Eye of Newt

Like Two Otters Passing in the Night

2012-01-04T22:21:00.001-05:00

I walk around Taylor Pond most days and have even begun to, uh, jog. It's more of an awkward shuffling stumble, to tell the truth, but it makes me feel manly. More on that later.

So yesterday afternoon as the sun was thinking of setting, I huffed and puffed over the dam at the north end of the pond. There, sitting upright at the edge of the spillway, preening in that final light of day, was a river otter. As soon as he figured out, perhaps from the manly rasp of my breathing, that I was watching him, he disappeared into the water. I was duly inspired, nevertheless, by this fleeting encounter with Nature. (The other Natural things that hang out at Taylor Pond either fly and poop on my car or have big teeth. I avoid them.)

For the past week or so, a young - well, youngish - woman has been out there jogging with me. Okay, not exactly WITH me, since she jogs counterclockwise, while I am a clockwise sort of guy. But we're both there together, in a sense. She is pretty, albeit a bit beefy, and her determination in maintaining her jogging schedule is therefore really uplifting. She must be wondering, I think, whether someone with such a sleek physique as this handsome youngish stranger might once have been beefy myself. Himself. Whatever.

We don't acknowledge each other on our twice-a-lap meetings. Or at least we didn't. I've been thinking of expressing my admiration for her tenacity somehow, but that would be unpardonably forward of me. So I just keep clockwising.

Yesterday on our second lap and to my delighted surprise, the youngish lady stops and flags me down. I'm thinking it's probably my graceful, manly carriage or perhaps the raffish beard I have been cultivating. Or maybe she wants to say something about my own iron tenacity being out here every day. Well, almost every day.

I stop and rip the earbuds out of my head, interrupting Freddie Mercury in mid-operatic flight. Naturally, I am able to control my ragged panting long enough to appear within my cardiovascular limits.

"Hi," she says. Oh boy, here it comes. I'm wondering whether I would dishonor my sacred vows if what she wants is just a nice cup of coffee somewhere. Perhaps an intimate, hidden-away cafe like you see in Paris or Rome. She looks deep into my eyes and continues, "Are you a Christian?"

Oh.

I mean, I could use the old Marc Cohn line, "Ma'am, I am tonight," but that might seem churlish. Besides, I didn't think of it until later. A few minutes ago, actually.

Stuck for a response, I strike a pose that I hope conveys manly contemplation, as though the question had never occurred to me. Then, mysteriously I think, I shuffle quietly away. Intrigued - no doubt - she calls after me, "Don't you believe in God?" The question has its own operatic quality, one that Freddie would approve.

I mutter what could have been a prayer, given a different inflection. For the next half-lap I consider snappy responses I might use when next we intersect. "I do," I could retort, "but I don't believe in you." Nah.

Now, a snappy retort usually requires a certain sophisticated wittiness and lightning delivery. Who among us has not come tardy to just the perfect riposte? But come on, this is God we're talking about. He's been waiting 2000 years, almost to the day.

In the end, I decided to take the high road and point out that proselytizing strange men, especially youngish men who are particularly buff and manly, in a large, empty park in near-darkness, might be somehow Christian, but it was also stupid. That's it. I would put her in her place without confronting head-on those ultimate enigmas of Christian dogma.

Alas, when I came to the spot where we should have met again, there was no youngish lady to be seen. Maybe, like the otter, she had slipped away forever. Or maybe it had just gotten dark and she went home

Maybe she'll be back tomorrow. I'll be ready.

Newt

Theater of the Unlikely

2011-12-10T21:05:00.000-05:00

Seeking to bolster the illusion that we are social sophisticates, Judy and I ventured out last week to a community-theater rendition of Mister Roberts. Before we took our seats, we bought the obligatory little plastic cups of wine. The wine came with plastic lids and tiny straws, since open containers are banned from the seating area. And for good reason, it turns out.

The highlight of the evening should have been the actor playing Capt. Morton and channeling James Cagny with all his heart and soul, and pretty effectively at that. But the good Captain was upstaged before the curtain even went up. By the guy sitting in front of us.

He was regaling the lady next to him with photos of his recent trip to an exotic location he had long dreamed of seeing: eastern Maine.

Lenny - that's what the lady called him - apparently started his visit in Portland, because that was his first photo. "This is a guy posing in front of the Portland Light," he reported. Who was the guy? "I don't know, but I thought he looked pretty good posing like that." Judy stifled a giggle, but poorly.

"Here's one of me and Lucille-somebody." The photo showed Lenny and a large, ornate granite tombstone. The lady emitted a tiny gasp. Lenny moved on quickly.

With Lenny, it's not just all about the strangers, because he also shot lots of pix of a comely young woman holding up a big lobster. "I don't know who she was, either - I was looking at the big lobster." That was when Judy snorted wine out her nose.

Luckily Judy was drinking pinot grigio and the lid stayed on the plastic cup, so clean-up was easy. I covered for her deftly by exclaiming, "Gesundtheit!"

After a time, the travelogue resumed.

"Here's a picture of me standing on the 49th parallel, exactly halfway to the North Pole." The didact in me ached to correct him - assuming he started counting his parallels at the Equator - but he was so pleased to have been to that magical location, I remained silent. Actually, Judy and I have been there too, and we remain very proud of that.

"Next is a picture of Canada. Over that water, there. This was taken from Lubbock." For the record, Lubbock is in Texas. Lubec is in Maine, and the locals say it "Loo-BECK." You can't see any of Canada from Lubbock. Luckily, Lenny didn't visit Pennamaquan or Mattawamkeag, but then you can't see Canada from either of those towns.

Lenny finished up just before the curtain rose, with a dramatic shot of a brightly lighted L.L. Bean store in Freeport. It was surrounded by profound darkness. "I took this at 3 in the morning to show that it really is open all night." Judy excused herself and stepped out to powder her nose.

The play was very good, too.

Newt

It's the Glottal Stop

2011-12-04T17:01:00.009-05:00

If your name is Newton and if they nicknamed you Newt, you have some immediate problems and one unexpected headache.

It's hard enough to introduce yourself as Ev Newton - everyone says, "Hi, Ed" - or Everett Newton - everyone says, "What?" But you can never, ever introduce yourself as Newt Newton.

There are sound linguistic reasons for this prohibition. The name Newton has a "T" in the middle, as proficient readers of English will recognize right away. But when the word "Newton" is pronounced casually and out loud, it invariably comes out as "New - in." As in "uh-oh." That little break in the middle is a glottal stop, which, for the hopeless pedants among us, is also called a voiceless glottal plosive. The glottal stop is that little catchy thing you do with your throat when you say "Hawai'i" (which used to be pronounced "Huh-why-yee," but we are more sophisticated these days). It's science. People whose names are Bob Johnson have no idea that this lingual circus is in town.

So my immediate dilemma is whether to introduce myself as Newton with the correct and formal "T" sound, which by the way is a voiceless alveolar plosive, or with that lazy but comfortable glottal stop, which is what I say to myself when I am pondering how noise comes out of my face. Got that? Good, 'cause now it gets complicated.

The name "Newt," spoken aloud by itself, ends with the aveolar plosive "T". That remains true if "Newt" is followed by a fricative, like "Newt snores" or "Newt farts." So if my name were Newt Harris, I would not be paddling around in this murky linguistic backwater. But if "Newt" is followed by a nasal alveolar, like "N," the brain/mouth connection breaks out in a sweat and a glottal stop ensues. Try it: "Newt Newton." Your frontal cortex wants to put a hard "T" in both slots, but your tongue and your glottis become entangled and you can drown in your own spit trying to pronounce the combination correctly. Anyone who has ever tried to speak German or Welsh understands this.

After walking around the bridge club with a name tag reading "Ev Newton" for a year or so, I decided to drag my nickname out of its phonetic closet. Not wanting to subject everyone to the double-glottal-stop torture of "Newt Newton," I had a name tag made up that reads simply, "Newt":

You can probably see where this is going.

Enter Newton Leroy Gingrich. Remember that headache I mentioned in that first sentence? "Newt Gingrich" has no glottal stop to muck up the lingual works. But walking around in public these days with "Newt" on your chest is an open invitation to ideological engagement. There are no glottal stops in the words "philanderer" or "pompous narcissist" or "walking embodiment of current Republican demagoguery." The name slides out like poop through a goose.

Except this is the Deep South, even during Snowbird Season, and the median age at the bridge club is about 84, so everyone there wants to shake my hand and declaim over the evils of Barack Hussein Obama, whom we all know was born in Togoland with a Commie flag clenched in his tiny satanic fist.

Aw, crap! I've gone off political again.

Well, it's not my fault this time; Newt started it. Anyway, I have ordered a new name tag that reads, "None of Your Damn Business, That's What."

Anonymous

Are the Gods Poking Fun at Me?

2011-12-01T23:35:00.001-05:00

If the truth be known, the wry portrait of me over there --------->
is a bit out of date, and some excess avoirdupois has collected around my midsection and nether regions. Quite a lot, in fact, since we're telling the stupid truth so religiously here. Anyway, I have been living for the past few months on dried twigs and carrot juice, hoping that my belly goes away before my teeth fall out and I die from lack of chocolate and beer. Especially beer.

So far so good - let's not descend into tawdry specifics - and I console my poor deprived palate with a weekly visit to my favorite restaurant. The Cajun Cafe on the Bayou is located nearby in fact, but its heart and soul reside in N'awlins, where les bon temps roulent. Invariably, I sit out on the quiet deck over the bayou, often alone while Judy plays bingo or some such.

So I'm sitting there tonight, brooding. Brooding, I think, is one of life's true luxuries. The temperature dips to the low 60s - cold enough if your blood is thin and hungry. I order a cup of gumbo and a green salad with a little salsa instead of salad dressing.

I'm freezing to death in the dark, eating roughage and three tablespoons of soup. Next thing I know, the Dalai Lama appears over the bayou, hovering in full regalia. It's much colder in Tibet, I suppose, so His Holiness looks comfy here in homespun robes. Not to mention scrawny, but I may be losing perspective. He wants to award me the Laughing Buddha Award for Pious Virtue.

I'm pondering my acceptance speech when Steve the Smartass Waiter interrupts: "Will there be anything else, or are you content to sit there sucking the stains out of your napkin?" I used to tip Steve quite generously.

"Yeah. Bring me a 20-ounce prime rib, medium rare, and a chocolate cake."

Steve snickers and drops my $9 tab on the table. The Dalai Lama chuckles quietly, and I leave a $3 tip.

Newt

Something for the Ages

2011-11-27T20:35:00.001-05:00

We had a nice Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant in Clearwater Beach with Judy's folks, Bill and Florence Flaherty. Nothing unusual about that except this year the folks were celebrating 70 years of wedded bliss.

We had such a great time, we agreed to do it again every 70 years.

Newt

Farewell to Bloodwort

2011-11-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

I mentioned recently a Dearest Relative ("DR") in Gainesville who faced moving to some manner of assisted living arrangement. Swell fellow that I am, I have been trying to help smooth the transition. All went predictably enough until we addressed "What to Do With Bloodwort?" Bloodwort is my DR's aging cocker spaniel. (DR loves flowers and thinks "Bloodwort" a perfectly responsible spaniel name.)

Anyway, no sufficiently accommodating relative or friend came forward to claim Bloodwort, and dogs could not go where DR was bound. Dear Reader, if you are of a sensitive nature, please move on to Moody's Notebook or something genteel like that.

You were warned.

With Bloodwort well past the age of likely adoption through the local SPCA, and with no other options in evidence, it looked grim for Bloodwort. Reluctantly, DR concluded that Bloodwort would likely need to be - um - put gently to sleep. Sigh.

But DR is a novice in these matters, and his previous pets had had the good grace to expire of natural causes. So DR had never before had to take an active hand in the matter. The decision process was long and properly tearful.

Finally, DR stood tall and announced, "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."

Cremated. Cremated.

Mind you, Bloodwort was still among the living. I allowed as to how it might be well to have some humane ministration - an overdose of doggie barbiturates or the like - at the caring hand of some pet professional. Discreet and humane, however sad and seemingly unavoidable.

"No." DR stood his ground. "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."

At this point, you might understand why DR was headed for protective custody himself, but he didn't really seem that far around the bend. Except for the cremation thing. "Think on it tonight," I said, "and I'll be back in the morning."

The warm Florida sun rose as scheduled the next day, and a new day always brings new promise. Not so fast, Pollyanna. Cremation was the final word, and cremation it was going to be. I rehearsed the likely conversation with DR's long-time vet. "When did Bloodwort pass away?" Dr. Friendly would naturally ask. And DR would respond, "Oh, he's not dead. That's why I want him cremated." I stopped thinking about it.

Enter - thankfully for Bloodwort - Janice. Janice is DR's letter carrier, who conveniently lives in pastoral Archer, some ten miles west of DR's place. In Archer, Bloodwort would have lots of land, the company of other dogs - dogs with perhaps more euphonious names - and an owner not apparently headed for assisted living. Janice would love to take Bloodwort home.

"Excellent," said DR, "I never wanted to cremate him anyway."

Sigh.

Newt

Boggle With Me

2011-11-05T20:40:00.016-04:00

Think you've seen it all? HAH! Here is a door in a nearby strip mall:

So what, you ask? Here is the sign next door:

Wait for it . . .

Are you sitting down?

Both offices are currently empty. I'm thinking the occupants annihilated each other, like matter and anti-matter.

Newt

Last Unbillboarded Lawyer

2011-11-02T20:35:00.000-04:00

Eye of Newt was privileged last week to land an exclusive interview with Gilbert T. Pardee, Esq., the last lawyer in Pinellas County without his own billboard.

Eye: Mr. Pardee, thank -

Pardee: Please - call me Gil.

EON: OK. Now I understand you do not have a billboard anywhere with your picture and phone number.

P: That's correct. Not even one of those side-of-a-building jobbies.

EON: Why not? I mean, every other lawyer has a whole string of billboards.

P: I know, I know. I guess I'm just a late bloomer. My mother says I was not potty trained until long after all the other kids my age.

EON: Which was . . . ?

P: Two years ago. But we're not here to talk about -

EON: Right, right. But why don't you put up a billboard now?

P: Well, first of all, all the good spots are taken. The bail bondsmen grabbed up all the spots near the criminal courts, and the personal injury guys got the juiciest street corners.

P: Also, I've been trying to set myself apart from the crowd.

EON: How about a referral service? Can I find you through 1-800-ASK-GARY?

P: Actually, no. They, uh, asked me to leave.

EON: Really? Why?

P: I don't have a billboard. You see, Ask Gary makes referrals by checking out the billboards. The billboards closest to the 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheater in Tampa get first dibs.

EON: And . . . ?

P: The closest spot not already advertising lawyers was in Savannah. I'm not admitted in Georgia.

EON: So, now what? How are you gonna sell your soul to the devil if he doesn't know you're for sale?

P: I have one brilliant word for you: naming rights!

EON: Uh -

P: I thought of it when I saw that New York's Times Square is now Discovery Times Square. I thought, "Man, that is so COOL!" So I've just finished negotiating for the rights to our most precious asset.

EON: I'm afraid to ask.

P: You got it: The Gil T. Pardee 1-800-I-Object Clearwater Beach. Signs will be appearing soon.

Newt

Flashing to Gainesville

2011-10-08T22:54:00.005-04:00

My much-loved but somewhat tattered BMW is in the shop as the result of my embarrassing indiscretion with a curbstone. The loaner they gave me is 8 years newer - sweet! - but the interior layout is generally similar to my own. Except for the cruise control, which has celebrated the new decade by migrating from the steering wheel to a stumpy little stalk under the turn-signal-cum-high-beam lever.

So this morning I embarked in the little white loaner to visit an elderly and beloved relative up near Gainesville, about 130 miles from here. Now, I'm a big fan of cruise control, and this particular cruise control is set up cleverly so a forward tap on the stumpy stalk bumps your speed up 1 mph; a rearward tap drops 1 mph. A simple formula. Need to slow down 4 mph? 4 taps. In practice, of course, you just start tapping away as you approach a car in your lane until you match speeds, hopefully settling in a respectful distance behind the overtakee.

You've done that; you know you have.

Oddly, since this is a new car, I keep finding myself tapping away to no effect whatsoever. In this next picture, I'm closing rapidly on the Honda in front of me. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptaptap. Oh crap! Brakes.

I hate to brake on the highway. It's unprofessional and wasteful.

Right. I was tapping the high-beam stalk instead of the cruise control. That explains why the cars I was coming up on - this was not just that one Honda, I'm afraid - anyway, my co-drivers on this highway of life were reacting rather testily. Fingers appeared out windows. Hondas scattered awkwardly out of my lane, apparently discomfited by the berserker in the white BMW closing fast with strobing brights. It was daylight! How was I to know I was flashing? Did I mention the high-intensity laser-quality high beams on my loaner, the ones designed to vaporize small animals at short range? Someone could probably construct an interesting social experiment from this.

There is no universal hand signal for, "Oops, sorry."

Anyway, I finished my visit and later spent an hour alone scouting a potential retirement facility that might be appropriate for my relative. (Ah - if you happen to know the relative in question, would you not mention this? He thinks he will never need assistance with much of anything. He may be right.)

So I'm getting the tour from an overly effective marketing guy, and he's introducing me to a succession of impressively satisfied residents. Big Bad Charlie has just bowled his fourth 300 game on the community Wii, and a lady named "Nancy Pickles" is at the bulletin board admiring her picture taken next to the '55 Chevy that won the parking lot classic car contest.

Finally, we come to an old-timer walking through the dining room. He turns, and his eyes say, "I. Am. Really. Old." He's leprechaun-ish and affable. I quiz him about the food. "Not bad," he says, which I take to mean, "Not particularly good." We chat for a bit.

Inevitably, he asks how old I think he is. Diplomat that I am, I suggest, "a well-preserved 73?"

"Nope. Higher." He pumps his thumb and hops from foot to foot as he reels in the fish.

"75?"

"Higher."

I say, "78?" "81?" This is kind of fun, and my new old friend is working it.

"85?"

"No," he says, "and you better go by fives or we'll be here all day."

When I stop laughing, I guess "90?" I know I'm getting closer. So rather than continue creeping up on the likely right answer - about 94, I'd say - I make the leap to the absurd.

"105?"

His eyes get big, as I expect, and he exclaims, to my gaping amazement, "How did you know?"

One hundred and five years old.

On the way home I flashed another dozen cars into flaming hulks in the drainage ditches.

Newt

Long As I Got a Dime, the Music Won't Never Stop

2011-10-05T19:11:00.000-04:00

I went to college in the 60's and 70's. Okay, and most of the 80's, to boot. So my personal period of intellectual immaturity lingered a bit longer than those of folks with more linear game plans. One effect of my protracted university sojourn was sustained and enervating overexposure to Bob Dylan. And Neil Young. As well as - and I'm not proud of this - Donovan.

Now, if you're a Dylan/Young/Donovan fan, I can understand that. I was there, man. But I'm here now. Enough.

Being retired, I can finally do with my time as I damn well please, and it pleases me to have music blasting for about 15 hours a day. So that's what I do. Provided I can master the technology, I mean.

Music delivery systems have been rolling over faster than Beethoven delivering the news to Tchaikovsky. When first I came to sunny Geezerland, I kept a couple hundred vinyl records that I couldn't bear to part with. As for my tattered collection of Dylan, Young and Donovan - especially Donovan - I happily let them go for two bits a record. But the blight of obsolescence hunkers over my surviving platters, for needles wear out and turntables grunt and roll over. Try to replace a Denon moving coil cartridge, which was the state of the art 30 years ago. Ma foi! No matter - the album art is still nice. My Springsteen five-record set will likely remain in pristine condition long after The Boss is reading Tchaikovsky the headlines.

Oh, I'm no hoarder. I pitched out my 8-tracks and audio cassettes decades ago. Most of them. Today I have more invested in CD's than in my retirement account. I once figured laser-read music was for the ages. Nah, not really, as it turns out.

So I signed up for Sirius in its first year and still own the only two coal-fired satellite radio receivers still in existence. But for all its gazillion stations, Sirius is spiraling precipitously toward the lowest common denominator in each of its music genres. Bor-ing.

I haven't bought a dedicated MP3 player yet. I'm not exactly an early adopter. Nevertheless, I have a couple thousand bootlegged (by someone else) tracks on my clumsy old Blackberry. I'm sure I won't have enough time to fill a whole big iPod with iTunes before that medium also kicks the technological bucket. (Um - I was being sarcastic when I drafted that last comment, but I read today that Apple is swearing to God that it is not discontinuing the iPod. No siree, Bob. Does anyone else hear the death-knell knelling?)

So now I've signed up for Pandora's premium on-line service.

Dude!

What an outstanding concept. Pandora feeds me the music I ask for, and then kicks in some stuff I didn't know I needed. I plug in John Prine, and Pandora opens its box and spews out not only Prine, but - whoa! - a trove of artists that Prine certainly loves: Steve Goodman and Guy Clark and David Bromberg (who can out-Neil-Young Neil Young) and the transcendent Dan Reeder. Oh, and Dylan, Young and Donovan. Oops. Nothing's perfect.

I ask Pandora for Leonard Cohen and also get John Hiatt, Tom Waits and Townes Van Zandt. Yee-hah! But ... Dylan/Young/Donovan creep uninvited into that mix, as well. Okay, I say, try Phoebe Snow. Out pops Emmylou Harris and Madeleine Peyroux. Oh, and D/Y/D. Crap. Louis Armstrong begets a very cool mix of Eric Bibb, Keb' Mo', Dr. Michael White and Coleman Hawkins. And D/Y/D. Yikes!

All right - I get it. Dylan and Young and maybe even Donovan did some seminal stuff. But c'mon - Coleman Hawkins? My guess is that plugging in J.S. Bach would generate D/Y/D on amplified harpsichord, but let us not tempt Fate.

Which brings me back to the 60's, where I started. I'm living here in a trailer park full of even riper old farts than I. Sometimes I push my walker around the block in the quiet of the evening. The peaceful, abiding silence. Ahhh. Interrupted only by a dozen stereos cranked up to deaf-defying volumes by other doddering old coots kicking out Chuck Berry, the Beatles, the Stones . And Dylan, Young and Donovan.

Sigh.

Newt

Descending Into Politics: A Pop Quiz

2011-10-04T06:14:00.001-04:00

What, if anything, do the following events have in common?

1. Republican Congressman Joe Wilson yells, "You lie!" while Obama is addressing Congress.

2. Presumably adult audience cheers, "Yeah!" when Wolf Blitzer asks Republican presidential candidate Ron Paul, M.D. whether Americans should let another American die because he lacks health insurance. None of the candidates object.

3. Young students chant, "Better off dead!" at memorial dance for 14-year-old Jamey Rodemeyer, who killed himself after chronic bullying because he was gay.

(We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.)

Newt

An Undignified Little Rag

2011-10-02T08:42:00.000-04:00

I love the St. Petersburg Times like I could never love the Hartford Courant, even though I sweated out a living in that sweet city for so long. You see, when a Hartford sports team wins a big game, the Courant publishes a nice, dignified story on the front of the sports section, laying out the full and factual account of the game as though it were a labor negotiation. Very fair. Wholly unbiased. Professional. Dull.

On the other hand, when the Tampa Bay Rays (who play, by the way, in St. Pete, not Tampa) win big, the Times splashes ink all over its front page:
WILD!

in the biggest type that fits. And after the main blast of glory on Page One, the Times prints, not merely a sports section, but a whole damn RAYS WIN! section, with foldouts and three-color diagrams, trumpeting every statistic and scene from last night's astounding game that could possibly be celebrated. Followed by interviews with Matt Moore's mother and the guy who polishes Kelly Shoppach's cleats. It's the swingingest lovefest you can buy for 50 cents.

And when the Rays win the next big one, by God, there's another over-the-top, dignity-free headline and another special section. On those joyous occasions when the Bucs and the Rays both win, the Times prints two front pages and two special sections. If, heaven forfend, the home team should not prevail, as it did not last night, the headline - and still on Page One - offers that this is not easy:
Easy? This isn't a team that does things easy.

The St. Pete Times does every day what the Courant (and a lot of other corporate newspapers) cannot conceive of doing: it cheers - long and lustily - for the home team. The local sports coverage in my new home town is biased and blatant. The Times leaves no doubt: it is proud to be here, proud of its teams, proud of its people.

I love this place.

Newt

For the Birds

2011-10-01T11:07:00.000-04:00

Lesson 1, wherein we learn that one must not feed the birds:

That's a snowy egret on the left. The old-grandfather-looking birds on the right are wood storks. Want to see some up close? Of course you do:

Aren't you sorry you asked?

Don't feed the birds. It makes them poop.

Newt

The Bargain Shopper

2011-09-25T12:15:00.003-04:00

As oyster season approaches here on the Gulf Coast, I have begun my annual quest for the best prices for my favorite aphrodisiac. A local seafood joint priced them last week at $7.95 a half-dozen, or $15.95 a dozen. I ordered two half-dozens. The server had probably seen stranger requests than mine, so she just shrugged and put in my order.

Maybe it's the climate here. This morning's paper advertizes Target's annual Dollar Days. Of course, nothing's on sale for an actual dollar, but lots of stuff is priced at some even multiple of a dollar. Like men's athletic socks. I buy these occasionally because it nourishes my delusion that I am still an athlete. Athletic socks are 6 for $5 this week only. Just my luck. I just bought a half-dozen socks last week. They were $4.95.

Anyway, driving home from Connecticut last month, we stopped for lunch at Tart's 50's Restaurant in the barely-there town of Dunn, North Carolina, just off Chicken Farm Road and convenient to I-95. More or less. You have to be a little lost to find it. Prices are always cheap at Tart's, and the food and decor are straight-up 50's diner fare. Sweet. But two $1.95 burgers later, backing out of a parking space, and stone sober, I swear, I pranged the old M3 into an invisible, altogether too-damn-tall curb and lightly crunched a tailpipe. Crap! "Another $100 bill," I thought. As if.

The muffler shop guy back home took a look at the muffler and snickered. "Y'all see here where yer muffler is kinda twitched up and these brackets here is shifted leftwards?" Yeah. Gulp.

"Whulp," he says, "yer gonna need some dealer work here 'cuz we tried t'get a used muffler onct for one of these BMW cars and it cost $700, used." Crap. "And they wooden promise it would fit, neither. You got insurance, right?"

Hell, yes, I got insurance, but it's one of those $1000 deductible jobs, so I've never used it, except maybe for that sorry incident at the race track a long time past.

So I drove it to Bert Smith's BMW shop and asked, "How much?" $2346.38. Crap. Lucky my deductible is only a grand.

That $2346.38 is to replace a muffler that works just fine and doesn't fart or hang down or anything but just looks a little cockeyed from the back. Oh, and there's this tiny little scratch in the bumper paint. "Nossir," says Matthew, my Bert Smith Service Concierge, "we gotta paint the whole bumper. You got insurance, don't you?"

After the usual administrative waltz (turns out Travelers couldn't find Dunn, NC on its map), the adjuster, Donna G, emails me. "Great news," she says, "Bert Smith has offered a price of $1909 for the job. Less the $1000 deductible, of course."

Lucky indeed. Instead of costing me $1000, the whole job is only going to cost me $1000. Hell, at Target I could get it done for $999.95. That's two for $1995.95. Unless it's on sale, of course.

Newt

All-Purpose Felicitations

2011-09-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

A curious convergence of happy events swirls around my family on September 13-14 each year. So, to save a few bucks on cards and postage, let me just say

Happy Birthday, Darling Daughter!

Happy Anniversary, Mom & Ray!

Amy! Hi and Happy Birthday from Uncle Newt and Aunt Judy!

Happy Anniversary, Kathy & Bob!

Happy Birthday, Steve. Enjoy 58 while you can - 60 is looming.

And finally,

Donna and Terry. Happiest Anniversary!

With love from your father, son, uncle, and older brother (times 3),

Newt

Never Forget

2011-09-11T08:35:00.000-04:00

The Winter of Our Discontent

2011-09-09T21:02:00.006-04:00

We simpering souls - we who have spent the summer simmering in steamy Florida - hunger and thirst each year for return of the gloriously temperate days of fall-winter-spring. Perhaps it is the brotherhood of The Long Sweat that makes us look askance upon the annual influx of ... The Snowbirds.

Fully half of our ~~trailer park~~ manufactured home community neighbors are Snowbirds. Nice folks, most of them, but real Floridians - we year-rounders, that is - and The Snowbirds enjoy that same stuttering love-hate relationship that haunts every other seasonal tourist Mecca. (Here in Tampa Bay, at least, we need not suffer the annual pilgrimage of plump, white-bearded old farts pretending to be Ernest Hemingway.) No, this is OUR Paradise, and only reluctantly do we share its joys with the infidels from Michigan, for instance. And Delaware.

Florida has never really signed on to the U.S. Constitution's promise of freedom to migrate from cold places like Ohio and Indiana to our Sunshine State. Much less Canada. If ever there was any moral foundation for the War Between the States, it is this: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Winter. We don't come shovel your snow; why do you come sift our sand?

Constitutional issues aside, there is, I suppose, a certain perverse entertainment value to the annual Snowbird hadj. Like a tawdry rolling carnival sideshow, these ragged refugees from Carolina or Connecticut arrive in their overloaded SUV's and Caravans They pause en masse at the state line, gulp down a draught of our warm, liquid air, and cast off all their clothes. There is more white skin here in December than at a Limbaugh family reunion.

Hello, pasty sojourners, and welcome to the Sunshine State. You might take note that our natural sunlight is imbued with enough ionizing radiation to cook a Thanksgiving turkey faster than a Viking oven. A dermatologist waits on every street corner, eagerly anticipating autumn. For the love of God, put your shirt back on!

Now don't get me wrong: The Snowbirds invariably arrive with cash-stuffed pockets, and a little cash makes a lot of friends in this land of the forever unemployed. Retail citrus shoppes that lie fallow and forlorn all summer explode into joyous bloom after Labor Day. Kids conduct car washes in front of every school. Police adjust traffic signal timing from "languid" to "frenetic." After all, in a few short months, The Snowbirds must fly north once again. So little time; so many T-shirts to buy.

Posted on every beach and beachfront eatery hereabouts are warnings against feeding the birds. Watch as the newly arrived beachgoer misunderestimates the cunning and derring-do of the average herring gull. See him venture onto the beach with craftily cradled french fry basket, longing to loft bits of oily potato gently into the heavens to nourish God's winged creatures. Yee-hah! These are Florida birds, folks, sporting considerably larger frontal lobes than their foolish fry-flinger prey, and they dart in from where our hapless neophyte is not looking, swooping over his shoulder to snatch his pitiful hoard, scattering fries over acres of beach. Watch him slink back to his car, fryless and slimed with seagull poop. Seagulls poop most copiously when excited by the sight of food in ballistic flight. It's Pavlovian.

Welcome as the sweet winter season may be, we the real Floridians will come to long for April and May, when once again the Snowbird tide will ebb, and life will return to that long lazy simmer.

And so it goes.

Newt

Hold the Green Stuff

2011-08-20T16:03:00.001-04:00

A close family member who shall remain nameless is a dedicated fan of Hooters - the restaurant, that is. He says they make great wings. Apparently he has not noticed that the winsome lasses who serve the wings wear very little in the way of clothing. He and his darling and longsuffering bride brought us to Hooters during our recent visit to Connecticut and, by Jesus, the wings were good!

Hooters Girls are a curious breed. I'm pretty sure they are all freshly minted in the back room before each shift, faces and uniforms sprayed on using the signature Hooters template. A few ounces of paint go a long way. The effect is like grinning Stepford wives with cleavage. Lots of cleavage.

When you order Hooters' Tater Tots appetizer . . . yeah, I know, but just ASSUME you were to order Tater Tots . . . they arrive garnished with slices of green onion. Personally, I like green onions, but my host for the night eschews vegetables in any form. Especially if they are crunchy. (This has been true since he was a little boy.) So he always asks for his Tater Tots with no onions. The problem is Tater Tots don't come with green onions. Right there on the menu, if you look closely, it says Tater Tots are garnished with chives. There's a picture.

But my host has been here before and he knows his green onions.So he orders his Tater Tots without green onions.

"I'm sorry, sir, they don't come with green onions. They come with chives."

"But I've had them before, and those are green onions. I don't like green stuff."

"Oh, no, sir. See the picture? Those are chives."

Wait for it - - -

"You'll have to have your Tater Tots without chives."

Since then, my host has compromised on "no green stuff," adroitly sidestepping the chive debate. If it were me, I'd stick to my guns just for the entertainment value. The Tater Tots were pretty good, by the way.

But they need chives.

Newt

Sell the Sand

2011-08-16T19:48:00.002-04:00

A highlight of our Connecticut visit last month was the vegetables. Yellow corn, with kernels so fat they pop noisily when you bite them. And honest-to-God tomatoes, heavy ripe tomatoes that squirt juice down your shirt when you bite into one. Tomatoes that taste so sweet and acidy and tomatoey that your mouth aches with the pleasure of it.

You would think that the miraculous Florida sunshine would favor brilliant red-fleshed tomatoes the way it produces brilliant red-fleshed tourists. You would think it, but you would be wrong: Florida tomatoes suck. In fact, scientists have recently proven that all the Florida tomatoes sold at Publix are carved out of styrofoam and painted red.

So how can Connecticut, with its long, crappy winters and puny growing season, do with tomatoes what Florida can't? Answer: Connecticut has the one essential that Florida lacks: soil. Florida has no soil whatsoever. It has sand. No offense intended to Florida or to sand. Sand really dresses up Clearwater Beach, for instance, but you wouldn't want to grow anything in it.

My thought is that Florida could harvest the deep sand off all its tomato farms and export it to Singapore, which happens to be the world's largest importer of sand. Singapore is building a bigger Singapore out of sand. (Good luck with that, by the way.) With the money Florida makes selling sand, it could go up to Connecticut and buy soil - black, loamy topsoil with earthworms and other living things in it. Then Florida could build real farms by spreading the soil around where all the sand came from.

And grow tomatoes in it.

Newt

Damn the Scenery, Full Speed Ahead

2011-08-07T00:21:00.004-04:00

In another life, I congregated with various automobile enthusiasts and similarly disreputable people. After I bought a BMW M3 early in the millennium - I was, after all, a lawyer - I joined with like-minded individuals in the BMW Car Club of America (Connecticut Valley Chapter) and found them a great deal less, um, you know, than I expected. A bunch of them even became friends (perhaps until they read this....)

So here's a picture of the car, taken during the irresponsible behavior described herein:

(Photo credit Xtreme Sports Photography No Commercial Use Allowed)

Anyway, the M3 is a very special car, even eight years later, and I still love to drive it fast whenever I can. I recently had a chance to flail away at some outstanding roads in Tennessee and North Carolina. Here is the story of that ride, written from the perspective of the adrenalin junkie that lies within, for the benefit of some special adrenalin junkies that I left behind in Connecticut. I guess that makes the rest of you adrenalin voyeurs. Welcome to an especially peculiar corner of my world.

-------------------------------

It was high summer in sweltering Tampa Bay, so what to do? Drive Judy’s Accord for two miserable days up I-95 to mooch off unsuspecting Connecticut relatives? Or take five days motoring up the Appalachian Mountains in the old M3? Oh, wait! I retired specifically so I could do this. Mooch off relatives, I mean. And drive the M3 to unsuspecting places.

I changed the oil and kicked the tires, and we lit out on a soggy July Monday morning, northbound on I-75 as far as mid-Georgia, where the real road trip commenced. We meandered around the North Carolina outback until we fetched up against the village of Deal’s Gap, which by no great coincidence is where the Tail of the Dragon begins. If you don’t know the name “Tail of the Dragon,” shame; stop reading now and spend an hour on Google. Short version: 318 hairpin turns in 11 miles of well-maintained pavement. Yee-hah!

As best we could tell, there is precisely nothing in Deal’s Gap, North Carolina but the southern terminus of the T/D and about 500 motorcycles doing burnouts in the local iron-monger’s parking lot. We cinched down on the luggage and assumed the position.

Reputedly, the local constabulary surveils the Tail of the Dragon via radar and the like, but it quickly became apparent that simple word-of-mouth would make surreptitious surveillance supremely unsuccessful. Boldly we proceeded, and at a spritely pace.

As a practical matter, the Tail of the Dragon is so thoroughly corkscrewed that exceeding the 30-35 mph speed limit* is not easy to accomplish, except maybe on the short straights that knit the corners together. The road is well-banked, even on left turns. That’s a good thing because rule number one is DO NOT cross the double-yellow. This sweet road goes both ways, and more than once we found ourselves in mid-hairpin, suddenly face to face with an oncoming biker dragging his knee into the same blind turn, separated from us by only those sacred yellow lines.

* Okay, I'm a little fuzzy on the exact speed limit because I was too busy breaking it to take notes. But it was somewhere in this ballpark.

Did I mention that the entire T/D is completely public? It forms a colorful and hair-raising part of US 129 between North Carolina and Tennessee. There are civilians out there. Bewildered civilians.

Despite the ranks of bikes at Deal’s Gap, the Tail of the Dragon itself was not crowded. Numerous turnouts allow slower traffic to get the hell out of the way, and most users readily comply. Especially the bewildered ones. Rarely was our ride impeded for more than a few hundred yards.

Squealing tires and loaded suspensions were the order of the day. Think “11-mile autocross” with soft, deep shoulders. And trees, lots of trees. Nothing focuses the mind like soft, deep shoulders and lots of trees.

(Photo credit Xtreme Sports Photography No Commercial Use Allowed)

Footnote: Some details that the car nuts in Connecticut will notice in the two photos above other, saner folk might miss. For instance, in the photo at the top of this article, there is a pair of fuzzy dice in the windshield. A gift from my daughter - get over it. But you might notice that the dice are hanging at a peculiar angle. That's because the car was engaged in an epic right turn when the picture was snapped. The windshield glare hides the driver - that would be your humble scribe - grinning maniacally. Only the dice are left to tell the tale. In the second picture, notice that the right rear tire is barely in contact with the ground.That's about as hard as this car will corner with street tires. Okay, end of footnote.

After slaying the dragon (as it says on the T-shirts), we holed up in Gatlinburg for the night to let the adrenalin subside.

Now, the Tail of the Dragon is a wonderful road for removing excess rubber from your tires, but it doesn’t really get you any closer to Connecticut. For that, you'll need the Blue Ridge Parkway. The BRP begins just up the road a piece from Gatlinburg, in Cherokee, TN. Like a long, laid-back version of the Tail of the Dragon, the BRP snakes along the eastern continental divide for 469 eye-popping miles to Front Royal, VA. Scenery like none other in the U.S. competes for the driver’s attention with what may be the longest pure driver’s road in the country. Yee-hah!

Oh, I already said that. Sorry. Anyway, there are stunning vistas everywhere, most of which the driver never sees because he’s busy calculating the best approach to the next curve. Judy tells me it was lovely.

Spend a few days in the Carolina mountains and you begin y’all-ing this and y’all-ing that, just like the local folk. We stopped somewhere near Buck Creek Gap one day for lunch and some unsweetened iced tea.

“Y’all ain’t from here, are y’all?” speculated the young lady with the order pad.

“Um, no. Why?”

“Honey, we don’t say ‘iced tea’; we say ‘sweet tea.’”

“But we wanted UNsweet tea.”

“Rahht,” she purred, “that’ll be two unsweet sweet teas for y’all.”

We enjoyed the people as much – well, almost as much – as the roads and, as I understand it, the views.

A number – a really small number - of B&B’s, gas stops and other, generally simple accommodations lie just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, but the parkway itself is unspoiled along its entire length; if you want T-shirt shops, billboards and Days Inns, you’ll need to avail yourself of I-95, located a million miles east of the Appalachians. We don’t recommend it.

Newt

Praying About Dogs

2011-06-27T13:15:00.004-04:00

Despite not owning a pet, I live in the "pet section" here in Sugar Creek Mobile Home Park. Owners in this section are allowed to have dogs - little dogs, that is. On leashes.

Now I don't mind that these little dogs pee on my mailbox post and poop on my lawn near the sidewalk. But lately, little dogs have been leading their owners into my side yard and up to my front windows where they proceed with their doggie business.

So yesterday, I'm sitting in my lanai - yeah, that one - when an owner follows his dog up to the window next to my La-Z-Boy. The dog poops; the owner scoops and scoots. "God," I pray quietly, "damn them!"

To my considerable surprise, there's a peal of thunder, and a biblical Voice booms, "WHY?" Oh, crap! It's God.

Me (after gathering my wits): Whaddaya mean, 'Why?' That little dog was way up on my lawn.

God: Little dog? Is it cute?

Me: I suppose, but . . .

God: Wait, cute dogs are the Wife's department.

Me: What? I didn't know . . .

Mrs. God: What's the matter, dear?

Me: Um, it's that little dog walking away from my place. He just . . .

Mrs. God: Oh, isn't he cute!

Me: Cute or not, the little darling just pooped under my front window!

Mrs. God: Oh, We didn't know that. I don't do poop; that's My Husband's responsibility. Dear?

God: What now?

Me: That little dog just pooped on my lawn.

God: Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? Are We supposed to know everything?

Me: Actually . . .

God: Don't get smart with Me, boy. It's not always easy to keep up.

Me: Sorry. But can You just send that little dog and his owner somewhere besides my lawn. Maybe somewhere warmer?

God: Dogs don't go there.

Me: But owners do, right?

God (sighing): All too often, boy, all too often. We had to add a special wing down there. Do you know what brimstone costs at Hell Depot?

Me: So that settles it?

Mrs. God: If We do that, who will take care of that cute little puppy?

Me: Oh, I didn't know You were still there.

God (interrupting): Do You want another puppy, Pumpkin?

Mrs. God: Oooh!

God: All right, that does it. But You have to walk him, Sweetie.

Mrs. God: Luckily, We don't live in a trailer park.

At that point, the little dog and his owner disappeared around the corner. I haven't see them since.

Newt

My Deadbeating Heart

2011-06-18T00:26:00.001-04:00

I love what Mayo Clinic did last year for my syncopated heart. Every morning now I wake up to that sweet lub-dubbing that says that this day will be a pretty good one. Cardiac electrophysiology (gosh, I love saying that I have a cardiac electrophysiologist on call) is Mayo's strong suit. Billing accuracy, not so much so. (Gosh, I hate the coolly ubiquitous phrase "not so much." This linguistic bastard is one word short of idiomatic English.) But I digress. (I had a perpetually frustrated mentor once who erupted into foaming incoherence whenever he caught me indulging in parenthetical commentary. Sorry, John.)

Anyway, I have this great health insurance plan that pays for everything after I surpass a near-astronomical yearly out-of-pocket maximum. Since my darling Judy is a conspicuous consumer of all things medical, we routinely exceed that threshold before St. Swithin's Day each year. Accordingly, when Mayo worked its electrophysiological magic on December 27-28 last, the entire -- wait for it -- $75,000 was covered. So I thought.

Mayo thinks I still owe it about six grand. That in itself is enough to pump a few extra lub-dubs into my personal mix. God help me, I have entered into that twilight menage-a-trois that exists at the unhappy intersection of me, my insurance company and my hospital.

Once a week at dinnertime, "Gladys" phones me from Mayo, calls me a deadbeat, and demands that I pay up or return all those rhythmical cardiac contractions that so brighten my mornings. This nearly always pisses me off.

Rushing to my aid, Ironically enough, are those annoying HIPPA laws -- the ones that generate all those moronic forms you have to sign before a doctor will unsheathe his stethoscope. You see, before Gladys can talk to me about my specific consumption of medical services, she always has to ask for my date of birth. Now, I am pretty sure that Gladys knows my DOB and does not need me to confirm that information. So when I admit who I am but refuse to provide my DOB, Gladys is beyond flummoxed. The balance of our conversation occurs only in some legal state of limbo, since Gladys cannot verify that someone with the same phone number as me is not for some nefarious reason pretending to be me. You would think anyone nefarious enough to answer my phone could find out my DOB.

Why isn't my insurance company handling this? you might ask - - Lord knows, I have. When I call the insurance company to inquire, I get "Lucille," who swears to me that I do not owe Mayo a thin dime and insists that I not pay them. "Could you call Gladys," I ask, "and tell her that?" That's where it gets dicey.

Now let's face it - "Gladys" and "Lucille" are made-up names for a couple of guys sitting in some third-world boiler room chewing khat or molesting small animals. For all I know, they sit in adjacent cubicles. Whatever it is they are doing, however, seems to interfere with routine cerebration. To confound matters even more, you can never talk to the same Gladys twice. Calling to ask for Gladys or Lucille by name is a Marx Brothers exercise in runaway absurdity. What's more, it should be obvious to even the casual observer that asking Gladys to phone Lucille raises the stakes to Laurel & Hardy levels.

Lest you were born in a pumpkin patch sometime in the past twenty-four hours, let me assure you that my current predicament is the norm and not the exception. Someone still owes me $168 from the first time the kind folks at Mayo put their collective ear to my chest a couple years gone by. Gladys swears that that someone is Lucille.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, etc.,

Newt

Lift Off Endeavor

2011-05-16T16:49:00.000-04:00

Hurray and huzzah for the launch of the second-to-last Space Shuttle, which is the last launch for Endeavor and the second second-to-last launch after NASA decided that the last last launch would not in fact be last. If the last second-to-last launch is any indication, this will not be the last second-to-last launch at all. We will need to wait several months, I think, after the last launch to be sure that that launch is not also the second-to-last launch.

With apologies,

Newt

Critters

2011-05-07T19:00:00.009-04:00

Florida has nothing if not critters. Alligators, of course - splashy, fun and pretty good diced, battered and fried. I wasn't in the state but a short time before I fetched up against the Palmetto Bug crisis of 2009. Like any self-respecting Northerner, I took this personally.

Then came the wretched armadillos. I'm not even getting into the love-bugs fornicating on the grille of my Honda because by now I am a resigned Southerner. But of late there has descended upon Castle Newton a plague of rodents the likes of which has not been seen since the Middle Ages. I check myself daily for buboes.

It's not just the mouse, for what man's hickory-dickery castle has not had the odd mouse lurking? A chocolate-shot-looking turd here; another there. I set one of those fancy plastic better-mousetraps that promises to shield your sensitive eye from the putative corpse-to-be. The mouse left it baitless and forlorn three consecutive nights. Four bucks wasted. Not to mention several dollops of peanut butter. Conventional traps, HAH! I even filed down the trigger on one of those spring traps so it fired off if I so much as farted in the general vicinity. No mouse. No peanut butter either.

Glue traps? Forget it. My exterminator-- yeah, Floridians have exterminators like Northerners have snow shovels -- gave me a big commercial glue trap, which stunk like hell and trapped only a thick carpet of those tiny winged no-see-um gnats that are the state bird of Florida. I folded another glue trap into a hollow box-like affair (insert Tab A into Slot B) with the glue inside, and I slathered it with yet more peanut butter. The Skippy folks have sent me a nice thank-you note. My mouse crapped on top of the box.

Last week, something started gnawing on my air conditioning duct. It only comes out at night. Could be a rat or a possum or an overachieving chipmunk. I tucked three large traps -- one dangerous looking spring-loaded affair and two big glue traps -- into my duct-work. That was three days ago. The peanut butter/cheese bait has gone bad.

And I have already whined enough about the squirrels. Today I bought a medium Hav-a-Hart contraption, baited it with breakfast cereal (shredded wheat, miniatures, unsweetened) and set it out under the oak tree. Screw the peanut butter; the critters don't care a whit about peanut butter. I sent the note back to Skippy.

I keep sneaking over to the window to peek under the oak tree.

Newt

Osama

2011-05-02T18:29:00.001-04:00

Dear God:

If You're out there and if You're listening, thank You.

Affectionately,

Newt

My Caulked-Up Lanai

2011-04-24T11:43:00.000-04:00

In response to popular demand (OK, one guy with questionable judgment), I am pleased to present the long-promised photos of my completed lanai ("luh-NYE," rhymes with - uh - nothing, really). The caulking adventure took place about 30 inches above the painting on the wall. Here's the view looking west:

And east:

And a detail shot of the dining area:

Yes, those are little ceramic birdies on the chairs. And a hard-to-photograph shot of Judy's neon flamingo:

The neighbors are especially fond of that last one.

And the caulking job? Well, the roof still leaks, but only during tornadoes.

Newt

The Land of Steady But Foul Habits

2011-04-20T16:12:00.002-04:00

If you follow this blog long enough you discover that I fritter away an inordinate amount of my life sitting outside Panera with coffee and a bagel, growing increasingly distraught at the human condition. The human condition had its way with me again this week.

Like most states, Florida forbids smoking indoors at places of public accommodation. Such as Panera. But we're Republicans here, on average, so they can't stop outdoor smoking. This morning, this perfectly reasonable-looking gent sat down at the neighboring sidewalk table and promptly fired up one of Fidel Castro's finest. Jaysus! The good side of this is that all the mosquitoes in Pinellas County have now departed for the Everglades where God meant them to reside.

Now it turns out, as I was packing up my bagel for a a strategic retreat, that the dude with the stogie was not quite the insensitive brute that I had silently labeled him. If fact, when the lady on his upwind side whipped out her cell phone and launched into a diatribe about her ex's manifold inadequacies, the stogie-stoker rose in disgust and departed in a swirling blue cloud for his pickup truck, muttering obscenities. I continued my retreat nevertheless while preparing a diatribe of my own.

The rule to take away from this interlude is that crude behavior can be loosely defined as any conduct that you yourself are not currently engaged in. Like when you drive on the highway, and half the idiots on the road are going too fast and the other half are crawling along like snails on Valium. I tell you, it's enough to ---

Wait, where are you going?

Newt

Stuck in the Vernacular

2011-04-18T16:12:00.000-04:00

Hast thou ever noticed that if one writeth in the sacred language of the ancients as hast thy humble scribe in his past two missives, it quickly becometh impossible to breaketh out of the habit? It's like a siilly tune that won't leave your head or like talking to an Englishman for a couple of hours, which leaves you tut-tutting, cheerio-ing and boiling your meat. Blimey and forsooth!

Okay, I'm much better now.

Newt

The Last Book of Judith - The Waters Are Parted at Last

2011-04-08T22:18:00.002-04:00

And it came to pass in the land of the trailer-dwellers that the new huffing beast fulfilled the prophesy. But no praise was due the dissembling Lord Apria, for the Messenger who gave truth to the prophesy appeared to Judith and her Consort as in a dream and revealed that he was called "Bud" and was sent not by Apria but by its handmaiden, the vassal Praxair.

The Messenger Bud told how it came to be that Praxair was betrothed to Apria by a stock-swap merger and acquisition with protected voting rights. Further it was revealed that Praxair had not yet learned the foul methods of Apria. And the Consort upon hearing this news rent his clothing and prostrated himself before the Messenger and spake his regret for thinking the Messenger a sniveling bastard, for he was not.

Thus was the fair Judith delivered from evil and joy returned to her bedchamber.

And the Consort gave thanks, but further he shall not speak.

Newt

The Second Book of Judith

2011-04-04T18:35:00.000-04:00

And a Messenger of the Lord Apria appeared at the appointed hour bearing a new huffing beast, as foretold by the Sarah the Liar. But Judith and her faithful and long-suffering Consort did observe that the new beast bore a strong resemblance to the old vomiting beast and they raised a hue and cry to the Messenger, who thrice denied knowledge of any deceit. But he was only the Messenger, so they did not slay him.

And verily the new huffing beast spewed waters into Judith's nose just as did the old, and the fair Judith continued to castigate her Consort and anyone else within 40 cubits, for she had not slept in peace lo these many fortnights and had become cranky and morose.

So the Consort called upon the Angel Jon the Ambiguous, to whom the Demon Sarah owed allegiance and her weekly wage, and castigated him as he had been castigated. And the Consort, innocent of the ways of the world, was amazed to hear Jon the Ambiguous blame the Messenger. And the Consort knew he should have slew the Messenger.

But Jon spake a new covenant, that there shall appear in thy bedroom this very night yet another huffing beast with magical powers to calm the rage in Judith's heart and part the waters in her snoot. And the Consort was skeptical at last. But though he scenteth the sweet vapors of bullshit once again, he relented, and - Shazam! - the new huffing beast did arrive as foretold yet again. And the Consort taketh the opportunity to castigate the Messenger upon his wondrous return.

But the new beast bore no common countenance with the old vomiting beasts, so he hoped that it was good. And the Consort dwelt in the house of apprehension and frustration lest the night cometh and all hope be dashed upon the jagged rocks of eternal celibacy. And he prostrated himself in thanks before the Lord Malted Barley for the ale locked safely in his larder.

The Consort

The Book of Judith and the Demon Sarah

2011-03-29T16:51:00.001-04:00

From the time of the last millennium, the fair Judith was beholden to the great pulmonologist Bimalin, who prescribeth a huffing beast to sleep by Judith's side each night. And the huffing beast guardeth her and pumpeth the very air into her lungs to defeat the evil scourge known as Apnea. And the Lord Insurer, who vouches to hold harmless its loyal though disgruntled subjects, saw that it was good.

After many years, the huffing beast grew weary and, after a brief illness, went to rest forever in the arms of the Lord Recycler. And, lo, it was the custom in those times that the Lord Insurer made his vassal Apria to assign a new huffing beast to battle the scourge, and Apria reaped a vast empire of wealth from the purses of the Lord and of Judith and Judith's Consort. But though the new beast huffeth and puffeth, its air was of the desert and caused Judith's tongue to swell and thrash in desiccated agony. And Apria said, "Thou shalt have a humid-maker for thy huffing beast, and the Lord and thy Consort shall pay through the nose for it," for they had exceeded the Lord Insurer's policy limits for durable medical equipment.

Soon, the prophesy of Apria came to pass and, alas, the humid-maker made the sea to flow into Judith's nose, and she awakened each night amidst much snorting and foofaraw, and Judith's Consort came to know misery and suffering. And Judith spaketh thus, "The huffing beast maketh my soul to drown and castest me into the waters of the damned. Maketh this Apria son of a bitch to fix this huffing beast or thou shall not lie with woman." Never has man seen such fury, and he was gravely vexed by his return to a state of chastity.

Judith and her Consort visited the Angel Rob, whose trade was to tame the huffing beast but who was not the vassal of Apria, and Rob interveneth on Judith's behalf, saying to Apria's sales-vassal, "Thou shalt not sell huffing beasts in my province without thou release the damsel Judith from her torment." And the sales-vassal vowed that it would be done.

But the sales-vassal was a lying bastard and he sent the Demon Sarah, who donned the fleece of the weasel whose name was Customer Service. And the Demon Sarah spake unto Judith that the waters in the nose would ceaseth with the dawning of Summer, for the humid-maker vomited water only in Winter. And Judith spake, "Hast thou taken leave of thy senses? This be Florida, thou condescending ass." And she spake the name of the Lord, but she spake in vain, and Judith's torment prevailed for long nights. Long chaste nights at that.

After some days, the Angel Rob burned the sales-vassal at a stake and made him to dispatch the Demon Sarah once again. And Sarah again spake soothing words, not, however, to the drowned Judith but to her suffering Consort, who longed for the pleasure of Judith's charms. And the Consort saw that it was bullshit and spaketh so to Sarah. But Sarah did not relent readily and she called forth the Virtues Patience and Perseverance and some other stuff that the Consort in his rage could not long remember. And the Consort spake at length about those who begat the Demon Sarah and about her knowledge of dogs, and thus was the Demon Sarah scandalized. And the Consort held her fast in his goodness and fury, though she writhed and gnashed her fearsome teeth, until she was defeated.

Thus conquered, the Demon Sarah pretended to be the Angel Sarah, who vouchsafed that she would "to be honest with thou," and she revealed that the Lord's vassal Apria was lying through its rotted teeth and indeed sat upon the right hand of Satan. For the huffing beast harbored a secret which Sarah spake to be a "known problem," and it would be made good under the writings of the Lord Warranty.

And thus the angelic Demon Sarah prophesied the appearance of a new and improved huffing beast with no known problems. Tomorrow between 3 and 5 p.m.

Newt

Another Thing You Don't Often See in the North

2011-03-23T10:14:00.007-04:00

The Florida legislature gathers altogether too often in Tallahassee to consider new ways to deviate from the mean. A debate is raging there today, as it has for the past three years, over whether to outlaw sex with animals. It took the unfortunate death by accidental strangulation of a sweet young goat named Meg to bring this issue to light.

I swear I am not making this up.

I suppose I should say something clever, like how the supporters of sex with critters are being led by Meg's husband, Billy Joe Jim-Bob, but that would be wrong.

God, how my muse loves this place.

Newt

Snowbirds, Rednecks and Crackers - An Appreciation

2011-03-14T21:11:00.000-04:00

Despite wave after frantic wave of snowbirds, Florida remains, at its heart, a southern institution. If you think not, consider a locally bottled beer that says it is "like a California pale ale, except made in America." I wish I'd thought of that line.

You can tell how far south you are by the local expression for "you" (plural). If you live in the North, you say "you," and southerners are folks who say "you all." If you all say "you all," southerners are folks who say "y'all." And if y'all say "y'all," southerners are folks who say "all y'all." Real native Floridians are few, but they all say "all y'all." If all y'all are real native Floridians, however, southerners are those who say "all y'all" while barefoot.

Motorcyclists who get old and retreat to Florida promptly buy 3-wheel bikes. Old farts on tricycles are more common down here than old farts in new Corvettes, although not by much. I saw a Harley-Davidson the other day that looked like a 3-wheeler. Well, it happens, embarrassingly enough, that Harley does make such a bastard machine. But this guy had modified his 2-wheeler by adding a pair of outrigger wheels. Yup, training wheels on an H-D. I was embarrassed for him.

Speaking of embarrassed, I've always wanted to crawl into a hole when members of my supposed profession trumpet how great they are. One of the far-too-many such legal clowns down here - we'll call him "Peter Ticktin ," because that's his name - calls his website "LegalBrains.com." You could look it up.

Hereabouts, there is a hybrid retail industry that combines the ubiquitous gun shop with the ubiquitous pawn shop. I'm trying to think of something to say about this that won't piss off the wrong people. That probably wasn't it.

Newt

Writing Through Tears

2011-03-13T21:33:00.000-04:00

I meant to compose a light romp through the vagaries of Florida life based on some curious things I have seen here lately. But as I checked into the Internet, I clicked again on the news and again got caught up in the hundreds of images of devastation in Japan. As much as I would like to get back to my carefree lifestyle here in my dotage, I just can't look away from the painful pictures. Today's estimates of 10,000 dead must be pitifully low.

In other news on the same website, this headline: "Users complain iPhone clock bungles time change."

Sadly

Newt

Tinkling on My Lanai

2011-02-26T16:23:00.003-05:00

Despite temps in the low 80's and balmy breezes off the Gulf, despite my indolent lifestyle and occasional over-indulgence in just about everything, this Florida retirement gig is not all it's cracked up to be. You should understand, for instance, that as I sit here on my new lanai, slaving over a hot keyboard, the vicious Florida sun is shining in my eyes. Really, it's hard to make out the screen. But I persevere, mostly as an exercise in persistence.

Here are a couple of Florida facts that will warm the toes of northerners who just got whacked with another half-foot of white and sparkly. First off, my lanai is under a live oak tree. No, not the opposite of dead oak, but a nasty species of oak that seemes eternally confounded by the fine weather. Northern oaks know enough to shed their leaves in the fall with a thud, so you can rake them and haul them away in a single outing. Maybe two. Okay, red oaks, maybe a little cleanup in the spring. Still, that's a civilized way to run a forest.

The flummoxed oak in what I jokingly refer to as my front yard tinkles leaves constantly, all year. Or close enough. They tinkle on my roof, the roof of my new lanai. My lanai where I celebrate my indolence with a cold glass and keep sunglasses handy. Tinkle. Tinkle.

The roof of my lanai, like everything else on the property, is made of aluminum, except of course for the wide expanses of bathtub caulk that hold the place together. If you have not heard oak leaves tinkling on aluminum, then you have no firm grip on the concept of annoyance.

To say nothing of acorn season, which lasts six months. Acorns don't tinkle on aluminum. They clang like Big Ben on Ritalin. Do you know how many acorns fall from a good-sized live oak in heat? I do.

The oak trees are not the only airborne threat to my peace. My aluminum-clad lanai provides a runway for rutting squirrels taking off and landing. Squirrels, like oak trees, are in rut all year long. A bonding pair of half-pound squirrels hustling over aluminum can be deafening. Like living in a giant squirrel-powered snare drum.

My father-in-law down the street came back from the war (The Big One, W-W-I-I), with a small arsenal of portable weapons of localized destruction. I know where he keeps them. Push me hard enough, damn squirrels, and I might just start blazing away.

So, Gentle Reader, before you move to Tampa Bay, mull over the cacophony you might face on your lanai. Tinkling and clanging and snare-drumming, I must tell you, are crappy conductors of indolence. And then there's the possibility of a rain of shell casings pinging off the roof.

Newt

Risen from the Ashes

2011-02-20T11:23:00.001-05:00

OK, the bleeding has stopped, and I'm out of bathtub caulk. Siding on the front porch (say "luh-NYE") is up, the wiring done. OK, twice on that last: I put a nail through a wire the first time and blew a fuse, but that was just one of those random things that even we experts sometimes encounter. Furniture is purchased and placed. Anticipating unprecedented public demand, I'll post pictures as soon as the artwork is done. (Betsi Burgess, where ARE you?)

So, what's wrong with this picture? I can't even entertain on the lanai this week. Why? Because my 9-year-old granddaughter Katy insists on sleeping out there on an inflatable bed. Sweet.

Newt

Where Were You When I Needed You?

2011-01-26T23:17:00.001-05:00

Today's mail brought the glossy, 60-page Graduate Report published periodically by my favorite law school and alma mater. My classmates are pictured running for governor and guiding major international corporations. I am delighted to report that I, too, made the cut.

For 20-odd years I have waited with patience and humility for UConn to take note of my many legal triumphs. I mean, I once wrote a riveting brief arguing that the U.S. Constitution does not prohibit the state from monopolizing the garbage industry. Few cared. Another time I engaged in extended one-on-one colloquy with the Chief Justice of the State of Connecticut trying to persuade her that the word "environmental" includes matters historical. Did anyone notice? Hell, no. It's not my fault she didn't buy the argument. Although I did get a nice footnote in the decision.

I thought someone would flag my ground-breaking interlocutory (deal with it: I'm taking to lawyers here) appeal to the Supreme Court that took unblushing advantage of the fact that the sitting Chief Justice and his second in command were both disqualified from the case at hand. Nope. Damn.

Okay, I'm being unnecessarily modest here, because I did once have a judge stop me in a courthouse hallway to tell me that the job I did on a trial was, in his words, "somewhat adequate." I asked him to put that in writing, but he just wandered off. You'll have to take my word for it.

So, as you see, I spent my legal career in genteel obscurity, pleasing a few unusually discerning clients and generally avoiding malpractice suits and disbarment and the like. Eventually, professional stardom having eluded me, I bailed out of Connecticut for sunnier climes, here to pursue important matters - my bridge game, driving aimlessly around the lovely countryside, and searching Tampa Bay for a decent glass of beer. That sort of thing. I have accomplished much in these endeavors, I might add.

But wait, there's more! Just when I thought I would live out my remaining days in blissful irrelevance, there I am on page 50 of the latest Graduate Report, with name spelled correctly and all. Right there in the same pages where an earlier graduate gets the library named after him and another becomes the chief legal bottle-washer at Wesleyan University. Heady company indeed.

Which of my numerous achievements, you may ask, so grabbed the imagination of the university that it thrust me onto this illustrious stage? How does one become famous enough to make the grade? It's not easy, my friends. I did it the hard way. I am honored to accept the University of Connecticut's recognition of this crowning achievement.

No, really, THIS crowning achievement. This blog, Eye of Newt. No doubt, the editors of the estimable Graduate Report have concluded that I am unlikely to do anything more significant than this, so it's best perhaps to recognize me now and be done with it. Anyway, Eye of Newt will live on in perpetuity, rules against such notwithstanding. (Another crummy lawyer joke - sorry.)

Lesser persons would celebrate by booking passage to Disneyland, but I instead scrambled to make sure my old articles had no egregious spelling or grammatical errors. I thought of deleting the trailer park articles and that unfortunate bit about the palmetto bug. But, no, I am who I am, and my erstwhile peers will just have to take me the way I am.

In closing, I would like to take this opportunity to ask all who noticed me in the Graduate Report to send me a dollar or two. If everyone did that, I could probably spruce up this blog a little. Social Security really isn't what it's cracked up to be.

Newt

On Becoming Illiterate

2011-01-25T19:44:00.002-05:00

It was 77 degrees Fahrenheit here today, and I planned to make my family and friends in Connecticut (where it's about 7F) aware of that fact. But then the tornado watch hit the national news, and I thought that might spoil the effect.

Still being a bit of a newby here, I scouted out convenient storm shelters and found none. I thought maybe a basement somewhere, but this is Florida, the Land of No Basements. That's because the water table lies only three inches below the surface. Golfers complain because divots fill with water faster than they can be repaired, and sand traps have to be elevated.

I went to the library to find a book to read in the shelter, should I find a shelter, and discovered with some consternation that I am becoming illiterate. I, who grew up reading the Hardy Boys and Lucky Starr & the Moons of Jupiter (written pseudonymously by Isaac Asimov), was unable to find a book I could read.

Admittedly, I only looked in the "new books" section, but I get to the library often enough that new books ought to be sufficient. Except it wasn't. For the first time in recorded memory, I came away empty-handed. Bookless. Illiterate in fact if not in theory.

The library's new books included hundreds of volumes, all involving vampires. I found Blood Lies and The Vampire Rides at Midnight and Vampires Paint the Town Red. I pulled a book promisingly titled The Betrayal, but it began, "She didn't recall when she began to hate werewolves." (There may be some fine distinction between vampires and werewolves, but does it matter?) A biography of Tom
Hanks begins with his death.

I think the dearth of decent books is Ronald Reagan's fault. When he told Mr. Gorbachev to "tear down this wall," he unwittingly destroyed an entire genre of Cold War thrillers. (Some argue that he did a lot of things unwittingly. Not to be confused with half-wittedly, which seems to describe recent presidential history. Okay, enough of that.)

Anyway, as a result of some dubious unfettering of most of eastern Europe, thriller writers are lately consigned to writing the same book over and over. To wit: Stuart Woods just wrote the 14th volume in the Stone Barrington series. Fourteen! Will & Ariel Durant's Story of Civilization required only eleven. I like Woods, but I stopped reading somewhere around volume 6. Tom Clancy wrote the classic Hunt for Red October and has since written nothing readable. In fact, he now rents out his name to others who write drivel that would embarrass Danielle Steele.

I CAN'T READ THIS CRAP.

So I may as well be illiterate for all the good it does to drive to the library. If I find a storm shelter before the big blow levels Tampa, I will have nothing to read. Pity.

Newt

The Triumph of Uncle Bud

2011-01-22T20:22:00.000-05:00

If you haven't been reading the past few posts, this will make little sense. Serves you right. Synopsis to date: in remodeling the lanai, I discovered a leak in the roof.. Preparing to install a patch, I learned that dear, departed Uncle Bud had slathered the area in question with bathtub caulk. Uncle Bud slathered everything in B.C., probably including his breakfast toast. A dear man, really. So you shouldn't take my obscene outbursts too seriously. I have done some genealogy in the past, so I know - in some intellectual sense - that Uncle Bud did indeed have a father.

I dynamited all the old caulk off and patched and applied a bit of fresh caulking compound according to enlightened roofing protocol. Blood flowed.

It rained yesterday, The freaking roof still leaks, albeit not so aggressively.

So I climbed back up and slathered an entire tube of B.C. over the patch. Screw it.

Bud, you were right. Rest in vindicated peace.

Newt

Blood on My Hands

2011-01-20T18:37:00.001-05:00

The leaky roof is plugged. I think. I cleaned the surface until I got tired, cranky and bloody, then slapped on a coat of exterior primer paint. "Dries in an hour." Fat chance.

But that's over. I peeled and stuck the Peel & Seal, but in much smaller pieces than I had planned. That's because a nice flat sheet of very sticky roofing stuff does not fit very well into the joint where the roof goes ^ and the side of the house goes |. Kind of like trying to wallpaper the inside of a basketball. So I chopped the stuff into wedges and jammed them into the parts that go < and > and ~.

Then, taking my cue from good ol' Uncle Bud, I squirted bathtub caulk all over the whole mess and went inside for a beer.

A couple of years ago I was shopping in some auto parts mega-store, and they were practically giving away hand cleaner. (Stay with me; I'll link this up in a minute.) So I bought a couple of buckets of GoJo Cherry goop with Pumice. I knew that someday I would need to get a whole lot of bathtub caulk off my hands. (See how neatly that links up?) I want to focus on the word "Cherry." The stuff is red - blood red - and smells like King Kong poop after a three-day cherry binge. I rubbed it on my caulky hands anyway.

GoJo Cherry doesn't actually remove bathtub caulk from anything. It just moves it around into a thin film of poopy goop - waterproof poopy goop that lasts forever. Plus, my hands were now covered in pseudo-blood. Very convincing pseudo-blood. No matter how much you rinse, some goop and some pseudo-blood always remain. Think Lady Macbeth.

None of this was much of a problem until I wiped my hands on one of my wife's clean towels.

Newt

The Handyman Rides the Roof

2011-01-18T22:13:00.001-05:00

Unlike unmown grass or low tire pressure or even the curse of dandruff, a leaky roof cannot be ignored for long. Especially when you're decorating the space under the leak. Especially when family is visiting in three weeks. Specifically, your wife's brother's family. So onto the roof I did climb this afternoon. I discovered that Uncle Bud had set the modern-day record for abusing industrial-grade bathtub caulk.

I wasn't originally going to use hand tools for this nasty job, but after I humped the electric drill and wire brushes onto the roof, I learned that the electrons that were entering the extension cord down by the carport were not making it out the business end of the cord. I looked for a bulge in the cord where they might be piling up, but gave up and attacked the job with box cutters and an old wood chisel. The extension cord that I bought in 1974 had failed me. I knew it wouldn't last.

It wasn't enough for Uncle Bud to caulk the bejesus out of the joint where the lanai joins the house, but he went and laid styrofoam over the caulk, then caulked over the whole mess. Like a petrified stack of plastic pancakes. I know it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but no host of angels would convict me: I just went off on poor Bud and hoped No One was listening.

Removing the old, dried and twisted ropes of caulk resulted in only one scrape on my hands. Well, actually six, but only one of them is bleeding badly enough to require direct pressure. Damn Coumadin.

Tomorrow I learn whether a roofing product called Peal & Seal actually works as advertised. This is so going to bugger my Wednesday bridge game.

Newt

The Handyman

2011-01-17T19:15:00.000-05:00

I have never earned my living with my hands. We would have starved. Now I am remodeling the lanai (northerners: that's Florida-speak for "porch"). I have always been able to wield a hammer equally well with either hand - badly, that is - slamming thumbs often but only occasionally striking nails even a glancing blow. I swear a lot.

If you haven't been following this blog with religious ferocity, you may not know that I bought a mobile home that once was owned by Judy's Uncle Bud. Bud was a true believer in bathtub caulk - a regular vinyl acolyte. Install enough bathtub caulk and you get 77 virgins when you move on.

Bud laid down thick ropes of vinyl everywhere. Every crack and joint in the place is securely plugged with once-pliable plastic goop. So I was not terribly surprised when I went to strip the vent covers off the soffits on the lanai to see that each one was carefully sealed into place with caulking compound - so they wouldn't leak. Uncle Bud, wherever you are now, these are VENTS: they are supposed to leak. Old caulking is really, really difficult to scrape off.

I roughed out the wiring in preparation for installing a false wall to hold paneling and banged up a bunch of furring strips to hold up the panels. I planned to lay in a stereo wire to a headphone jack so I could sit out there and listen to music while I napped. But the Internet advised me that you can't just wire the output from your stereo to a headphone jack. You need an attenuation circuit or else John Prine or Justin Townes Earle will produce enough raw current to blow your eardrums to hell.

In theory, an attenuation circuit is just a couple of resistors and switches that send excess electrons off to their ethereal reward. Luckily, I hold an Advanced Class Amateur Radio License, which I earned back in the 1970s by sending Morse Code at 20 words per minute and knowing what resistors do. I still cling fondly to the illusion that I know what I am doing. But after 35 years, memory fades, technology moves on, and the guy at Radio Shack never heard of a resistor ("but we have a great sale on 4G cell phones"). Screw it - I'll run headphones from the jack on the amplifier and just string it around the door jamb. Problem solved.

Today it rained. Hard. The freaking lanai roof leaks! It didn't do that last time it rained. The leak lines up perfectly with the electrical wiring I am installing behind the paneling. Crap. Visions of electrocution swirl through my conscience.

More later. But this looks kind of grim.

Newt

Half-Formed Thoughts, Randomly Presented

2011-01-08T20:30:00.000-05:00

Mostly, I want to post something new here so anyone who visits will not have to decide whether Looking at my Groin was such a good idea. But my other ideas are a little scattered, so don't expect much.

I am concerned that Starbucks has dropped both its name and its product from its logo. All we have now is a stylized green mermaid on a paper cup made of 72% recycled something. Watch for the sign of a green mermaid and stop into the shop formerly known as Starbucks for a beverage formerly known as coffee.

Speaking of Seattle, I see that Seattle now has a roving superhero who foils car thieves and wears a plastic suit with breastplate and codpiece. The superhero is also nameless: the superhero formerly known as Angelo Wilson, CPA. Tampa needs someone like this, so I am shopping for a codpiece.

My groin feels much better, by the way. I am now addicted to narcotic pain killers and Lunesta, but if I drink enough beer, I do not mind these things too much.

Sad to see all those birds in Arkansas and Louisiana who died in mid-flight. The conspiracy theorists are having a field day. Only I know the truth: the poor bastards just learned the recent election results and died of embarrassment.

I formally retired on December 31 and got my final paycheck a few days later. (More on this another time; I'm still trying to catch my breath.) Anyway, the folks in Hartford shut down my email link except for the application that reports spam.

I had coffee with my 90-year-old father-in-law today. He was embarrassed because when he ironed his pants he put in a double crease. I didn't know what to say to this news, but I sort of wished I had shaved this morning.

Today would have been my sweet dad's 88th birthday if only medical science had gotten its act together 37 years earlier.

Newt

Looking at My Groin

2011-01-02T15:41:00.005-05:00

Still reading? Probably poor judgment, but here goes. (Oh, wait! If you're my daughter, go read something else.)

After last Monday's heart procedure, I came home for some quiet recuperation. The discharge instructions said I could resume "normal" activities after 48 hours. That "normal" came with a wink and a nudge. In the next sentence, I was also permitted to fly jets and to play concert-level piano. Wink-nudge.

Sometimes, even the Mayo Clinic takes a divot not called for in the manual. So I discovered Wednesday night when my left thigh suddenly swelled up like a purple watermelon. You know how a ripe watermelon sounds when you thump it on the side? I took that as a bad sign and signed myself into the Largo Medical Center. Thus began the grand tour of Newt's groin.

The watermelon problem was quickly isolated to a leaky artery that was dumping blood into my thigh at an unacceptable rate. Any rate above zero, as you might suspect, is unacceptable. SPOILER ALERT: I'm still alive and only mildly disgruntled as I write this. More on that later.

First thing you do at LMC, like any other emergency room, is shed both your clothes and your dignity, donning instead an opens-too-wide-in-the-back johnny. Of course, the site of my leaky artery was not in the back; it was in the front, tucked into that darkly private little crease betwixt thigh and belly. In principle, I suppose, I'm not too sensitive about that rarely seen crease, but more so about some other junk that I keep nearby. "Let's take a look at what you've got," is the way the first nurse put it. I decided not to challenge her phrasing.

What followed was a whole lot more peeking, prodding, ultrasounding and general Brownian motion that left any previously unshed dignity in a heap on the floor. "Are you experiencing any discomfort, honey?"

In the next hour, I entertained a parade of doctors, nurses, ultrasound technicians, cleaning ladies, and even a couple of drunks getting a jump on New Year's Eve. Everybody wanted a "quick peek." Several actually phrased it that way.

Now, there is a whole subculture that thinks nothing could be more titillating that being free to waggle their willie in front of an appreciative audience of (mostly) young, (mostly) attractive women. Richard Gere and Kevin Bacon leap to mind. Right. Not in their class, not at all. In fact, in a little-acknowledged function of male anatomy, the willie in question had retreated to the general vicinity of my pancreas, leaving its two brethren to fend for themselves. I wanted to say, "But wait! There's more." Billy Mays would have.

An itinerant "interventional radiologist," who remains to this day nameless, managed to plug the critical hole using some bovine-byproduct clotting stuff, and that put an end to the actual medical emergency. But the casual tourists kept coming. The marquee outside the LMC had my name in lights and was promising to show the movie trailer (somewhere most of this exists on digital video, so watch for me on YouTube).

What's deeply disturbing about this whole sordid incident is how quickly the utter absence of personal privacy becomes normal. At one late stage of the proceedings, an anonymous but youngest-of-all ultrasound girl was repeating the by-now routine groin probing. As she pressed the cell-phone-sized U/S probe into my once-private crease, she casually and - alas - innocently rested the edge of her working hand on my, uh, junk. The soul-seering pain came not from the casual groping but from the innocence behind the gesture. Ah, the pain of being judged - in the final analysis - irrelevant.

Anonymous

My Jingle-Bell Heart

2010-12-29T18:45:00.001-05:00

So Monday I was lying on this big, steel table with six catheters sticking in me. Only one of them was sticking in where you think it was. Another one disappeared into a tiny artery in my right groin. Yeah, groin. Get over it. The other four - FOUR - were jammed into one, single, tortured vein in my other groin. Collectively, those last four tubes were about the size of a fire hose. Of course, I didn't know all this at the time. I was in the Mayo Clinic, well beyond sedated.

For some years I have suffered from a discombobulation of the heart in which the intake side keeps forgetting what the output side is doing. Generally, you want those two functions to be similar. In plumbing, there is a natural law that says, "the shit going into a pipe must equal the shit coming out plus the shit caught in the pipe." This universal truth ranks up there with toast always landing jelly-side down. Over the years, I had become dis-enamored with getting shit caught in my pipes, so I signed on for an RF ablation. If you are not familiar with this term, "ablation" is the process that, while a space capsule is screaming back to Earth, the front end gets so hot that it bubbles up like melted cheese and burns away. "RF" means "soldering iron." Any questions? Did I mention that all this takes place inside the heart at the working end of one of those fire hoses?

I would like to announce that I am alive and doing well. And the food at the Mayo Clinic is no better than at the local Golden Corral.

As a technical challenge, it turns out that cauterizing a couple of figure 8 paths inside a beating heart pales in comparison with sealing up those big holes in your groin left behind after the five catheters are yanked out. Computers are not up to it. Stitches, glue, they're not up to it either. Instead, Mayo Clinic brings in a couple of defensive linemen from the Jacksonville Jaguars who plunge their fists so far into your groin that they leave knuckle prints in the steel under your weary ass. Once they have stanched the blood flow down to a trickle, they install a couple of size 48-Long C-clamps and tighten them until your eyeballs bulge. As a precaution, a nurse whispers in your ear, "Don't y'all move for the next six hours or you will surely bleed to death."

I slept poorly Monday night.

All of this is preface to what one of the other catheters was doing all this time. It was taking pictures. Specifically, it was taking the picture that follows. This is what the inside of my heart looks like now, complete with two neat squiggles of scar tissue. Yup - heart-shaped. The Christmas tree colors are because my cardiac team had a sense of humor that ran all amok.

So now I'm home, bruised, battered and sucking down Hydrocodone every five hours. Or maybe four. My heart is kicking over at a comfortingly steady pace, and I have something funky to hang on next year's tree. Life remains good.

Happy New Year.

Newt

Incident at a Coffee Shop

2010-12-10T21:22:00.000-05:00

As you likely have already surmised, I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting outside coffee houses absorbing the essence of Florida. If you do so long enough, blog material just leaps into your lap. Yesterday I was enjoying a Grande Mocha at the local shopping center, seating myself at a difficult parking lot crossroad. Although the intersection looks a lot like a 4-way stop, the road leading to and from the lot entrance in fact has the right of way by dint of no stop sign.

Enter old Mr. Joseph Schlesselman, whom you may recall from his recent dunking in the Gulf of Mexico. I knew it was him* because he was driving that same old Mercury Marauder, the one with the waterline on the paint job. Hunched over his steering wheel, he drove up to the stop sign at the crossroad. I drank my mocha, knowing pretty well what would happen next.

Another car approached from the left, on the road with no stop sign. Mr. S started to go, then , sensing danger, fumbled around in the foot well until he blundered onto the brake pedal, stopping quickly enough to bounce his noggin off the big steering wheel. The other car breezed through the intersection without so much as slowing down or waving to the mildly concussed Mr. S. (No stop sign, mind you.)

Mr. S exploded into a feckless fury at the rapidly disappearing car. He cackled obscenities that even this adult-directed blogger blushes to recall, shaking his mottled fist and spraying spittle onto the distant Marauder windshield. Boy, was he pissed.

Eventually, Mr. S recovered enough of his faculties to negotiate the intersection and herky-jerk his way into the first Handicapped space he saw. I sipped my mocha as Mr. S scuttled into the liquor store. Obviously, the story was not over.

On his return, pint-sized package in hand, Mr. S hopped - so to speak - into the old Merc and see-sawed his way back onto the roadway. Now, however, he was on the main parking lot road, approaching the very intersection where his erstwhile adversary had run the non-existent stop sign. The shoe, as it were, was on the other foot. (Eagle-eyed readers will recall that Mr. S has a wooden leg.)

As I slurped down the last of my mocha, Mr. S blasted through the funky intersection like a high-balling freight train on a night run to Juarez. By that time, Mr. S's alter ego was approaching the intersection from the other direction, threatening to T-bone the blithering Mr. S. Alter-S hunkered behind the massive wheel of an ancient Lincoln with peeling leatherette top. As Mr. S careened on by, Alter-S managed at the last instant to bumble across his own brake pedal, noggin-smashing and casting imprecations upon the hapless Mr. S for not stopping.

And so it goes.

Newt

* Legal disclaimer: I suppose this may not have been the same hapless Mr. Schlesselman that drove into the Gulf a couple months back. After all, there are other old farts driving old Mercury Marauders. That does not make me feel a lot better.

Favorites

2010-12-09T18:49:00.000-05:00

My Ten Favorite Things About Having a Nasty Chest Cold - - -

No. 10 ......... crap, I'm out of things already.

Newt

A Slice of a Lifetime

2010-12-02T05:00:00.039-05:00

A lot of things you do once in a lifetime - birth, death, circumcision, those sorts of things. Speaking of being circumsized, I applied for Social Security today.

Our favorite government says on its website that the best way to apply for SS is on its website. Then it refers you there. Thus, the weirdness begins.

On www.ssa.gov is a button that says "Apply for Benefits." You might expect an application to appear on-screen at this point, but you would be so desperately wrong. What you get is a video that tells you how to apply.

On the video, in the finest government tradition, is a series of PowerPoint slides - yes, a video of slides - and an authoritative voice that reads the slides to you. In case you are both illiterate and deaf, there is a button that provides Closed Captioning of the authoritative voice reading the slides. Evidently, someone else would read the Closed Captioning to you. If you are not only illiterate and deaf but also blind and stupid, there is a phone number, which you can get someone to dial for you while you sit drooling in a corner. There's no doubt a video on how to do that.

"It's easy," says the video, "just make sure you read the instructions." So you click on the instructions, which explain that you should type your name into the space labeled "Name," and progress to complicated issues like, "Are you married? ___Yes ___No." Still not sure what to do? There's a video you can watch.

About halfway through the video for the second time, I began to suspect an endless loop of the "lather-rinse-repeat" variety, and so I disobeyed the authoritative voice and resumed searching on my own for the application form that I thought I had clicked on in the first place.

In the final analysis, getting circumsized by the government is easy. The application, once you drill down to it, contains only a couple of dozen highly predictable questions. It took me 10 minutes to complete. But of course by that time I had been inspired by an hour or two of preparing to learn how to understand how to understand the instructions that explain how to begin to start to fill in the application. Courtesy of the U.S. Department of Redundancy Department.

My first check should arrive in the mail any day now. Along with a video explaining how to open the envelope it came in.

Newt

Dear God, Give Me a Sign

2010-12-01T13:38:00.000-05:00

Besides advertising that holds you down and kicks your ass, locals here are given to personal testaments that would never see the light of day in more organized communities. The first time I drove through Clearwater, last fall, I watched a young zealot manhandling a 4 x 8 foot sheet of plywood down North Myrtle. He had invested hours painting his message in neat block letters:

Jesus Christ is coming SOON and
He is going to KILL
everyone who is not Born Again!!!

Born-Again-Man is likely the endpoint of a progression that starts down here with the ubiquitous sandwich board, on which an endless parade of sandwich-board-men and -women hawk everything from $5 foot-longs to a strip joint called Mons Venus. Outside the Pinellas County Sherriff's office last week was an otherwise normal-looking lady with a sign reading:

Police Unfair to Jaywalkers!

Carry-it-yourself messages are not the only medium in town. Newspaper classifieds here commonly publish squibs like:

Thank you, dear Lord, for punishing your enemies!

No doubt submitted - and paid for - by a relative of Born-Again-Man. The same relative may be responsible (if I can use that word) for:

Scientologists Suck!!!

Tampa Bay is a land where Scientology is half-revered, half feared. Also last week, a nearby pizza joint that routinely posts specials and menu items on its sign posted this plaintive appeal:

Happy 14th Birthday, Angela!
God Help Me!

Actually, I'm sure the comma was not in there, but I have considerable editorial discretion here. Despite an appalling absence of rigorous punctuation, personal billboards of all persuasions do have one common excess: exclamation points. I think the number of exclamation points is intended to convey the level of fervor for the sentiment expressed

Florida is perhaps the only state that approves of makeshift roadside memorials to loved ones who have departed this mortal coil via the windshield of a car. Paeans to Linda or Rocco or Satchel-Butt appear at regular intervals on most roads. The state apparently sees the signs as an effective, if macabre, deterrent, since a bureaucratically correct message is fixed to the top of each such memorial:

Drive Carefully!

It seems to me that the state's message would be more effective and certainly more personal if it were less generic. Depending on the cause of a crash, the topper sign might read:

Don't Drink and Drive!

Check your Brakes Soon!

Or perhaps Born-Again-Man could schedule an appearance at each such memorial, saying:

See? I Told You!

I could be wrong, but I don't think so.

Newt

The Mind Game

2010-11-29T05:00:00.007-05:00

I'm standing in a spot of light surrounding a microphone at the front of a darkened room. The mic stinks of stale cigarette smoke and worse, and I'm struggling to breathe. A mass of anonymous humanity ripples out there in the crummy meeting room at the Holiday Inn. "Hullo," I say. "My name is Newt and I play bridge."

A crowd that should be sympathetic remains quiet. Someone coughs in the back of the room, a throaty, gurgling cough that signals unspeakable evil. Bridge players.

"I play three or four times a week now." That's a lie - it's really more like five or six. "On a good day, I whup ass on a roomful of little old ladies. On a bad day, they whup mine. It's a foul life."

I explain that I play in a bridge club that meets in a nondescript office park. Next door is a methadone clinic; the local AA office is across the way. The whole complex teems with low-lifes. A uniformed cop parks outside, afraid to get out of his cruiser.

I try to make the room understand how I got hooked again after 35 years on the wagon, a good 35 years, with no bad habits other than an occasional beer bender and a cigar now and again. My shame is absolute.

Years ago, bridge was not so bad. You bid one spade if you had four spades in your hand and some aces and face cards, and your partner would bid three spades if he had a few spades and some more face cards. With great cards, you'd just up and bid two spades from the get-go. It was a simpler time, an innocent time. No longer, my friends.

Now, if your partner bids one spade and you have any four spades in your hand, even lousy ones, you bid three clubs - THREE CLUBS, for God's sake - or, if your opponents bid something, like two hearts, you go ahead and bid three hearts to show that you have some spades. Or if you start out with a great handful of spades and aces, you jump right up and start with two clubs. It's an insane wasteland.

And the little old ladies, they'll finesse the crap out of you for a miserable extra thirty points. They'll strip your hand and end-play your lights out for a top board if you let them. My life these days consists of trying to figure out where the other 39 cards are.

Oh, I once had a productive life helping corporate clients make more money. Now I scrabble night and day for a couple more masterpoints. You get 300 points and they make you a Life Master. Like Obi-Wan Kenobi, right? A guy here in town has 55,000 masterpoints. I have 26. People wonder why I feel inferior! 26. Damn.

This week I am going to The Nationals in Orlando. With my 26 points. I'll beat little old ladies over the head trying to become a Sectional Master. That's like a Life Master in diapers. Between games, I'll scheme with my partner - a woman of otherwise good reputation - about how we can ruin someone's day in the next round.

"In conclusion," I croak into the microphone, "I have only myself to blame for my life of dissipation and overbidding. I am an addict. I play bridge."

The crowd sighs as one. Someone in the back shouts out, "Hey, you need a partner for Thursday?"

Newt

Succinct

2010-11-27T16:53:00.000-05:00

To the lady with the funny hat who thinks I'm too long-winded: I'm not.

Newt

The Return of the Native

2010-11-24T20:51:00.002-05:00

I have lived in Florida for two years now, which means I have personally experienced about two percent of recorded local history. I am a Native.

Oh, I know that Florida has been around longer than 100 years, at least in the James Mitchener sense: the big sand bar left behind as the last Ice Age subsided to Canada (more on that in a minute). But people who are even more native than I know that real Florida history doesn't go much further back than the early Carl Hiaasen novels. The Historical Society fights to save buildings thrown up in 1955. The original Clearwater Beach Crabby Bill's has a commemorative plaque. My own Ulmerton Road has a bronze sign reading: "At this location on November 16, 2000, the first hanging chad was discovered by roving bands of aboriginal Republicans." We have historically significant structures made of plywood.

As a Native, I now distinguish myself from the annual influx of snowbirds that is fluxing heavy as I write this. You see them everywhere. Men jogging sans shirt? Must be from New York. Lying on St. Pete Beach in the 75-degree heat? Michiganders. Bobbing in the surf? Canadians, no doubt. We can tell a Quebecoise from a Newfoundlander by how high they float in the water. Make no mistake: snowbirds are beloved here. They bring money, a scarce commodity in this state of sunshine. But there is a certain rehabituation required each fall.

Snowbirds struggle with the time scale here. We Floridians, for instance, don't generally need to be anywhere soon. The line at the local Publix glaciers along because the cashiers like to chat with the clientele. Before I became a Native, I chafed at the delay. But when my turn came, the cashier, who turned out to be a sweet southern belle, chatted with me as well. She didn't seem to care that I was not yet a Native. Our New York snowbirds especially find this adjustment challenging. Folks in New York don't chat.

But I'm not here to talk about history or snowbirds. Florida Natives know at this time of year that - Bucs aside (Go Bucs!) - there is only one subject worthy of serious scrutiny: how's the oyster crop? Crassostrea virginicus. The same Eastern oyster that thrives from Malpeque Bay to Blue Point, Long Island to Chicoteague Island, Virginia, C. virginicus reaches perfection in the waters off Apalachicola on Florida's panhandle.

Apalachicola is back in business. I popped into Crabby Bill's last week, and the oysters were merely very good. Earlier tonight, they were better still: fat and sweet, swimming in icy oyster liquor and happy-looking, verging on outstanding. I was pretty happy-looking myself after two dozen of the little darlings. On the half-shell. Nekkid. (Not me - the oysters.)

But - but - but - THE OIL SPILL!! Yeah, I know. There's oil out there somewhere. Well, there weren't no oil in my dinner tonight. The news shouters have failed to mention that virtually the entire Florida coastline completely escaped the oil spill. Including - thank you, God - Apalachicola Bay.

C. virginicus will only get fatter and sweeter as the season proceeds. Life on the Gulf is good. Did I mention that a dozen on the half-shell at Bill's cost me the princely sum of $6.99, complete with freshly grated horseradish, which I snubbed. After all, we Natives do it nekkid.

Newt

Return of the Curmudgeon, with Bagel

2010-10-21T10:54:00.001-04:00

I have come to hate perkiness. Not the wholesomely sweet 17-year-old at the counter, but the perkiness that surrounds her like a cloud of Sweet and Low. Visiting Panera's has become an ordeal.

"Welcome-to-Panera's-would-you-like-to-join-our-rewards-club?" Big perky grin.

"Just a whole wheat bagel, toasted, and coffee, please." Big grumpy-but-unavailing scowl.

"But it's free. All you have to do is [waive all your privacy rights forever]..."

"No thanks, just the bagel and coffee."

(Bagel is toasting.)

"Could I have a cup so I can get my coffee while you're toasting?"

"Sure! Would-you-like-to-join-our-rewards-club?"

"No thanks, just the coffee cup."

"But it's free..."

"Coffee cup. Please." I scowl as hard as I can. My face begins to hurt. Disappointment cuts through the perkiness and I am sad.

[Ping!] My bagel is ready, and I am happy again.

"Here-you-go-sir-are-you-sure-you-don't-want-a-rewards-card-with-that?"

A-a-r-r-g-h!

Newt

What If You Threw a Rally for Bigotry and Hatred, and Nobody Came?

2010-10-11T08:44:00.001-04:00

How sweet is this? The Reverend Terry Jones ("I'm going to burn a Koran for the world to see") held a rally last night at the Tampa Convention Center. Ten people showed up.

Newt

It Only Gets Worse

2010-10-08T21:28:00.001-04:00

One high school, two years, four dead teenagers. Bullying. Is anyone paying attention to this?

Newt

Reason to Think; Reason to Weep

2010-10-01T22:19:00.002-04:00

While I'm keeping it light here in Tampa Bay, I may be ignoring the insanity out there too much. How can we ignore this? Be decent.

Newt

Mile Zero

2010-09-09T19:22:00.003-04:00

Some like spelunking or sailing to Bora Bora. I am the sort of guy who likes loose ends. Aim me at a place where the Earth comes to a significant point and I am there. Within reason, that is. Everest and Antarctica are just so - so - - inconvenient. I like the ends of the Earth to be convenient. Think Tenzing Norgay and Roald Amundsen in flannels.

I once set out Amundsen-like to visit the easternmost point in the U.S., which it turns out is in seven distinct places, many of which are damned inconvenient. So I picked the easternmost point that you can walk to from the car. Automotive proximity is a scientifically accurate determinant of "easternmost," according to many nebulous authorities. I settled on West Quoddy Head in Lubec, Maine. I am not even mildly disturbed that the easternmost point in the country is named "West" Something. From West Quoddy Head, you could toss a clam into Canada.

We end-of-the-Earthers love Canada because it has so many loose ends. The only one even arguably convenient is Cape Spear in Newfoundland. This easternmost point in Canada is conveniently also the easternmost point on the whole continent of North By-God America. Heady stuff, I know, but true. I went there. You can walk there from the parking lot of the Cape Spear Lighthouse. The lighthouse is about 45 minutes east (of course) from St. John's, the home of Quidi Vidi Brewery. That's convenient, too.

Cape Spear was named by the Portuguese, who called it Cape Hope, but the Portuguese did not speak English, so "Hope" came out sounding something like "Spear." Fair enough; it's their language.

By a monumental coincidence, the westernmost point on the continent of Europe is in the ancient and lovely town of Sintra, in Portugal. I went there. It's a place called Cabo da Roca, and it juts out like a wart on the nose of Iberia. I suppose you might look out from Cabo da Roca and imagine that you can see Cape Spear. I did. You can't.

And then there's Key West, wherein may be found the most convenient of many southernmost points in the U.S. I went there this week. This particular point is a big chunk of concrete on which is painted "Southernmost Point in the United States." Not so picturesque or picaresque as my quest to Cabo da Roca. I waited patiently in line to snap photos. No one seemed concerned that a considerable land mass - sidewalk, wall and shoreline - lay due south of the Southernmost Piece of Concrete. So powerful is the voice of official tourismo that even I, intrepid pursuer of geographical extremities, did not realize that I was standing considerably north of the actual southernmost point in the U.S. Lying bastards.

Key West, like Bermuda or Provincetown or Aix-en-Provence, I suppose, is overrun with the mobility-incompetent. For an outrageous sum, the local entrepreneurs rent mopeds to those who cannot master the fundamentals of bipedal transportation. let alone the intricacies of internal combustion. Such maladroits wander the streets, clueless, on every continent. In Key West, the effect is amplified by alcohol, often as not.

Key West is the root of US Route 1, that miserable excuse for a road that traumatizes the American East Coast for 2,377 miles from Key West to Fort Kent, Maine. Viewed in a certain way, therefore, Key West is also the end of the Earth for highways, in much the same way that Route 6 ends at Provincetown and Route 66 winds to LA. A nondescript street corner in Key West is adorned with a little green sign - a mile marker - that reads, "0." Zero. Da nada. Nil. Zilch miles. Here is what it looks like on a good day:

The pretty red car in the picture is mine. (So, BTW, is the pretty lady.) I polish it - the car, not the pretty lady - with tender care and no little sweat. Door dings I have none. No dings in the pretty lady either.

As I was snapping this picture, two lovely, young and under-dressed misses rolled up on mopeds. Like everyone else in town, they wanted their picture taken in front of MM Zero. One of them wobbled onto the sidewalk and dumped her moped in a heap. Despite my advancing age, I remain a sucker for a short skirt and a pretty smile. I did not run like hell, as I should have. I offered to take their picture.

They righted the bike, stood pertly in front of the hallowed sign, and I did what I promised. Grinning in covert lasciviousness, I hopped back into the red car and made to depart in the general direction of MM 2377, when there arose such a clatter from the nether regions of the red car. Crap.

The same maladroit young lovely that dumped her bike on the sidewalk had T-boned me from the sidewalk as I sat idly at the curb. Sigh. I got out. I looked long and hard. Then I looked at the car. It looked okay.

"I bumped the wheel," she blurted. "It's okay."

She was right, more or less. I got back in the car and drove toward MM 1.

And MM 2

Etc. Onward, Pancho, to yet another end of the Earth.

Newt

Burial at Sea Avoided

2010-08-31T13:32:00.001-04:00

For someone who blogs about becoming a Florida resident, I have tiptoed mincingly around the subject of elderly drivers. After all, some of my favorite people are elderly drivers. Of course, I don't ride with these people, but they are favorites nonetheless. Today, it's time to stop mincing tiptoes.

Witness one Joseph Schlesselman, who has been shuffling around this mortal coil for 89 years. Joe fell victim yesterday to that bane of all elderly drivers (sorry, Joe, but 89 is certifiably elderly). Joe's foot slipped off the brake and onto the go-pedal. Could happen to anyone. It wasn't even the prosthetic foot at the end of his wooden leg that slipped. That's the other leg. And he says the walker he uses was not in the way, either.

Praise the Lord, Joe didn't kill anyone or even himself or his bride, despite his determined efforts. "Goodbye, this is it," he thought as the old Mercury Marauder, handicapped parking tag flailing about wildly from the mirror, bolted over the seawall and plunged headlong into the Gulf of Mexico, Schlesselmans, prosthetics, collapsible walker and all.

As the old Merc filled with seawater, several passersby dove into the tepid Gulf, bashed in a couple of windows, and snatched the Schlesselmans to safety. Minor injuries were had by all. The police subsequently returned to the Gulf to rescue the prosthetic leg and the walker.

Asked later by a news reporter about his escapade, Joe leaned on his walker and complained, "I thought cars were supposed to be safe." He is upset not only with the Mercury folks for making three-ton behemoths that don't float worth a damn, but with the City of Dunedin, which apparently owns the seawall that caused the problem in the first place. "Why," he asks . . .

Wait for it . . .

"Why would you put up a sign that says 'disabled parking' and not have barriers?"

While the reporter was no doubt struggling to maintain her last shred of professional composure, Joe followed up.

Wait again for it . . .

"If a disabled person is going to park there, something is going to happen."

(blink)

Joe says he is going to think twice about parking in that same spot again. Funny, but Joe never mentioned in the interview - or maybe the reporter was too overwhelmed with the situation to report it - how grateful he was to the people who risked their lives to save his wrinkled old ass.

And right now, at this very moment, while the gendarmes are dragging his Mercury out of the tepid, briny drink, Joe is running around - well, metaphorically, at least - trying to rent another car.

Hertz, Avis, if you're out there, RUN.

Newt

Paradise Found

2010-08-28T14:04:00.004-04:00

Having visitors from the North is a fine occasion for ranking the best things I know about life in Pinellas County. We managed to cover many of them in the past week or so. In no particular order:

Boris Family Restaurant for breakfast. Boris is a bear of a man who presides over this simple family eatery, and server Mary Ann showers us with attention every Sunday morning. Eggs Benedict this nicely prepared are hard to find. Thick, creamy Hollandaise that has never seen a blender. I can feel my arteries hardening as I type.

Clearwater Beach, even in the driving rain. Slashing, hissing, deluging rain. Bummer, I know. But there is something elemental about strolling through boiling surf, soaked to the skin but warm and in good company. In a land of exquisite beaches, CB rains supreme. (Sorry.)

Gulf Coast Po' Boys is a hole in the wall featuring the Louisiana delicacies for which it is named. Sit outside and be treated like royalty for about 8 bucks. I love this place.

Busch Gardens. Eight roller coasters, count 'em.

Willard's Tap House has 40 beers on draft, with "no crap on tap." These beers average somewhere north of 7 percent alcohol. The Smith boys know what they like. And they seem to know what a lot of folks like. I'm working my way through the list for the second time, surrounded by those peerless tipplers who have long since tucked away their third or fourth rotation. This is a happy place.

The Cajun Cafe on the Bayou sprawls along the bank of Center Bayou in Pinellas Park. When Paul and Rebecca are not hosting a music fest or beer fest or crawfish fest, they preside over the best Cajun vittles in the south - including, by some reports, the best that New Orleans can put up. Not to mention a menu of 80 great beers - 80! - of which 15 are on tap. No crap on tap here, either.

The Turtle Deck at McGough Nature Park is an oasis of quiet charm off nasty Walsingham Road. No one can resist dropping 2 bits worth of turtle food into the teeming mass of armored reptiles, rooting for the little cooters and snappers, but fascinated by the stately Florida Softshells.

(Photo Credit: Robyn's Pond Turtle Species Page)

Taste of Punjab means great curries and friendly service. And decent beer. (You see the theme here.)

It is with considerable anguish that I barely mention Golden Bear Restaurant , the sponge docks at Tarpon Springs, the Museum of Florida History, the amazing Cuban sandwiches at the Kooky Coconut, and a dozen more favorites.

Welcome to Paradise.

Newt

Kellan, the Lizards, and Ralph

2010-08-27T14:01:00.002-04:00

It was a week of terror for the local critter population, large and small, while Kellan visited these past few days. Being six and from Connecticut, Kellan was flabberbusted by the proliferation of brown and green anoles here in Tampa Bay. "Look! A 'NOTHER lizard!" Darwin has made the tiny critters deucedly hard to catch.

It took five days for Kellan to nail his first victim, but after a short, steep learning curve, it was open season. You can bellow "GENTLE, DAMMIT!" at a six-year-old till you drop of anoxia without noticeable effect. Actually, the "DAMMIT" part only crept in after the first couple of enthusiastic captures ended with anoles winging their way to their lizard reward, however inadvertently. I got so I could snap off a "G-D" without skipping a conversational beat.

The new owners of nearby Busch Gardens are masters of protecting their critters from my critter and his ilk. Tall fences and moats and glass walls are generally effective against the most determined first-grader. Languid gators, protected from Kellan only by a few feet of wrought iron, seemed to ponder vigilante retribution for their tiny brethren. Kellan was ready: "Look! A 'NOTHER lizard." GENTLE DAMMIT.

I was relieved to move on to still larger critters and astonished to see several tons of bull rhino clambering over a big rock trying to get at our little boy. Anoles have friends in large places, apparently. I've never seen a rhino so frantic to get over a rock. Beady eyes rolled in their peculiar rhino sockets, accompanied by snorting and muted frothing. A park rhino keeper witnessed the scene with jarring calm.

Me: Why does your rhino want to trample my little boy?

Keeper: Our rhinos are all very friendly and would not hurt your little boy, even if he were a vicious anole assassin.

Me: How did you . . .

Keeper: Actually, our rhino is not trying to charge your grandson at all.

Me: How do you . . .

Keeper: Take a good look at the rock Ralph is mounting.

Me: Ralph?

Keeper: Mounting.

Me: Oh. Mounting.

Keeper: Ralph and that big rock are engaged.

Me: . . .

Keeper: Have a nice day. And your grandson.

I looked again at Ralph. GENTLE DAMMIT! I steered Kellan toward the next Dippin' Dots stand.

Newt

Review of the Restaurant Incognito

2010-08-16T22:16:00.001-04:00

We ate at a new place in Largo last night. I had high hopes because I enjoy food of this particular, but nameless here, ethnic persuasion. Local press reports suggested lovely cuisine by folks who have retailed ingredients and prepared foods of this ethnicity for some years. I couldn't wait.

The restaurant took over the former location of a popular breakfast and lunch joint that featured outdoor seating on the bank of a bucolic pond, with turtles and egrets and babbling fisher-children. "Would you like something to drink before dinner?" our apparently [ethnic] waiter asked. "What do you have for beers?" I countered. "[Ethnic] beers," he responded hoppily.

I too was hoppy when I heard this. I am always hoppy to hear anything besides "Bud Light," the ethnic beer of Florida. So I asked for what I know to be the pre-eminent beer of the ethnicity in question. Some of my best friends are ethnic, so I pronounced the name of the beer correctly. I thought our waiter seemed nonplussed to learn that I had even heard of [ethnic beer]. But then he butchered the pronunciation himself when he repeated it. Uh-oh.

As it turns out, they didn't have Z--- [ethnic] beer, so I ordered a different one, named after an astronomer. Any beer named after a scientist can't be too Bud Light-ish, I figured. Accurately, as it turned out. A curiously complex Pilsener, with fruity malt flavors and good balancing hops from the appropriate continent.

Bread came. It was almost warm on the outside, chilled at the center. Uh-oh.

Judy ordered [ethnic beef dish]. I ordered [ethnic pork and mushroom stew] wrapped in an [ethnic starch blanket].

Have I mentioned that, despite the recent local press efforts, the place was empty except for a table of [ethnic] people who obviously owned the place, and a small gathering of their good friends and relatives, all speaking [ethnic]? I was sad at the emptiness, but buoyed by the camaraderie of the family group. Good [ethnic] restaurants are rare and should pack them in.

The food took a long time. Good food does not happen quickly.
O boy o boy o boy.

Ultimately, we gave up on bucolic and moved indoors. Florida-bucolic in August is a bit of a challenge. Did you read about the Russian who toasted himself recently in a sauna contest? We Floridians are made of sterner stuff. Beer, [ethnic] or otherwise, helps. But we moved nevertheless because our silverware melted and dripped onto the deck.

Eventually, the food arrived. Very good [ethnic] this and that. But Judy's potato [ethnic dumplings] arrived stone cold. You might think that with only two paying customers in the place, a new restaurant bent on making its bones would serve hot dumplings. After all, I might have been Anthony Boudain in disguise. A good disguise. We sent Judy's meal back. (After all, I had mine.)

To the restaurant's credit - I think - the dumplings and everything with them took a long time to come back hot. My guess is that [ethnics] do not approve of microwaving helpless food - thank you - and actually prepared fresh dumplings. They were good.

Remember the family-and-friends table out on the deck watching the bucolic turtles? For the rest of the meal, they paraded in to our table to beat their [ethnic] breasts. (Actually one of them had quite impressive - uh - never mind.) One promised 10 percent off our next meal. One offered 20 percent off this meal. Then the chef appeared. His name was [completely different ethnic name]. He bought me a beer, but he also could not pronounce the beer that they didn't have anyway. Why didn't they buy Judy another glass of wine instead? Old-country [ethnic] ethic. I didn't mind. I like beer better than Judy likes wine.

So. Will we go back? Maybe. I like [ethnics].

Newt

Pull My Finger

2010-08-12T21:15:00.010-04:00

Even my favorite grandson Kellan doesn't fall for this. Yes, that Kellan, the fart-adept six-year-old. But here I am, victim nonetheless.

This isn't really about fart jokes. It's about buying a car. Judy's old Acura only lasted 13 years, so it was time. My plan was simple: Honda Accord Sedan, alloy wheels, white. Period. This may be the most common car in the universe. So it all came down to - - - price.

Now, I consider myself a bit of a sophisticate at price negotiation. 23 years of practicing law, 18 years of engineering, and a subscription to Consumer Reports all have made me an expert. Or so I thought. Here was my strategy: search for prices on line, pick the best one, solicit bids on-line, and buy for something close to the on-line price.

In your dreams, old man.

Before I started, I read a depressing article on the Edmunds.com website by an undercover reporter who signed on to work for a couple of car dealers. It described all the tricks of the trade. Like designated salesmen who greet you as you get out of your car. As they shake your hand, they pull, ever so gently, towards the door. This allows them to establish control, among other questionable things. But I knew that. I was prepared for anything.

On a whim, I pulled into Autoway Honda out on Rt 19. Steve Yeager greeted me as I stepped out of my car. He shook my hand. He pulled. I grinned a wise grin.

Undeterred, I let Steve march me around the Certified Used Honda Corral. We looked at cars in the 2007-2009 range. They were labeled $16,000 to $22,000. Sigh. New Honda LX-P's list for $23,500, give or take. I may have to buy new. As many of the articles suggested, good used cars are at a premium.

Suddenly, Steve fetched up short and gasped. He pointed a trembling finger at a bright-red price sticker on a car in the target age range. "My God!" Steve exclaimed. "Look at that price! That must be a mistake." The sign said "$14,500." We spent a moment or two discussing the special features of the tired old car. It had mudflaps, taped-on pinstripes, and 45,000 miles on the clock. Steve pointed out the pinstripes. I was embarrassed for Steve. (By the way, if you think I've changed the names to protect the idiots, you're way off.) I eventually drove a 2009 LX-P with only 6500 miles on it. Sticker price was $100 below the sticker price on a new car.

I left Steve with a handshake. I pulled. He looked at me funny. I silently vowed to run Steve down if I ever caught him walking along the road.

So I executed my Internet plan. I solicited bids for a white LX-P. I got fewer responses than I expected. One of them was from Gerry Spence at Tampa Hondaland. He bid high. I bid low. We almost met in the middle, but he was at $21,500. That included taxes, everything. It included $400 for a new registration. He was still too high. I said, "Sorry. So long."

I waited. Gerry emailed. I ignored him. I know how to play this game. Sophistication is a rare commodity in this world.

Gerry called Judy. "I really want to make a deal," he said. I rubbed my hands in glee. I returned his call. He ignored me. He knows how to play this game. The hunt for the perfect deal was on. I was breathing heavy. So was Gerry. Mano-a-mano, no?

Gerry called me back, and I was home. "It's a very good deal," he said.

I was beginning to believe he may be right. I said, "OK. You have $400 in there for a new registration, right?"

"Right."

"I've changed my mind on the registration and will transfer the old registration. That's $100, right?"

"Yes."

"So the price is $21,200 with the transfer?"

"Agreed."

"I'll be there in an hour with my checkbook. Draft up the contract."

Cutting to the chase, I had the keys to Judy's new car in my hand when Gerry's sales manager sat down in front of me. "Mr. Newton, there's been a tragic mistake." Okay, he didn't really say, "tragic." But that was implied in his sad delivery. He continued, "The paperwork was made out for $21,500 with a transferred registration. That's the price."

I looked at Gerry. He didn't have the decency to look embarrassed. I left. (I'm leaving out some theatrics here.)

The next day, while my blood pressure was still settling out, I drove to nearby Crown Honda, which had not responded to my on-line bid request. I spoke to a sales manager, KK. I told him the story. I said, "$21,500, with transferred registration." That was the deal I walked away from at Hondaland. He hemmed and hawed, but briefly. We shook hands. The negotiation took two minutes. The car is in the driveway tonight.

When I left, I shook KK's hand. He didn't pull.

Newt

Finding My Way Into the Blogosphere

2010-08-02T23:18:00.003-04:00

I am now officially part of the blogosphere. I write this crap into my computer and people somewhere read it. I think. Who ever knows? All I can do is proofread and hope for the best.

Oh, but I have a gadget on my computer that you can't see that tells me how many people look at my blog. I won't tell you what it says because I'm not altogether sure what it means. It has graphs and hieroglyphics (thank God for spellcheck) and it says that 20 or 100 (on a VERY good day) of you see this every day. Or maybe it's 3.

Anyway, I want to credit a guy in - I don't know - China, St. Louis, Milano - who writes a blog called Blogger Tips and Tricks From now on, thanks to this great blog, every time you type anything at all into Google, my blog will pop up. I have co-opted all the interesting Google targets in the universe. If not, it's Peter Chen's fault.

Newt

The Curmudgeonly Tweeter

2010-07-31T11:58:00.005-04:00

I have friends. You might be surprised at that since I can be downright surly on occasion. Maybe most occasions. I have always wanted to be known as curmudgeonly, but curmudgeonly takes work. Truly lazy curmudgeons are rare, so I may have to choose.

One friend writes wonderfully sophisticated stuff for Young Adults, along with a wonderfully creative creative blog she calls Harley May - because that's who she is. She found a book she likes - follow the link and read the review - which has inspired a contest in which followers are to recreate scenes from the book. Enclosed is Harley May's own recreation of one scene in which someone is driving a nail through a body part. That's what we curmudgeons like to see. Nails. And body parts. Especially body parts.

Anyway, I am telling you these things so you will know that even curmudgeons have a heart.

Harley May wants me to get on Twitter and engage in social networking. Does that sound curmudgeonly? Damn right it doesn't. (Curmudgeons say "damn" a lot. It certainly makes me feel better.) No self-respecting curmudgeon would stoop to tweeting. Tweeting makes me irascible.

Newt

David Slays A-B

2010-07-30T21:01:00.001-04:00

In a victory for all great beer lovers - - no, that's not right.

Ahem.

In a victory for all lovers of great beers, some uber-court in Europe has finally, after 14 years, decided that Anheuser Busch, late of these United States and now of Everywhere, cannot call its product "Budweiser" in the European Union. Including Germany. Damn straight.

Budejovicky Budvar (roughly translated "Budweiser Budvar") has been making a great pilsener beer in Czechoslovakia since the people of Pilsen started making the stuff.

Budvar's brew is literally "Beer of the Budweis region" of Czech-land. Last time I looked at Mapquest, St. Louis, where A-B used to call home, and Everywhere (except I suppose Antarctica), where Inbev calls home, were not located in the Budweis.

Imagine some future A-B/Inbev marching into Tampa Bay in the year 2610 wanting to sell some two-bit knockoff of the beer that will be made forever by the REAL Cigar City Brewing and wanting to call its pale imitation "Cigar City Beer." Maybe a nice "Humidor Light" (only 35 calories).

Anyway, it looks like the war is over and the good guys won. Want to bet that A-B/Inbev is loading a fresh cannon?

Newt

The Girls of My Dreams

2010-07-27T16:01:00.013-04:00

When I was young - younger, I mean - I dreamed of girls. Quite a lot actually. As I became older - not older than now, but older than younger - I dreamed of women. I felt this a sign of maturity and hormonal well-being. God's plan in action, at least for us heterosexuals.

So I came to be even older, albeit younger than now - I mean "even younger than now," of course - and I dreamed again of girls. Well-being continued its hormonally eutrophic meander, for I knew then I had become a dirty old man. I liked that. "Dirty old man" has become a term of endear-
ment, of sorts, among the objects of my dreams. They told me that. The "old" part of "dirty old man" is surely hyper-
bole, and the term commonly applies, less endearingly no doubt, to 30-somethings. Among more mature males, dirty-old-mannism is a sign of enduring virility. Last night I dreamed I was shopping for a file cabinet.

I was unprepared for file cabinets and, in one of those out-of-dream experiences, it seemed like I had better things to dream about than file cabinets. In truth, I don't even need a file cabinet. I just emptied the one I have - quite triumphantly I might add - so my dream was no mere artifact of an unresolved to-do list.

Perplexed, I chased the question through sketchy dream-venues. We - I don't know who "we" are, but I am not alone - anyway, we break into that classroom where I sit perpetually unprepared for a final exam in a course I forgot I signed up for - usually Fourier Analysis or some equally opaque topic. Then we swoop and soar though that flying place of mine, waiting for the inevitable moment when I remember I don't know how to fly. File cabinets, indeed. Where the hell are the girls?

Eventually, we come to that lonely stretch of road where I park the car and get out to walk, surprised yet again to find myself stark naked. As always, the deserted road morphs into a downtown sidewalk on a busy afternoon. As always, I stroll whistling back to my car, hoping no one notices. No file cabinet out here. I don't know where my shadowy companion went. Embarrassed to be seen with me, I suppose.

I'm not going to tell you whether I ever found the girls of my dreams; some things should remain untold. But I have a nice file cabinet for sale if you need one, practically unused - it's only been dreamed about once.

Newt

Plumbing the Depths

2010-07-18T17:25:00.002-04:00

On Thursday a VERY IMPORTANT PIPE broke under our house. OK, under our trailer. I called a plumber, who came and had the grace to look sheepish when he said, "I'm not crawling under there. Do you know what's under there?"

Well, yeah. It's the stuff that came out of the VERY IMPORTANT PIPE. And you're a plumber - I could tell when you bent over to look under the - uh - house. Aren't you supposed to deal with this - uh - stuff for a living?

So I hired a different guy to clean up the stuff under the house - let's call him Guy 2, and we won't mention Guy 1 again - and Guy 2 discovered that there is lots of other unmentionable stuff going on under there – more, that is, than just whatever came out of the VERY IMPORTANT PIPE. It's ugly down there, or so they tell me.

Guy 2 made sense, so I agreed to pay him a lot of money to make all of the stuff go away, permanently. Or as close to permanently as I care about. "How old are you now?" he asked.

Guy 2 also said he couldn’t really fix the problem until I hired a plumber to fix the pipe that was producing the stuff. You get the Catch 22 aspect of this story, do you not?

So I hired Guy 3 to fix the VERY IMPORTANT PIPE, which is where we started. I didn't tell him about the stuff. He’s a plumber; let him deal with it. He promises to come Monday morning, which is now tomorrow (unless this article takes longer to write than I expect).

Thursday to Monday was longer than I was willing to go without peeing except against a tree. Not to mention the Lady Who Would Not Be Caught Dead. So we relocated to the Sunburst Inn, a lovely little beachfront place down the coast a bit. I tried to get the Displaced Persons’ Rate, but it was the weekend, and the oil crisis has not, apparently, driven prices down as far as the newspaper would have you believe.

But the Sunburst is nice, and it fronts on the oil-free Gulf of Mexico. It is easy to forget just how gorgeous the beaches are on the Gulf.

This story has a point – stay with me here.

So, we’re sitting on the beach last night – Saturday – and it’s 82 degrees and balmy, and the Gulf and the moon and Venus and Mars and some other celestial bodies are doing their hypnotically lovely thing. There is alcohol involved, of course, and in my alcohol-induced state of euphoria, I say to the Lady Who Would Not Be Caught Dead, “Isn’t this delightful?” The LWWNBCD just makes a rude digestive noise and goes on tuning me out.

Paradise is different things to different people.

Newt

Electronic Wisdom

2010-07-15T18:42:00.006-04:00

Driving across the Howard Frankland Bridge (translation for northerners: big bridge connecting Tampa to the civilized world to the west) this afternoon, my beloved M3 began talking to me. "Hey! You're losing air in one of your tires." The damn red light refused to go out.

"Crap," I thought. I once had a full-on blow-out right there on that same Frankland Bridge, and it was not pretty. You see, BMW, in its wisdom, decided that cars of this magnificence have no real need for spare tires, so they didn't put one in. No doughnut, no nothing. The low-profile tires are not run-flats but, in fact, they run pretty well flat. They ought to for $370+ a pop. I apparently drove some distance before I decided that something felt a little out of whack back there.

Instead of a spare, BMW gives you a phone number and an instruction: "If you get a flat tire while you own this car, give us a call." Not-very-optimistically - the car is 7 years old - I called the number and - well, I be go-to-hell if they didn't show up lickety-split and flatbed me to the nearest BMW dealer, which proceeded to rake me over the financial coals something wicked.

Anyway, with that history in mind, I promptly pulled over this morning when the flashing light started whining about low air pressssure yet again. I walked around the car. I kicked the rubber while very large trucks whumped past. Everything looked copacetic, so I climbed back in and continued to Tampa, warning light still flashing just out of my line of sight. "Can you hear me NOW? How about NOW?"

I'll get back to this later. This article is really about the interface between driving a car and electronic messaging. Not the txting-while-driving stuff we've heard too much about, but the mundane electronic whispers that dog you wherever you travel, generally misinforming you about the state of the universe.

Here's one now: Florida has erected electronic billboards all over the place flashing this urgent message:

Bearss Avenue 2 Miles
Travel Time under 5 minutes

This particular sign appears on I-275, Tampa Bay's preeminent vehicular artery. It's a big sign, very high-tech, very goddamn expensive. So it must be accurate. My ass. These ubiquitous signs invariably report that traffic is crawling when, in fact, it's blasting through at something north of 75 mph. All right, 85. It's an M3 - that's why I bought it. Get over it.

Anyway, that's what I saw this morning - this was after the tire pressure monitor light incident - a sunny day, no traffic, and I and everyone around me happily abusing the speed laws of the great State of Florida. The freakin' sign said I would be lucky to average 24 mph. (2 miles in 5 minutes is 24 mph, for the arithmetic-impaired).

In fact, no matter how freely- or fast-moving the traffic, these signs never tell you that traffic is moving more than 60 mph. Somebody paid a fortune for these signs - oh, wait! that was me - and their only function is to report that everything you see on the road around you is false. I'm not sure this matters. I'm just sayin'.

And another thing. I have this swell GPS stuck to my dashboard, and I use it whether I need it or not. (You do that - admit it.) So, driving out of downtown Tampa this afternoon - this is after the tire pressure monitor nonsense - I punched in "Go Home." Trouble is, I sort of know how to go home from downtown: find I-275 and get on it. Drive 20 miles south (it's really west); bingo - you're home. But today the road signs to I-275 and the GPS on my dash came to blows. And me, instead of following one or the other, I just did whatever I was told at each intersection. Sign says go left to I-275, I turn left. GPS says turn right in point-five miles, I turn right.

Another road sign: uh-oh. Now it looks like I-275 is behind me. "Recalculating..." And so on. Folks, I am not the sort of guy who challenges authority. Embarrassing but true. I drove in circles for an - - um - - for far too long, obeying authority. Nice town, Tampa.

I'm better now, thanks.

So the denouement is this - the tire was fine. No nail, no leak, no nothing. The TPM light was lying to me all along. Just like the traffic signs on I-275. I am disillusioned. Again.

Newt

The Armadillo Trap

2010-07-07T17:20:00.001-04:00

We have armadillos. They're rooting around every night in what I jokingly refer to as my lawn, looking for grubs or spare change or God knows whatever else. I thought armadillos were a Texas phenomenon, maybe named after the city. But here they are in the Sunshine State, rooting. I have been casting about for a solution.

The first thing I learned is that Florida has some disturbingly stringent laws against armadillo cruelty. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for that. In fact, I was the first to applaud when they recently arrested some poor feller down here for siccing his Doberman on an armadillo. Siccing is outlawed. No matter: I only have cats, and they don't sic worth a damn.

Having once been sworn to uphold the law - an obligation that I think is binding only in Connecticut, by the way - l figured I would capture the little bastards in one of those Hav-A-Hart contraptions and haul them up to Tate's neighborhood in Odessa, where they could frolic and root in the relative wilds of north Tampa. Let the free-range armadillos feast on John's grubs. That's when I learned about the declaration.

The State of Florida has declared armadillos an "invasive species" - as if I didn't know that already from the snout-holes in my yard. You might think that declaration helpful to my cause in that an officially-declared invasive species would be fair game for relentless extirpation. But you would be wrong. That extirpation theory applies only to Latinos. Armadillos hail from Texas and are Americans like the rest of us. Most of us. (How did this get political?). Anyway, like any government act, the armadillo declaration bears unintended consequences.

Here's my options under the law, and they are not good. I am allowed to trap the armadillos, but after that it gets complicated. There's only two things I can do with armadillos in a cage. One, I can open the door and let them go free, right where I just trapped them. Or, two, I can kill them. Humanely, of course. What I may not do is move the armadillos to a more armadillo-friendly part of Florida. In other words, intrastate transportation of an armadillo is a punishable offense. Why do they call it "Hav-A-Hart" when all you can do is free the little bastards or shoot them?

Wait up - I can't even shoot the armadillos because we live cheek-by-jowl here in Pinellas County, so shooting is generally reserved for indoor activities and the occasional Democrat (another invasive species, albeit undeclared). And I can't sic the cats on them. Moreover, the county animal control officers refuse to deal with armadillos, unless of course you sic something on one.

It's enough to make one contemplate civil disobedience. Look out, John, you may be having some late-night visitors.

Newt

That Other Football

2010-06-27T13:07:00.005-04:00

Making friends with a man from Bristol (England, of course) means you really must watch World Cup football, and I did. Good show, United States. I enjoyed that bit, really.

But you would think ESPN, which hails from Bristol (Connecticut), could find an American crew fluent in football, all the better to ignite the sport here. Nope. The best it could do was to prop up cardboard analyst Mike Tirico, whose sole task was to inquire of knowledgeable Englishmen their opinion of things.

Don't get me wrong, Paul, I love the English accent, I truly do. Never mind, "What accent?" You know the one. And that fabled reserve, which certainly got England through the war in unruffled fashion, that's a swell thing, too. What Americans, for instance, would call "unparalleled triumph," or "division championship," or "survive and advance," the English are content to call, "going through." Bit of an understatement, that.

So when England's catch-up goal against Germany was waved off by some blind, syphilitic, idiot referee who should have been made to buy a ticket into the stadium, I rather expected the English play-by-play man to become agitated enough to exclaim, "Bloody 'ell!" which is the only English swear-word I know. (I think "Blimey" has lost much of its impact in today's world, don't you?)

Bloody 'ell, what a classy way to send someone off. So much better that "blind, syphilitic idiot #$%^&-ing referee $ %^&-hole." But that's football.

So anyway, the record to date stands thusly. The US whupped England in 1776 and again in 1950, and it happens that the two teams have not met since. (Let's not get into that bit of bother in 1812.) And in this year's World Cup they tied their first-round match, whereupon the US team won the round by means of some devious arithmetic that only Englanders understand. Thereafter, both teams were dispatched in the second round by Ghana and Germany, respectively. As I see it, the US continues to enjoy the advantage in this great rivalry going back 234 years.

If that doesn't draw a "Bloody 'ell," nothing will.

Pip-pip.

Newt

A Moment of Pride and Reflection

2010-06-21T11:50:00.012-04:00

Beneath my lighthearted pretense, the stuff I write here usually matters to me a great deal. Ordinarily, I don't feel any pressing need to whack folks on the head. Well, maybe that piece on the Gulf oil got away from me. Get over it.

But this one matters to me a great deal. Next month, my son comes home from Kuwait, where he has given a year of his life - this time - to supporting the war in Iraq. Last time was in Iraq itself, the time before that and before that and before that, in South Korea supporting a 60-year-old truce. He wears more ribbons than the Maypole at Miss Porter's School.

Erik will come to Fort Sill in Oklahoma as part of an advance team to welcome home the rest of his unit, some of whom hail from Connecticut as he does, and some of whom hail from right here in Clearwater. Small world, this. His duties will include teaching soldiers who have been at war how to return to a society that does not always speak in the same gerunds that the soldiers do. Good idea, that.

I'm somewhat accustomed to Erik's homecomings, so why the hoo-hah now?

I had occasion yesterday to view a Facebook entry from Erik's friend, Jay, also known as Charles M. Beyer, Captain, Connecticut Army National Guard. Jay climbs into the pilot's seat of a helicopter every day and flies over some of the most deadly real estate on Earth.

When Jay lands safely back in Kuwait, he is also Erik's CO. (Blackhawk photo credit: David J. Mercado, Clearwater FL & Kuwait City)

Jay did some training in Germany earlier this month and, on the 66th anniversary of D-Day, took pictures at the concentration camp at Dachau. Here's one he took of the "shower facility" that still stands as a reminder of what can happen when good people don't act.

Erik's grandfather, nearly 90, is Bill Flaherty, featured here. Pop rarely speaks of it, and he'll be a little embarrassed if he reads it here, but he spent his years in the army slogging through the Ardennes and the Battle of the Bulge, pushing into Germany in 1945 to bring an end to the nightmare that was Nazism.

The way I see it, fanaticism - whether ideological like the Nazis, religious like Al Qaida and the Taliban, or dictatorial like Kim Jong-Il - is a present and continuing threat to us all. Only dedicated effort by Jay and Erik and their peers in uniform can prevent another Dachau or 9/11. Freedom is no more free today that it was 66 years ago.

So this homecoming will again be one of joy, tempered with admiration for the world's most important job, done well. Thank you, Erik and Jay and all who have served with you. Welcome home.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Newt

The Grim Reaper Wears Prada

2010-06-20T14:47:00.004-04:00

This is Florida. Around here, folks take "God's waiting room" seriously. The classified ads in the local newspaper include a separate section for "Cemeteries, Mausoleums & Crypts." It's a sizable section at that, where bargains can be had, presumably from owners who have decided not to go. This morning, for instance, an ad offered, "Double crypt in desirable section of Fester's Mausoleum. Excellent views."

Desirable? Views? What is this person thinking?

When you live in a 55+ mobile home community, you quickly discover that the "+" means "pushing 90." Here, all the amenities that Florida offers to the eternity-bound are concentrated, refined and polished. At times, an air of expectancy wafts around the park like a spring zephyr. Forest Lawn with shuffleboard.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, ambulances cruise slowly around the park. One enterprising driver recently added a set of bells, like a cross between Monte Python and the Good Humor man. "Ding-a-ling, bring out yer dead!" Honestly, you don't want to be caught dozing on a lawn chair in the front yard.

One might think the immediacy of mortality would cast a pall (if you will) over the park, but one would be wrong. The place is more like a train station: everyone is cheered when the train finally arrives. "Now departing for the pearly gates on track 9 . . . " If you don't think this can be true, stop by one of the monthly community breakfasts at the rec hall. "Damn shame about Sophie Carson. Pass the maple syrup, would you. Has anyone claimed her seat at bingo yet?"

If you ever doubted that death is just another part of life, start watching Florida's classifieds. Down here, the hereafter is just another piece of real estate.

Newt

Maybes, Sweet Maybes

2010-06-09T22:00:00.002-04:00

Maybe the oil will bypass Tampa Bay, go visit itself on the east coast. Maybe when the panhandle and east coasts are destroyed, the rest of us in Florida will be not be affected. Maybe Key West will survive -- you don't need clean white sand to drink a Margarita and sing Buffett tunes off key

Maybe the economic recovery that never really ignited in Tampa will somehow flare up when the oil obliterates stretches of the Gulf shores. Our stretches. Maybe the housing market will skyrocket as ghouls buy front-row seats for the worst environmental disaster in history. Something to tell the grandkids: I was there when the world ended for a billion living things. Maybe people will stop leaping from the Skyway Bridge, put off by the slime they will be diving into.

I have been a Floridian for 21 months. For the first time, I feel like one. It feels bad.

Maybe we've seen the worst of this. Maybe this season, for the first time in memory, no hurricane will enter the Gulf to fling oil everywhere.

I stood on Indian Rocks Beach tonight with tourists and natives and transplants like myself to watch the sun set. Not a drop of oil in sight. Maybe I'll stop by the beach more often now to watch a miracle that may not happen again for a long time after this summer.

Newt

The Brains of the Outfit - An Appreciation

2010-06-08T18:29:00.004-04:00

You might think that retiring means you just stop working and start sitting around doing nothing. Actually, I have been not-exactly-retired for 21 months and have been sitting happily around doing pretty damn little. But now that I need to really-really retire, I find myself too frequently inadequate to the complications of the task. My brain, which once was an object of personal pride and could cope with the Rule Against Perpetuities while idling, now is bowled over by puzzles like, "Which line do I sign?" and "Where did I leave my pen?"

I'm faced with two potential explanations. One, maybe my brain is poaching in the Florida heat and has lost its fizz, like a glass of beer left in the sun while I search for another bag of nuts. Or two, maybe my former mental effervescence was an illusion in the first place.

Here's what happened. I had to update all kinds of estate-planning documents to cover the unlikely possibility that I can't spend everything I own before I am cast adrift on the proverbial ice flow. Oh, wait, wrong climate. Tar pits seem more appropriate right now. Anyway, you get the idea - the kids would like some of the proceeds if I'm not using them. (They hasten to deny this, but if they're not lying now, they will be eventually.)

It wasn't the technical complexities of the Living Will and Last Will and Testament that unhinged me. It was the typing and assembly of what turned out to be a staggering pile of paper that did me in. Activities that I once tossed off as "ministerial" suddenly grew fangs and claws. Paper jammed. Ink ran low. Staples punctured flesh. Two dozen finished documents deviated from standard English in ways that I would not like to be remembered for into perpetuity. That word again, perpetuity. Like me, it takes on weight as it ages.

Truth be known, I deviated from standard English while shredding useless Powers of Atorney [sic], lapsing frequently into Anglo-Saxon and middle French, heavy on gerunds. I am multi-lingual, to a point.

Why did this never happen to me when I was practicing law with the Big Guns in Hartford? I have one word for you - Nancy. For 20-plus years Nancy apparently dealt with all these issues in background, well below my puny threshold of attention. So when I directed (no less) that Motions to Dismiss and Certificates of Service appear on my desk, they did. Properly typed, proofread, copied, collated, stapled and some other things that I probably still am missing. With envelopes. Was I impressed? Nah. Piece of cake, right? Um, no.

I have fretted more in the past week than I did in 20 years in Nancy's uncomplaining care. Well - mostly uncomplaining. Turns out she was the brains of the outfit, and I didn't even know it. Thanks, Nancy. I hope my replacement knows how lucky he of she or they are. But more likely they won't get it until they need to type their own retirement papers.

Newt

Friends of Friends of Friends

2010-06-03T21:18:00.001-04:00

I am a somewhat reluctant denizen of Facebook, mostly because people who I know or knew or who know who I know or knew (and so on) keep inviting me to be their Friend, and I haven't the heart to say, "No," or even sometimes, "Who?" So when I check into FB from time to time to see if my children are still out there, perhaps even having children - or more children - of their own, I get to see what everyone I know and everyone who they know (etc) are doing. (I know this is hard to read, but work it out somehow; it's a complicated story line.) Mostly what all these not-really-related people are doing is mundane. Going to Mickey D's for dinner - check. Sun rose again in the east today - check.

But then, there are the outliers, renegades whose purpose in life is to perplex and befuddle. I especially like pictures that Friends and Friends of Friends (etc) post, usually in some misguided effort to convey to the cosmos WHO THEY ARE. For instance, here is a guy who knows a gal I know - or at least knew - who is shock absorbers:

And a guy I know and sometimes love (because he makes great gumbo and sells great beer) who also just happens to be of the breakfast persuasion:

Yup - bacon & eggs, tomatoes, sausage and other stuff - and beer. Your basic Full English Breakfast. Speaking of beer, here's a guy who is a beer:

After that it gets - um - odder and more personal. Got muscles?

Folks, I am related to this person by accident of blood.

Here's someone I am not related to but love dearly, with friend:

Here's a lady who knows someone who I know, in the process of discovering that babies are not born; they just fall out of the sky:

Finally, I know someone who lives - if you want to call it that - in the desert. He has smelly friends:

You might think these pix were culled from months of peculiar Facebook postings, but - I tremble to observe - these are all current pictures. Inevitably - ineluctably even - more like them will arrive on tomorrow's Facebook page. I am going to have to ask my friends to start hanging around with a better class of Friends.

Newt

On Being Young

2010-04-21T10:15:00.002-04:00

I thought to jot a thousand words on being young. And about my sweet granddaughter, Katy, who is nine. And about her sweet great-grandfather, Bill Flaherty, who will be ninety February next. But perhaps the picture will suffice.

Newt

The Professional Cynic Meets Silverstein

2010-04-18T00:00:00.000-04:00

I have been a professional cynic for so long that I had begun to think cynicism as essential as bone and blood. So when Kathryn strolled up the jetway earlier this evening, I was struck by how grown up she had become at the age of barely nine, MP3-player and tween magazine in hand, hair streaked fetchingly red but so sophisticated. My granddaughter has more air miles on her than I had when I was 30. Now she flies solo, moving with confidence through Tampa International toward baggage claim, grandfather and great-grandfather in tow. If the mark of good parenting is independence and confidence, Katy's parents are beyond good. A blue-blood cynic would say this is a visit by a tiny adult-in-waiting.

After coffee and bread pudding - Katy declined the coffee, although she does indulge from time to time in a bit of decaf - we began preparing for what will likely turn into a week-long game of Risk (the Game of World Domination, it says), parceling out game pieces and deciding that a layout on the coffee table will be least intrusive. "We flew over Orlando," she says. Florida is the Land of Disney, but she will settle for Busch Gardens this trip. And, I hope, a few things she does not expect. At nine, she is so much harder to impress, you know.

As we sat reading our respective historical novel and tween-zine, I thought perhaps we might read to each other. The inimitable Shel Silverstein quickly became the weapon of choice. I read "Captain Hook"; she read "Hug O' War"; I read "Sleeping Sardines"; she read "Listen to the Mustn'ts":

Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me --
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

She read with conviction, with authority.

Bedtime drifted around naturally. "Do you still like to cuddle before sleep?" I asked. "Mm-hmm."

Lie in your granddaughter's bed, wrapped around all that innocence. Then tell me you're still a cynic.

Newt

Scene on the Beach

2010-04-03T16:26:00.005-04:00

It's crazy season in Pinellas County - Spring Break - when the beaches fill with sex-crazed, nubile coeds who have flown or driven in from colder climes. It's a happy time for those of us who cruise the sugar-soft sand wearing mirrored sunglasses and trying not to look like the dirty old men we are.

If you come - I'm talking to you, you dirty old man - here are some things to look for.

Ground zero for nubiles is Clearwater Beach. It is no coincidence that Gulfview Boulevard, which parallels the beaches, is heavily laced with pedestrian crosswalks. The road was, after all, laid out by dirty old civil engineers. And the sovereign law of Florida requires motorists to yield to pedestrians pedestriating the crosswalks. I can burn off a gallon of gas at a crosswalk, just waiting to yield to nubile pedestrians. My wife gets impatient wondering why we are standing still in the road for no reason she can discern. Motorists behind me get equally antsy, with blue-haired old ladies anxious to get on with it and their dirty old husbands wanting to take my primo spot at the crosswalk.

Walking the beach is far more scenic, of course, and I develop an acute sunburn every year about this time. Do you know that if you hold your cell phone out in front of your face and talk to it, people never suspect you're really taking pictures? At least, I don't think they do.

For newcomers - dirty old men on their first visit, that is - you should know about the beach volleyball courts set up near Pier 60. All the static sunbathing in the world does not beat nubiles in motion. In teams of six or eight. One man's opinion, all right? Well, no, actually. You see, beach volleyball is a game whose rules are made in France (I'm not making this up). If you subscribe to the Official Rules, as most dirty old men should, you get a rule book with this picture on the cover:

Well, as you can see there are a lot more nuances to Spring Break than meet the eye - or maybe not - but I must be getting on to it. Till next time.

Newt

Brewers' Dirty Little Secret

2010-03-27T23:11:00.010-04:00

I just returned from the cask-conditioned ale tasting at Cigar City Brewery, sponsored by Whole Foods as a charitable event designed to save some portion of the world from some sort of deprivation. The event was well-conceived, well-run, and well-attended. Beers served from the cask included::

Cigar City Brewing Cubano Espresso Maduro Brown Ale

Dunedin Brewery Red Dog Ale

Saint Somewhere (Something)

Swamp Head Imperial IPA 10-10-10

Lagunitas Wilco Tango Foxtrot

Brew Dog Punk IPA

He'Brew Bittersweet Lenny's RIPA on Rye
Wintercoat Double Hop

There were others on cask, plus a bunch of beers in more conventional keg presentations, all of them tasty, some outstanding. More on that later.

For newbies, cask conditioned ales are beers that are sealed in kegs after fermentation. Ideally, oak casks are used, but steel kegs are far more common and easier to pull off. Residual yeast carbonates the beer, and the result is a much finer carbonation - tiny bubbles that feel very different on the palate than the bigger bubbles produced by forced CO2 carbonation, which is how most kegged or bottled beers are carbonated today. Cask ales are served directly from the cask with no additional carbonation added, and the beer is drained into your glass via gravity or, in the classical presentation, a mechanical pump. (Think buxom beer lassies heaving on these great beer engines to pour you the finest possible beer straight from the cellar. It's a happy tradition indeed.)

Anyway, the result of cask conditioning is a lower-carbonation beer, traditionally served at "cellar" temperature - 50F or so. Flavors develop beautifully and the beers routinely have a smooth-as-silk finish to them. To entrenched American (read: Bud Light) tastes, the beer is warm and flat. To beer sophisticates, the beer is liquid gold.

But I came to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

All of the beers at the cask festival were huge examples of their various sorts: big Double and Imperial IPA's and Stouts and Old Ales, IPA's with hop bitterness over 100 IBU's (newbies: that's a lot of hops) and alcohol levels of 8 and 10 percent by volume. (Compare Bud Light at 4.2%, Guinness Stout at 4.0% and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale at 5.25% ABV.) Drink three pints of this stuff and hand your car keys over to someone more responsible. (I have a very accommodating bride, who tolerates more than her share of beer-related nonsense. God bless her.)

So, what's the dirty little secret? It's this: big, alcoholic, hoppy, chewy beers with all that fruity flavor are easy to make. Just put lots of grain - some of it more heavily roasted than usual - in the mash tun and lots of hops in the boiler and let 'er rip. Add yeast - maybe some funky Belgian or exotic old English ale yeast- to the mix and ferment at a temperature that is a little higher than it should be, and you create a monster beer that would-be beer snobs swoon over. They wax eloquent on the subtle or not-so-subtle flavors of chocolate and whiskey and toffee and smoke and coffee and plum and raisin and kumquat. They note the biblical levels of hop bitterness that - truth be known - utterly swamp the malt flavor that is the root of all good beer.

The brewing process that produces these beers is completely out of control because all of the fruity flavors embedded in the brew are uncontrolled and uncontrollable byproducts of a fermentation process gone wild. Really huge beers in this tradition are usually presented as one-of-a-kind brews. That's because the brewer cannot possibly recreate this same out-of-control fermentation in a subsequent brew.

Folks, all the fruity flavors, the bananas and green apples and cherries and chocolate are brewing defects. They are the result of a fermentation process that spawns random chemicals - acetaldehydes and diacetyls and the like - that don't belong in well-crafted beers. It is beyond me how these defects came to be viewed as virtues, when at best they are barely controlled failures of the brewer's art.

In the final analysis, these enormous beers lack the subtlety and nuance of truly great beers. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale leaps immediately to mind: balanced, consistent, reliable and drinkable. Drink SNPA and you taste pure clean malted barley and the essence of Cascades hops. No French toast or cranberry overtones, no bitterness or astringency that puckers the mouth and makes it shrink from the next sip. No junk in the trunk. Sierra Nevada's seasonal beers are usually - but not always - similarly well conceived. Celebration Ale, for instance, varies little from year to year. These beers are great examples of the brewer's art.

Let's look for a minute at the ultimate junk beer: Budweiser. As we all know, drinking Bud is like making love in a canoe: it's fucking close to water. But Bud is a remarkable example of the brewer's craft - and maybe his art, as well. The beer has no fruity funkiness or oddball yeastiness or mountainous levels of hops to mask an out-of-control fermentation. For all its lack of good beer flavor, it is amazingly clean, crisp and refreshing - in other words, exactly what it pretends to be. If Budweiser screws up a batch of beer, you know it instantly (assuming, of course, that you actually drink the stuff). Bud is infinitely more difficult to brew - as a technical undertaking - than your local Double Secret Hops IPA. That doesn't make it better, just more difficult to produce day after day.

So what do I want in a good beer? Drinkability, for starters. Give me a well-balanced beer that has proportionate levels of hops and malt for the style, with an alcohol level I can live with and still drive home after a couple of pints. Give me a well-crafted pale ale or even a proper lager that I can enjoy without a constant barrage of sensory pyrotechnics. If you are going to make me an IPA or an Old Ale, show me you can make it the same way time after time - that the flavors in your beer are the result of design and craft rather than a chemical crap-shoot. Show me the pure malt and hop flavors that are the essence of good beer, no matter what the specific style.

Don't get me wrong - I love well-made big beers, the Dogfish Head 90's and 120's of the world. But "good beer" is not synonymous with the crushing levels of hops and alcohol and funky flavors, haphazardly applied, that are so commonly mistaken for "great" beer. Subtlety and balance, that's the ticket.

Newt

Erik's Corvette

2010-03-27T20:18:00.000-04:00

I promised Giff a picture of Erik's Corvette in my recent post, so here it is.

Does this look like a happy man?

Newt

Kellan's Favorite Word

2010-03-25T21:31:00.004-04:00

I raised my kids in the liberal faith, and have since stood largely aside to see what happens. Erik was easy and predictable – he went in the Army and bought a Corvette. Kristin, however, who is my favorite and only daughter, grew up to marry a Methodist and to consort with lots of Methodist people, mostly, but not exclusively, on Sunday. Her spouse is one of the head Methodists, but has overcome this defect in his upbringing and now makes a living by teaching music to impressionable youth. In fact, he is pursuing an advanced degree in waving a stick at small children.

Anyway, in the midst of all this Methodism and such, Kris and Scott have managed to clone off two children who are like grandchildren to me. I will call them Kathryn and Kellan, which is what everyone else calls them.

I personally was raised in a sort of Yankee-Puritan-Catholic tradition, which means we laughed at fart jokes but generally did not repeat them in the company of adults. Kathryn and Kellan, alas, know no such boundaries. So not only do they look at me askance when asked to pull my finger, they revel in the freedom to say “fart” pretty much at will. Kellan, the younger at five-nearly-six does so with reckless abandon. Discussions with Kellan are generally frank.

That brings me to the topic of this essay, which is Kellan’s penis.

Didn’t see that coming, did you?

Lodged at the intersection of liberalism and Methodism lies the art of calling things by their proper names, and Kellan, who always got on famously with his favorite organ, as all five-nearly-six year-olds do, learned early that “penis" is a proper noun. And he just as quickly discovered that not everyone agrees with that assessment. Kellan uses the word as a sort of psychological probe to learn, first of all, who’s paying attention, and second, who has the right stuff and who does not. He gauges people by the depth of the resulting jaw drop. We, as a family, are hoping that he outgrows this, but there are no certainties in life.

No one on either the Methodist side of the family or on the liberal-Puritan-Yankee-usedtobeCatholic side would ever express dismay out loud when Kellan expresses his admiration for his penis, but there is undeniably some chemistry or instinct or maybe just lizard-brain fear that breaks free when this gorgeously innocent little blond tyke speaks the magic word in a group that includes strangers. Folks, the word has undeniable power, and Kellan understands that power like Tiger Woods understands his, um, putter. Following a recent and unfortunate pants-dampening incident, for instance, Kellan was heard to exclaim, "I couldn't control my penis." Come to think of it, that pretty aptly describes Tiger's issue as well.

I am going to launch a campaign to teach Kellan that he can get an even greater response from the ladies in the church if he follows in the Robin Williams tradition from now on and refers to his penis as “Mr. Happy.” I don’t know if the Methodists have made excommunication a sacrament like the Catholics, but I’m looking to find out.

In the meantime, should you encounter my grandson, steel yourself. At some point the conversation WILL become anatomical, and the unprepared or faint of heart may experience momentary appallment and jaw dislocation.

Newt

A Rainy Day in Connecticut

2010-03-15T23:57:00.008-04:00

I was foolish enough to make yet a third pilgrimage from Tampa Bay to Connecticut during the winter season now concluding, and so an outing with the boy seemed a good idea. Accordingly, Les and I ventured out with Kellan to Kid City, a museum-cum-jungle gym in Middletown. Two grandfathers and one five-year-old boy: hardly a fair fight.

Picture a hundred over-adrenalized kids under six, swapping mucous and microbes while creating memorable experiences of a sort. Athletic-looking dads of another generation (X, maybe Y) were dropping in their traces trying to track the little darlings from venue to venue within Kid City itself: the pirate ship, the music room, the alien spaceship, that sort of thing. Kellan promptly lit out for the fish processing plant.

What does it take to mesmerize dozens of kids of mixed ages, races, cultures and stages of potty training? About a thousand rubber fish, baskets sufficient to contain more fish than one kid can carry, and a network of quasi-industrial conveyor belts, slides, sorting tables and black holes, that’s what. In twenty minutes of merry mayhem, Kellan hauled more fish than Ishmael ever did on the Pequod. Les and I stood aside.

The strategy at these places is to set them loose and observe from as far away as will allow you to effect a rescue should one of the little darlings, yours especially, clothesline himself on a safety railing or take a bad fish hit. (Overheard – “Latasha, don’t throw that fish; you could put someone’s eye out.”) Kid City is cleverly partitioned so budding Great-Escapers are throttled through a parent orifice before they can achieve effective freedom. Responsible parents and the occasional unsuspecting grandparent move from one strategic orifice to the next at a leisurely pace, while the objects of their affection bounce around in each venue like so many smiling, snotty-nosed pinballs.

Les and I differ in some basic philosophies of grandfathering. I am content to see Kellan have fun and have him associate the experience in some nebular way with my presence. I think of this as threshold bonding. Do it often enough, and you enter the kingdom of the beloved. An unscheduled ice cream stop has a similar effect and is a lot more direct. When my own children were children I sometimes bonded using a simple five-dollar bill: Want the money? Express some sincere filial affection and it’s yours. (That still works, by the way.) I’ve never felt any guilt over that.

Les, God bless him, wants to actually observe the little guy in his bliss. So while I angle for the strategic orifices, Les ventures fearlessly (or at least he looks fearless) into the fray, putting himself in the trajectory of the rubber fishes, peering – sometimes actually crawling – into low-ceilinged igloos and alien vessels, and darting under mainsails and bronze gongs. Les, I think from my safe strategic orifice, can I get you an aspirin?

Kellan is in five-year-old Nirvana. Having fun here in the open-heart surgery room, buddy? Oh yeah. Let’s go back to the fish room.

Even with one’s energy conservation stratagem operating perfectly, 45 minutes of Kid City is about all mortal man would be able to tolerate on his own. Mortal mothers are somewhat more durable, in my experience. Luckily, Les doubles the coverage and lowers the stakes a little. But after an hour-plus, I see him flagging dangerously. Serves him right for climbing onto that poopdeck.

Whoever designed this place had his head securely attached. It turns out an hour and a half is time enough for any kid to see everything, handle every germ-laden plastic fish twice, and begin to grasp the concept of diminishing returns. The attractions are not powerful enough to drive most little ones – with some stunningly noisy exceptions – to floor-flopping exhaustion before the frenzy runs down. And so, as Kellan begins to pinball a bit more slowly, I nod to Les and whisper the magic word. “McDonald’s?”

Newt

The Drill

2010-03-08T12:34:00.009-05:00

I see that the proprietor of Willard's Tap House has signed up to follow this blog, so I suppose I should say something nice about his place. I did an initial article a couple of weeks back, but now I'm angling for a bar stool with my name on it.

For so many months I wandered lost in this beer desert called Florida. The Cajun Cafe offered an oasis, but somehow I longed for more. That's where Willard's comes in. I now have a new routine for Bingo night.

No, I don't play Bingo, and neither, so far as I can discern, does anyone at Willard's; it's just not that kind of place. But the lady I have lived with these past 41 years plays Bingo with her mom. On Thursday nights. Now, mind you, I am a daring and resourceful cook: I can make gumbo - damn good gumbo, BTW - and I can even turn a bag of barley and some hops into drinkable beer, so I could fend for myself on Thursday nights if need be, but Florida has made me a lazy layabout.

So here's the Thursday drill. Wait impatiently for Judy to light out for Bingo, then hop in the car and drive in the general direction of the Cajun, which lies five miles south-southeast of my door. After two miles, the first frisson (it's French; I'm trying to be literary here - look it up) of thirst overcomes me and - whoa! - there on the right - it's Willard's, dead ahead. So I enjoy my appetizer beer at Willard's, where Blaine and Chrissie and Blair and Jim and a lot of regulars provide their own hop-based society. God is good. (Not translated from the Arabic.)

I pick one out of 40 available great beers (well, 37 or so great beers and some cider and fruity junk for Bud Light drinkers). I'm on a bit of a Belgian kick at the moment, and Willard's just happens to have several on tap. Sweet.

Then it's on to the Cajun for a couple pounds of crawfish. And a good beer. The Bruery is making a Belgian IPA called Mischief that is superb and right now is on tap at the Cajun. Sit on the bayou with crawfish - let me show you that picture again -

and some amazing beer. Could life be better than this? Damn right.

Eventually it is time to go home.

So I head north-northwest the five miles home, and - damn - there on the left is Willard's Tap House once again. So - one more couldn't hurt. I pull in.

Once in a while, something special happens at Willard's. Tonight, for instance (it's Saturday as I type this; I didn't say Thursday if the only time I go there), one of the Willard's regulars, Chris, springs for a $15 bottle of Hoppin' Frog Hop Dam Triple IPA (22 ounces or so). After a round-robin of eloquent waxings on the merits of this syrupy, well-balanced, highly hopped example of the high end of IPA's - think Dogfish Head 90-Minute IPA plus some je ne sais quoi (more French; sorry) - Chris spreads tasting glasses around the bar. I am in your debt, Chris - thanks. We all nod in appreciation.

Well, that's my limit to drive home, so - off till next time.

If you're in Largo sometime - Erik, I mean you, in particular, but others are invited - we'll check this drill out together.

Newt

A Pilgrimage to Winter

2010-03-06T11:28:00.002-05:00

There were reasons, damn pressing reasons or I would have stayed home, why I motored from sunny Florida to nasty Connecticut in February. We drove Judy’s 13-year-old Acura. (You didn’t think I was going to drive MY car up there did you? Those people spread salt everywhere.) Thirteen hundred miles in two days. I hate to pay for motels when I can crash at my daughter-in-law’s place for free. We Floridians are cheap and damn proud of it. Not like northerners, who have no pride at all.

The first thing you notice is the appalling conditions in which Connecticut folks live. I understand snow, a fluffy white concept I learned in my youth, but folks in Connecticut don’t even keep their snow clean. Wherever I looked, the snow was crap-colored and offensive to the eye. My mother taught me that there was no excuse for dirty. (I assume she was speaking literally, not metaphorically, since I can think of many excuses for metaphoric dirt. Besides, with mom, linguistic gymnastics were limited to gently taking the Lord’s name in vain and some classic motherly sarcasm. “Did you wash your ears? You could plant potatoes in them.”) Anyway, the damn snow was filthy.

Connecticut is full of beautiful women. (I know – I changed the subject. Stay with me.) Not like Clearwater Beach during Spring Break, but beautiful in a strong, liberal, Scandinavian and Irish sort of way. The problem is that all the women in Connecticut were swaddled in polyester and down, head to toe, with just their strong, liberal, etc. noses sticking out. What’s the point of that?

Another thing is the darkness. It’s freakin’ DARK up there in February. The sun goes down before it comes up, so you have to feel your way around like teenagers in the back seat of dad’s Chevy. That’s probably why the women dress defensively. It was so dark I spent the whole week wearing eyeglasses with plain, see-through glass, no tinting or Mylar or anything. It was primitive, like rubbing sticks together or drinking beer from a plastic cup.

All this time, sunny Florida was, well, sunny. People were frolicking on the beaches. (Okay, Canadian people were frolicking on the beaches, but it’s good to know your COULD frolic if you wanted to.)

Bad as Connecticut was in February, it did not prepare us for driving home through New York and New Jersey. That’s where the blizzard struck. It snowed sideways from the GW Bridge to the Delaware River. It can’t snow sideways in Delaware itself, which is too small – all the snow lands in Pennsylvania, where it piles up on the Turnpike in front of TV cameras.

By shear grit and steering in the direction of the skid, we made it to North Carolina, where the sun came out and people started saying “y’all.” We stopped in Rocky Mount, which turns out not to be a real town at all, but a collection of highway intersections. No one lives there; everyone commutes from Raleigh to work at Shoney’s and the Bass Pro Shop on I-95.

If you go into a restaurant in North Carolina and ask for a non-smoking table, there’s only one. The best strategy is to ask for a table next to that one.

We haven’t become Florida natives yet – you have to speak Seminole to achieve that status – but we are starting to feel like foreigners in Connecticut. Sometimes I think that’s a little sad. Then I go to the beach.

Newt

Shaking the Foundations of Decent Writing

2010-03-04T14:05:00.012-05:00

Sugar Creek, which is the mobile home community (read: trailer park) in which I reside, has a salutary rule that the nether regions of one’s trailer, like the nether regions of one’s person, be modestly obscured by some appropriate skirting, which for this trailer park means white bricks measuring 4 inches square by 16 inches long, laid in a pattern that resembles an open basket-weave having congress with a checkerboard, but that rule is so old that no one sells the requisite bricks anymore; so those of us neurotic enough to want to obey the rule must either glue together crumbling old bricks or scrounge not-too-badly-used bricks from some other trailer park whose management has been struck by more modern ideas, which is the strategy I adopted when I recently undertook to fill a sizable gap in my modesty skirting that opened up when I removed an elderly and misshapen oak tree that had grown too close to the trailer, but the leftover stump got in the way and, being made out of oak, could not be removed using conventional tools such as axes or dynamite, so I leveled the area as best I could using a trowel and a bucket of sweat and purchased a couple of long aluminum angle irons – if angle irons can be made of aluminum – and used them to bridge the affected area, allowing me to complete the visually attractive brick-weave that fits in so well with the neighborhood and has helped me create the longest sentence I have written so far this week, although I would appreciate it if you did not tell this to the guy who writes Shaking the Writing Tree.

Newt

Beer Geekin'

2010-02-11T22:23:00.002-05:00

Willard's Tap House has opened just down the road. Life as we know it has changed forever. Willard's is the most elemental tap room you can imagine: 50 feet of polished bar, half a dozen tables, and 40 beer taps. Yeah, 40. A couple of TV's, no significant food, no video poker, no dancing girls, no Captain Morgan or Patron. Just 40 taps. And, if I my eyes have not deceived me, none of those taps has Bud Light dripping out of it. O frabjous joy! Paul Unwin, owner and beermeister of the Cajun Cafe, put me onto the place. Paul has 80 beers of his own, 15 on tap, and he goes to Willard's on his off hours. Get the picture? The knowledgeable staff at Willard's considers Paul a god, which makes sense.

The truth be known, Willard's is on the way to the Cajun. Is that karma, or what? So, naturally, I stopped in on my way to the Cajun for crawfish. Willard's lineup includes everything from AB Oaked IPA (that's Arrogant Bastard from Stone Brewery, not that other AB) to Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Barley Wine to Victory Wild Devil, which was my choice for the night. Wild Devil is from the same folks who make the amazing Hop Devil IPA, and in fact is the same beer brewed with Belgian ale yeast. Great malt body and big time hops, an IPA blessed with that slightly sour funkiness that makes Belgians so wonderful.

A careful review of the tap lineup reveals an inordinate number of highly hopped ales, a commodity that is in notorious short supply in Tampa Bay and Pinellas County in particular. This joint has a big future with real beer lovers, (One such beer lover in attendance tonight was a certain middle linebacker with our favorite local football team.) And lucky for me, Willard's is located across from my favorite breakfast spot, The Golden Bear, so I can always stop in for a brew on the way out for waffles.

Willard's Tap House is at 12500 Starkey Road in Largo (that's Florida, folks), half a mile south of Ulmerton Road.

Newt

Jack and Me and the Maggie B

2010-02-11T11:16:00.001-05:00

The truth is that I have fallen down in my blogging duties. The excuse is that I have been writing Other Things, specifically, short fiction for publication. Here's a taste, part of a 2500-word story that I recently submitted to Tinhouse and Glimmertrain. If you would like to see more of this, leave a comment, and if a few people are interested, I'll publish the rest.

Newt

Jack and Me and the Maggie B

by Ev Newton

Neither Sebago Lake nor Jack Gordon was a stranger to tragedy. Late in the war, a couple of British Corsair fighter planes on training flights collided over the lake and plunged flaming into water 200 feet deep. The pilots did not escape, and they remain trapped in their planes at the lake bottom still today. Later, when the nuclear submarine USS Thresher sank 8,000 feet to the ocean bottom off Boston, Jack’s only son Peter was aboard. Some said Jack just didn’t give a damn after that. Just ran his business and didn’t give a damn. Once, over coffee and Sally’s hotcakes, I heard Jack and my dad whispering about the crushing helplessness that had descended on Sebago folks on both occasions, but especially on Jack.

“I coulda done something besides stand on my dock and watch. Just watch ‘em sink out they-ah.” Jack pronounced “there” in Maine standard cadence with two syllables, “they-ah.”

The story around the lake was that Jack had piled life jackets into one of his little boats and raced out to the middle of the lake, only to find nothing but an oil slick and some bits of floating foam. The story may have been true, but I guess no one ever asked him directly.

“And somebody shoulda found my boy before the hull caved in. But nobody did.”

I snuck a look at Jack’s face while he was talking, but it looked the same as always.

Coffee gone, we went fishing.

Back then, Jack’s weather-beaten old boathouse featured the only dockside pump on Sebago Lake where vacationing fishermen could gas up without climbing out of their boats. Sure, you could fill one of those red five-gallon tanks a little cheaper at Kirby’s Store, a mile south of Jack’s, but then you had to hump it across Route 114 through the cold morning fog and down the stony beach to where you left your boat tied to the big willow at the water’s edge. Most found the few pennies they saved not worth the portage.

Not that Jack was the easiest man to do business with in this regard. He toted a ring of keys like a monkey’s fist hung from his pants, and when you wanted a tank of his premium white gas, he’d stroll the length of the floating wooden dock, fumble for the right keys and unlock first the rusty steel cage that guarded the pump and then the ancient Amoco pump itself. If he forgot to turn the gas on back in the boathouse, as he sometimes did, he would stroll back to get that done, relocking the pump and cage before he left and reunlocking them upon his eventual return. No gas flowed unless Jack hovered at the pump to oversee the safety aspects of the whole operation. And to get paid. In cash. On a slow day, this operation could waste a half-hour of good fishing time.

For a few bucks at Jack’s, you could rent an old metal boat with rusty oarlocks and ass-breaking metal bleacher seats. Those seats froze you in the spring and fall, and seared like a hot griddle on those few glorious days we called summer in Maine. Of course, a rowboat was a puny weapon if you were hunting the trophy salmon that lurked famously in Sebago’s artesian waters. So Jack would also rent you, for a few bucks more, a woefully inadequate outboard motor, one that usually started after a couple of pulls.

In the years before DDT took its toll on the short food chain – fishermen ate the fish; fish ate the black flies – salmon was king in Sebago and Sebago was the king of Maine lakes. Landlocked since the old C&O Canal leading to Casco Bay closed in the nineteenth century, the salmon had evolved into the ultimate freshwater game fish, big, sometimes huge, depending on who was telling the story, wily in the water and feisty on the hook. In a hot fry pan, they turned succulent as trout on a butter diet. Every epic salmon quest began at Jack’s.

End of Part 1

Celebrating the Return of the Crawfish

2010-02-09T17:15:00.000-05:00

Ugly little suckers, these crawfish, but so-o-o damn good. Crawfish, crayfish, crawdads, écrevisses, they are crustaceans like their lobster cousins, only fresh water in origin. They resemble some oversized, creepy-crawly bug, but that only keeps away the crawfish newbies and leaves more for me. Bad looking, good tasting. Boil 'em up with lots of cayenne papper and a potato or two, and they make a sublime feast.

One of the best things about living in Florida is that it is so close to Louisiana, where almost all the crawfish in the western world call home. Better yet, The Cajun Cafe on the Bayou has jumped in early in the season and is boiling 'em up even as I sit here typing. Just thinking about them makes my mouth water. In fact, I think I'll , , ,

See ya!

Newt

Big Dick Pickles - Part 2

2010-01-19T17:14:00.012-05:00

Semi-retirement is great because, except for the "semi" part and whatever limits are imposed by my checkbook and my current wife*, I get to do what I damn well please in life. During that portion of semi-retirement that I call my own, I have been pretending to be a Writer. Fiction, that's the ticket. I don't write that stuff here because Eye of Newt is reserved for God's Truth, as you know. But I occasionally bend the rules - they are, after all, my rules, and arbitrary and capricious rules at that. So sue me. Anyway, having temporarily exhausted my supply of Truth, I offer some untruths for your consideration. Here is the long-awaited second installment of Incident at a Motel, the soggy, bloody saga of Big Dick Pickles. If you did not see the first installment, the following will make not one jot of sense. You can catch up here . I'll still be here when you get back.

Back so soon? Okay, here we go:

Incident at a Motel

Part 2 of an Occasional Series

Unable to control two crime scenes at once, Big Dick made the call for backup. When Officer Mary Ann Hotchkiss responded, he left her to cope with the mess while he chugged up the stairs to 401 to complete the mission that had begun with his dyslexic misstep. Stormtroopering still another door, he surprised two potential perps in flagrante and wide-eyed delicto, their attention suddenly diverted to the jack-booted and slightly out-of-breath police sergeant standing where the door used to be. Pleased to find the occupants with heads intact and demonstrably well, Big Dick got down to business. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The perp on the bottom croaked out an answer that could have been “Okay,” so Big Dick continued. “We have a heinous crime in progress down in Room 104. Well, not actually in progress, but it was probably in progress a little while back. Did you hear anything unusual downstairs?”

“Would you mind terribly closing that door?” asked the perp on the top. Big Dick hated it when people answered questions with questions. The top perp withdrew toward a chair, selfishly swaddling himself in the only unoccupied sheet in the room. His accomplice glared at him nakedly from the bed.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Big Dick tried to force the splintered door back into its frame when he suddenly recalled that the original report of a disturbance in Room 401 was a 520/NV – noise without violence – and he began to contemplate his lack of a warrant. “We, ah, thought that the noise reported in here might be somehow connected with two folks, victims actually, who lost their heads in Room 104. But I see you both have all your parts in order. Maybe you might have heard something?” He paused to ponder the likelihood that these enthusiastic but nonviolent bystanders might be helpful. “Depends on how seriously you treat foreplay, I guess.”

The perps shook their heads.

“Okay. Please don’t leave town until we have had time to question you further.” He ducked out through the remnants of the door without checking ID’s as storm clouds gathered on the horizontal perp’s face.

When he arrived back in the bloody mess that was Room 104, he found that Benny the Nose had arrived. Benny was Tampa’s only visually impaired detective – he claimed to be blind as a bat with a nose like a bloodhound – and he was accompanied as always by his Seeing Eye police dog, Spot. Both were sniffing around the room. “Big Dick,” said Benny, “what do you think happened here?”

“I’m guessing sawed-off shotgun, 12 gauge, no choke, up close. Just vaporized the vics’ heads. Hearts kept pumping long enough to paint the whole damn room red.” Big Dick had paid close attention during the weapons session at Forensics School.

“Nope,” sniffed Benny. “What do you smell?”

“Blood.”

“My point exactly. No gunpowder smell. I will wager that the team will find no bullets, no shot pellets, and no shell casings anywhere in the room.”

“So – what – ?“ Big Dick trailed off in confusion.

“And there’s more,” said Benny the Nose. “I smell brains.”

“Brains?”

“Yes, cooked.”

“Cooked brains?”

“Yeah, if you rinse off the layer of sprayed blood, you’re going to find cooked brain underneath. Medium rare, I think.”

To Be Continued, Perhaps

* I use the term "current wife" advisedly. First, it will let me know whether or not she actually reads these things. Second, it gives readers some reason to read all the way to the bottom to see how I get out of the hole I just dug myself. I'll let you know on that last part.

Newt

Short Puppies Got No Reason

2010-01-10T22:06:00.006-05:00

Sugar Creek, the densely populated manufactured home community (read: trailer park) where I live, has rules that cover the full range of human experience, including pet ownership. I live in the abbreviated "pet section," a cloister within a conclave that permits inmates to own dogs small enough to fit comfortably in the box your toaster oven came in. One would think a canine size limitation a salutary rule. One would be grimly mistaken unless one were deaf as a post.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I don't own a dog. That's because I was born without the patience gene. The problem with other people's puppies is that, unless you whisper to the little darlings (abbreviated "LB's") like the buffoon on the National Geographic Channel (we've come a long way from the magazines of my youth with the photos of naked aboriginals), the LB's invariably go about their doggy business in the most annoying fashion. And don't get me started on cats, although I live with two. (See "My Hyphenated Cat," August 2009.)

Predictably enough, the local denizens - rule-obeyers all - have loaded up on pocket puppies: Peek-a-Poos and Chihua-Poos and every other bastardly breed of miniature mutt and teacup terrorist. Something in the evolution of the tiniest breeds favors snarling ankle-biting over civil doggery. In dogs, nasty disposition is inversely proportional to shoulder height at maturity. Ever seen a nasty retriever? Damn right. Ever seen a placid Lhasa Apso or a mellow Bichon Frise (now, there's a well-named breed)? Neither has anyone else. The LB's in Sugar Creek run on some combination of crystal meth and Mace.

Sugar Creek's pet section has only fifteen or twenty households with dogs, but there is a pooch parade every night around dusk, highlighted not only by the ferocity of the dogs' territorialism but also by their owners' sad enthusiasm for walking around carrying baggies of warm dog poo.

Some years back, the pond around which Sugar Creek is situated became infested with a middlin'-sized alligator. People of a certain bent, as you might expect, fed the gator bits of this and that, all from a safe distance, of course. I mention this because, during the alligator's short tenure, the nasty-little-dog problem abated admirably. Or so I'm told. Well, the locals complained, as locals do, and the alligator was dispatched to a purse-factory somewhere. Whereupon there followed a resurgence of nasty little dogs.

Meanwhile, back at the pet ranch, the old Arkansasians next door to us (see "Little Bastards," July 2009) have recently vacated for cooler climes, but before they left they added another Pug-eranian to their personal kennel. Every time I farted in the driveway, the LB's next door went off like Tasmanian Devils in a bee-eating contest. They're gone now, and peace has descended, at least in the near prospect. That, however, leaves the transients, the casual dog-walkers who are happy to let their LB's cross-pollinate with all the other LB's in the neighborhood. Every time one of them passes another, the resulting snarl-fest sounds like a concerto for two chain saws. Yesterday, I watched two of them chase each other in circles of ever-decreasing radius and ever-increasing speed until they flew up each other's tiny little bungholes. That quieted them down somewhat.

We need another alligator in the pond.

Newt

The Bergsten Belly & the Newton Butt

2010-01-05T11:43:00.005-05:00

My older sister, Kathy, was the first to complain. In our common lineage are the Bergstens, late of Sweden with some stray Norwegianism in the mix. Martin begat Elsie, who begat Arline, who begat Kathy and the rest of us. Martin, though I barely recall the old gent, apparently carried the dominant pot-belly gene I understand there is a genealogy extant in Sweden which traces the Bergsten Belly back to the Vikings. We all have it, except perhaps Steve, who we think was conceived of a donor mother.

No matter how you try to suppress it, the Bergsten Belly piggles and jiggles just below the waistline, spoiling the profile and making us - OK, some of us - look like old Uncle George, who was also begat by Martin and who was afflicted by the family problem even more grievously than was Elsie.

Of course, it takes two to tango, which brings us to the Newton Butt. It's called that because it came upon us through the Newton side of the family, but it ought really be called the Sears Butt, since Nana Newton, its most prominent - if you will - victim, was a Sears. So Miles began Otis, who begat Violet (that's Nana N), who begat Everett, who along with Arline of Bergsten begat the rest of us, again with the possible exception of Steve. The Newton Butt in its most pristine form protrudes rearward from the hips like a permanently hitched U-Haul trailer. You could store all your junk handily in the trunk.

Kathy, of course, complains of having the deadly combination of both Bergsten Belly and Newton Butt. Donna, on the other hand, hasn't raised the issue, and the rest of us see no profit in inquiring. She dresses well, so who knows what goes on there. As for Kathy, I take her at her word and shut up (until - God help me - now). Steve, the apparent spawn of a different gene pool, is built like a stick, and the rest of us secretly hate him.

The point of this anatomical exploration is the tragic imbalance that arises if, like your humble reporter, you lack the Newton Butt but instead have two Bergsten Bellies. Keep in mind the function of Bergsten-Newton syndrome is to provide a couple of cushy hooks to hang your belt on, thereby reliably holding your pants up. As I age and my personal condition approaches perigee, I find that the Bergsten Belly functions admirably to support the front of my jeans. The deficient butt, however, doesn't hold up its end - if you will - of the bargain. That's right - the Bergsten Belly, in the absence of the Newton Butt, causes posterior droopy drawer syndrome, which in its final stages begets Plumber's Crack.

Maybe I'll get me some of those swell padded skivvies I see advertised in the back of certain magazines. Or implants - yeah, that's the ticket.

Newt

PS: That bit at the beginning about Kathy being my "older sister" should not be confused with a claim that she is older than I, because she may not be. Our relative ages are of no significance. What matters is that, of my two sisters, Kathy is my older sister.

N

The Weather Is Fine Today

2009-12-28T15:54:00.001-05:00

I moved to Florida for the weather. There were other reasons, but I forget what they were. In case I forget to mention it, it's sunny, 68F and balmy here in the Tampa Bay area on this Monday after Christmas.

For the first few months after I left Connecticut - I left in mid-October 2008 - I began most phone calls back north with the weather report. "Hi, it's 78 and sunny here." The first few times I did that, I garnered the desired expressions of envy, tempered with shared joy at my sweet circumstance. Of course, that soon changed. I have learned that short-term pleasure at the good fortunes of others rarely survives serious snow. Eventually, the bloom falls off the rose, and people start to snarl. I started getting responses like, "Shut your pie-hole. My car is in a snow bank."

Being the sort of guy who is sensitive to the plight of the less fortunate, I eased back on the weather routine. "Hi," I'd say, "How's Fido?"

And my Northern Correspondent would reply, "Fine. I suppose the weather is great where you are?"

Not wanting to lie too blatantly, I replied, "Um, it's nice, I suppose."

Silence descended. I could sense the battle raging in my NC's soul. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, unable to stifle the fatal question, my NC would crumble and ask, "How nice?"

"74 and breezy."

"Shut your goober-trap. Fido froze his thing to the fire hydrant last night and we needed the fire department to free him."

"Gracious!" I would exclaim, as sympathetically as I could. "I hope he's OK?'

"Well, he'll never be a father again."

Eventually, I learned to temper the truth for the benefit of the bereft. "Oh, it's cold and grey down here," I'd say.

"How cold?"

"58."

"Shut it. My nose hair iced up while I was jump-starting the car this morning."

There really is no adequate response to that.

To help my northerners heal, I called often last summer to report the weather. "94 and humid as hell," I'd say. My NC invariably felt comforted that it was only 85 in Hartford. I always neglected to mention that I was at the pool with a pina colada and that everything here is air conditioned to a fare-thee-well. "Just miserable here," I'd say. "Be glad you're up north."

So here it is December again. Life is so sweet. But don't tell that to my NCs.

Newt

When Blogging Infects the Ego

2009-12-26T20:06:00.005-05:00

Sitting at a computer blogging about whatever I happen to be thinking this morning is undeniably an exercise of ego, an electronic form of mental masturbation -- fun to do but not much fun to watch. Personally, I like it. Blogging, I mean. I have decided to do it more, even if I go blind.

Each opening day of a certain law school class in Connecticut, a learned professor began with the question: "How many of you intend to pursue a career in professional writing?" Thirty fresh faces, as yet unscarred by the horror of what they were proposing to do for the rest of their lives, routinely came up blank. The still-human folks behind the faces no doubt wondered whether they had signed up for the wrong course. Silence begets fear of grade deflation, so the wise professor sat silent, waiting. Tick-tock.

After enough tick-tocks, one student, reliably and timorously, always raised a hand. About shoulder high. Emboldened, others followed, until the whole class finally tumbled to the idea that all of them were in fact planning a career in professional writing. Lawyers write. They get paid to write. Some think before they write; others do not. Some write well, others do not. The ones who do not write well beget lawyer jokes and deservedly so.

So, yes, I'm a lawyer (DISCLAIMER ALERT - whoop, whoop, whoop!) but not here in Florida. I practice law in Connecticut. Ask me for legal advice here in the sunshine state and plan on being politely brushed off. The local bar casts interloper lawyers into dungeons and chains. So I don't interlope. Even my Connecticut practice is becoming an occasional thing, ever since I came to my senses and bagged it for this sunnier clime.

But I arrived with a lifetime of writing prejudices and nowhere to park them. Well, technically, it's not a lifetime yet. Just a little hyperbole there; so sue me. Anyway, I used to teach baby lawyers how to write like professionals. Short, simple declarative sentences, strong verbs, active voice, that sort of thing. Some got it; others will write about the party of the first part, being subrogated to the rights of the party of the second part, for the rest of their regrettable lives. These issues are no longer my concern.

But I come here with a few firmly held beliefs:

"Legal writing" is a euphemism for "crappy, unintelligible writing." My friend Mark Dubois, who still teaches baby lawyers in Connecticut, will steal this line for his next class. I hope.

Good writing is universal. It is sufficient to writing about the law, about what I did on my summer vacation, about an old man and the sea.

What I have been doing here in Eye of Newt has mostly fallen into the "summer vacation" essay genus. Somewhere in another venue, I am writing about old men and the sea. And Lord knows I have written enough about the law, although, like Vicodin, that last is hard to put down entirely. Still there remains, what to do with the teaching gene that has so disrupted my life.

Enter Shaking the Writing Tree. Yup, another blog tossed upon the blog-o-heap. SWT differs from my earlier teaching experiences in that it does not seek to tell others what to do. I admit to a little regret in this regard. Teaching law students was sweet in that, if students failed to do what I told them, I flunked their asses and ruined their pathetic little lives. My readers - if I ever develop any - will be made of tougher stuff. I hope.

Instead, SWT discusses why I do what I do. The subjects will range from "Arrant Pedantry Up With Which I Do Not Put" to "Why Adverbs Stink." Responsible opposing viewpoints will be encouraged. I hope you enjoy it. There are links to Shaking the Writing Tree elsewhere in this blog, and here's another one: www.shakingthewritingtree.blogspot.com

Newt

Santa Visits Kuwait

2009-12-25T21:08:00.005-05:00

Santa isn't just for those of us who I hope are at peace. I received this from my son, Erik, who is with an army helicopter maintenance unit in the Great Sandy (See Army of One, August 2009).

Merry Christmas to all

Newt

I'm Staying Here

2009-12-19T17:44:00.006-05:00

I met with Susie and Bill today to learn how to make my blog work for me. Susie has the advantage of being much younger than I, so she naturally understands blogs and twits better than I. Actually, I understand twits all too well; it's tweets that leave me puzzled and forlorn. Bill, on the other hand, is nearly as old as I, so understands virtually nothing about this crap. I find that endearing. It's not hard to tell who's who: see Susie's blog at http://harleymay.livejournal.com/ See Bill's at http://www.badadvicecolumn.com . Susie, of course, is also considerably better-looking. (Don't ask me why one website is linked to this post and one is not. I have no freaking idea. Neither does Bill.)

Now, in violation of the peculiar sensibilities of the on-line community, of which I am now a de facto member -- I say "de facto" so my old lawyer friends will see that I can still talk the talk -- anyway, I've probably outed Susie by mentioning her name in the same sentence as her Harley May blog address, so let's pretend I just made up the name "Susie" for this post. You with me, Bill?

I came home from our meeting fired up by my observation that webpress.com makes it much easier for readers to post comments and subscribe to its blogs than does blogspot, which is where you are reading at the moment. If you try to comment on this site, I'm afraid, you will face the Medusa that calls itself Google. Only by leaping through bewildering hoops -- much like my SSA hoops in the preceding post -- can you actually leave a complaint about the various inanities you find here. Now that I think about it, that's probably a good thing.

I set up a proto-website at webpress and immediately sank so deep in the geek-mire that I couldn't reach my beer. I am humbled. Well, I'm further humbled, I suppose, since I have been humbled so often before. In any event, you won't soon find me on webpress. In fact, I can't find the site myself. It may or may not still exist.

Once this is posted, I'm going to go sign up for a twitter thingamabob. God help us all.

Newt

A-496

2009-12-15T20:10:00.010-05:00

First, it's been a month since I have posted anything here, and I'm a little embarrassed at my general indolence. Understand, however, that I came to Florida for the express purpose of being indolent. I count the last month as a measure of success. So fuck it, let's get on to something useful.

I visited the Social Security Administration office in St. Pete today to jump through hoops. Understand that I am an educated fellow, with three different degrees in hoop-jumping. Different genres of hoop-jumping at that. And for the past twenty-three years since that third sheepskin, I have jumped through hoops at the professional level. I'm inexplicably proud of that. None of this prepared me for the hoop-jumping that the SSA requires of ordinary people.

I took a number and waited in a room with no clocks. I melded into the congregation of supplicants, all of whom - well, most of whom - were entitled to some form of government benefits after having paid their hard-won money into the system for years or decades. Some were supplicating due to age, some due to physical infirmity, some due to other more depressing incapacities. Supplicant No. A-496 looked as though may have fallen into all three grim categories.

"A-495," came the call from the clerk behind Window No. 1. "Yo!" and A-495 strolled victorious to Window No. 1, where he commenced to doing whatever business he came to do. I was evidently in another queue, waiting for E-210. Whatever happened next was no skin off my nose, you know what I mean?

A-495 eventually rose from his chair at the window, vaguely disappointed, as - down deep - we all expected to be, and wandered off. The clerk behind Window No. 1 called, "A-497."

An old gent sporting a beige suit with soup stains, onyx skin stretched tight over prominent facial bones, and slicked-back white hair, stepped forward. He was tall and spindly, and he walked like a praying mantis or one of those other stick-bugs you sometimes see on the National Geographic Channel, slow, graceful and particular where he put his feet. "Excuse me," he said to the lady behind Window No. 1, "but you forgot to call A-496."

"Did not," said Window No. 1. "Go back and wait your turn." The old gent blinked in confusion, but turned back to his seat. It took him a while. I was pissed on his behalf at the petty rudeness, but he himself did not portray any outward sign of pissedness. Someone bearing the lucky A-497 ticket slid up to the window and was seated.

I had read the sign on the government-green wall: "You may not be called in strict numerical order because not all clerks are trained to handle all cases. You may need to wait for a specialist." I understood the system - that's the benefit of all this education - but the old gent probably did not.

Another lady, this one behind Window No. 2, called, "A-498." The old gent stood up, blinking again. He walked in his stately and deliberate gait to Window No. 2 and said, "You forgot to call A-496." Wisely, he betrayed no outrage. This was, after all, the Government he was dealing with. In a quiet corner of the room, watching, stood a big man wearing one of those uniforms that are worn by people who always wanted to be police. I could not tell if he carried a sidearm. Let's assume so. The Window No. 2 lady said, more gently perhaps, "No, you will have to wait." The old gent walked his stately walk back to his chair, chagrined and perplexed.

Folks, there were only three windows in the place. It took no great leap of logic to see that the old gent's expert must lurk behind Window No. 3. He, of course, didn't get that. Sad.

Finally, the call came. "A-496."

It was the lady behind Window No. 1.

Newt

Uh-oh - Political

2009-11-13T13:27:00.004-05:00

I don't do political here. I don't do much political anywhere. But I have a son in the Army, serving honorably in Kuwait. Sometimes, political fits.

And I quote:

Civilian attorney John Galligan said Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan told him that he had no feeling in his legs and extreme pain in his hands. Hasan, who was shot four times by civilian police officers, said doctors told him the condition may never improve.

End of quote.

I cannot think of a stronger argument against the death penalty. Life served while immobile and in pain. Sounds good to me.

Newt

Will Write for Beer

2009-11-10T16:32:00.008-05:00

Some months ago, I wrote lovingly about The Cajun Cafe on the Bayou (see Best Eatery Ever, July 2009). After one of my recent weekly visits, I emailed the Cafe to comment on its new website design (http://www.cajuncafeonthebayou.com) and mentioned that I had slobbered over the restaurant and watering hole in an old blog item. By God, didn't Paul and Rebecca Unwin - the owners with the New Orleans roots, at least on Rebecca's side - didn't they comp me tickets to last weekend's beerfest at the Cafe. Yesss! If I had known that was going to happen, I would have plugged them even more shamelessly.

Anyway, Judy and I beerfested for a couple of hours on Saturday night to a pretty good Cajun brass quartet - tuba, trombone, cornet-looking horn and keyboard. The beer selection was outstanding, as near as I could tell. I am not entirely sure about the breadth of the selections because the headline beer of the fest was a keg of Dogfish Head 120 Minute Ale. This wonderful beer is so malty and hoppy you could eat it with a spoon. And oh, what hops! Not only did the 120 come equipped with outrageous hops in the first place, but towards the end of the keg the kegmeisters began pumping the product through an outrigger hopback, a container jammed with fresh hops designed to supercharge the beer with hop aroma. I am a hop whore, make no mistake, and this was the pinnacle of hop whoredom.

Not incidentally, the 120 is also alcoholic enough that you need to imbibe on your knees if you're at all afraid of falling down. I kept bringing my little 3-ounce cup back to the well, passing by the other 100 or so selections, some of which would have been the stars of any show that the 120 did not attend. It was like serving lobster at a shrimp fest. I was powerless to resist. That's why my sweet, beer-averse spouse attended - to squeegee me back into the car at the end of the night.

But wait! There's more! The Cafe served sample portions of its fabulous jambalaya, red beans & rice, sausage and gator bites. The always-friendly and knowledgeable staff outdid themselves serving a never-ending line of moderately inebriated Cajun foodies. Designated drivers, thankfully, attended for a nominal fee, and there were lots of them in the room, recognizable by their bewildered look, for the most part, as their designated drivees reveled in beer heaven. But don't feel too bad for Judy - I was charged with bringing back something succulent every time I went for something hoppy. Far better than anything my mama - or Judy's mama - used to cook.

I have given short shrift to all the great non-120 beers in attendance, and the truth is that I did taste a bunch of them. Widmer brought an excellent IPA, hoppier than I expected from a house that makes such a wonderful trademark hefeweizen. Sierra Nevada had its spectacular Harvest Ale, among a dozen or so other choices to which I could not begin to do justice. (Sierra Nevada has recently gone into collaboration with the Dogfish Head folks to make a huge 10-percent dark beer they call Life & Limb. O frabjous joy! Unfortunately, not yet available here.) Unibroue brought a big selection of its ass-kicking modern Belgian ales, but I opted for a nice Corsendonk Brown Ale triple from the booth next door to the Belgian powerhouse.

Also notable was Mike's Homebrew. Mike is a friend - and apparently a very devoted and slightly demented friend - of the Unwins who brought along a half-dozen Corny kegs of his prodigious array of homebrews. I drank his Kolsch - close as I could get to a pale ale - and it was right on the mark for this beer, light, hoppy and refreshing - as best I could tell after the 120 ransacked my so-called palate. I have brewed for 20 years and have never considered giving away 30 or 40 gallons of my best. Paul and Rebecca, take good care of this guy!

Well, there were a lot more beers, but they disappeared into the alcoholic haze that characterized the end of the evening, and I can't say much about them. I met the nice folks from the Dunedin Homebrew Club, who claim that it is indeed possible to brew in this heat, and I may attend a meeting soon to see if they tell the truth.

Paul and Rebecca, thanks for the free ride. I would have said all these nice things even if I had to pay to get in.

Newt

Something to Confound Rush

2009-11-03T21:12:00.006-05:00

I sat in the waiting room, waiting. For the bill. Parts had again fallen off my old car, and when the dealer went to replace them, he found oil squirting out of places it ought not squirt. So I read Women's Day or some such while a clerk added up columns of numbers for me.

Not normally an eavesdropper, I couldn't tune out the two men waiting across from me, one a pale, 60-ish snowbird newly arrived, perhaps from Michigan, the other a 50-ish Latino, maybe Cuban, maybe South American: an alien, presumably legal, although that hardly seems the presumption these days.

The two men talked thoughtfully about cars, weather, generic politics. The Latino punctuated his opinions repeatedly with the phrase, "That's what I love about this country...," and rattled off some commonly overlooked virtue - cars with a history, northern winters, retribution that eventually visits crooked politicians. He seemed to love everything about this country. I was proud.

Newt

On Being a Main Dish

2009-11-01T16:21:00.012-05:00

Now that I am a Writer, I suddenly need many things I never knew existed. Not just a computer and a bookshelf full of thesauri and synonymicons, but organic things, support groups and lobbying organizations, maybe a ticket to the odd book fair or writers’ conference. I look differently now at the First Amendment, even though I try to write things besides dirty books. I joined the Tampa Writers Alliance and PINAWOR, which stands for something literary that I cannot at the moment recall. I might join the Florida Writers Association so I will have Florida writers to associate with. (Perhaps they can teach me not to end a sentence with a preposition.) I retired to Florida to write and avoid meetings. Now I go to writing meetings. Life is one big irony contest.

Let’s face it, writers as a group are no more socially stable than engineers or lawyers or people who do bra fittings for Macy’s. In groups of two or more, they flail away at small talk, then retreat into shop talk when they discover that all they have in common is a passion for – or against – dangling participles. “Did you hear that Juan got an expression of interest from an agent at the conference last week? Lucky bastard. I didn’t think his stuff was all that good, quite honestly.” Don’t try to tell me that the people in your profession don’t do the same thing – I’m a Writer now; I understand the Human Condition.

Writers have evolved a social construct that does not appear elsewhere – the Critique Group. Every writers’ organization has one or two of these tucked away in its sub-basement. CG members’ sole purpose is to gather in a room and tell each other what’s wrong with the last thing they wrote. CGs range from ineffectual grammar police (“You split two infinitives in that opening paragraph”) to plot Nazis (“Come now, there were no such things as 'Letters of Transit'" or "Edsels were never manufactured in hot pink.”) Attending one of these sessions can be like going to a cowboy barbecue and volunteering to be a main dish. You can be flayed and filleted before your manuscript hits the table.

In principle – a greatly overvalued commodity, by the way – CGs are dedicated to improving the product of their members, whatever that product may be. In one recent CG, a member was writing nonfiction about the reasoning powers of marmosets, while another had written a space opera set in the nineteenth dimension, where everyone spoke a dialect that scanned a lot like Sarah Palin on a bender. I looked in a while back – oh so briefly – on a CG whose members were all writing bodice-rippers and Dreams of the Everyday Housewife.

Recently, I have been invited to join a CG that exists as a shadowy splinter group schismed off its parent mainstream CG. I take this as a signal that either I have Arrived as a Writer or that the group was down a quart on live bait. This CG within a CG is like a secret society, likely peopled by misfits and pseudonyms wrapped in enigmas, Dan Brown stuff. I haven’t gone to a meeting yet but am hoping they cast spells and runes. They meet over dinner. I’m bringing a nice grouper ceviche. Fava beans and a nice Chianti may be more fitting. We’ll see.

Newt