of what goes on in a woman’s mind?

Rob M.
Satellite Beach

I see no mystery here, Don. As a man who has always felt comfortable embracing his feminine side — a side that exists under layers of varying thickness in all men — I recommend taking a break from Liz for a while until you peel away these stubborn layers of masculinity that cover your mind. They keep you from empathizing and ultimately understanding her. I will be happy to spend time with her while you work things out. While your busy getting in touch with your own feminine side, I will attempt to penetrate her psyche. Psych!

Romeo,

I’ve fallen in love with a German exchange student and I’m having trouble getting a grip on the language. I’m due to go over there in a few weeks to meet her parents and I’m stressing out practicing my grammar and pronunciation. There’s just no way I’ll figure it out in time. You’ve been around. Any tips or shortcuts?

L.H.
Cape Canaveral

Just stick with it, my friend. German is not half as difficult as it first seems. While on vacation in Munich last month I picked up a little German. She was only 4’8″, but she seemed like she knew her way around a sausage. Boy was I wrong. That was the wurst knock I ever had. Auf Wiedersehen!

Romeo,

Please help. My girlfriend of three months recently lost her job, wrecked her car, and got kicked out of her apartment. She never prepared for the future and has no money of her own. Now she’s living with me and borrowing my car constantly. It’s to help her find a new job, but I’m really tired of it. I didn’t mind the first few times, but now it’s really starting to get on my nerves. I take a lot of pride in my vehicle and keep it in tip-top condition, but she’s running the transmission into the ground and recently came back with a dent on the bumper when she backed into someone in the CVS parking lot. Of course, she panicked and fled the scene and now I’ve got that to worry about. What should I do?

Dave G.
Indian Harbour Beach

That’s nothing, Nick. One of my old paramours, a hot-blooded Venezuelan named Marta, wrecked my Maserati in South Beach after one too many Cuban coffees. That ruined our vacation quickly, I can tell you. Luckily it still ran. But on the way back home she blew my head gasket going east on the 706. It’s a wonder I didn’t swerve off the road! Juuupiterrr!

VIRGO: You’ll achieve every goal you’ve set for yourself later this month, and this act of concerted focus will ripple out and have a similar effect on those you don’t even know. That guy you flicked off for cutting in front of you three weeks ago had the good sense to write down your plate number, and his goal, unfortunately, is to track you down and kick your ass good and proper.

LIBRA: You didn’t run out of gas last month; you only needed a pit stop. Refreshed and refueled, you head back out onto the track a full two laps before anyone else — at least until you have to take another pit stop to void your bladder of the 2-liter Colosso-Gulp of Dr. Pepper you foolishly chose to guzzle down at the first pit stop. Coming in last does suck, but boy did that feel good.

SCORPIO: You have a gift for sensing what people are thinking long before they act. Now if you only had the foresight to study jiu-jitsu years ago you’d be able to avoid the wickedly executed leg-sweep coming your way in about five seconds.

SAGITTARIUS: You know what’s good for you and what’s not. You just need to be reminded once in a while, and right now is “once in a while.” Running for exercise is good for you; running from your jilted, bat-wielding fiancée on a full stomach of Canadian whisky and a Super Sausage Philly Cheesesteak pizza is not. Stopping, dropping, curling yourself up into a ball and playing dead is probably your best bet at this juncture.

CAPRICORN: No matter how considerate you try to be, a renter will never care so much about his dwelling as the actual owner. However, your efforts to duct tape the hole you made in the roof have not gone unnoticed. It was a well-intentioned repair, but one that also requires at least three costly permits. Expect a visitor bearing $750 worth of fines and citations.

AQUARIUS: Sometimes you can’t see the positives of a poor situation until they’re actually manifested. I mean, who could have foreseen that those M-80s would have taken your hand off? And who would have thought that having a claw was actually pretty cool? You’ll get plenty of pity and attention from curious members of the opposite sex through October, but good luck eating blueberries.

PISCES: In the coming weeks you’ll get plenty of compliments you feel you don’t deserve. But are you being too modest? Very unlikely. Daring and ambitious you undoubtedly are, but sensitive? You? Weren’t the guy who muscled your rich aunt into financing your terrible new business? Sure, you tended to her every need and gave her the attention she’d long been lacking, but $50,000 to develop a line of hormone-free kitten cutlets? Back to the drawing board.

ARIES: You’ve given yourself a complete makeover and are ready for a fresh start. You’ve never felt so good about yourself, and, quite frankly, you’ve never looked lovelier. You only wonder why cross dressing hadn’t crossed your mind earlier.

TAURUS: Things always turn out better in fairy tales, don’t they? Well, certain fairy tales. You’d like to think that the end of July will find you kissing a frog who turns into a prince or stumbling across a pot of gold in the forest. Incredibly, you’ll be lured into a witch’s gingerbread house and thrust into an oven only to escape over a bridge from under which a hungry ogre will awaken and devour you.

GEMINI: The furthest thing from your mind this month is the possibility of failure. But don’t get your hopes up, sister. Is being known as the girl who won “Honorable Mention” in the wet t-shirt contest something worthy of celebration? Not in this case. A Bolivian transvestite came in first and your obese boyfriend took home both second and third place trophies, oddly enough.

CANCER: Don’t worry, be happy! Everything about your life right now seems terrible, but look a little closer and you’ll glimpse a distant light at the end of the tunnel. It all comes down to numbers this month: Buy a lottery ticket and pick numbers based on your monthly car payment, the balance you owe in child support, and the birthday of your favorite basketball player and you’ll win another lottery ticket you’ll lose on.

When your best pal disappears in the wee hours of the night it can be cause for great consternation.

But when your best pal disappears and six days and six nights go by without any sign of him, it can be downright devastating.

It was nearly dawn when I came home from a long trip down to Miami to retrieve two friends on a visit from Australia. It was late and we were tired once we got back to Cocoa Beach where I was house and dog sitting for some friends who live on the Banana River. When I arrived, I simply let my charge, Miles, and Humphrey, my own sneaky beagle, out for their nightly business, just as I’d done daily and nightly for several days prior.

Not two minutes had gone by when we realized that Humphrey, the little bastard, decided to go exploring. We split up to search. I went south down along the river rocks while the Aussies headed north. We searched high and low with flashlights and treats, whistling and yelling, and trying in vain to coax him back. Before long the sun had come up, and still no sign of the elusive beagle. The search was thrust into second gear with a full auto assault driving down every nearby street and hollering his name. When this plan yielded zero results, Plan C went into effect. We printed flyers and set about posting them all along the area where he disappeared. By this time the sun was setting, and it was time to sit back and wait for a call. The next morning brought no calls. Serious panic set in. Where the hell did he go? How could no one have seen him? That part of the island wasn’t so large an area. I started to fear the worst.

We tried everything as the days went by. Every shelter, veterinary clinic, and groomer has been alerted. I even tried one of those “Amber Alerts” for pets, which involves paying out the yingyang for a blanket of calls in the area where you’d last seen your beloved pet. More flyers were made and spread further north into Cocoa Beach and south into Satellite. Signs were made and stuck into the ground at optimal locations. His handsome mug was sent out through Facebook, 2nd Light.com, 16Streets.com, and TheBeachsideResident.com. The news spread quickly and no stone was left unturned. Every night I grew lonelier and more desperate. I just couldn’t understand. How could the little sonofabeagle just disappear with no trace?

Nearly a week later, after friends of friends of friends passed along emails alerting of his situation, I got a call.

It seems that instead of running down the river as we’d assumed, he did the unthinkable and went straight for the road. At 5 a.m. a passing car nearly struck him. The car stopped and averted two other cars from turning him into beagle juice. They quickly coaxed him into their own vehicle. It seems this kind family were embarking on weeklong vacation to Cape Hatteras, NC when they were suddenly encumbered with a wily beagle excited to see new people along with their two female Shelties. They waited and looked around. Since the owner was busy running along the river shouting like an idiot, the rescuers were left hanging. They had a ferry to catch in NC and a decision to make.

And so began Humphrey’s vacation to the Outer Banks. Several attempts to call the Brevard Animal Services went unanswered due to the time of his being found. An attempt to have him scanned for a chip also turned up no results. And as the family crept higher north and well out of cell phone range, they decided they’d just have to figure it out when they returned.

At noon the following Sunday, Humphrey returned in an air-conditioned Ford Excursion back to a heavily postered Cocoa Beach. Marqees and banners welcomed him home as if he were some kind of hero, when in actuality the little cuss had simply taken a vacation without me! It was a joyful reunion, and thankfully, he’d been well taken care of. After a lot of mushy stuff, he took his place at my feet while I sat the office and slept the entire day.

Big thanks to everyone who helped — Jet Press Printing, Colossal Signs, 2nd Light, A1A Signs, 16 Streets, Kim and Larry Walker, Slow & Low BBQ, Surfer’s Sports Pub, Azz and Jojo, Micky, Flavia, the Caldwells, Henry, Deb, Kate, Leandra, Denise Stanton, and so many others. Thanks to all for not giving up and helping me keep my head straight.

Double Ds of Summer
• Judy Forney •

“Honey,” I lowered sunglasses from wave-tumbled hair to shield my eyes and looked over at my hubby, who sat in the shade of our beach umbrella reading a book. “I was just thinking about… Whoa! Check that out…”

“What?”

“Obviously something NASA has been working on… ”

“Where?”

I nodded my head in the direction of the surf. “There. The Inflatable Gravity Rejection Device that gal’s hauling around in her bikini top.”

“Geez, Judy, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Point things like that out to me all the time.”

“I can’t help it. You know I’ve got an obsession with that particular inequality amongst women. And by ‘women’ I mean me.”

“Yeah, but one of these days I’ll be the one caught staring… ”

“Well, what’s she gonna do? March up here and demand an apology?”

“No, her buff and beefy boyfriend will come along, kick sand in my face, blacken my eye, and demand one.”

“Oh, come on. All we’d have to do is explain that I made you look… ”

“And that is just wrong on so many levels.”

“Ha! All I’m saying is that it’s not entirely fair. I mean, it would have been nice if in this lifetime my… ahh… cups, so to speak, could have overflowed a little.”

“You know, it would be hard for folks to believe the amount of time you and I spend discussing boo… err… female anatomy.”

And with that, the guy went back to reading his book and shook his head slightly as if wondering, once again, about the sanity of his spouse.

But anatomy, female or otherwise, wasn’t what I’d intended to point out. No, the double Ds on my mind had had nothing to do with cleavage. I’d been laying there feeling the sweat, which was too lazy to trickle puddle onto my back, and thinking about the phrase “Dog Days of Summer.”

I’ve read that it was coined by the ancient Greeks. During the hottest months of the year they could look up and see both the sun and a very bright star sharing space in the heavens. That bright star was the Dog Star, and the Grecians figured it had to be adding wattage to the sun. They were concerned that the extra juice was gonna blow the whole celestial system, kind of like screwing a 90-watt bulb into a lamp that requires only 60, and that the sun would overbake the entire world.

Anyway, they pegged August as an especially risky time. Men became too languid to move. Folks would be fevered. Hysteria would rule. Women would have fits and frenzies. Some thought the sea would boil. But the very worst of it? The fear of all the wine turning sour! Sounds pretty nasty, huh?

And what I’d been trying to tell my hubby earlier was that living here on the Space Coast I knew just how those Greeks felt. Languid? Doesn’t even begin to cover it on afternoons when a girl has to choose between moving through the muggy heat or just lying still and decomposing. We all gotta go sometime, right? And although the Atlantic isn’t boiling, I swear the waves are warmer than the water in the swimming pool at our condo. As for fits and frenzies, well you should see me after I first kick off flipflops and step onto burning hot sand. What are the song lyrics from the movie “Flash Dance”? “She’s a maniac, maniac on the floor/and she’s dancing like she never danced before… ”

All I can say is thank goodness for ice chests and plastic bottles of wine. If only the old Grecians had invented those instead of wasting time on democracy, geometry and other obsolete junk, they could have relaxed a little.

“Honey?”

“I am NOT looking… ”

“I wasn’t gonna ask you to, but listen — ”

“Reading. Not looking.”

“No, what I started to say earlier was… ”

“Eyes glued to page.”

Geez Louise, I thought to myself as I crawled into the shade of the umbrella and poured a glass of cold chardonnay. What’s the use of even trying to have an intelligent conversation with the guy? He’ll just go all off-topic on me, as usual…

Happy Double Ds, Beachside!

Wackjob Wisdom
• David Sherman •

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.

Welcome to Aquarian Wackjob Air. Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for take-off. You need not return your trays to their upright position, as a cocktail may actually prove helpful during this flight. Any of you who are running BS filter technology my wish to turn it off now, as the following page is certain to overload it completely. Those of you who’ve flown with us before know this to be true. Please enjoy the flight, and remember our motto at Aquarian Wackjob Air: ”We are the Dreamers.  We are the vorpal blade which slays the jabberwocky of pedantic thought and soars beyond the excremental ether of all that cannot be.” 3 – 2 – 1 . . .

Modern science is a wonderful thing. At least it could be, were it not hijacked at every turn and perverted for profit. We used to cure things, but now it’s far more profitable to just treat them. The victories over measles, malaria, and polio are forgotten in the profits of a boner pill and restless leg syndrome. No one read Sinclair Lewis’ “Arrowsmith”! We are the constant proof that while genius has limits, stupidity is under no such restraint. We invented cars — we got smog. We invented elevators — we got urban crowding that would make a microbe claustrophobic. We invented computers — we got 37 quadrillion ways to stream porn to the phone in our pocket! We built rocket ships that could fly to the moon — and then we just quit and walked away. What?

I remember when they told us in school that the planet had just reached a population of 4 billion. It was a big deal. Now we are over 6 billion, which in modern terms is 6 giga-people, and no one bats an eye. There are currently more people walking around on this planet than all of those who have come before combined. At our current rate, it won’t be long before the pressing question of any evening won’t be where to eat, but rather, “Will we eat?” Famine will no longer be something Sally Struthers goes on about; it will be our everyday existence. People, there’s only so much food. This beautiful little blue ball of ours might just as well be a terrarium when it comes to matters of finite space. We’re cool for now (Though we certainly don’t share well. Hence, Sally Struthers.), but eventually we will have overpopulated beyond a level the planet can sustain. Then what?

Then we will kick ourselves in the place where we keep our collective heads, because we couldn’t be bothered to fund NASA! Yes, NASA, the people who once built a vehicle out of materials they had to invent along the way, equipped it with a computer with one thousandth the capacity of the one your daughter is texting on right now, crewed it with three lunatics whose bravery still transcends mortal norms, and then launched it to the moon. They are also the same people who are our best hope for ever finding a way to reach out so far into space as to find planets suitable for colonization, which is our only way out of the terrarium. Maybe that will be our epitaph: “They couldn’t be bothered to find a way to fund the group who had the best chance of ultimately saving their entire species?” Or will it be something more succinct, like: “Don’t bother me, I’m tweeting!” We live in a terrarium, and we won’t fund glass cutter technology. That’s just stupid.

With that sort of mindset man would have never gone from hide-covered coracles to the sleek little caravels of Columbus, and thus to a “New World.” I realize that it will be just as hard to go from, “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed,” to “I’d like two tickets for the Altair Colony, with a layover on Ganymede.” But every journey begins with a first step. Neil Armstrong took our first step, but since then we’ve become bored with the whole concept of travel and have pulled over to the side of the road for a nap. Our forty winks have turned into FORTY YEARS! Even the Griswolds did better than that!

Yes, the sheer magnitude of distances involved can be a little daunting. Even estimating the size of our universe is difficult, and that’s for people who have the math skills. For those of you who can’t calculate gratuity, perhaps analogy will better serve. Fortunately, all members of Aquarian Wackjob Air speak fluent analogy, so here goes: Think of Earth as the universe. Brevard county is our galaxy. Our solar system is an unnamed, undeveloped, unpaved block in south Canaveral Groves. Our planet is the trailer. (And, no, it is not even a doublewide.)  Those who let NASA go unfunded would have us living under the bed. They would discourage any attempt at crawling, they would dismiss walking as the stuff of fairy tales, and they would denounce vehicular travel as the rantings of delusional minds. And they think we’re crazy?

Now for a final Aquarian twist to it all — the planet moves. As it nears and recedes from the sun its atmosphere expands and contracts, i.e. the planet breathes. By way of both the fires at its core and the decay and re-absorption on its surface the planet eats.  Hell, the planet even poops. What do you think oil and coal are? Planetary feces. Colon-clogging Quarter Pounders from eons gone by. In Aquarian Wackjob Science (an oxymoron, if ever there was one), if it moves and breathes, eats and poops, IT’S ALIVE!

“But it can’t reproduce!” cry the myopic masses. Neither can a four-year-old… yet. I say the planet can reproduce. That’s our job. We are the seeds, and our role in the planetary scheme of things is to spread across other worlds, reproducing not only ourselves but also all that is best and most noble from our world. Unfortunately, we have gotten a bit sidetracked. We based our entire infrastructure on the bodily waste of our planet. We were meant to be seeds, but we morphed ourselves into intestinal parasites! Maybe that will be our tersest epitaph: ”E.S.A.D.”

Thank you for flying Aquarian Wackjob Air. We now return you to your polling place.

A Tall Tale From the Heart of the Redneck Riviera
• Dan Reiter •

Well you asked, so I’m gonna tell you straight.

I reckon you’re old enough to hear it without all the jingle-bells, since life ain’t all roses and ice cream and it ain’t no use pouring gloss over it neither, way Momma does, cause eventually you’re bound to hear ’bout the chemicals in your drinking water, and how them doe-eyed little grass nibblers you’re always gawpin’ at at the zoo are more than likely to get their brains blown out just so some lardass down in Palm Beach can have her designer shoes.

Heck, if all the world’s calamity comes down on you at the wrong time, the shock of it could turn you into one of them nigh-listics, and then off you’ll go wearing skirts that don’t shade your panties from the sun, or running around with some dude with nipple rings and asking your friends just what kind of tattoo you should be puttin’ on your ass and so forth. So I say it’s better to cozy up with the truth sooner rather than later, baby girl — you’re four-and-a-half years old, and in some countries that’s already considered a bona-fide woman!

Anyhow, you wanna know why we can’t go to the beach today, so here it is. Once upon a time, in England (that’s where most of these nasty, no-good stories always get their start), there lived a giant. Now this here wasn’t your everyday giant; he was an oil giant, which is just about the meanest and most badass kind you can come across.

You know how people point their fingers down at the ground and say that’s where you gonna go, down there, if you’re bad? Well, that’s where oil comes from, deep, deep down under the earth, where everything’s black and burnin’ all the day long. Most folk think of fire and brimstone down there, but the truth is, hell’s just a big ol’ gooey, murky, boiling lake of oil, with that bitter smell that burns your nose but makes you want to keep sniffin’ it at the same time, and it stretches clear from here to China.

Now you’d figure it’d be best to leave that mess well enough alone, but an oil giant don’t think like that. All day long he’s working on schemes to pull that oil up. He’s got special tools for it too, big ol’ drills that can bore through the dirt and rock and anything else and draw out that oil like you was suckin’ milk up with a straw.

Well, one day, back when he was just starting off, that giant hit a payload. I mean a gusher. See, drilling for oil is something like eatin’ a chocolate cake; that first bite is all soft and slow and delicate, but once you get into the flow, it’s dang near impossible to stop. Pretty soon you’re gonna need something bigger than them dinky little barrels and silos to store it in. So that giant went out and built himself a magic bowl.

Now I know I told you I’d give it to you straight, so understand I’m simplifyin’ the science of this bowl. Cantilevers and ball bearings and all kinds of complicated things went into it, but the gist of it is this: the more oil that went in, the bigger the bowl grew. And the bigger the bowl grew, the bigger that giant grew too, since it takes a powerful set of shoulders to carry a few billion gallons of oil, get me?

Well, that ol’ giant sprouted up like a beanstalk, and before you could say “fee-fi-fo-fum,” his head was just a scratchin’ at the clouds. Hoo, that bowl swelled up so big that it clear blocked out the sun. People got to complainin’ how he was messin’ with the weather, and soon enough they was blamin’ him for the rainstorms, and for the droughts, too, and for the hot spells, and for the snow. They blamed him every time they sneezed, or if their babies was cryin’ too much, or when their football team lost, or when they couldn’t get up for work cause they had too many beers the night before. They laid most everything on that ol’ bowl, and before long the TV news started reporting that once that giant got the notion to set that bowl down it was gonna be hotter’n hell most everywhere, and they were probably right about that, too.

Remember I was telling you ’bout Babylon, how in olden times a king built a skyscraper up to the clouds, and one day it got too wobbly and come toppling down? Well, just like those Babyloners, this oil giant didn’t know when to call it quits. He just kept a fillin’ that bowl up, and growing, and all the while just a sweatin’ and pitchin’ a fit tryin’ to keep it balanced up on his head.

He wasn’t the only oil giant around, now. Just the biggest. When the other oil giants saw him teetering and tottering like a pine tree in a stiff wind, they offered to take some of the load from him. But sharing ain’t in an oil giant’s nature. They’re too proud. Instead, he came up with the bright idea to hike that bowl up to the tallest mountain he could find, where no one could get to it, and set it down so he could stretch himself out for a spell. But that day it was raining something terrible — which might have been his own fault — and when he got up close to the top, that big ol’ boy slipped on a patch of wet flowers. Honey, that bowl came crashin’ down like a nuke-ular explosion, and you could hear it echo across the whole of the wide world.

Now try to imagine that oil just a streamin’ down the slopes of that mountain in black rivers. When you spill oil, you can’t just clean it up with a paper towel, like you can orange juice, because it sticks to everything, and gunks up your fingers something terrible. Well, those sticky rivers poured all the way down to the ocean, where they gummed up all the water and fish, and the birds, and the shells and the sand. And that oil giant stood watching from his mountaintop, just as sad as can be, staring down at the tar-stained world and shrinking like an old balloon.

See, there was more oil in that bowl than anybody thought. And they say it’s still emptying out even now.

And that, sugar, is why we can’t go to the beach today.

“Death steals everything except our stories” — Jim Harrison

I belong to a unique club. We don’t skydive nude, catch fish with our bare hands or invest large sums in Internet startups. We don’t go en masse to early bird specials wearing funny hats or recite 13th century Italian poetry. This club is very exclusive. First, you had to attend a certain slightly-less-than-prestigious institute of slightly-less-than-higher learning between 1972 and 1976. Then you had to marry your college sweetheart between 1977 and 1981. And guess what? You had to actually stay married. To that same person… This club is not large, but I belong.

What is it about college friendships that makes them so enduring? Is it the shared poverty? The fact that these friendships developed in your most formative years? The threat of “I knew you when–”? All I know is, no matter what shape I’m in — physically, mentally or fiscally — if I knocked on the door of any of my fellow members, I would be taken in. And I have.

Everyone knows long friendships are cycles of closeness and distance, and this club is no exception. There were times when we all lived within a mile of each other. Now we are spread all over. But I carry a constant connection to those ivy days: my wife. That’s the greatest thing about long relationships: you share a past. And we share that with The Club.

I hadn’t seen Sam since 1985. I thought about him all the time, but there’s a flaw in doing that without updated contact: you tend to remember people as they were, not as they’ve become.

Sam had been a wrestler in high school. Stocky and solid, he was still fit in 1972. He didn’t smoke, but had a voice like gravel in a tin can. He also played the baritone sax, a rare talent, and so he majored in music. I met him on my first day of college, and through him met a plethora of wild and interesting personalities, the wildest being a sharp-witted wildman from Muzz-Sip named Billy. But Billy’s another story, one I’ll tell some other time.

Soon we all lived together: me, Sam, Billy, a guy named Jimbo and another wildman we dubbed “F.T.” You don’t make closer friends than that. We ate together (I was the cook, the poor bastards), shared the same friends, and threw huge parties. Our place became the social nexus of the student apartment complex. If you needed a beer, we usually had one. A hot meal? Pull up a chair! Want to meet girls? We knew a bunch. Poker was our religion and live music a specialty of the house, provided you liked bluegrass with baritone sax.

Like most college students in the ’70s, we drank too much. Some could handle it better than others and Sam, well, he tried, but it was obvious the grape could snag the better of him. He arrived after Christmas one year with a huge beer mug. On its side was stenciled “Bet You Can’t.” That mug held a full six-pack, the object being to chug it. I couldn’t do it. Nobody could, but Sam gave it hell. You could always tell when Sam was drinking because he’d be balancing on our third floor balcony railing, swinging a near-empty “Bet You Can’t” while crooning “Tennessee Stud” with a Satchmo lilt. Though his capacity was far less than his desire, I never saw him angry or violent. He was just too nice a guy.

By this time the grade point system was weeding out the not-so-serious. Sam was flagging. While I contemplated my senior year, Sam was floating somewhere between first and second semester sophomore. But he had a system. He was so likeable he could talk his way into any office, and would conclude each semester by facing the head honcho himself, Dean Brown. Sam would plead his case and the Powers That Be would relent, allowing him “just one more chance” for redemption. That happened three times. Finally, the shoe dropped.

Officially, since he had finally flunked out, Sam couldn’t live in the student apartments with us anymore. But he did anyway, and when we moved off-campus for my senior year, Sam moved too. That was to a place known as “The Pumpkin House.” Some girls named it, due to the color of the place. I hope the landlord got a good deal on that paint.

Sam’s grandfather died that fall, so he traveled to the family farm in the Midwest for the services. He returned with all sorts of goodies: tomatoes, corn, potatoes, carrots, homegrown popcorn — all fresh from the farm. Among those baskets were other goodies: mice and cockroaches. The roaches got so bad we finally “bombed” the Pumpkin. That worked for about a month, then the roaches came out of their bomb shelter. We trapped a total of thirteen mice that semester and even had a maple tree growing in the bathroom sink. That just shows how relaxed we’d become around each other; familiarity breeds filth.

Sam soon found gainful employment as a donut baker. Graduation came and I, with my hefty credentials, pursued a loftier course: I found less-than-gainful employment as a janitor in a local bar. I married my college girlfriend. A year later Sam married his. A better job finally took me away to Buffalo. Sam’s wife became pregnant and the Marines took him away to Parris Island.

Though I don’t think he intended to, Sam became a Lifer. After 1980, I saw very little of him. The night I remember best was when my wife and I returned to Florida in March of that year. It was freezing, the car was running badly, and the trip had been stressful and long. They rented a trailer just off-base in Beaufort, South Carolina. We ate homemade pizza, then out came the poker deck. As usual, neither of us had any money, so we played for fishing sinkers. Buck per ounce; no split shot, please. My tackle bucket was two pounds lighter when I left.

We visited them again when we went back North in 1981. Sam was doing better, a noncom now. My brother lived in Beaufort and Sam stopped by for a couple beers. He looked good. Still sunny, still in shape. He couldn’t hang though; Marines were keeping him busy.

New Year’s morning, 1984… Billy’s place in Rochester… Sam and his ever-growing family (two kids now) interrupted our hangovers. He spent most of the morning wrestling with his baby son. It was fun to watch him with his boy. It made me forget my headache. It also made me want to have kids.

A barbecue in 1985… His seven-year-old tried to teach our toddler to walk. It was hot and buggy and then thunder drove the women and kids indoors. Our host brought a bottle of Irish whiskey out to the grill and we flipped chicken in the rain. We burnt the crap out of that chicken. I couldn’t have tasted it anyway.

Then, well… That was it. Until last year.

Of all the members of The Club, I had kept up with Sam the least. As I said, I thought of him a lot, but what I thought of was the wrestler/sax guy; the guy with the “Bet You Can’t” mug and jarhead camos. In my mind he was always young and fit.

I can’t remember how the news came down. It was in a Christmas card, or a phone call, or… It doesn’t matter. All I remember is suddenly I knew Sam had Stage 4 colon cancer. When I heard, I denied it. Not Sam. He was always healthy as an ox. He ate my cooking for two years! What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, right? And he’s retired military — that means health care for life: regular physicals, cheap meds, hospitalization… He was smart enough to take advantage of that, wasn’t he? And what’s Stage 4, anyway? He’ll make it. Strong as an ox… Then someone informed me that there is no Stage 5.

It hit home when I got the email from F.T. There it was, in pixilated black and white. And in that message was Sam’s phone number and e-mail address. I was glad to have the information but was afraid to call. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I wanted to remember Sam as the happy “Bet You Can’t” guy. I’d seen cancer many times, and I know how it changes its victims.

Then, he called me. It was early March, last year. He sure sounded the same. Didn’t sound weak. Was upbeat. We talked about old times and old guitars and what we’d been up to. He wanted the lyrics to a song I wrote way back when and I told him I’d oblige. Then he talked about his illness. Said he was losing muscle mass. “Funny thing,” he said. “You never lose weight in the places you want to.”

We e-mailed. I sent him all the pictures I could find of us Club members. Weddings, college days, family snapshots… At first he replied, then responses became scant. I called him around Halloween. Obviously, he was not getting better. He bragged facetiously about being able to “walk about a quarter mile.” His voice shook.

I found more pictures and e-mailed them. No response. I remembered his birthday in December and called one last time. He was in some kind of waiting room and the connection was bad. He mumbled about “palliative care” and was out of breath in a few sentences. That was our last conversation. He died this March first, leaving an empty chair in the Club.

Yeah, what is it about college friendships? How come those ties are so strong?

Odd how four short years can last a lifetime.

Disneyland, 1962 — New Mexico, 2009 — Wherever, 2010
By James Lasley
http://www.jlasley.com/

Travel is the spice of life, they say.

In the summer of 1962, my father and I hitchhiked 2,512 miles from North Carolina to Disneyland in Anaheim, California. The “spicy” mode of transportation was Dad’s idea. He could have said, “Son, we’lll fly to Disneyland on the back of a dairy cow” and in five minutes I’d have been packed and waiting at the door.

You see, I was eight-years-old then and my father was a sly jokester. He could have easily afforded to fly us to Disneyland, but I realize now he must have believed I’d quickly putz out at the thought of hitchhiking and be content to sit at home with my pile of MAD magazines, my trusty beagle dog, and huge bowls of popcorn in front of the tube. But I called his bluff.

My mother dropped us with our two tiny handbags by the side of the highway and joyfully waved goodbye. We popped out our right thumbs and in an instant it was showtime. Our first ride was a huge, 18-wheel tanker truck full of glue driven by a young Native American with long, black hair wrapped in a bright bandana. “Hell, yes!” I thought, as I climbed into cab. I rode high above the other cars, bouncing around like a pinball with each grinding shift of the gears. We were trucking now, on down the line to the Golden State, passing Greensboro, Winston-Salem, Hickory, and on into Asheville. Our driver’s eyes were full of envy when he stopped to let us out. As I jumped down from the towering cab to the black asphalt, it hit me. My old man had selected a real kick-ass way to travel!

That night we found a motel room with a “Magic Fingers” bed massage unit and a 25-cents-for-15-minutes television. The next morning we cruised in comfort all the way to Nashville in a big, air-conditioned Plymouth Fury driven by a traveling salesman, and the day after that we hitched a ride with two crazy teenagers who drove 100 mph to road test their friend’s car. The raw speed and the expression of fury on my father’s face when he told them to stop are two things I’ll never forget. Later on that same day a quite man in a business suit driving a large sedan picked us up and drove us many miles, all in complete silence. When he finally dropped us off, he gave me a very nice key chain with a tiny oil well drilling bit on it. Years later, I thought of him and recalled his resemblance to Howard Hughes once I read how the famous recluse would drive for hundreds of miles in the desert by himself.

By the third day of hitchhiking on four-lane interstate highways we had reached Oklahoma City. From this point on, the blacktop beneath my white, high-top Keds would be the legendary Route 66. We had been downsized from four to two lanes of narrow highway now, and we’d continue in this fashion all the way to Los Angeles. John Steinbeck called Route 66 the “Mother Road,” but in my case it was the “Daddy-O Road.” Wandering west on Route 66 felt like we were on God’s own supernatural putt-putt golf course with a changing troop of characters, vehicles, and cheap motel rooms.

From 1960 to 1964 a production crew of fifty shot the television show “Route 66″ on-locations all over the western United States. Stirling Silliphant’s writing for the show has been called “Shakespearean” and “free-verse poetry.” Searching for truth, justice, and human compassion with your best friend in a hot, red convertible Corvette was the theme. Without cameras, script or actors, Dad and me produced “The Hitchhiker” episode, which never aired on any of the major networks, but is still enjoyed regularly in the twilight zone of hyperspace.

But that evening in our unusually nice Oklahoma City motel room, Dad told me that he’d had enough of the road and wanted to go back home. What? Was my father, my noble pater patris, now lowering his beefy right thumb? I couldn’t comprehend it. We had made it halfway to Disneyland; how could we stop and turn back now? He said, “Son, if we stop here, I’ll fly us home first-class.” Speaking to me as if he were bribing a baby with candy really upset me. I was a full-blown road-rat now. We had ridden in the wild-eyed Indian’s glue-filled, 18-wheeler. Our own feet had walked across the high bridge over the mighty Mississippi. Together, father and son had survived a certain death at the hands of teen-devils. I had a heavy heart that night when I looked into his big, sad blue eyes and said: “No thanks, Dad. I want to go on to Disneyland.”

I wish I could say that my father had acted differently the following day, but he didn’t. He never really showed any emotions. However, I could tell that he had changed — that he had had an epiphany. It gradually occurred to me that the road gods had revivified his guitar-picking, hitchhiking thumb and sanctified our glorious road trip. He was whole again.

The view we suffered of Oklahoma while riding in the bed of a broiling, rusted-out pickup truck was like touring the Sooner State inside a mobile chicken rotisserie. Our four-hour Arizona desert walking tour (without water) was nearly our last, until a saint of a guy in an El Camino raced past us before stopping in a huge cloud of white smoke. “I would have passed you up mister,” he said, “but when I saw the little kid, I knew I had to stop.”

On the fifth day we reached Needles, California. It was 104 degrees in the shade. Dad’s salutation to the Golden State was, “No way! I am not hitchhiking across the Mojave Desert!” I worried about him and his lack of endurance, but I never showed it. Later on, with head hanging and full of shame, I did take my seat next to him in the air-conditioned Greyhound to Anaheim. Hours later, I could see the tip of the Disneyland Matterhorn sticking up through the yellow urban smog. Cold chills of excitement shot through my skinny frame as I watched every surreal detail pop from the bubble of Disneyland’s delicious delusions. All regrets about our disgrace of surrendering to the Mojave instantly disappeared. Dad could go back to North Carolina now. I wanted to stay here and live in Fantasyland forever and ever.

When dad died in 2005, I thought about our time together in 1962 crossing this great country. In 2009, after 47 years, I had the opportunity to go back out West. I bought a cheap ticket to New Mexico and rented a Kia Sportage. Driving out of Albuquerque I felt a familiar presence. The light was still clear and bright on the treeless mountains as I drove to pick-up my rental bicycle. I passed a few of the old-style drives-ins and an occasional authentic looking pawnshop. Most of the businesses looked corporate and franchised, but the bike shop turned out to be an old-school operation. The young, tattooed owner set me up with a terrific hard-tail mountain bike, and that evening I rode the 16 paved miles of the Paseo Del Bosque trail, which runs along the Rio Grande valley. I could hear the constant drone of traffic on Interstate 40 as I friendly people walking, jogging, and on horseback. Buried under all that I-40 asphalt were the bones of my old friend, Route 66, which had been decommissioned in 1985 after 58 years of service. Two narrow, winding lanes of blacktop escapism are now six lanes of Autobahn-style racetrack, yet I understood that things change and it made me very aware and thankful for the priceless experience I’d shared hitchhiking west with my father.

On my last evening in Santa Fe I thought about how much I wished that my father were still alive and with me. I’d take him down to “The Bull Ring Cafe” for a T-bone steak dinner. We’d shoot the breeze and I’d try and talk to him about my problem. I’d ask him if he thought I was an incurable travel junkie. I’d ask him why I spend all my money on going places just to walk around by myself. I’d ask him why the road outside my front door keeps pulling me, keeps singing for me to come back and then go away. Then I’d thank him for the balls it took to hitchhike 2,500 miles with his eight-year-old son all the way to Disneyland.