Perhaps Heroes Should Wear Masks

The woman had just left the Harland Township, Michigan, Wal-Mart when a waste of a human soul assaulted her.

Seeing the attack, Wal-Mart employee Kristopher Oswald, 30, thought, no, this isn't going to go down on my watch.  He intervened and fought with the argument for post-partum abortion until sheriff's deputies arrived.

After the kerfuffle, Kris walked back into his store.  He ascertained right away that something was amiss.  His fellow employees would not make eye contact, putting out a "don't bother me; I'm busy" vibe.  His boss intercepted him and invited him into his office.  My ubiquitous bugbot, in spite of my explicit programming to avoid Michigan at all costs, was taking a shortcut as it returned from another mission and happened to record the conversation.

"Kris, have a seat."

"What's up, boss?"

"Say, that was something out there in the parking lot, huh?  I mean, jumping into the middle of an assault like that.  That scrub could have been packing.  You could have been shot!"

"Tell you the truth, I didn't even think about that.  I just saw him manhandling some woman, and instinct, or reflex, or whatever just took over."

"Don't know if I would have had the balls to do what you did."

"I don't think anyone does, until they're in that situation.  Hell, I surprised myself!  I"m still asking myself how I reacted that way, what was I thinking, now that it's all over with."

"Well, you sure saved her butt.  You can be damn proud of yourself, Kris.  Damn proud!"

"Thanks, boss.  Can I go now?  I really should get back to work."

"You don't need to worry about that, Kris."

"What do you mean?"

"You're fired."

"Excuse me?"

"You violated company policy, Kris.  Wal-Mart specifically prohibits workplace violence.  When you rescued that woman from her assailant, you broke the rules.  Sorry, but you've got to go."

"What the hell was I supposed to do, boss?  Let him pound her into the pavement?  Maybe carjack her?  Throw her into her car and rape her?"

"Not your business, is it?  Can't go around saving the world, Kris.  You just need to worry about saving your job."

"So I should just have let it happen?  Just turn my back and walk away?"

"I don't know.  Maybe grab a scarf and wrap it around your face?  Maybe tie a towel around your neck like a cape?  I mean, anything so no one knew it was you.  Then I wouldn't know whom, if anyone, to fire, would I?"

"So you're saying it's my fault."

"Well, I can't really fire the perp, now, can I?  He doesn't even work here.  I think we're done.  Congrats on saving the day, and good luck finding a new job!"

Note:  Wal-Mart, bowing to crushing public pressure, has since offered Kris back his job.  If I were Kris, I'd tell Wal-Mart what they could do with it.  He can get a job anywhere, now.

Trans-genre Art

By now you've probably read that "Breaking Bad" is being made into an opera.  An opera!

Can't you just envision Heisenberg ripping off his filter mask after cooking his meth and bursting into a rousing, basso rendition of "Twilight Zone"?  Or Jesse skying to "Life in the Fast Lane"?  How 'bout "Better Call Saul" Goodman channeling Billy Flynn by singing "Razzle Dazzle"?  Pre-orders for the soundtrack will pour in!

But let's not stop with "Breaking Bad".  There are many other great stories out there just wanting for reinterpretation.  Here are my pitches:

"Saw, the Musical":  Victims regain consciousness to find themselves in straitjackets and locked in padded cells.  "Let's play a game," croons the puppet.  "You must sing 'MacArthur Park', word for word, within half an hour or you will be forced to listen to Yoko Ono, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger until you die!"  This'll be bigger than "Springtime for Hitler"!  Boffo box!  SRO!

"The Walking Dead on Ice":  Hapless couple is skating hand in hand on a forest pond.  Suddenly they are beset by zombies!  Picture dead bodies in various stages of decay skating with Frankenstein's monster awkwardness!  The perfect vehicle for an Ice Capades production!

I called my favorite Hollywood power broker to sell this next flash of sheer genious directly:

"Clint, I've come up with a treatment for turning 'Streetcar Named Desire' into a movie."

"Already been done."

"No, no.  Not like this.  Are you ready?  We film the ballet version!"

"Ballet?  Seriously?"

"Why not?  Ballet is the hot ticket, now.  The Scottish Ballet Troupe is already selling out their take on this all over the country.  I'm telling you, Clint, this is smokin'!  I see Best Picture Oscar!  You know how the Academy loves this kind of flick!"

"I don't know.  Where we gonna find a Marlon Brando-type who can squeeze into ballet tights and twirl on his toes?"

"Stay with me on this, Clint.  We don't!  We go a whole different direction.  Picture Johnny Weir as Stanley!  Is that brilliant, or what.  He's already a figure-skater; who better to bend his wrist, point his toes, and do all those delicate hand and arm gestures?"

"But he's a pouf!  No one's gonna believe him married and raping some woman!"

"I know, right?  But get this--we do Stella and Blanche in drag!  I see Ross Matthews as Stella and Ru Paul as Blanche.  Do you see it?  Does it 'make your day?'"

"So what you're proposing is a movie about a gay who's married to one transvestite and banging another?  And all this is going on in tights, tutus and toe shoes?"

"Works for me.  Does it work for you?  I'm so sure about this I'm making my reservations for Cannes right now!"

"Swell.  I know in this biz you have to improvise, adapt and overcome.  But you also have to know your limitations.  Call me when you learn yours."

(Click)

When Accidents Aren't

The word "accident" and its derivatives have, over the years, become synonymous for "mistake," "careless," "irresponsible," and "negligent," among others.  All of these have negative connotations.  "Accident" implies excusable, blamelessness, no-fault, all helpful when rationalizing miscues.

Even dictionaries seem to allow for wiggle room when defining "accident."  My jiffy Oxford American Dictionary defines the word thusly:  "an unexpected or undesirable event, especially one causing injury or damage."  I can just see "Better Call Saul" Goodman salivating like a Rottweiler over a raw New York strip steak at the prospect of invoking this definition in defense of Heisenberg:

"Gee, your honor.  It wasn't my client's fault that fumes escaped from his cook house and sent half the neighborhood skying.  It was an accident!"

I prefer my definition.  As you can see, it removes the wiggle room:  "An accident is the unpredictable result of an action or behavior."  In other words, if you do something that has a predictable result, and that result occurs, the result, then, cannot be called an accident.  For example:  If you speed through a school zone, there is a reasonable probability that you may run over one or more kids.  If you do hit a kid, you cannot therefore claim it was an accident.

On the other hand, if you are window-shopping on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and a chunk of ice falls off an eave and hits you in the head, that may be legitimately called an accident.  Why?  Because there was no predictability that such an occurrence would happen.

It's easier to rationalize a total screw-up by claiming that what happened was an accident than to admit that you, well, screwed up.  That's human nature.  My favorite example for the misuse of the word "accident" is when someone uses it to explain an unwanted, unexpected pregnancy.  Pregnancy is NEVER an accident.  It may be unplanned, the result of a spur of the moment act of lust or a contraceptive of one sort or another having failed or not been used properly, but it is never an accident.

Which brings us to the case of one Alan Osterhoudt, Jr, of Spring Hill, Florida.

Alan called 911.  "I just shot my wife," he told the operator.

"Why did you shot your wife?"  asked the operator.

"We had an argument, and....  I'll be outside.  I'm not going to resist or anything."

The shooting and the phone call occurred on the night of February 25, 2012.  Between then and September 25, 2013, when he finally took the stand at his murder trial, his story evolved from a straight-out shooting, complete with motive, to an accidental discharge of a firearm.

In his latest version of events, Alan was asleep when he heard the dog barking and then a thump in the attached bathroom.  He grabbed his gun and went to investigate.  "I got startled," he testified.  "The weapon discharged and I realized it was my wife."

Ah, those pesky weapons.  They do tend to discharge, don't they?  Especially when you PULL THE TRIGGER!

Alan is 63.  I mention that only to provide you a frame of reference.  I would think that he is too old to act out of the thoughtlessness and carelessness of youth, and not so old that he is a man in his dotage who was rousted confused from his sleep and scared witless to the point where he turned to his firearm for solace.

The jury bought Alan's revisionist version, sort of.  When he aime a gun at the back of his wife's head and pulled the trigger, there was a predictability of result that she would end up dead.  But in the jurors' minds, this did not necessarily constitute murder.  On September 26 the convicted him of manslaughter.

"My life is over," Alan had told police when he was arrested.  No, Alan.  Even if you receive the max of 30 years, you could be out in ten.  You'll still be only 73.  So your life isn't over.  Only life as you knew it.

However, your wife's?  Hers is most definitely over.  But, hey--c'est la vie, huh?

Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)

Act IV

Scene:  Mark and the principal are talking in the principal's office.

Principal:  What's got your tighty-whities in a knot today, Mark?

Mark:  I got this new kid in my class, this Mongo goof.  First thing he does is rip the desk apart.  He's actually sitting in the seat with no desktop.  Then I give him a book, he chews the cover off of it.  I try to find out how much he retained from his last school, and he grunts with one-word sentences.

Principal:  I know you hate jocks, but is the kid really that bad?

Mark:  You wait.  I told him to meet us here.  Where is he?  Probably got lost walking here from the other end of the hall, for chrissakes.  I mean, wait till you get a load of this moose.

(John enters stage left)

Principal:  John Mongostovich, isn't it?  Come on in and sit down.  Do you know why you're here?

John:  Only that Mister Sengles told me to skip lunch and meet him here.

Principal:  Mister Sengles tells me you chewed the cover off of one of his textbooks.

John:  What?  Sir, this is the only book he gave me in class (pulls out intact book from bookbag).

Principal:  I see.  John, why don't you wait out in the secretary's office a minute?

John:  Yes, sir.  Oh, and Mister Sengles?  The cause of WWII was the Treaty of Versailles; the military-industrial complex created jobs and provided state-of-the-art weaponry for our military, and we became involved in Vietnam because we misconstrued a nationalist movement as the spread of communism.  Those are simplistic answers to your questions, of course, but I think they adequately belie their premise, which is that you think I'm an illiterate Neanderthal.  (John exits stage left.)

Principal:  Mark, have you thought about what you'll do when you're finished with teaching?

Mark:  That was a setup.  I'll fix their asses.  Besides, you can't fire me.  I've got tenure and a union.

Principal:  No, but I can excess you.  How does day-to-day subbing sound?  You know, not knowing where you'll be one day to the next, running around all over the city.  And kids just love subs.  I give you six weeks, tops.

Mark:  Okay, okay.  What do you want?

Principal:  I want no more complaints from parents of athletes about your grading methods.  I want you to send me every assignment and test paper of John's that you grade.  And I want to see your mark period grades before you turn them in.  We're done here.  Send John in on your way out.

(Mark exits stage left; John enters.)

Principal:  I bet if I walk down to your classroom I'll find all the desks in perfect working order.

John:  Far as I know, sir.  I mean, why wouldn't they be?

Principal:  You're a smart kid, John.  Maybe too smart.  I'm gonna be watching you.  Now get out of here.  Go see the coach and sign up for football.

John:  Yes, sir!  And, sir?  I'd appreciate it if you called me...Mongo!

(Final curtain.  Wild applause and cries of "Author!  Author!" fill the theater.)

Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)

Act III

Scene:  Mark Singles' history classroom.  Mark is passing out textbooks to several students who are occupying all but one desk.  An office monitor enters stage right, leading a huge, lumbering student.

Monitor:  Mister Sengles?  This a transfer student, John Mongo...Mongo...uh....

Mark:  Mongo.  Yes, of course he is.  Lead him to that empty desk over there.  I doubt he could get there on his own; he looks like he could get lost in a box.

(John follows the monitor to the desk.  One of the students surreptitiously motions him to the occupied one next to it.)

John (looks menacingly at the oblivious student):  Grrrr!  (The student quickly moves to the empty desk.  John looks perplexed at the vacated desk, trying to determine how he will squeeze into it.  Finally he seizes the desk top and, with feigned effort, removes it from its supports, tosses it into a corner and sits down.)

Mark:  Oh, great.  Another lummox jock.  There's a textbook on the floor by your desk, Mongo.  It has pretty pictures in it, yes, but it also has words of more than one syllable.  Good luck understanding it.

John:  Unnnnh.  (He picks up the book, turns it over and back, then bites off a corner of its cover.  He chews a bit, makes a face, and spits it out.  Several students snicker and giggle.)

Mark:  Alright, get quiet.  Tell us, Mongo, did you learn anything at your last school?

John:  Huh?

Mark:  I mean, you had to have learned something.

John (trying to remember):  Uh, hmmm....

Mark:  Oh, you seem confused.  I see.  Let me try to help you recall.  What caused World War I?

John:  (shrugs):

Mark:  Okay, how about the military-industrial complex--why was it seen as a threat?

John:  Uh....

Mark:  Well, surely you can tell us why we became involved in Vietnam.  Come on, Mongo.  Amaze us with your understanding, your ability to recall facts about this country's great issues.

John (clearly frustrated and becoming angry):  Pick.  On.  Someone.  Else.

Mark:  See, class, this is what happens when allowances are made to accommodate jocks.  I have no doubt that Mister Mongo, here, can wreak havoc on the sporting field.  Perhaps he'll become a professional wrestler, pounding men as big and as brain dead as he, breaking chairs over heads, and cutting his own with hidden razor blades to lend a little blood to the mayhem in a pathetic attempt to create realism.  Tell me, Mongo, did you manage to dress yourself this morning, or did you require help?

John (starts to rise):  Leave.  John.  Alone.

Mark:  Oh, do sit down, Mongo.  You will skip lunch next period, and you will meet me in the principal's office instead.  Get one of these other zombies to help you find it.

(Curtain)

Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)

Act II

Scene:  Teachers' lounge.  Four teachers are drinking coffee at a table when another, history teacher Mark Sengles, enters stage right.

Teacher 1:  Morning, Mark.

Mark:  This place sucks.

Teacher 2:  Geez, Mark, it's only the first day of school.  Homeroom hasn't even started yet.

Mark:  I don't care; this place blows.

Teacher 3:  What is it, now?  Get tapped for cafeteria duty again?

Mark:  No.  No, they keep sticking brain-dead jocks in my class.  They're dumber than dirt, and they expect me to teach them anything?

Teacher 1:  But you're the one who's always ranting about mainstreaming.

Teacher 2:  Yeah.  How many times have you said it's not right to put the handicapped in special classes apart from the regular students, that it stigmatizes them and takes away their self-esteem.

Teacher 4:  I remember you saying it was as bad as tracking, leading kids into areas where their aptitudes indicate they could succeed, instead of giving them equal access to whatever they wanted to pursue.

Teacher 1:  I never understood the problem with tracking, myself.  I mean, why push a kid into something he couldn't possibly master?  Seems to me, if a kid is into something, and shows an aptitude for it, why not give him a shot at success?

Mark:  This is different.  Jocks aren't handicapped.  Jocks are just stupid.

Teacher 3:  And wasn't it you who led the big push to make our college-prep curriculum mandatory?  Didn't you say that all kids should be prepared for college when they graduate, whether they have any intention of going or not?

Mark:  That's exactly right.  We don't need to be turning out any more blue collar workers.  Hell, anyone can drive a truck or use a monkey wrench.  We need more philosophers, more social workers, more teachers, for chrissakes!  But these dumb jocks, all they think about is making it to the bigs.  They think because they can run a football up and down a field, swish three-pointers, or hit baseballs over the fence, they don't need to study.  So they take up space in my class, sit there half asleep, shrug when I call on them, and turn in barely legible assignments that I have to spend time grading.

Teacher 1:  Well, what do you propose?  We segregate all the jocks, assign them all tutors, schedule classes for them that are easy As?  That hardly seems fair.

Mark:  No, I know how to deal with them.  I either flunk them or give them such low grades that they lose their eligibility for sports.  That way, they have nothing left but academics, and they have to hit the books to try to get back on the field.

Teacher 2:  Yeah, but by the time they do, their season is over.

Teacher 3:  Besides, they'll just drop your class and take something else.

Mark:  Ah, but see, my class is required.  They flunk History this year; they have to repeat next year.  And guess who their teacher will probably be?  (Exit stage right.)

Teacher 1:  Jerk.

(Curtain)

Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)

Act I

Scene:  High school athletic field, before start of first football practice.  Five players in uniform are talking when a transfer student approaches them.

Jock 1:  Holy...look at what's coming!

Jock 2:  My god!  What do you think?  Six-five, 225?

Jock 1:  At least!

Jock 3:  That guy's huge!  His biceps are as big as my quads!

Jock 1:  Hey!  New guy!  Come here!

New guy:  Okay, let's get this over with.

Jock 1:  Get what over with?

New guy:  You know, first day in the 'hood, you're gonna show the new guy the pecking order.  So, who's first?

Jock 1:  First for what?  Oh, I get it.  You think we're gonna gang up on you, is that it?

New guy:  Isn't that what this is about?

Jock 1:  Nah, man.  We're just wondering why you aren't in uniform.

New guy:  Not playing football.  Just passing by.

Jock 3:  Not playing?  Why the hell not?  I mean, look at you.  Coach'd kill to have you on the team.  You scared of getting hit, or something?

New guy:  Played JV at my last school, till they kicked me off the team.  The other schools' teams felt it wasn't fair, me being so big.  I kept throwing their center into the quarterback.  They could never get a play off.

Jock 4:  That why you transferred over here?

New guy:  That, plus there was an incident I was involved in.

Jock 1:  What happened?

New guy:  I don't like talking about it.  Just that two seniors missed graduation because they were in body casts, and I transferred.  That's all.

Jock 1:  Oh, here comes the coach now.  He must have seen you, 'cause look at him running!  Man, I ain't never seen him move that fast!

Jock 2:  And here's a heads up for when you start classes.  This one jerk history teacher likes to flunk students who are into sports so they lose their eligibility.  He'll probably pick on you just because you look like a jock.  Just yes, sir, no, sir him to death.  Should be okay.

New guy:  I know how to deal with him.  Maybe you can help?

Jock 1:  Sure!  I mean, what can he do?  Flunk all of us?  Coach'd have his balls in a nutcracker!

New guy:  Good.  Here's what I have in mind....

(Curtain)

Once a Cracker....

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, a visionary looked at the waters of a sparkling blue bay and said, "What we need here is a pier!"  And it came to pass that a pier was built.  And the people beheld the pier and saw that it was good.

But Siddhartha tells us that nothing, neither firmament nor rock, lasts forever, and, lo, the pier became passe.  Another visionary appeared and said, "What we need to do here is replace the pier!"  And it came to pass that another pier was built, which became known as The Pier.  And the people beheld The Pier and saw that it was good.

The Pier is an inverted pyramid.  Within were restaurants, shops, a food court, a miniscule aquarium, a common area where artists might perform, and a rooftop in/out bar/restaurant from where one might watch general aviation aircraft takeoff and land, young sailors develop and practice their skills, and view the Christmas lighted boat parade, all while having a drink or three and a nosh.

But, alas, The Pier's very foundations began to crumble, and it became clear that its time had come.  Research showed that shoring up the structure and its underpinnings would cost more than the $50 budgeted for a new one.

And so the word went forth across the land that The Pier was to be replaced, and architects were invited to submit their ideas.  Three submissions, one of which was called the Lens, were selected and put to survey to obtain public feedback.  Over 70 percent of respondents favored the Lens.  You may check out its design at www.stpete.org/thenewpier.

Thus was the Lens chosen as the preferred design for a new pier by The St Petersburg Pier Competition Jury.  It was to go to the St Petersburg City Council for a vote, where passage was assured.

Then, like tweenies mobbing a Bieber concert, bikers raiding a wet t-shirt contest, rednecks convoying to a mud fest, came an infestation of malcontents calling themselves Concerned Citizens of St Petersburg.  The sole purpose of this attention-craving pestilence was to stop the Lens from being built.  Believing in government by referendum rather than representation, the group gathered petitions and found themselves a champion in the form of Kathleen Ford, three-time failed candidate for mayor (see "Tater Salad in Every Bowl!" in this blog's archives).  It succeeded in forcing the issue to a vote.

In the meantime, the mayor and certain council members who had signed off on the Lens began to back off.  Without their wholehearted and public support, and after a concerted effort by the malcontents to get out the vote, the Lens was rejected at the polls.

I interviewed Leroy the Junkman to get his take on the vote.

"So, Leroy.  How'd you vote on the Lens issue?"

"I voted NO on the damn thing!  Hell, that weren't no pier!  A pier is where you fish.  It has a bait shop, a table where you can gut and scale the fish, and where there ain't no snowbirds, tourists, and walkers jostling you and trippin' over you."

"Sure looked pretty, though.  All modern and open, with shoops, restaurants and promenades."

"Whut the hell is a promenade?  Is that something you can fish off'n?  And there weren't nowheres to feed the pelicans.  'Member that stand where little kiddies could buy fish and feed the pelicans?  That Lens looked like a damn UFO or something risin' up out'n the ocean.  That'd scare them young'uns to death!"

"You know, Leroy, by voting 'No' you were voting to build the Lens.  If you wanted to stop the Lens you had to vote 'Yes'."

"You gotta be...just so's I understand--if'n you didn't want the Lens you had to vote 'Yes', that rat?  Who the hell came up with that notion, anyways?"

"I know, right?  Only in Florida would you have to cast a negative vote to gain a positive, and a positive vote to achieve a negative.  Go figure, huh?"

The Cash Sewer that is Light Rail

There are two things in this world I absolutely cannot abide--an empty glass, and mindless obsession.  Please indulge me this rare rant.

For years, now, both Pinellas and Hillsborough County Commissions, and the local media, have been browbeating usover light rail.  For years light rail has been part of an overall transportation package that supporters have been trying to sell to voters.  The package was not only rejected every time it came up for a vote, it was rejected by such numbers as to send a clear and convincing message that it is not going to pass, ever.

Those determined to have their choo-choos remain undaunted.  It is not the efficacy of the plan, they are convinced.  It is the ignorance of the electorate.  Voters don't know it, but they want light rail.  They need light rail.  The dumb masses just have to be educated.  The hoi polloi just have to learn.

For a long time, those trying to sell us on light rail have argued that the Tampa Bay area will never be top-tier, with destination cities like Chicago and New York, until we implement a light rail system.

This argument is disingenuous for two reasons.  Neither Tampa (pop 336,823) nor St Petersburg (246,407) comes close to the ridership base of Chicago (2,836,658) or New York (8,274,527).

The Tampa Bay area has hosted Super Bowls, Stanley Cup Finals, the NCAA Final Four, Major League Baseball playoffs, the Republican National Convention, and is scheduled to host the Bollywood Awards.  It is served by one of the top international airports in the nation and is a port of origin for ocean-going cruise ships and freighters.  Its beaches consistently rank among the top-ten anywhere.  The lack of a light rail system seems to have never been a deterrent or even a consideration when deciding on Tampa Bay as a destination.

Nor has transportation, which includes the light rail pipedream, been a main concern of local business leaders.  When asked to list the top three considerations for businesses on the move, the director of Merit Advisors replied, "Workforce, workforce, workforce."  After that was the cost of doing business.

"Mass transit has not been a driving force for us," added the managing director for a commercial real estate firm.  He said he's not sure light rail would work in the Tampa Bay area.  "I don't think you have the densities."

One area that does have the density is San Diego (pop 1,266,731).  Ridership on its 13.5-mile light rail system is touted as being 80,000 daily; however, those are almost all round-trippers for an actual body count of 40,000.

Charlotte (pop 671,588) disingenuously boasts that a one-way ride on its system costs less than "a cup of Starbucks."  The projected cost for its planned 13.5-mile line was $225 million.  Its final cost was $462.7 mil for what ended up being 9.6 miles.  Factor in continuing operating and maintenance costs, and it doesn't take a math major to figure out that a daily ridership of 14,800 (7,400 round-trippers), each paying the price of a cup of coffee, is not what's keeping Charlotte's light rail system solvent.  So, then, what is?  I know, and so do you.  Endless and ever-increasing taxpayer subsidies, that's what.

Let's connect the dots, San Diego's percentage of ridership (less than 4) with the cost of Charlotte's system.  Understand--the cost of the system is not determined by ridership base.  Project these figures onto Tampa's comparatively miniscule population, with a best-case and highly optimistic scenario of 5 percent ridership, and even the mathematically challenged can see that actual per passenger cost will be astronomical.

No one who supports light rail wants to hear the horror stories that abound in opposition.  "Detractors will continue to beat the naysaying drum," writes one columnist, "but true leadership never achieves without enduring.  Fire forges steel...."

Yeah, and fire burns paper, too.  Undertake light rail, and you'll see how fast the flames can consume millions.

Tater Salad in Every Bowl!

Over the years we've had our share of intellectually challenged candidates (Sarah Palin, e.g.), morally challenged (John Edwards, e.g.), and space cadets (our own Kathleen Ford).

On August 27, St Petersburg voters will choose from among five candidates which will be the next mayor or, if necessary, in a run-off.  Two of the five are inconsequential.  Two others, one of whom is the incumbent, have a legitimate shot.  The other, Kathleen, is providing the comic relief.

Kathleen is a lawyer by profession.  She graduated cum so-so from an obscure law school and went on to achieve low five-figure earnings for an even more obscure law firm.  No rainmaker, she.

This is Kathleen's third try for mayor.  Perhaps if she were running for, say, commissioner in Hillsborough County, she might win in a landslide.  Folks on that side of the Bay are prone to electing candidates who amuse rather than actually legislate.  But, alas, this is Pinellas County, the collective electoral IQ of which, at least, is in the three digits, and she is running for mayor rather than a council or commission, where, as one of several members, she could indulge her buffoonery without doing much harm.

Her campaign has already pretty much self-destructed.  There have been four candidate debates; she stiffed the first three.  She claimed scheduling conflicts; I believe she was afraid of coming across as the shallow, ill-informed flake that she is.  As her performance in head-to-head confrontations demonstrates, she was right to be concerned.

The following is representative of her comments made during a fourth debate.  I could have made some others up, but there's no way I could have topped hers.

By way of background, there is a section of St Pete called Midtown.  Don't ask me why.  It is not mid-St Pete; it is an area south and slightly west of downtown.  It is a mostly black area, less economically viable and more crime-riddled than the rest of the city.  Candidates, all three of whom are white, were asked what they have done to help this deprived area.

The mayor touted new businesses developed there during his watch.  His chief opponent talked about his efforts as a state legislator to expand voting rights.  Kathleen--I stress again that I'm not making this up--bragged about how she once made potato salad at a Midtown park.  That was not part of her answer; that was her answer.  Nothing was taken out of context.

At a "Tampa Bay Times" editorial board meeting, the candidates were asked to question one another.  Kathleen skipped over issues of import to the community and went straight for the kill.  Why, she asked one of her opponents, did he pass along to her other opponent a "politically incorrect" Krispy Kreme donut calendar when, some years ago, they were both on city council.  The issue, she pointed out, went to his character, which she compared to that of San Diego's mayor and New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner, both of whom are facing charges of sexual harassment.  Asked if she knew of any such accusations against her opponent, she replied, well, no.

When the topic of crime and security in Midtown came up, she pointed out that a fence had been erected around a Walgreens drugstore--in 1997.

I've already made up my mind for whom I will vote.  But I have to tell you, for a while I was torn.  There would be many more yuks with Kathleen in office than either of her opponents, but there is a difference between comedy and farce.  The potential for devastation with a Mayor Airhead far outweighs the guarantee of a few attendant laughs.

But I look forward to her fourth, fifth and maybe even sixth campaign.  After all, there's a lot to be said for comedy relief.

Florida Fun on the Cheap!

Forget Disney World, Sea World, Universal, Legoland, Busch Gardens and any number of other A-list tourist traps where admission prices will run into the high double digits and, by the time your next vacation comes around, may well top $100.  Allow me to offer you three Florida D-list attractions that'll cost you little or nothing to enjoy:

* Bushwacker Festival:  Sound Outbackish?  Well, it is, sort of.  The Bushwacker Festival takes place in Pensacola.  It's a three-day hoot that includes the obligatory food, crafts, and tacky souvenir vendors, a 5K run, and bands playing on two stages.

How, you might well ask, is that different from any other carnival or fair you can find in any church parking lot, Lions park, or schoolyard?  See, this one is themed around the Bushwacker, an adult beverage, the main ingredients of which are rum, Kahlua, creme de coconut, creme de cacao, half-and-half, and vanilla ice cream.  Take a tip from your ol' Uncle Dave:  If you plan to enter the 5K run, eschew the Bushwacker to avoid having to hurl and/or limp or crawl across the finish line.  Okay, Speedy?

* Possum Festival (Wausau):  Come watch Honey Boo Boo wannabes compete in the Little King and Queen contest, then watch Walmartians vie for king and queen.  For those of you who don't understand the festival concept, there's another 5K run to make you wish you did.  Ditto the ubiquitous vendor stands.

Gotta see something unique, 'cause otherwise, well, if you've been to one of these "celebrations" you've been to 'em all.  Making the Possum Festival special are the hog callin', rooster crowin' and cow lowin' contests.  For those athletic elitists among you who think these are trash sports unworthy of your participation, sign up for the horseshoe pitching and crosscut sawing events.  You can tell they're top-drawer; they're spelled with a "g".

* The Worm Gruntin Festival (Sopchoppy, described as being 35 miles and 100 years southwest of Tallahassee):  Put this one at the top of your must-see list.  And although you will get free lessons in worm gruntin (sic) from experts, let me offer you a how-to as sort of a Gruntin 101 (credits likely will not transfer):

Get yourself a stake, like the one you would use to dispatch Dracula.  Pound it about six inches into the ground.  Find a steel bar, maybe two feet long, three inches wide and 1/4 inch thick.  Grab each end of the bar and center it on top of the stake.  Rub the bar across the top of the stake to create a grunting sound.

The grunting sound imitates the sound moles make as they move underground, seeking earthworms.  Worms hear this noise and surface, fleeing for their very lives.  Alas, they're just jumping into the bait buckets of that royalty of worm grunting, "King" Gary and "Queen" Audrey Reville, who will sell and deliver them to fishermen.  (Fun fact 1:  The longest earthworm on record is a 21-footer found in Africa.  Fun fact 2:  Earthworms are rich in protein.  Bon appetite!)

Gary and Audrey have been married over 35 years.  Their first date, or second or third, involved grunting for worms.  Gary usually does the grunting and Audrey the retrieving, but these tasks are interchangeable as necessity dictates.  Gary comes from a long line of grunters; Audrey, proof that somewhere there's someone for everyone, has made the family business her own.

What, not interested in gruntin' for worms?  Then enter Sopchoppy's version of the 5K, shop at probably the same vendor stands and kick off the clods to the same foot-stompin', knee-slappin', elbow-bendin' gut-bucket music you heard at the Bushwacker and Possum Festivals.

And, really, what would a trip to Florida be without visits to Big Daddy Don Garlits' Museum of Drag Racing, the Skunk Ape Museum, and the mermaids at Weeki-Wachee?  The best part?  No 5K runs!

Better make your flight, hotel and car rental reservations now.  I'll be looking for your pics on Facebook and your videos on YouTube.  Ya hear?

Editorial Arrogance

The "Tampa Bay Times" is actually the "St Petersburg Times" renamed.  It aspires to regional import, to establish itself as the necessary guiding light and moral compass for a five-county area.  Hence the name change.

Like an Italian cruise ship, it has started listing to the left.  Assuming the mantel of "Izvestia" of the west, it added columnist Robyn Blumner to its editorial board to increase its leftist cred.  Robyn is a case study of the DRD4 gene run amok.

Recently I was able to penetrate the "Times" editorial boardroom with my bugbot.  Let's give a listen....

"I've noticed we've been spending a lot of time on our neighbors to the east.  Tampa and Hillsborough County have absolutely no clue as to what they should be about.  We're not making much progress with showing them the way."

"I know, right?  I mean, look at their transportation system.  It's a disaster!  Why don't they have light rail?"

"I blame President Reagan!"

"Robyn, Robyn.  Reagan has been out of office for decades."

"Okay, then, I blame..., uh, who was the next guy?"

"George Bush."

"I blame President Bush!"

"Which one?"

"There was more than one?"

"And we have to stop those developers from building that high-rise condo tower on that little postage stamp-size downtown parcel that overlooks the river.  There's gotta be some bug, or lizard, or something that'll lose its habitat."

"Hey, let's not forget Channelside.  It's supposed to be this big entertainment complex, and there it sits, emptier than Tropicana for a Rays game!"

"I blame Governor Scott!"

"Robyn, please!  Sure, he's a Republican, but he hasn't anything to do with Channelside."

"So what?  It's enough that he's a Republican!  By definition, he's got to be to blame for something!"

"You know, our omniscience could also be used to resolve problems on our side of the Bay.  Oh, if they'd only just listen to us!"

"Yeah.  It's not like the mayor's office is of any use.  The incumbent is a wuss.  We've had three debates where one of the mayoral candidates didn't even show, afraid she'd make a fool of herself by sounding like the airhead she is."

"What about the new pier?  First the city council okays its design, then backs down in the face of a protest by some malcontents--I mean, community activists--and now the whole thing is in limbo."

"I blame Mayor Baker!"

"Foster, Robyn!  Mayor Foster!"

"Oh.  Oh, yeah.  I blame Mayor Foster!"

"I move that we keep harping on Tampa and Hillsborough.  We don't want anyone over here on our case, now do we?  We can beat up on the other side of the Bay all we want without antagonizing our advertising base.  All in favor?"

Meaner than a Junkyard Dog

So I'm sitting on my recliner reading "Skinny Dip" by Carl Hiaasen when I hear such screaming outside that dogs start howling, kids are running to their moms, and moms are dialing 911.  I went to the window to see what possible reason there could be for so rudely interrupting my leisure.

I saw a woman at a stop sign being loudly berated by Leroy the junk man for some offense, real or imagined.  Leroy has trouble distinguishing between the two.  Instead of just driving off and leaving him to rail at the heavens, he being on foot, she sat there behind the wheel of her car and just stared in disbelief.  I wondered whether I should make an appearance on my porch as sort of a deterrent to potential violence.  I envisioned how it would go down....

"Whut the hell you lookin' at?"

"I don't know.  I didn't major in anthropology."

"Whut?  Anthro-whut?  I'll come over there and kick yore ass!"

"Then you would truly be as stupid as you look."

"Whutchu mean, stoopid?  You'd be the one stoopid, all lyin' on the ground bleedin' and stuff."

"Just out of curiosity, how'd you go about kicking my ass?  I'm at least a head taller and 100 pounds heavier than you.  You look like a refuge from a concentration camp, like Joe Walsh when he was doing drugs."

"Maybe so, but I'm also about forty years younger and a lot faster."  Here he might demonstrate his hand speed and perform a little Ali shuffle.  "I'll put yore ass in the hospital in a body cast."

"Yeah, but see, you'd still lose.  Who you gonna brag to about beatin' up a 71-year-old man?  Plus, they have laws here in Florida that are especially harsh on redneck crackers like you who beat up on seniors."

"Well, you'd still be in the hospital."

"Maybe.  But I know where you live.  I'd get out of the hospital before you got out of jail, and when you do get out, everything you own will be gone.  Disappeared."

Everyone knows where Leroy lives, which is a couple of blocks up and around the corner from me.  His house is surrounded with enough junk to make a landfill operator proud.  He collects his "objets d'art" by driving his pickup truck around the 'hood and picking up whatever homeowners have put out by the curb.  He's gotten around attempts at code enforcement by claiming his pieces of scrap are "lawn decorations."

"You know, Gomer, you really should be more selective in picking your fights.  Last time you went all postal on a driver, he pounded you into the pavement.  My 11-year-old granddaughter could whip your scrawny butt.  Your neighbor across the street told me you threatened her one day, and when she invited you to take just one step across her property line, you backed off.  'He won't mess with me,' she said."  (Truth be told, I wouldn't mess with her, either.)

"Whut the hell you flyin' that Georgia flag for, anyways?  Man lives in Florida, he ought to fly a Florida flag!"

"That 'G' stands for Green Bay, Forrest.  You know, the Pakcers?"

"Oh.  Yeah, I know.  I'm a Bucs fan, myself."

"Gee, I never would have guessed."

I decided to lend moral support to the beleagured driver.  By the time I reached for my can of Wasp killer--mace and probably pepper spray being illegal--Leroy had exhausted his spleen and had gone stomping off down the street.  Luckily for him.  He'd have come with 20 feet of me, he'd have needed a guide dog to get home.

A Queen Dethroned

Some time ago I shared with you faithful readers, who now number in the tens, the story of Tampa's own Rashia Wilson, 27 and the mother of three, who managed to scam the IRS out of $3 million and change.  It has since gotten worse.

How did Rashia, who looks like an emaciated Snooki, pull it off?  Simple.  Using wire fraud and identity theft schemes, she e-filed easily prepared incom tax return forms and then waited for the refunds to be deposited into her bank accounts.  These refunds enabled a lavish lifestyle, which included a $30k birthday party for her 1-year-old and $90k for a new Audi.

How was she caught?  Bet you think that due diligence on the part of the IRS and a follow-up FBI investigation tripped her up.  Ha!  Silly you.  Instead, she bragged about what she had done on Facebook.  Someone saw what she had written and tipped off the feds.

"I'm Rashia, the queen of IRS tax fraud," she posted.  "I'm a millionaire for the record, so if U think indicting me will B easy it won't, I promise you!  U need more than black and white to hold me down N that's to da rat who went N told, as if 1st lady don't have the TPD under her spell.  I run Tampa right now."

When the federal government's bloated budget involves juggling trillions of dollars daily, $3 mil is pocket change.  Its loss was certainly not enough to distract the IRS from its Inspector Javert-like doggedness in thwarting applications for tax-exempt status from pesky right-wing organizations.  After all, one must set priorities.

But losing money is one thing; losing face is quite another.  So when Rashia publicly thumbed her nose at its ineptitude, the IRS finally rallied the troops.  In a joint effort that would have made Eliot Ness envious, the IRS Criminal Investigations division teamed with the Secret Service, US Postal Inspection Service, Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office and Tampa Police Department to bring her down.

Rashia's attorneys worked out a deal wherein she pleaded guilty to wire fraud and identity theft.  Came then the sob stories and the psycho-babble.

Psychologist Valerie McClain testified that Rashia, a seventh-grade dropout and daughter of a cocaine-addicted mother and incarcerated father, suffers from bipolar disorder, dysfunctional upbringing and manic-phase behavior.  What looks like audacity on her Facebook posting, the Jennifer Melfi wannabe analyzed, is simply a manifestation of her illness.  Clearly her devils made her do it.

The judge, his common sense uncompromised by the aberrant DRD4 gene that afflicts Valerie, didn't buy the bleeding heart diagnosis.  "I cannot ignore the fact that she stole over $3 million from the government," he said.  He sentenced her to 21 years in the slam and ordered her to pay restitution in the amount of $3.1 million.

"What a joke," you're probably thinking.  "How's she going to pay back $3.1 mil?"

Ah, but see, the plea arrangement had been signed off on before it became obvious that the total amount with which she made off was closer to $20 mil.  Nevertheless, the judge honored the agreement.  Assuming she has the remaining $17 mil stashed somewhere, having the cash is not Raisha's problem.  Her problem is trying to spend it.  If she dips into her "savings" for the $3 mil the feds will be all over her like a wetsuit on a SCUBA diver.

I bet you're also thinking, "Well, Uncle Dave, at least she's going to prison for 21 years.  That's the rest of her youth spent locked up in the slam."

Aww, that's sooo cute!  You actually believe she'll do all 21 years.  How precious!  She'll be eligible for parole after serving seven.  Even if she doesn't cut a deal for a reduction in sentence in exchange for whatever is left of the unaccounted for $17 mil, there's no way she's going to do 21.  No one does 21 for nonviolent crimes.

There are even murderers who don't do 21 years.

Different Strokes

Ohio is rather oddly sorted, geographically.  Montgomery, for example, is in Hamilton County, not Montgomery County.  Hamilton, on the other hand, is in Butler County, while Butler is in Richland County.  Warren is not in Warren County but in Trumbull County; Trumbull is in Ashtabula County.  Almost amusingly, Ashtabula is actually in Ashtabula County.

But all of this is really not apropos of anything connected with this sad tale of unrequited love.  Hmmm.  On second thought, maybe it is....

At 1:20 p.m. on June 17, Hamiltonian Edwin Charles Tobergta, 34, stepped out of his home clad in only his skin and proceeded to have sex with a pool float which the neighbors had set out by the trash.  The neighbor's 10-year-old daughter, who had witnessed him doing the nasty with the float, ran to her mother yelling, "Mom, Edwin's doing something weird out there!"

Edwin was arrested on a charge of public indecency.  In accordance with the provisions of the Freedom of Information Act, I was able to obtain a transcript of the arrest interview.

"Well, here we are again, Edwin."

"Huh?"

"Remember two years ago when we busted you for having your way with a neighbor's pool float?"

"Well, I...."

"And in 2006, while you were in the slam for public indecency, you exposed yourself to a corrections officer, for chrissakes!"

"That was a guy thing, you know, like a junk measuring thing."

"Then, back in 2002, a neighbor complained that you had sexually assaulted one of her inflatable Halloween decorations.  What was that, Edwin?  A witch?  Ghost?  Let me guess--a skull?"

"Don't rightly recall what it was, officer.  Must not have been a memorable experience, is all I can say."

"You ever think of dating, oh, I don't know, maybe women, Edwin?  Or, hell, even guys.  I mean, it seems to me that'd be better than molesting inanimate objects."

"Lord knows I've tried.  Don't know what it is 'bout me that puts women off."

"Well, gee, Edwin, you think it might be the fact that you run around outside, bare-assed, coupled with your predeliction for violating plastic toys, that's turning the ladies off?  I mean, you gotta figure that sort of behavior is not enhancing your status as a prospect."

"But them blow-up thingies have their advantages, know what I mean?  They don't need to talk all the time--what is that about women, anyways--they're really flexible, and I can use them in whatever position I want.  They don't complain, 'cause there ain't no pain.  Plus, they don't cost me nothing; no dinner, no show."

"Well, couldn't you at least get yourself one of them anatomically correct, life-size dolls instead of raping the neighbor's inflatables?"

"Hell, I do that, I might as well spring for a date.  I'm trying to save myself some money, 'kay?  And it ain't like I'm hurting anyone.  I even wipe off the mess when I'm done!"

Edwin was indicted on the public indecency charge.  Bond was set at $25k.  If convicted, he could get 12 months in the slam.

Perhaps he will score a conjugal visit with one of the objects of his affection.

A "Ghost" Story

Recently, a friend of mine had to visit her bank.  Coincidently, my ubiquitous bugbot happened to be sequestered unobtrusively under the branch manager's desk and transmitted this conversation to my laptop.

"May I help you?"

"Yes.  My name is Bobbie Bosocket.  My husband, Bobby, recently passed away, and I need to close out our joint accounts and open new ones in just my name."

"Sorry for your loss.  I'll be more than happy to take care of this for you.  Would you also require new credit and debit cards?"

"Oh, I guess.  I'd rather not, but you just can't do anything without them, anymore."

"I know, right?  Give me a couple of minutes to verify your credit rating and I'll be right back with you."

"No problem."

My bugbot, alas, is not equipped with video capability.  However, from the gist of the conversation it is not hard to imagine the banker's facial expressions when he returned with the credit reporting companies' information.

"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket.  We won't be able to issue you a credit card."

"I don't understand.  Our credit scores have always been in the mid-700s.  We've never had so much as one late payment or default, no bankruptcies, no liens."

"Yes, but one of the requirements for obtaining credit is that the applicant be, well, alive."

"But my late husband is not applying for credit; I am!"

"That's the problem.  Apparently, you're dead."

"Say what?"

"All three credit reporting companies have you listed as deceased, mort, room temperature."

"Well, clearly I'm not.  I'm sitting here talking to you."

"Are you?  Are you really?  I mean, I see you and hear you, but are you you, or just an apparition, a hallucination brought on by that breakfast burrito I ate this morning?  Oh, why did I eat it?  Why did I eat it?!"

"Look.  Here's my driver's license, my social security card, my military spouse ID card, and my husband's death certificate.  I'd show you my passport if I had it with me, but I didn't know I'd be crossing into Beetlejuice territory, here."

"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket.  My hands are tied.  I can't process your paperwork because of your, uh, status."

"I'm Bobbie, not Bobby, you myopic twit!  I'm obviously not the one who's dead!"

"Well, yeah, you say that, but the credit reporting companies say you are, and credit reporting companies are never, ever, wrong."

"Okay, Sparky, I'm outta here.  But understand--I'll get this mess straightened out, and when I do, I'll be back!  You might prove to be harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa by the time I'm done."

"Uh, Ms Bosocket, when you leave would you mind opening the door to exit instead of just materializing, or transmogrifying, or whatever through it?  We wouldn't want to alarm our other customers now, would we?"

Beware the Immortalizing of Mortals

Okay, kiddies, a little history lesson.  There may be a quiz, so pay attention.

Back in the mid-1600s--you remember--a Spaniard named Pedro Menendez de Aviles set sail with a number of ships and men for Florida.  His king was distressed that the French had established garrisons and colonies in a place he considered rightfully his for exploitation.

Pedro was a loyal follower of his king and had by previous service and the delivering of untold treasure from faraway lands proven his value.  If you were Spanish, this guy was a heroic figure; if you were anyone else, particularly French, well, not so much.

Anyhoo, on August 28, 1565, Pedro entered and named the Bay of St Augustine and established a fort, thus becoming the founder of our nation's oldest settlement.  On September 20 he captured the French post of Fort Caroline, which he renamed Fort San Mateo.  In October, when a body of Frenchmen who clearly hadn't gotten the memo appeared to relieve their colony, Pedro, after releasing the women, children, and those men who claimed to be Catholic, murdered the rest and hung their bodies in trees with a sign that read, "Not as Frenchmen but as Lutherans".  I doubt the doomed Protestants took much solace in the distinction.

Let us transport ourselves to present-day Tampa, several centuries later and a couple of hundred miles southwest of the Oxbow-ish incident of the swinging stiffs.

Tampa City Councilwoman Yvonne Yolie Capin has thought it would be a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to rename Nebraska Avenue, one of Tampa's main north/south arteries, after Pedro.  There are any number of problems with such an undertaking, as one might well conclude.  To wit:

* Pedro was a persecutor of non-Catholics and a murderer.

* Granted the guy founded St Augustine, but what's that got to do with Tampa?  I know, I know--what does Nebraska, a fly-over state of mainly cornfields, have to do with Tampa?

* City officials estimate it would cost about $75k to rename the streets.  Business owners would have to spend thousands to change their stationery, business cards and advertising to reflect their new addresses.

Moreover, it seems to me prudent to consider the venue of one's veneration as well as the personage him/herself.

For example, would a Barney Frank Room be more appropriate in the Playboy Mansion or in the Powder Pouf Lounge?  How 'bout Bill Clinton Boulevard--Romance, Arkansas, or Hooker?  Renaming the Golden Gate Bridge after Richard Nixon, or Folsom Prison?  The Bruce Jenner/Kenny Rogers Wing--Mayo Clinic or the Sarasota Clown College of Plastic Surgery?  I mean, what's next--the Adolf Hitler Center for Torah Studies?

In the face of community outrage at her suggestion, Yvonne requested that her proposal be tabled.  However, she pointed out that Jacksonville is named after President Andrew Jackson, who drove the Cherokees out of the Carolinas and Tennessee in what became known as the Trail of Tears.

"If Jackson had been judged by that alone, he never would have had a city named after him," she said.  "As with Jackson, Menendez de Aviles' history should be looked at in its broader context."

Point taken, Yvonne.  If you really want to revere a genocidal lackey of Spanish imperialism and pillager of foreign lands and peoples, how 'bout renaming an alley in Ybor City?  Pedro would have fit right in there.

Secret of the Cape Revealed!

So I'm sitting at home watching "Life Below Zero" when the phone rings.  Thank God for Tivo, huh?

"Hello.  You have reached the number you called.  No one here wants to talk to you.  If you want to talk to someone here, leave a message (snicker) at the sound of the beep (snort) and we'll get back to you (guffaw!)."

"Yo, pacfan!  Pick up!"

"Supe, is that you?  Where the hell you been?"

"Man, I'm whipped!  You know I moonlight doin' stunt work for the Superman movies, right?  You seen the last one?  My god, they had me breakin' the sound barrier three times in one flight, and they don't even give me a runnin' start, anymore.  They got me leapin' into the air like a hoppy-toad, for chrissakes!"

"But you gotta be bringin' down the big bucks.  That flick did more business the Thursday night before it opened than most movies do the whole first weekend."

"Yeah, but comes a point in a man's life when you gotta wonder if it's worth it.  I go home after work, and all I want to do is catch some Zs.  To top it off, Lois has lost interest in Mighty Mouse, if you get my drift.  I can't blame her; since I started working on that movie 'faster than a speeding bullet' has taken on a whole different meaning.  How's that comport with my 'man of steel' image?  'Course, it doesn't help that she looks like Nancy Pelosi--you know, Sam Jaffe in drag--instead of Amy Adams."

"So, go ahead and quit."

"I would, but Lois'd have a hissy-fit.  Clark makes next to nothin' doin' his reporting gig.  We'd have to move into a trailer park.  Speaking of, how's things in Florida?"

"Lollipops and coconuts, as usual.  This place is like Arkham, man.  Your BFF, the bat guy, would fit right in down here."

"Want me to take care of it?  A little nudge to the next hurricane, and Florida would be restored to its Ponce de Leon roots."

"No, no!  This place is Eden.  The insanity is just gravy on the biscuits."

"Well, after what the special effects and CGI folks did with the destruction of Metropolis, I have to say, it looked pretty good to me.  But I'm just burned out, is all."

"Listen, I've got a couple of questions for you.  Why not ditch the cape?  I mean, it's gotten so big it drags the ground like some bridal train.  It's not like you need it."

"You kiddin'?  That thing's a chick magnet!  The girls love it, don't ask me why!"

"Yeah, but you're married.  What you worried about girls for?"

"It's like my drinkin' buddy 'Tater' says.  I'm a good dog, but if you don't pat me on the head once in a while, it's hard to keep me under the porch.  Know what I'm sayin'?"

"And the beard.  Bullets bounce off of you.  You're impervious to flame.  Knives can't penetrate your skin.  How do you shave?  How do you get haircuts?"

"Look, unless you slept through your biology classes, you know that hair is all dead cells.  No problem cuttin' dead cells.  I gotta go.  I've been hearing rumors of a supposedly super woman who lives up on the North Slope.  I want to find out if she's my long lost cousin, Kara, hidin' out.  Up, up and away!"

Sunshine State Silliness

Folks who read my blogs about Florida foolishness may wonder why all the hate.  Why live in Florida; why not move?

I don't hate Florida.  Au contraire.  I have billions of reasons why I live here.  They're called "snowflakes."  I love the water; I love the warmth, and I especially love that I don't have to dress up like Nanook of the North, scrape ice off my windshield, and shovel a foot of snow off my driveway every time I want to go somewhere.

As for the foolishness, well, where else are you going to find such a variety of inanity, both tragic and comic?  For example:

* St Petersburg thinks it would be a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to replace all the streetlights with LEDs at a savings of $1.8 million per year.  Duke Energy, which supplies St Pete with electricity, says, "Now, y'all jus' go rat ahead and swap 'em out.  Jus' don't be lookin' for no $1.8 mil, though.  We do it for y'all, we gotta do it for every other cracker town in our area.  How's that gonna work for our bottom line?  Our folks gotta pay them golf club memberships, too, ya hear?"

* A Department of Environmental Protection lawyer successfully won a case against a couple who illegally filled in wetlands by an aquatic preserve.  Instead of celebrating, he started clearing out his office.

"As soon as the verdict came back, I had a sinking feeling," he said.  "I thought, 'When Jeff Littlejohn (DEP Deputy Secretary) hears about this, I'm probably going to lose my job.'"  Five months later, he and three other lawyers charged with enforcing DEP regulations were emptying their desks and hitting the bricks.

See, the thing is Florida's DEP is mainly for show, a sop to the state's tree-huggers and animal rights whackos.  Florida's legislature is practically a wholly-owned subsidiary of developers and big business.  If it had its way, the Everglades, for example, would at best be reemployed to carry away phosphates from the sugar industry and at worst be paved over to provide more land for upscale gated communities.  These enterprises generate revenues for campaign coffers, don'cha know.  Birds, gators, panthers, deer, bears and other such nuisance critters are just detriments, impediments, to progress.

* Tyndall AFB scrambled two fighters to intercept a Flight Express cargo plane on its way from Greensboro, NC, to Tampa.  Air traffic controllers had lost contact with the 28-year-old pilot "for significant periods during his flight."

"Hell, ah might have dozed off fer a spell, but that's whut autopilots are fer, duh!  All of uh sudden, ah look out muh window, an' thar's uh couple uh them fighter jets gettin' ready to lock on and send uh missile or two up muh ass!  Ah had tuh change muh drawers after tha', ah don' mind tellin' yuh!"

The pilot's blood alcohol level was more than three times the level at which the state presumes impairment.  He's looking at a max of 15 years in the slam.

* A two-year-old toddler crawled through a doggie door and made her way into her family's swimming pool.  She was found after several minutes and resuscitated, but remained unconscious as she was transferred to hospital.  Pinellas Park police were not expected to file criminal charges.

So, you might wonder, what's so "Florida" about that?  Since you asked, I'll tell you.  If that same little girl was found alone and unconscious in a locked car, the parents would have been handcuffed and doing the perp walk to the slam, where they'd have been charged with, at the least, criminal negligence and child endangerment.  What's worse, the girl probably would have been entered into the foster care system, which in Florida is tantamount to a death sentence.

The danger of living here is not the hurricanes, it's how easy it would be for one to OD on all of this insanity.  To do so would be to destroy whatever faith in humanity you may have left.  Me?  It's not surprising to me, anymore.  It's just confirmation.

Tales from a Yeshiva

Did you read the story about the 100 or so Jewish students on a trip to Atlanta's Six Flags who were booted off their flight because they refused to follow the airline crew's instructions?  What's amazing about the incident to me is that the rabbis are siding with the kids.  I know that kids will be kids, whatever their race, color, creed, sex, or religion.  But rabbis, at least in my experience, have zero tolerance and absolutely no sense of humor.

In my previous life as a public high school teacher, I had occasion to moonlight at a yeshiva for a couple of years.  I was able to do that because yeshiva kids take their required lay courses in the evening.  During the day they are busy with religious and Hebrew language studies.  They confided to me that if the rabbis had their way, there would be no secular study at all.

You would think that after going to school all day the kids would be too tired to sit through history, geography, etc, wouldn't you?  Well, you'd be wrong, kosher dill-breath.  Those kids came to class after their dinner with boundless energy and enthusiam.  And if I wasn't ready to deal with that, to make their presence worthwhile to them, they would let me know it tout de suite.

Give them a test on Monday?  Better have it graded by Tuesday.  Skip a night of homework?  Next day they're complaining to the head rabbi.  And don't even think of coming to class without a lesson plan.  Those kids would eat your lunch.

But, kids being kids, once in a while they'd test the teacher.  While grading the first homework papers I had assigned, I noticed that the paper I was reading looked familiar.  I leafed back through papers I'd already graded and found one identical to it.  I put them aside.

During the next class I called the two students to my desk.

"It's clear to me that one of you copied the other's homework.  Since I don't know which one, I'm failing both of you on this assignment."

"No, no one copied.  They look the same because we did the research and prepared the assignment together.  You can't flunk us for that."

"Okay, maybe I'm wrong.  Tell you what.  I'll give these to the rabbi and tell him my story.  You can tell him yours.  I'll go with whatever he decides.  Fair enough?"

Their looks of utter terror told me what they thought of that idea.  They both pleaded with me not to do that, and indicated that if I did, they'd be castrated.

Another time I administered a test during which one student was absent.  I never liked to give make-up tests, because there was just too much opportunity for mischief.  However, the absent kid made such a case for a make-up that I relented.  By the time he took the test, the others had all been graded and returned.  He aced it, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more.

"I've got good news and bad news.  The good news is, he aced the test," I told the class.  Pause here for cheers, high fives, fist bumps.  "The bad news is, he blew the curve for everyone else, so I'm lowering all of your grades except his one letter."

I thought they were going to pound him into the floor.

A story I was told was of two freshmen who had flown in from LA to attend the yeshiva.  Shortly after settling in, they sneaked off campus and headed downtown.  When the rabbis realized they had a couple of AWOLs they drove into town to find them.  It didn't take long.  They took them straight to the airport, put them on the next flight to California, called their parents with the flight information, and told them they'd send their belongings later. 

That's why I find the rabbis siding with the kids who were thrown off their flight so unbelievable, so disheartening.  I mean, if you can't trust rabbis to hold firm on principles, who can you trust?

The Idiots Who Run the Asylum

In my previous life as an airport shuttle driver, I set out for work at the crack one Saturday morning.  Mine was the only car on the Bayway, it appeared, and although I wasn't running late I nevertheless was generous with my foot pressure on the go pedal.

Turns out I wasn't the only car pointed in my direction.  The other one was hidden behind some landscaping in the median.  As I went by at about warp factor six, in a stretch where the speed limit is 40 mph, the other car pulled out behind me, red and blue lights flashing.

My car at the time was a four-cylinder, five-plus-year-old Saturn.  Even if it had occurred to me to try, there was no way I was going to outrun a St Petersburg police cruiser.  I pulled over.

The cop approached, glanced at me through my rolled-down window, and a look of abject disappointment at once crossed his countenance and relaxed it stern features.  He clearly had thought he had bagged a DUI.

I never, ever, try to BS cops.  They've heard all the stories.  Besides, I've learned things go a lot easier if you 'fess up and take your lumps.  When you're caught with your hand in the cookie jar, well, as my German friend says, "What you can doing?"

The cop was almost apologetic when he told me that instead of writing a speeding ticket he would ticket me for "failure to obey a traffic control device."  The traffic control device was, he explained, the speed limit sign.  The difference betwen the two citations saved me about $80.  I was both grateful and appropriately contrite.

Not so Charles McBurney.  FHP trooper Charles Swindle (unfortunate name for a cop, but that's neither here nor there) pulled him over for doing 87 in a 70 mph zone.  My bugbot, on the way back from another mission, caught the conversation.

"You know who I am?" asked McBurney.

"Let me guess.  Speedy Gonzales?  Big Daddy Don Garlits?"

"I'm Florida State Representative Charles McBurney, and your name tag is going to read Barney Fife when I get through with you.  You hear, Chief Gillespie?"

"Tell you what, Chuck.  You being a political hack and all, let me check with my boss and see if we can't cut you some slack.  You just sit there in your car and harrumph and play with yourself a bit while I get on my radio, 'four?"

"I don't want any slack, Deputy Dawg.  I want no ticket at all!"

"You're in luck!  My boss says to give you a ticket for not having proof of insurance.  'Course, if it was up to me I'd cuff your arrogant little megalomanical ass, tip off the TV stations and let you do the perp walk in front of the cameras."

No one is more pompous or more vindictive than an outraged politician who fancies himself an omnipotent power broker on the order of a sentator in ancient Rome.

"I think it's disgraceful that a law enforcement officer would give me a break on a violation just because I'm a state representative,' McBurney complained to FHP Col David Brieton.  "What's going to become of us if lawbreakers like me are allowed to run rampant while in fear of little more than a slap on the wrist?  And besides, I had proof of insurance.  Wyatt Earp, there, never asked to see it."

That was Swindle's well-meaning mistake.  Instead of giving McBurney the $170 ticket he deserved, he wrote him a $10 one for something he didn't.

And that's what got him fired.

The Lerner...Conspiracy?

Paranoids will tell you that just because you think someone is out to get you doesn't mean there isn't.  The same holds true with conspiracy theorists.  Just because you think that every event is the result of plotting by some nefarious group doesn't mean it isn't.

History is fraught with coincidence.  There are those who believe it is also fraught with conspiracy.  Pearl Harbor, some believe, was set up by President Roosevelt, who was desperate for a way to sway public opinion away from isolationism to wanting the US to join the war.  They point to the fact that all of our aircraft carriers were sent to sea, while outdated and obsolete battleships and destroyers were left as sitting ducks.  They also believe Lyndon Johnson turned a whitecap into a torpedo attack against US Navy vessels in the Gulf of Tonkin to get a blank check from Congress to commit combat troops to Vietnam.

In the interest of full disclosure, so you know whence I am coming, I am a card-carrying cynic.  No question about it.  I believe the scenarios described in the preceding paragraph are both plausible and probable, especially Johnson's.  I'd like to offer another possibility of conspiracy for your considered judgment.  To gather evidence in its support, I dispatched my bugbot to the law offices of William Turner, attorney for IRS official Lois Lerner.  Let's listen to their conversation....

"I tell you, Bill, they're going to push me onto the tracks for this, right in front of the Express!"

"We're not going to let that happen, Lois,  We've got to come up with a strategy that gets you off the hook."

"How the hell are we going to do that?  Look.  BO's henchmen--lackeys, really--told me to target all the redneck Tea Party groups looking for tax exemptions.  Okay, so I did.  Mission accomplished.  The Republicans were seriously handicapped going into the 2010 and 2012 elections, and BO won reelection.  Now, he expresses outrage that we did what we were told.  What's really got his shorts wedged up his nether hole is that we were caught.  I'm going to end up being the scapegoat for this, just you watch!"

"Listen, when you go in front of the Oversight Committee, plead the Fifth."

"Yeah, right.  That'd be like throwing chum into the ocean among swimmers.  Those sharks would be all over me like a wetsuit on a SCUBA diver."

"Well, you can always tell the committee what it wants to hear."

"What, 'fess up and rat them out?  Are you crazy?  That's your advice?  Not only would my career be dead, but does the word "drone" mean anything to you?"

"Okay, here's what you do.  When you appear before the committee, you make an opening statement wherein you say that you are innocent and that you will plead the Fifth instead of answering any questions."

"I can't do that!  If I make an opening statement, I de facto waive my right to plead the Fifth.  The only way I can plead the Fifth is to not say anything, anything at all!"

"You know that, and I know that.  That's the idea.  See, the committee will seize on that point of law and subpoena you to come back and answer their questions.  You'll be off the hook.  You'll be answering their questions because you're being forced to, not because you have turned against the White House."

"Brilliant!  That way I can say, look, I didn't want to testify.  I was willing to fall on my sword, but I had no choice.  What could I have done, besides either lie or again refuse to testify and go to jail?"

"Exactly!  The White House can't tell you to lie.  If you go to jail, that's even better.  You'll be a stand-up girl!  Hell, you'll be a martyr!  They'll cite you in classes for new IRS agent trainees!"

"Of course, you'll take flak for giving me the contradictory acvice to make an opening statement before pleading the Fifth.  I mean, that's such a rookie mistake in the law."

"Oh, it all depends on what the goal is.  The goal here is to keep you whole.  Besides, any lawyer who reviews this case and thinks about it will recognize our ruse for what it is--playing the suckers like a violin!"

After she appeared before the committee, Lois Lerner was asked to resign.  She told her boss to kiss off and was suspended with pay.

So, members of the jury.  Two lawyers, one the client of the other, both knowing that a witness cannot testify to something and plead the Fifth at the same time, yet the client does it anyway.

Stupid mistake or bold conspiracy?  You decide....

Dreamboat of the Delusional

Don't believe in time travel?  I didn't either, until once I visited New Paltz.

New Paltz is a college town stuck in the late '60s, early '70s.  Students there are still protesting the Vietnam War.  Tie-dyed t-shirts; peace symbols emblazoned on everything; co-eds sitting on curled up legs, with stringy hair and dirty, smelly bare feet; professors carrying their Little Red Books, images of Mao tattooed on their arms.

My late brother-in-law had taken me there, don't ask me why.  He was a throwback of sorts himself.  He resembled Jerry Garcia, but without the third trimester waistline, and when he volunteered to work a concession at Woodstock II to avoid paying the admission, he carried around an empty guitar case to complete the image and to get the double-take from all the young, unwashed hippie wannabes.

That was my trip to the past.  I've just sent my bugbot into the future to 2050--it could happen--to eavesdrop and transmit back to me this discussion among St Petersburg city commissioners.  Let's listen in....

"We have got to do something to take our game to the next level.  The way we are now we'll always be a little city, a petty city."

"I thought we achieved first-tier status when we finally completed our light rail system."

"Quite frankly, that hasn't worked out for us.  It ran $300 million over budget, it's bleeding us dry on operating and maintenance costs, and no one is riding it."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"Ferries!  That's the ticket!  Think about it--what does New York City have that we don't?  It has two airports; we have one on this side of the bay and Tampa International on the other.  It has rail; we have rail.  The one thing that sets it apart, that puts it over the top, is a ferry system."

"Ferries?  Where would we run them?"

"You don't get it.  It doesn't matter where they run or whether anyone would ride them, it only matters that we have them.  We need to show the country that we can run with the big dogs, and since the biggest dog of all has a ferry system, we have to have one, too."

"I don't know if we can sell ferries.  Our predecessors had a hell of a time selling light rail.  The only way they managed to get it approved was by underestimating the numbers and overestimating projected ridership."

"Yeah, they told voters it would cost $700 million for its 26-mile line from Clearwater to St Pete, and it ended up costing $1 billion!  And that was just for construction and start-up costs."

"And think about this--not one of the commissioners who supported it was reelected."

"But ferries are different.  I mean, the ocean is already there.  All we need to do is buy a couple of boats."

"And terminals at both ends, and hire crews, and set up a bureaucracy to handle the administrative end.  We're on the edge of a slippery slope, here.  I'm just sayin'...."

"No, what you're just saying is you're perfectly happy with the status quo, with us being on a par with, say, Naples or Miami.  What if they started ferry service and we didn't?  Mister Chairman, we cannot afford to sit back and lose the ferry race!"

No MENSA Candidates, These

James Lee Minyard, 41, told Tampa police they had him all wrong.

"Hell, ah weren't gonna hurt nobody.  Tha's muh hobby, doncha see.  Hit's whut ah do tuh relax."

"Funny hobby, there, Jimmy, building bombs."

"Ah can see whar some folks might think tha'.  But tha's how ah roll, always doin' somethin' different, thinkin' outside the box, so to speak."

"Don't you think that it might be kind of dangerous?"

"Yeah, well, tha's the challenge, hain't hit?  See, ah never finished high school, an' ah wanted tuh do somethin' challengin', complete somethin' fer uh change, so ah set mahsel' tuh doin' this.  An' y'all can see fer yerself, I did hit!  I really did hit!"

"But you blew off two of your fingers."

"Well, thar is tha'.  But no pain, no gain, ah always say."

When they searched Jimmy's home, cops found six more bombs, made of chemicals and both PVC and cardboard tubes, and journals that contained technical information about bomb making.

Jimmy was charged with six counts of making a destructive device.

While Jimmy was sitting in the slam contemplating the loss of his fingers and awaiting a hearing to determine whether his $12,000 bail should be revoked, 20-year-old Bryan Zuniga was in jail in St Petersburg recovering from bite wounds and scratches.

Bryan's wildlife adventure began in the wee small of a Thursday morning as he was driving through the streets of St Pete.  A sheriff's deputy observed his vehicle weaving in its lane and attempted to pull him over.  Bryan stopped his car, jumped out of the passenger door, and took off running.

That was his first mistake.  His second was his decision to kick a hole in a vinyl fence that was obstructing his escape route.  His third, and at once the most stupid and dangerous, was to jump into a pond behind a water treatment plant.

See, when you step into any body of water in Florida, especially fresh water, you step down from the top of the food chain.  Bryan would have had better luck had he ran afoul of a K9.

St Pete police were called to St Petersburg General Hospital for what was described as an "animal attack."  The patient told cops that he had been walking home when he stopped at a bridge to watch fish jump.  He said he somehow fell into the water and was attacked by an alligator.  He suffered bites to his face and an arm.

Since the location of the bidge was in an unincorporated area of Pinellas County, the cops called the Sheriff's Office.  Sheriff's Office deputies connected the dots.  Bryan was booked into the Pinellas County slam on charges of breaking or injuring a fence, fleeing and eluding, driving with a suspended or revoked license, and resisting an officer without violence.  He was held on $6,300 bail.

Concerning these two wastes of human souls, a few observations:

1.  What's scary about these twin sons of different mothers is that they can breed and vote.

2.  I understand how one might "break" a fence.  How does one "injure" a fence?

3.  Still don't believe in zombies?

Why I Love Florida!

Hello, Alice.  Welcome to Wonderland!

If you could make up this stuff, you'd be on a par with such writers of fantasy as Paul Krugman, Rachael Maddow, Tom Teepen, and our local version of Baghdad Bob, Robyn Blumner.

Where There's a Will, There's a Won't:

One of Tampa Bay's hot button issues is the proliferation of cats.  The problem is classic catch-22:  First, they breed like rabbits.  Hillsborough County has as many as 200,000 feral and freerangers.  At their present rate of kittenbirth they'll soon be to Tampa what chickens are to Key West.  Second, no one wants to "put them down."  What to do, what to do?

Comes along outside the box thinker Ian Hallett, who suggests a program to sterilize a max of 2,000 cats a year and release them with a microchip and identifying notched ear.  That way, the cats are removed from the gene pool and saved from the big sleep.

Win, win, right?  Not so fast, Blofeld.  See, cats, being cats, kill birds, whether they're "fixed" or not.  Releasing these fowl murderers has vets, bird lovers and feline haters all upset.  So, we're left with a choice--scraping cat do-do off our shoes, or washing bird crap off our cars.  Some menu, huh?  Either way, one species or the other is gonna suffer some losses.  Ya just can't please everybody.

Planning Ahead:

If you're going to whack someone, you might want to set up a bolt-hole and plan your escape before you pull the trigger.

Accused of killing a woman at his home, 18-year-old Morris Vernell Hires III left town.  So far, so good.  But then, inexplicably, he came back.

Cops showed up at his house with a dog and began a search.  The dog found him hiding in a baby's crib, perhaps sucking his thumb.  Apparently not trained to abide stupidity, the dog bit him.

911 Is Not the Number for Home Delivery:

34-year-old Jarvis Sutton, St Petersburg, got a thirst for Kool-Aid, a hunger for burgers, and a craving for weed, all at the same time.  So he did what any pothead in such an emergency would do.  He called 911.  80 times.  In one day.

The cops arrested him and took him to jail.  Along the way he tried to satisfy his needs for sugar, grease and Maui wowie by chewing the foam attached to the metal caging in the back of the police car.  I have no clue what percentage of the RDA of nutritional sustenance is provided by foam, but I doubt it's substantive.

When Not to Toke:

The softball game ended.  The Hernando High School team made its way back to the school bus.  Alas, they did not have the machetes they would need to hack their way through the marijuana fog that permeated the vehicle.

When police attempted to have school bus driver Donna Rogers, 59, perform field sobriety tests, she "became irate, yelling and cursing," according to the report.  She was arrested on a charge of resisting arrest without violence and was jailed in lieu of $150 bail.

If you went to Vegas or Branson, you'd pay big bucks for an hour or two of yuks at a comedy venue.  Florida, on the other hand, is a comedy venue, a 24/7 SNL skit.  You just can't buy this kind of amusement anywhere else.

Book Your North Korean Adventure Today!

How big does the message that falls on your head from up above have to be before you take heed?  How much precedent of cause and effect does it take before you realize that what you're contemplating might be a really bad idea?

MSN.com's home page reported that tour operator Kenneth Bae, 44, from Washington, has been arrested in North Korea on charges of espionage.  At the time of his arrest he had just escorted five European tourists into North Korea from China.  He had conducted such tours before and in fact possessed a visa issued by the North Korean government.

Former New Mexico governor Bill Richardson has already tried to get the North Koreans to release Bae, to no avail.  Before other bleeding heart Democrats start jostling for a seat on the next flight to Pyongyang, I thought I would see what I could do to secure Bae's freedom.  To that end I set up a conference call with Bae and dictator Kim Jong, which I recorded.

"Good evening, Ken."

"Good evening, Dave."

"Good evening, your illustriousness."

"Good MORNING, imperialist lackey.  How typically arrogant of you American running dogs to assume that just because it is evening there it must be evening everywhere."

"Sorry.  Ken, I have to ask, you knew the history of Americans traveling to North Korea, that they haven't fared well.  I mean, look at the two pseudo-journalists from that leftist manifesto Al Gore publishes.  They were arrested and sentenced to 12 years of hard labor.  Didn't that raise any red flags for you?"

"Not really.  See, they had snuck across the border.  I entered the country on a visa.  Besides, they didn't do any hard labor, did they?  Bill Clinton came over and got them.  I figured if anything like that happened to me, someone would bail me out."

"What was it you did to get yourself arrested?"

"I just took some pictures of some homeless kids..."

"Yankee devil!  We have no homeless kids in glorious Democratic North!  You take pictures, maybe photo shop them, add lies for captions!  You not arrested for taking pictures; you arrested for trying to subvert our socialist utopia by making revered leader look bad."

"If I may ask, your greatness, what will it take for you to release Ken?"

"Release?!  We NEVER release!  He eat fish heads and rice for rest of life!"

"How 'bout if we send Al Gore, or Bill Clinton, or someone like that to get him?"

"No!  We don't want any more capitalist exploiters of the masses coming here to suck up, then go home and tell us we can't build nuclear weapons!  Stay home!"

"Suppose Dennis Rodman visits again.  You seemed to hit it off with him."

"Dennis come, get T-shirt, go home!  You send Snooki or Selena Gomez!  Better yet, you send Lucy Liu!  She run fingers through Asian Afro, then maybe we talk!"

"No, you're way too much man for just one woman.  Think you can handle two?"

"Bring 'em on!  I teach 'em Jongnam-style!"

Careful what you wish for, Kimmy.  We'll send Melissa McCarthy and Gabourey Sidibe.  They'll teach you the "pancake."

Are You Ready For Your Close-up?

What if some government agents knocked on your door, gave you a device about the size of an MP3 player attached to a lanyard, and told you you'd have to put it on when you leave your home, wear it everywhere you go, and not take it off until you return?  What if the purpose of the device was to track your every movement, record every location you visited?  What level of outrage would you experience?  Enough to tell the agent what he could do with his device?

Well, guess what.  If you have a cell phone, you've pretty much done the government's work for it.  See, every time you make a call while you're out and about, it's a simple matter for the feds to pinpoint your location.  Your cell phone is, in effect, a GPS.

Not to worry.  Sam isn't going to monitor millions of cell phones to trace the movements of millions of citizens.  Except, of course, those of folks who are up to no good.  Fall under suspicion, and you won't even be able to sneak into a Mickey D's for a double-cheese fatburger without being a blip on some feebie's radar.

Think you can beat the system by simply leaving your cell phone at home?  Think again, paranoia-breath.  Bet those two wastes of human souls that set off the bombs at the Boston Marathon thought they were more invisible than Sebastian Caine.  Yet there they were, spotted in a photo shot by someone's cell phone, walking down the street, one with a Cheshire cat grin on his face, right after the blast.

Cameras, video and still, are everywhere.  Anyone with a cell phone that didn't come out of a Cracker Jack box has video capability.  Practically every business has them, both inside its facility and outside covering the parking lot.  Banks have them aimed at ATMs  Cops have them on the dashes of their patrol cars.  They are literally so pervasive, you cannot pick your nose without expectation that someone, somewhere, is guffawing over your slovenliness.

Besides criminals, of course, you know who should be worried about the proliferation of cameras and their attendant photo ops?  Walmartians, that's who.  They should be, but clearly they aren't, otherwise they wouldn't leave their doublewides dressed and looking like they do.  Instead, their decided lack of fashion sense and decorum is recorded and plastered all over the Internet.  They're actually proud of their three inches of exposed butt crack, six inches of cleavage between two boobs the size of melons that are spilling out of their halters, guts that look like the men to whom they belong are in their third trimesters, and clothing that can best be described as trailer park couture.

You've seen those pics.  You wish you hadn't, but you can't tear your eyes off them.  It's worth whatever privacy I'm giving up on my daily rounds just to be able to indulge that guilty pleasure.

The ACLU, as you might suspect, is not happy over the widespread use of surveillance equipment, which is another selling point for me.

The ACLU argues that video surveillance has not been proven effective, that suicide bombers, for example, are not deterred by the prospect of being filmed while blowing themselves up.  Of course not.  But the Boston Marathon morons were not suicidal.  Had it not been for having their picture taken, they'd still be on the loose, perhaps plotting the next display of their disgruntledness at having to live in America.

The ACLU also believes that video surveillance is subject to criminal, institutional and personal abuses, that the temptation to employ video surveillance in pursuit of individual agendas is simply too great a trade-off for whatever deterrence and criminal identification benefits it does manage to provide.  Yeah, yeah.  Every human activity is subject to abuse.  What, are we going to outlaw everything?

I never understood folks who live as remotely from others as possible because they don't want anyone snooping in their business.  It's exactly in small, sparsely populated areas where everyone knows everyone else's business.  You want privacy?  Live in a city, the bigger the better.  No one there cares about your business.  Or you, for that matter.

Me?  Anyone comes up to me and says, "Smile!  You're on candid camera," I give him a big grin, shake his hand and say, "Thank you!  And swing by Walmart while you're on your way, okay, Alan?"