They Walk Among Us

"Whut the....?  Whar the hell am I?"

You're back on Planet Earth.  What were you thinking, anyway?

"Whutchu mean?  Ah got sloppy-faced drunk is all, an' had me uh little lie down on the street.  Jus' lied down ratchere on the street.  Everbody said, 'Tha's jus' the way ol' Country is'--that's what they called me, 'Country,' ya know?  Never cud figger out why."

What should I call you...James?  James Roy?  Or would you prefer "Country?"

"Hell, ya doesn't haf tuh call me James.  Ya'll can call me Jim, Jimmy, Jim Roy, whutever.  Don' matter tuh me."

Well, Jim, didn't you think it might be just a little bit dangerous to lie down in the road like that?

"Been doin hit uh while an hain't nuthin happened.  'Ceptin' maybe tha' time uh couple uh yars ago when ah had tuh go tuh the hospital."

What happened then?

"Ah had jus' crawled under uh car in uh parkin' lot when all of uh sudden lak hit jus' started tuh leave!  How wuz ah supposed tuh know hit was goin'?  Ah mean, hit's not lak thar wuz any warnin' or anything."

You're lucky you weren't killed then.

"Ah don' know if'n I wuz lucky or not.  'Pends on how ya look at hit, ah reckon.  An' then thar's the time last year when ah ran out intuh the street and got hit.  Tha' one knocked me rat out, tha' one did."

You know, Jim, some folks would take those mishaps as a warning and try to stay out of the streets, especially when they've been hitting the sauce.

"Hey, man, tha's jus' how ah roll, 'kay?  An' guess whut--ah jus' got twenty thousand dollers after one car hit me.  Hell, hit paid for two yars o' rent an' wuz payin' for mah food an' booze, don'cha know.  Ah'm thinkin ah mat have hit on uh career har, know whut ah mean?"

After those close calls and 52 arrests and citations over the past two years, most for open container violations, trespassing and being too drunk in public, "Ol' Country's" death wish was finally granted.

Late on Wednesday, April 25, 43-year-old James Roy Scallion laid down in the middle of 4th Street North, a well-trafficked main St Pete drag.  Cops spotted him and pulled him out of the street.  He went home for a short while but returned and laid down again.  A car ran over him and kept going.  Scallion died at the scene.

"I told him, I said, 'get up, you idiot,'" said his building manager, who witnessed it.  "But he just lied down, put his arms up and...."

"I don't know why [the cops] let him go," said a friend.  "I don't know why they didn't take him somewhere."

The police agreed that Scallion was drunk, but said he was not disorderly.

"Being drunk is not a crime," said a police spokesman.  "Being intoxicated would only allow us to take you into custody if you're inebriated to the point of being a danger to yourself or others."

Apparently, being suicidal is not a crime, either.

"Whut happened," asked a very spectral "Ol' Country."

You were ran over by a car and killed, Jimmy.

"Oh.  Thank God, huh?"

Meals on Wheels?

Generally, I eschew food vendors who sell their wares from street corner carts, walk-up windows and vehicles. Of course there are exceptions.

When I was stationed at Keesler AFB, I was not above purchasing the occasional burrito from the roach coach, as it was not exactly fondly called, that parked outside Thomson Hall, where I was an instructor.

I've also bought hotdogs at street corners, but only out of desperation. The only good hotdogs I've found are those sold at baseball stadiums at the end of a three-game home stand. Not only has the flavor matured by then, but any parasites and bacteria they may have contained have long since been dispatched.

In the past, I've patronized vendors at Taste of Cincinnati and at one event or another on the Summerfest Grounds in Milwaukee. Once in a great while, though not recently, I'll buy something from a truck at, say, a Dunedin arts and crafts fair, the St Petersburg open air market, or a festival at Vinoy or Straub Park.

But always I prefer a restaurant. This is why my shorts don't knot up over the latest kerfuffle that threatens to tear asunder the very civic fabric of St Pete; to wit, its food truck policy. My problem is not with it per se, but with its implications for property owners.

In some cities, including, surprisingly, semi-trendy Tampa, it has become quite de rigueur for food trucks to line up along a given street during a given weekend and sell a variety of food to throngs of the neo-chic. Not so in St Pete which, in perhaps this single instance, appears positively dark and medieval next to that flickering candle of renaissance light across the bay.

The story of the neurosurgeon and The King's Bistro, as told by Tim Nickens of the Tampa Bay Times, exemplifies the issue.

The neurosurgeon's office adjoins a vacant lot which the doctor owns. One day he spotted a couple at a gas station across the steet buying propane for their food truck. He offered to let them set up on his vacant lot. They explained to him that they doubted St Pete would let them do it. This sent the good doctor into a hissy fit.

"He didn't want to hear it," said the truck's owner. "He said, "This is my land. Why can't I do what I want?'"

You would think the adjective "naive" would not be one to come to mind when describing a neurosurgeon, wouldn't you? Well, you would be wrong, ether-breath.

See, no one, least of all an urban dweller, and especially one in St Petersburg, really owns his/her property. Okay, one may own it, but one does not have control over it.

Not too long ago a gallery owner in downtown St Pete replaced a section of the curb bordering her property with a transition so she could drive onto her driveway. The city made her replace the curb.

Want to raise chickens in your St Pete backyard? Ha, ha! Silly you!

I have an oak tree on my corner lot which continuously trashes both my yard and pool, especially in the winter and during a goodly wind. I would have to get permission, pay exorbitant permit fees, and agree to plant five other trees to take its place before I would have any hope of cutting it down.

It took the doctor a month to get the permit necessary to allow The King's Bistro to park on his lot for two weeks. As a stipulation, he may not allow any more food trucks to park there for six months. Sound like a property "owner" to you?

Predictably, the doc has called the mayor and threatened to sue the city. He will also campaign for City Council next year. Since Nickens describes him as "a tea party guy and an unbowed Ron Paul supporter" it should make for some fun, Hillsborough County Commission-like meetings.

I know I can't wait.

Ask Uncle Dave

Dear Uncle Dave,

I'm the manager of a major league baseball team in Miami, capital of Northern Cuba. Recently I happened to mention how much I admired Fidel Castro for managing to survive and remain in power for as long as he did. You cannot imagine the grief I've been catching. I've been ripped by the fans and the media, and I've been suspended from my job for six games.

I don't get it. I mean, it's not like I said anything racist. I'm not Cuban, you understand, but I am Latino. I'm Venezuelan-American, for God's sake. What about free speech? Am I not allowed to say what I think without having to worry about my job? Is this fair?

Signed "OG".

Dear OG,

It's not what you said; it's where you said it. You're lucky Gloria Estefan didn't whack your head with her maracas.

What's next for you, Sparky? Go up to Harlem and sing the praises of David Duke? Perhaps go to Tel Aviv and talk about what a great guy Hitler was?

Here's an idea. Why don't you go to the nearest adult toy store and purchase one of those dominatrix contraptions--you've seen them in movies, "Pulp Fiction" being one--that has a ball affixed with leather straps. Insert the ball in your mouth and have one of your players lock the straps around your head. You won't be able to say anything stupid anymore, and that just may save your future.

Dear Uncle Dave,

I'm married and have four kids. Up until a few days ago, I was a college football coach at a top-tier university, knocking down $3.5 mil per annum. Then I ran into a perfect storm. I had a motorcycle accident while out on a ride with my mistress, a blonde hottie half my age. Next thing I know, I'm in my wife's crosshairs.

What should I do?

Signed "BP".

Dear BP,

Scrap the bike and buy a three-wheeler. If and when you find a job, that is.

Dear Uncle Dave,

I have more money than God. I was a US senator, a candidate for vice-president, and had realistic dreams of one day sitting in the Oval Office. Then my pregnant bimbo girlfriend gave birth do a daughter and my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. She found out about the affair and the kid and divorced me shortly before she died.

Now I'm about to go on trial after being charged with conspiracy and campaign finance violations. If convicted, I'm looking at 30 years in the slam! How am I supposed to deal with that?

Signed "JE".

Dear JE,

Check with Sam's Club or Costco and see if you can buy Vaseline Petroleum Jelly or some other lubricant in bulk and stock up. With your pretty boy looks and that protruding lower lip, your dance card is going to be way overbooked!

Got a question or problem for your ol' Uncle Dave? Leave it in the Comments section, and I'll run it in a future Ask Uncle Dave. Hey, I'm just trying to help.

Graceless Nancy

Unless you've been living in a cave on the island near where Chuck Nolan's FedEx plane crashed, you probably know who Nancy Grace is.

"An outspoken, tireless advocate for victims' rights and one of television's most respected legal analysts, Nancy Grace is the powerful force behind Headline News' (HLN) top-rated Nancy Grace," proclaims CNN's Web site.

Well, she certainly is outspoken. Can't dispute her credentials as a "tireless advocate for victims' rights," either. The problem is, Nancy decides who the victim is in a particular case, irrespective of any facts to the contrary. Hers are not necessarily victims of crimes, but always of affronts to her agenda.

Nancy is the white female version of the "Reverend" Al Sharpton. Remember Tawana Bradley? Google the name if you want the case history; I'm not going to waste valuable--dare I say precious?--space here rehashing that sorry episode. Suffice it to say that the "Reverend" Al held Tawana up as a case study of everything he wanted us to believe was wrong with white society, and of white injustice against blacks. After her story as told by the "Reverend" Al was exposed as a sham, the only question was how much was he duped by it and how much did he himself concoct. One must always ask that question of Nancy's stories as well.

Nancy's touted image as a "respected legal analyst" was exposed as a fraud by her rants during the Duke lacrosse scandal. That was the case where an opportunistic district attorney seeking reelection, a corrupt police officer willing to abet him, a newspaper editor trying to advance his leftist agenda, and a university president wanting to belie his institution's elitist image and placate certain fringe faculty members all conspired in an attempt to lynch three athletes who had been charged with rape by a drug-crazed stripper/hooker.

The case began unraveling almost at its beginning. Yet there was Nancy, never one to be confused with evidence, applying bubble gum and spit, duct tape and baling wire to hold it together and using her show to incite the lynch mob.

"They may not have been guilty of what they were accused," she seemed to have rationalized, "but they had to have been guilty of something."

Examples abound of how Nancy covered her ears and made that blathering noise with her tongue when someone would point out obvious fallacies in the investigation. She reported, for instance, that the lacrosse players had refused to provide DNA samples, a blatant and outrageous falsehood.

"There's really no good reason why, if you're innocent, you won't go forward and go, 'Hey, you want my DNA? Take it, I insist'," she pontificated.

The players had, in fact, begged authorities to take their DNA. After the tests came back negative, an unrepentant Nancy started "making up these wild schemes and making up ways that it could have happened, explaining away the science with pure subjective irrational thought, instead of saying, 'My gosh, they were telling the truth'," said one of the accused.

Her egregiously shameful pursuit of the real victims in this case, the three accused lacrosse players, revealed her as devoid of any credibility.

You would think that would have ended her CNN career, wouldn't you? Well, you would be wrong, Johnnie Cochran-breath.

Why, just lately Nancy jumped into the ring on the Trayvon Martin case. And guess who the other half of her tag-team is? If you said the "Reverend" Al, take an A.

"Evidence? I don't need no stinking evidence!" No, Nancy. You just need ratings. The tragedy is that you feel you have license to obfuscate, fabricate and prevaricate to get them, and that CNN gives you free rein to do it.

I Hate Musicals

Will someone please explain Hollywood's fascination with musicals to me? Every year that there is a musical up for one or more Academy Awards, trust me--it will win.

I don't get them. I'm willing to suspend my disbelief and accept almost any storyline or plot. But some concepts are just too moronic for me to wrap my head around.

See if you can name the movie in which these scenes actually appeared:

* A Marine Corps lieutenant, lying wounded on a jungle island mountainside, his intestines hanging from a bloody and steaming hole in his abdomen, bursts into song.

* Two juvenile gangs armed with zip guns and switchblades meet for a rumble in a New York City alley, wave their weapons menacingly, and start singing and dancing with perfect choreography.

* A king of an agrarian Asian country and an English governess twirl around the palace in a song and dance production that would rival Astaire and Rogers.

You get the idea.

How many great stories have been blasphemed by being turned into musicals! "Lost Horizon" became "Shangri-la." "The Phantom of the Opera." "Les Miserables."

What's next--"Papillion," where Henri Charriere and Louis Dega stand on the cliff of Ile Diablo and sing, "We gotta get outta this place?"

"Apocalypse Now," where Lt Col Kilgore looks at the destruction wrought by his helicopters and sings, "Nothin' smells as pretty as napalm in the mornin'," and Capt Willard breaks out with "Up the Mekong River in the jungle sun," backed up by his accompanying river rats?

"The Wolf Man," where Larry Talbot sings "I get no kick from champagne...but I get a bite out of you" to his beautiful victim just before he rips out her throat?

How about "The Grapes of Wrath," where the Joads load their junk on a truck that's held together with baling wire and set out for California with a rousing rendition of "On the Road Again?"

Imagine "Titanic" ("I went down, down, down and the water crept higher"). "Sudden Impact" ("Bang, bang, I shot him down"). "Apollo 13" ("Fly me to the moon"). The possibilities are sickening.

All that said, however, I did enjoy "Chicago," largely because it starred whom I consider to be the most beautiful woman on the planet. I swear, after that last number I looked down at my feet, and my socks were gone!

I heard a rumor that they're going to make "Dracula: The Musical." Is nothing sacred? Is there no shame at all left in Hollywood?

Just promise me this. Promise me that Justin Bieber won't be cast as the Count, okay? Will you at least not commit that heresy?