hero, heroine n. A person known for brave or noble deeds.
Hero is a word bandied about all too commonly. There are childhood heroes, perhaps a teacher; sports heroes, usually the person who scores or prevents the scoring of game-winning points; police; firefighters; war heroes, soldiers who risk their own lives to save those of others.
All of these heroes have had training that enabled their heroism. All have undergone rigorous and repetitive exercise in preparation for a myriad of contingencies, so that when a situation arises that calls for heroic action, they are able to respond automatically and reflexively.
We are also fast becoming familiar with the term "superhero," thanks to Hollywood's incredible financial success with bringing Marvel and DC comic book characters to life on the big screen. Here men and women with impressive martial arts training, inventive genius backed by limitless bank accounts, or genes altered by space, arachnoids, chemicals, gamma rays, etc. defeat the forces of evil, always in color and often in 3D.
These are, of course, fictional. There are, however, real superheroes among us. I know a few. And after you've thought about it, you will realize that you do, too.
My definition of a superhero is a person who possesses all the qualities of a hero but lacks the training, skills and resources normally expected in their application. Instead, my superhero confronts life and death situations with neither mental nor pysical preparation and responds heroically regardless.
Joe was my lunch buddy when we were stationed together in Taiwan. Practically every day we would leave work around noon and walk over to the dining hall. I know, I know--in the military, dining facilities are called "mess halls." Nowhere else that I'm aware of would this name be more of a misnomer. Year after year our dining hall either won the Hennessy Trophy awarded to the best in the Air Force or finished second.
Anyway, the dining hall had two lines, a regular one that served full meals (steak, chicken, ham, pork, potatoes, vegetables, whatever), and a short-order one (hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hotdogs, French fries, chili, onion rings, etc.). Joe would first go through the regular line. After finishing off his plate, he'd go through the short-order line. Next came a trip to the dessert counter for cake or pie, and lastly to the ice cream box, where he'd rummage around for a vanilla or chocolate cup. I often found myself looking under the table to see where he was putting all this food, but if he had anything like a hollow leg or a doggie bag I was unable to discover it.
I would bet my paycheck that when Joe left the dining hall he weighed less than when he went in. I'd put on five pounds just walking by the place.
Earlier this year Joe was diagnosed with Stage 3 ALS, commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease. Stage 4 is a certainty; it's only a question of when.
I can only imagine the life-changing impact of that diagnosis. Literally between one moment and the next he and his wife, JoAnn, went from a future of watching grandkids grow and ongoing enjoyment of retirement to one of pain, heartbreak and, finally, loss.
Suddenly confronted with the unspeakable, JoAnn has proven undaunted, undeterred and unwavering in her support of her husband. When lesser mates would have succumbed to the pressure, the inevitability, and the temptation to throw up their hands in submission, she has taken over the management of their household, learned what she needed to know to guide him through a labyrinth of medical and administrative bureaucracy, and kept his spirits buoyed with her "we'll get through this together" attitutde, all the while keeping her own despair in check.
Yes, I know a few superheroes. I know JoAnn and a couple of others just like her. They are my role models, those whom I hope I can emulate but wish I never have occasion to.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Dial 1-800-ASK-RevAL
"Hello. You've reached the 'Reverend' Al Hotline. How may I help you right the grievous wrong perpetrated on your black ass by white redneck racists?"
"Yeah, bro, this be Geroshe callin' from Tampa. Me an' my main homey Lerome got ourselves in some s*** with the man down here, an' we need to know when you comin' to get us some justice."
"Dam', man, them's some names you got. Yo' mamas had a sense o' humor, huh? I'll get to the spellin' later. Tell the 'Rev' what happened."
"Well, they's four o' us, see, and we just walkin' down the street, mindin' our own bidnez, chillin', you know, when we see this dude walkin' towards us...."
"What time was this?"
"It was after three in the a.m. Anyway, he just walkin' towards us, like he finna start some mess, you know?"
"There's one o' him and four o' you, and you thinkin' he gonna start something?"
"Yeah, well, he musta, cuz he not showin' any respect. He just comin' on like he king o' the 'hood, you know? You don' be comin' into our turf actin' like you belong, know what I mean? Least he coulda done is cross over to the other side."
"And what did you do, then?"
"We axe him to give us a dollar, see what he does."
"And what did he do?"
"Man, dude thinks we serious! He starts reaching for his wallet like we some panhandlers he gonna give some money. First he in our 'hood, then he dissin' us, thinkin' we some poor bums or something. We decide we gonna teach this cracker some respect."
"Let me guess. You threw down on him."
"Well, yeah, what we s'posed to do? We did a number on his ass. Broke his nose, knocked out a tooth, left him lying in the street, took his wallet and cellphone. He lucky we didn't pop a cap on him right there. He won't be struttin' hisself 'round here no time soon, tell you that."
"Where did all this go down?"
"Down next to MacDill, you know, the air base. Honky works there, some Army dude."
"Army dude? You mean, he's in the Army? He's a soldier?"
"Yeah, some sergeant, I hear. So what? He ain't got no bidnez here. He needs to be over in Iraq or Afghan...Afghan...uh, that other place. What's he doin' here, anyway, actin' all one percenter and s***? He ain't none to me."
"Let me make sure I understand what went down. You and three of your bros, out in the wee small, run into this soldier. You ask him for money. When he starts to give you some, you all beat the hell out of him and take his wallet and cellphone. That pretty much it?"
"Yeah, man. And now me an' Lerome is in the slam. They tryin' to make us rat out the other two, but we holdin' tough. You gotta come down an' get us out, man, afore they start waterboardin' us or some s***. I mean, that's what you do ain't it? Protect us black folks from the man?"
"Okay, here's what I'm going to do. You listening? Listen real close, now."
"Yeah, 'Rev,' I be listenin'."
(Click)
Hey, everybody should have a dream. This is one of mine.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Would You Rehire This Guy?
Imagine, if you will, that you are the owner of a major league baseball team. It could happen. Eleven years ago, your team had a winning percentage of .750. Your manager at the time retired, so you hired a replacement.
Ten years later, your team's winning percentage is .250 and attendance has fallen off by half. Your manager, burned out and needing a break, resigns to take a self-actualizing job with a concern unrelated to baseball. You hire his replacement.
The replacement is on the job barely one season when he leaves for "family reasons." You've just begun your search for a new manager when you get a call from the one who left your club two years ago. He says he's refreshed, revitalized, and ready to come back to the bigs.
Will you hire him or laugh him off the phone?
Of course you wouldn't rehire someone who took your organization from top-tier to bottom-feeder...would you? You'd think this was a no-brainer...wouldn't you? Well, you would be wrong, jock strap-breath.
For all of the millennium's first decade, Bob Ashley was editor of Durham's main daily newspaper, The Herald-Sun. When he first came aboard, he fired a fourth of the staff. As a result, coverage fell off. Between 2001 and 2010 the number of subscribers to both the weekday and Sunday editions dropped by 50 percent. Ashley left the paper in 2010 to take a position with Preservation of Durham.
Not only did Ashley gut his paper's manpower, not only did he lose half of his subscribers, he also destroyed any reputation for journalistic objectivity and integrity his paper might have enjoyed by his egregious handling of the Duke lacrosse scandal. Presented with the opportunity to simply report events as they unfolded, caution restraint and urge an inflamed community to let the justice system process play itself out, he instead spun the fraudulent rape claim of a drug-crazed stripper/hooker into a full-out assault on every buzz word in his liberal agenda. He bought into the scam in toto not because of any evidence--there was none--but because it fit his world view. Proof? He didn't need any proof to know that Duke students are elitist, athletes feel entitled, males are sexist, and whites are racists.
His replacement lasted a year or so before taking another job somewhere else. By now Ashley, apparently frustrated at not having a platform from which to spout his liberal drivel and believing the world deprived as a result, expressed an interest in reclaiming his old job as Herald-Sun editor. And as insane as it seems given the destruction he wrought during his first term at the helm, he was rehired.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Dave, what does running a newspaper have to do with managing a baseball team? You're comparing apples with oranges."
Well, excuse me, but are they not both fruit? Do they not both grow on trees, have seeds, produce juice, and are they not both protected by peels?
Business is business. All businesses, whether sports franchises, newspapers, or whatever, have but one purpose--to make a profit. When a business begins to lose money, there's a sickness. When it continues to lose money, there's a fatality.
When the care of a patient on life support is given over to the quack whose malpractice is responsible for him being there, one ought not to be surprised if the plug somehow gets pulled. Or maybe that's been the plan all along.
Ten years later, your team's winning percentage is .250 and attendance has fallen off by half. Your manager, burned out and needing a break, resigns to take a self-actualizing job with a concern unrelated to baseball. You hire his replacement.
The replacement is on the job barely one season when he leaves for "family reasons." You've just begun your search for a new manager when you get a call from the one who left your club two years ago. He says he's refreshed, revitalized, and ready to come back to the bigs.
Will you hire him or laugh him off the phone?
Of course you wouldn't rehire someone who took your organization from top-tier to bottom-feeder...would you? You'd think this was a no-brainer...wouldn't you? Well, you would be wrong, jock strap-breath.
For all of the millennium's first decade, Bob Ashley was editor of Durham's main daily newspaper, The Herald-Sun. When he first came aboard, he fired a fourth of the staff. As a result, coverage fell off. Between 2001 and 2010 the number of subscribers to both the weekday and Sunday editions dropped by 50 percent. Ashley left the paper in 2010 to take a position with Preservation of Durham.
Not only did Ashley gut his paper's manpower, not only did he lose half of his subscribers, he also destroyed any reputation for journalistic objectivity and integrity his paper might have enjoyed by his egregious handling of the Duke lacrosse scandal. Presented with the opportunity to simply report events as they unfolded, caution restraint and urge an inflamed community to let the justice system process play itself out, he instead spun the fraudulent rape claim of a drug-crazed stripper/hooker into a full-out assault on every buzz word in his liberal agenda. He bought into the scam in toto not because of any evidence--there was none--but because it fit his world view. Proof? He didn't need any proof to know that Duke students are elitist, athletes feel entitled, males are sexist, and whites are racists.
His replacement lasted a year or so before taking another job somewhere else. By now Ashley, apparently frustrated at not having a platform from which to spout his liberal drivel and believing the world deprived as a result, expressed an interest in reclaiming his old job as Herald-Sun editor. And as insane as it seems given the destruction he wrought during his first term at the helm, he was rehired.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Dave, what does running a newspaper have to do with managing a baseball team? You're comparing apples with oranges."
Well, excuse me, but are they not both fruit? Do they not both grow on trees, have seeds, produce juice, and are they not both protected by peels?
Business is business. All businesses, whether sports franchises, newspapers, or whatever, have but one purpose--to make a profit. When a business begins to lose money, there's a sickness. When it continues to lose money, there's a fatality.
When the care of a patient on life support is given over to the quack whose malpractice is responsible for him being there, one ought not to be surprised if the plug somehow gets pulled. Or maybe that's been the plan all along.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Not the Right Lesson to Learn
You just know his story was going to end badly, this waste of a human soul. I won't say it was entirely his fault. He did have some negative reinforcement and counterproductive enabling along the way. But at the end of the day it was still his decision, still his own doing.
He attended Milwaukee Trade and Technical High School in the '90s. Notice I said he "attended" Tech. While he was on Tech's rolls as a student, he did not epitomize the accepted usage of the word. No, this argument for post-partum abortion was not in school to study. He was in school to play football.
And he was good. Tech was a state powerhouse in all three major sports--basketball, baseball and football--and he was a star. The problem was that because he was a star, he felt entitled. He figured if he showed up to class often enough and put forth minimal, token effort, he should be given the grades he needed to maintain his eligibility. After all, that was a hero's due.
Although he grudgingly submitted to the most trivial of requirements, he felt no obligation to respect those who imposed them upon him. He referred to female staff as "skank 'ho's" and intimidated male teachers who even looked to him like they might not be inclined to kowtow to his sports worthiness.
Came the day when he ran up against a teacher who naively thought the purpose of high school was education, not preparation for a livelihood as a jock, and who, in the absence of any shred of academic accomplishment, any evidence of scholarship, subsequently failed him. This flatlined a GPA that was already barely perceptible on the life support monitor, and he lost his eligibility to play.
Now I don't know who cried to the principal; the player, his coach, or both. I do know, though, that all of a sudden the player's transcripts reflected his assignment as a monitor during the period of the class he had flunked, and that all school records were purged of the fact that he had even enrolled in that class to begin with. His GPA was thus restored to the level required of eligibility, and he was back on the gridiron before you could say Vince Lombardi.
He eventually graduated high school and enrolled at University of Wisconsin. He rushed for 1,681 yards as a running back in his junior year, after which he left school to enter the NFL draft.
He was drafted by the Minnesota Vikings with the 27th pick in 2001. The following year he rushed for 1,296 yards and was selected to the Pro Bowl. He was on five different teams over his ten-year career and finished up in 2010 with the Oakland Raiders.
Writing in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Don Walker reported that on April 18, 2012, 33-year-old Michael Bennett allegedly attempted to obtain a $200,000 loan using as collateral a bank statement which falsely showed a balance of approximately $9 million. The account balance was actually zero and, in fact, had never had any money in it. He was charged in a federal complaint on May 1 with wire fraud.
Sharing responsibility for the moral ambiguity possessed by Bennett that allowed him to imagine it was okay for him to perpetrate a fraud in this fashion has to be the principal who reinforced his belief that he was special, and that the rules applicable to the rest of us, the common folk, the hoi polloi, do not apply to him.
I knew the principal personally. I can tell you with neither doubt nor hesitation that what she did for him she didn't do for him, or even for his coach. She did it for her own selfish aggrandizement. You see, the farther Tech's football team advanced in the state, the brighter the spotlight on her.
Do you suppose that if Bennett, whom she started down the road to perdition under the guise of salvaging his career, ends up convicted and in the slam she will go visit him? I don't. Trust me--she'll deny even remembering his name.
He attended Milwaukee Trade and Technical High School in the '90s. Notice I said he "attended" Tech. While he was on Tech's rolls as a student, he did not epitomize the accepted usage of the word. No, this argument for post-partum abortion was not in school to study. He was in school to play football.
And he was good. Tech was a state powerhouse in all three major sports--basketball, baseball and football--and he was a star. The problem was that because he was a star, he felt entitled. He figured if he showed up to class often enough and put forth minimal, token effort, he should be given the grades he needed to maintain his eligibility. After all, that was a hero's due.
Although he grudgingly submitted to the most trivial of requirements, he felt no obligation to respect those who imposed them upon him. He referred to female staff as "skank 'ho's" and intimidated male teachers who even looked to him like they might not be inclined to kowtow to his sports worthiness.
Came the day when he ran up against a teacher who naively thought the purpose of high school was education, not preparation for a livelihood as a jock, and who, in the absence of any shred of academic accomplishment, any evidence of scholarship, subsequently failed him. This flatlined a GPA that was already barely perceptible on the life support monitor, and he lost his eligibility to play.
Now I don't know who cried to the principal; the player, his coach, or both. I do know, though, that all of a sudden the player's transcripts reflected his assignment as a monitor during the period of the class he had flunked, and that all school records were purged of the fact that he had even enrolled in that class to begin with. His GPA was thus restored to the level required of eligibility, and he was back on the gridiron before you could say Vince Lombardi.
He eventually graduated high school and enrolled at University of Wisconsin. He rushed for 1,681 yards as a running back in his junior year, after which he left school to enter the NFL draft.
He was drafted by the Minnesota Vikings with the 27th pick in 2001. The following year he rushed for 1,296 yards and was selected to the Pro Bowl. He was on five different teams over his ten-year career and finished up in 2010 with the Oakland Raiders.
Writing in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Don Walker reported that on April 18, 2012, 33-year-old Michael Bennett allegedly attempted to obtain a $200,000 loan using as collateral a bank statement which falsely showed a balance of approximately $9 million. The account balance was actually zero and, in fact, had never had any money in it. He was charged in a federal complaint on May 1 with wire fraud.
Sharing responsibility for the moral ambiguity possessed by Bennett that allowed him to imagine it was okay for him to perpetrate a fraud in this fashion has to be the principal who reinforced his belief that he was special, and that the rules applicable to the rest of us, the common folk, the hoi polloi, do not apply to him.
I knew the principal personally. I can tell you with neither doubt nor hesitation that what she did for him she didn't do for him, or even for his coach. She did it for her own selfish aggrandizement. You see, the farther Tech's football team advanced in the state, the brighter the spotlight on her.
Do you suppose that if Bennett, whom she started down the road to perdition under the guise of salvaging his career, ends up convicted and in the slam she will go visit him? I don't. Trust me--she'll deny even remembering his name.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
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?"
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?"
Sunday, April 22, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
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.
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.
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