Come For the Conch; Stay For the Sunset

After surviving my hitch in the Army, (ours), and vowing like a freeze-dried Scarlet O'Hara to "never be chilly again!", I packed up my young family and moved to Florida.  It was home to us for more than half of the 1970's until a job in San Diego took us West--where we have been ever since.  The West seems to suit us.  It is a region of abundant beauty that, like a magnet, has attracted all sorts of interesting people.  Everyone in the West seems to come complete with a story and good stories are always a bonus.

In retirement I thought it would be fun to once again visit Florida and from a distance of more than thirty years see how the place was doing without us.  With our youngest daughter and her family in tow we returned for a look see.

A LOT has changed in the Sunshine State.  There are now twice as many Floridians as there were when we were in place and little suggests that "America's Basement" is still a part of Dixie.  I guess it is the natural progression of things, but I do miss hearing a Southern accent and finding grits on the menu almost everywhere.  The state is pretty much a total Yankee outpost and it's too bad.

Tampa/St. Pete, now simply referred to as "Tampa Bay" looked better to us than it did in the 70's.  Both cities appear prosperous and made significant improvements to their downtown areas.  Granted this is purely a subjective observation, but I thought they looked good.  Orlando and central Florida don't seem to have fared as well.

When we left in 1976 our biggest regret was the neglect of a visit to Key West.  We had planned to see it, but never made the trek.  

2012, marking the 100th anniversary of the completion of the Florida East Coast Railway from Homestead to Key West,  sparked a renewed interest in a visit; so off we went.  Henry Flagler's railroad no longer exists but U.S. 1 follows his 126 miles of roadway and will get you there today.  Over forty bridges connect the islands of the Keys and deliver you to the southernmost city in the United States where Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, President Truman and thousands of eccentrics have enjoyed the contagious "Let it Be" philosophy of the Conch Republic.

So there we were, just a couple of days ago, standing with the crowd at Mallory Pier watching the sun burn itself out in the gulf at the close of a perfect day at the end of the road in one of America's most fascinating neighborhoods.

Old Ernie Hemingway may have been on to something.  I think we may need to spend a few more days to find out.  

Pass the Key Lime pie, please.

Watching the sunset at Mallory Pier, Key West

Why Do They ALWAYS Look Like This?

What Elvis would wear if he had been president

Banana republic dictators must all have the same guy picking out their clothes.  I say "guy" because no woman would ever let her man leave for another day of pillaging and plundering his dirt poor constituents looking like Hugo Chavez or that paragon of virtue Fidel Castro.  Seriously.  Have you ever once seen any of these clowns in a suit and tie?  Nope, it's always some kind of military garb with a touch of Disney,  one of those shirts that looks like a barber's smock or a uniform designed for a loon  who gets shot out of a canon at the circus.  (See picture of Hugo Chavez)

Franco, Mussolini, Hitler, Marcos, Pinochet, Noriega, and every last bastard who managed to be president of South Vietnam for more than two minutes during the 1960's all had get-ups that made them look like deranged escapees from the short bus academy.  What the hell gives?  Were they just so damn charming that people couldn't help but vote for them?  I doubt it.  Probably what these clowns lacked in sartorial splendor was more than compensated for by their ability to lie to anybody anytime in such a bewitching way that folks felt compelled to elect them to whatever office they wanted.

Look at Chavez..if you can stand it.   Here is a guy that, if you ran into him at your thirtieth high school reunion, would be the owner of a Texaco station in Kalamazoo where he has happily been sitting on the air hose for the past thirty years.  He might even offer to get you a deal on a set of tires.  But, NO, he is the freaking president of an entire country!  The people of Venezuela are demonstrably worse off than when he took power, yet he remains large and in charge.  Mr. Big Jeans!  His electorate believes everything the big dofus tells them.  It's a gift.  For example:  He supposedly has cancer.  Cancer is a horrible disease that, at least as far as I have observed, robs its victims of body weight and vitality as it metastasizes.  That would not seem to be the case for the ever more rotund Hugo Chavez.  This goofy son of a bitch gets fatter by the day!  I think he's faking it.  I assume time will tell but, for my money, the whole thing is a put up job.

Hugo is in it for the UNIFORMS.  The odds of him dying before the rest of us?  Slim. (I realize that slim and Hugo are seldom found in the same sentence.)

Look for Tubby to be showing up in garish garb for years to come or until one day he has the good taste to  clutch his ample D-cup  and keel over dead. 

In the meantime, let's all continue to enjoy the insane style show that goes on  just south of the good old USA and take comfort in the fact that every 24 hours the world turns over on someone who thinks they're sitting on top of it.

Drunken, Horny, Fruit Flies...

Are people too...

Well, not really.  They are simply, drunken, horny fruit flies.  This used to be the kind of thing you could look up in one of the books of the Encyclopedia Britannica with the high end binding that your parents bought in 48 easy installments--the volumes that would be your direct ticket to the Ivy league and an invitation to the Mensa picnic.  How did that work out for you?  

actual encyclopedias suitable for doorstops

Apparently the folks at the old Britannica have decided to no longer bother with actually publishing their font of knowledge and will thank you very much to visit them "on line" the next time you need to fill your gourd with new and exciting information.

The good news is that seems to be no end to those ever popular think tank and university professors  churning out fascinating studies that will keep us chock-full of facts about things like alcoholic fruit flies.

Uh...where was I?  Oh yeah, alcoholic fruit flies.

According to yet another of those certainly tax payer financed studies, researchers have determined that male fruit flies, when filled with UNfulfilled desire, tend to get hammered.  Imagine!  Fruit flies apparently self-medicate just like humans, drowning their sorrows or frustrations in the sweet solace of "genuine rectified bust-head".  

"shot down" fruit fly seeks comfort in a cocktail

Here is what the Poindexters at the University of California San Francisco recently discovered:  One group of male flies who were allowed to mate freely with available virgin females did not need alcohol.  Another group of male flies allowed to mingle with females who had already mated and were indifferent became depressed and showed a marked preference for an alcoholic mixture thoughtfully provided by researchers.  (There is no evidence that the sad flies were allowed to run a tab.)

self medicating male human

"It's the first time we have shown this link between a social experience that involves reward and a drug -related behavior," said Ulrike Heberlein, a neuroscientist at the university and co-author of the paper.

Not that old Ulrike or any of the rest of the scientists involved in this important study care, but here is my take: NO SH#%T SHERLOCK!!  I sincerely hope you didn't spend too much of our money finding this out.  Is it really that big a surprise that a depressed fly or human may gravitate toward having a couple of jolts from the old juice jar?  Come on man!  Here's something to ponder the next time you take a break from getting these poor hapless male fruit flies loaded.  How about brewing up a little wobble water for those not so virgin females just to make them a little more frisky.  You know... get them "down to clown" with the lonely boys.  It seems to me that would be what you guys call a "win win" for us all.  Then maybe you could get busy trying to determine if indeed the hokey pokey really is what it's ALL about.  (Just make sure you use up those tax payer dollars.)

The Lord helps those who help themselves

Love For Sale...Only $60 BILLION

Americans love pets.  When I was a kid we always had a dog, no cat, always a dog.  As a parent I tolerated a bunch of critters inserted into the family mix by my wife and daughters.  At various junctures we had cats, a dog, three or four desert tortoises, and a bird living large off the family Copper.  I was OKAY with most all of them.  (The cats and I merely tolerated each other and we kept a respectable distance.)   The turtles came to us as a single, "Foward"--because Katie couldn't say Howard--and later the triplets:  Larry, Moe and Curly.  They died in the same order as their namesake human stooge counterparts,  first Curly, then Moe and finally Larry.  Weird, but way cool.

The dog was, like most canines, a sweet and lovable friend.  I am not one of those pet owners who immediately replaces a deceased companion with another.  It seems so disloyal and desperate.  My wife feels the same way.

Living without pets suits us.  The house is cleaner, there are no middle of the night emergency "gotta go now!" wake-ups, and travel doesn't involve kennel arrangements.  Neither of us wants another pet.  We'll visit the kids if we need a puppy or kitty fix.  Or, we can visit my insane younger brother who determined it was a good idea to acquire not one--but TWO-- Boston Terriers for his family a couple of years back.  Those are some demented doggies.  Spending time with Dash and Diddy is about as relaxing as a weekend at a tweaker convention in Tijuana.

Lead member of insane brother's insane dog posse

What started me thinking of pets was a couple of recent reports from the U.S. Census Bureau and the ASPCA.  The census bureau surprised me with the fact that we spend more than $60 billion on our pets  EVERY YEAR.  That's a lot of whiskas, kibble, lettuce and RABBIT CHOW.  

Yep, rabbit chow.  According to the ASPCA, our furry friends of the rabbit variety are absolutely the most likely to eat us out of house and home.  The average hare costs $730 per year to feed and maintain.  (Note to parents:  Just buy the kids the Warner Brothers Bugs Bunny cartoon collection and save yourselves a ton of time and money.)  For the sake of comparison, a small dog comes in at $350 per year, a large dog $650, and a cat rings up about $495 in annual cash outlay.  Rabbits!!  Who knew?

Missing cookies?  It has to be that damn rabbit.

A bird checks in at the relative bargain price of $200 in yearly maintenance, however the biggest bargain in all  petdom is...a FISH.  A single fish will set you back about $35 in fish food and, I suppose, miniature castles and fake seaweed.  Also, when the time comes, disposal is as close as the nearest commode, unless you're a really hardcore sushi aficionado.

"Me love you long time.  Only $35!"

The ASPCA doesn't provide a breakdown of the costs of owning a turtle, but I'm guessing that they are even more pocketbook friendly than a fish.  They don't eat much, hibernate for most of the winter, and when they go you've got yourself a nifty ashtray.  I have a feeling Larry, Moe and Curly would have wanted it that way.

Low maintenance AND suitable for cigars!

We're ALL Going To Hell...

Well, all GUYS anyway, and STEPHEN FREAKING HAWKING is driving the bus!!!

It's time we faced it men, our last cover has been blown.  We are all hopeless, or maybe hopeFUL, horndogs right down to the world-famous British physicist Stephen Hawking.  Of course women have known this all along.  We were merely fooling ourselves by thinking that they bought into the myth of the sensitive new age male.  If a seventy year-old brainiac confined to a wheelchair and bereft of almost all physical movement, a man long noted for spending his days contemplating the mysteries of the universe,  can manage to become a "regular" at the Freedom Acres sex club in Devore, California, well...We are all just as nasty as our wives and girlfriends have suspected.  Maybe even nastier.

"Hi, I'm Steve...welcome to HELL."

Getting set up for a more advanced game of Charades at Freedom Acres

The story of Swinger Steve's visits to Freedom Acres broke last week in the London Daily Mail and it includes pictures of the good professor talking and mingling with some of the ladies in the club's employ.  Even Peter Stringfellow, Freedom Acres owner, is quoted:  "I am often asked during interviews of all the people I have met, who I am most impressed with.  Of all the film stars I have met, the majority are really nice people, rock stars are a lot of fun and good company, some of the richest men in the world can be surprisingly funny, but when all is said and done Professor Hawking is THE MAN."  Mr. Stringfellow went on to say, "I remember asking him if he'd like to have a conversation with me about the universe, (No doubt a laugh riot for professor Hawking.-ed), or if he'd just like to watch the girls.  The answer was quite simply, 'The girls."

Perhaps it is his gregariousness and interest in heavenly bodies that drives Stephen Hawking to frequent  Mr. Stringfellow's establishment.  More likely, he is just being a guy.  We could ask his two ex-wives or just stand back and admire what a seventy year-old with severe physical limitations can accomplish.  Maybe if he starts waking up with a live gopher in his bedroom and peanut butter on the ceiling it'll be time to S L O W down.

In the meantime, on that bus to hell, I call SHOTGUN!

Peter Stringfellow and "The Man"