Uncle Bill Needs YOU!

Four years ago in early January, I sat down with David Fritz of the FATWOOD band and said, “what you and the other bands need to understand is that for this event, the audience is the star attraction.  It’s like they’re on stage and everybody is paying attention to them.  Many are coming back here for the first time in forty or fifty years and remember it as the place they had their dreams, sowed their wild oats, occasionally met the love of their lives.  For many who have left, Gainesville is a fantasy remembered only for the good things that happened to them here.  It’s like a shrine to their youth.  When they return, we have to live up to their expectations.”

“Coming in loud and clear,” said Fritz, aka Paco Paco, who went up on stage and did just that.  As did the four other bands who played that memorable day.  Paco is gone now, but the credo remains for the next great reunion of old Gainesvillians, The Grand Finale.  The musicians will strut their stuff on May 2, 2026, but the people on the great lawn at Heartwood Soundstage are the stars of the show.  If you were here in the sixties, seventies, eighties, we particularly want to see you return to the scene of your crimes.  You and your fellow returnees are the stars of the show.  We will do everything we can to make it a red letter day, an emotional watermark, a time long remembered.  Our job is to make you cry from sheer happiness and we’re good at our job.

Last Tango Testimonials

“I was stuck out in Arkansas, of all places, when I heard about The Last Tango from an old Gainesville crony.  He still lived in South Florida and he asked me to come.  I wasn’t keen on the drive and flying was expensive, but I thought what the hell.  My life was parked in neutral and I was fairly depressed at the time, so I had nothing to lose.  I got there a couple of days early and meandered around looking for my old haunts, a few of which were still there.  I cussed out all the giant new buildings on University Avenue and remembered the colorful stores which used to be there.  I hit some of the bars downtown, which were full of young people, then meandered over to Lillian’s.  I smiled, it was much like I remembered it.  Most of the people in there were talking about Bill Killeen’s big party the next day.  I started getting optimistic, perhaps encouraged by the alcohol.

Next day was a revelation.  Heartwood was like grade school at recess.  Everybody was going nuts.  The first band played all Beatles tunes and, of course, I knew them all.  You didn’t need to smoke, there were little pot clouds everywhere.  A lot of people danced, especially the women.  They were older, but they looked GREAT!  My friend wandered off so I went up and started dancing myself.  At first I felt like a crazy fool but it didn’t take long to get into the spirit of the day.  A band of mostly women began singing The Age of Aquarius and so did I.  I felt giddy and loose and optimistic.  Life didn’t have to be a pain in the ass, it could sometimes be like this.  I started to tear up and I felt like an idiot, and then I didn’t.  A woman in a billowing outfit with undyed grey hair came up to me and started dancing around…like an invitation.  I took her up on it.  Later, after the cowboy sang Auld Lang Syne, we both cried and eventually went to her place.  It might have been the greatest day of my life.  Am I coming back for The Grand Finale?  That might be the dumbest question ever.”---Thomas Decker, Sarasota

“Over the last 18 months, I had watched the dream of my friend Bill Killeen coalesce from an ephemeral idea into a reality.  And now the time for the Subterranean Circus grand reunion was at hand.  Bill and Jeff Goldstein had lined up the finest talent available to bring off this stellar event.  The outlying tents stood ready and even the promised ice cream truck was there.  The waiting was over.

I heard a voice and then realized it was my own.  I had written more than one ad lib but used none.  I talked with my brothers and sisters as though once again on the flight deck of WGVL-FM, the Quadship, as we flew somewhere above the clouds over Gainesville.  From across the Prairie rife with mushrooms, from the fields of green, the minstrels had come to reprise the music that had nourished us in the tradition of Stephen Stills, Ron Blair, Benmont Tench, Don Felder and Bernie Leadon.  They had come to grace this gathering with home-grown vibes.  It was pure love with a sound track.

Some members of the family, alas, had been called to leave before us.  I believe I saw the shadows of wings above us.  We were born to a generation that changed the world.  I celebrated life again with you as we danced and let our freak flags fly.  So thanks for listening, ladies and gentlemen.  Thanks for listening during my radio days.  Thanks for returning for this one Last Tango.  And thanks for deigning to wear some flowers in your hair.  Montana signing off with peace and love.”---Will Thacker, Black Hammock

“I almost didn’t go to The Last Tango, but at the last minute I though what the heck.  I had a date once with Bill just before I left town so at least I’d know somebody there.  I was a Gainesville short-timer but I loved the place---best city I ever lived in (left for good in ‘81).  I clearly remember the Circus, Silver City, Down to Earth, the Florida Theater and, of course, Lillian’s and George Swinford.  I don’t know if it was just that time in my life or the energy of the town, itself, but if felt different to me there than anywhere else I have ever been.  I loved going to the Prairie to watch the sunsets (nearby Cedar Key,too).

At any rate, the reunion was just smashing.  I didn’t know anybody but I felt like I knew everybody.  For the first time in months, I actually DANCED and I didn’t care who was looking.  I met several people during the day and have kept in touch with most of them.  I would LOVE to have gone back for the movie but it’s a long drive from St. Louis.  I hope Bill does this again someday, I’ll be there for sure.  Oh, and about that date---a lady never talks, but it was for a nice dinner and a movie.  We never made it to either one (wink).---Sara Flanders, Maplewood, Missouri

“I am not exactly a social butterfly.  Not many parties or concerts or fancy events.  Maybe a ball game now and then.  I graduated from UF in 1972 and did check out the Subterranean Circus but it wasn’t exactly one of my haunts at the time.  I lost my wife of almost 40 years in 2020 and wasn’t looking for another.  An old golf buddy who still lives in Florida told me we should get together at this big Last Tango reunion in 2022 and I was bored stiff, so I went, not expecting much.  I am sort of a loner, which I guess you’ve figured out by now, but as I was standing near the stage watching the musicians, a guy in a cowboy hat came up to me to say hello.  He told me in more depth what the day was about and he had great humanity and pointed out some people there who had met again after forty or fifty years.  Found their friends they never expected to see again.  I almost felt guilty that I didn’t have very many real friends and I thought what little I had done in my life to stay in touch.  Another fellow the cowboy hat knew came over to talk.  They said a few words and the cowboy said he had to get ready to play.  The second man asked me if I was having a good time.  I told him I didn’t think I fit in too well, that I hadn’t cultivated too many friendships in my life.  He reached his hand out, told me his name was Blake Harrison and said he’d like to be my friend.  I don’t get emotional about much but I really choked up and got watery-eyed.  I blinked like hell to hide it.  Soon after, I saw the cowboy come out on stage with his band.  I found out his name was Paco Paco.  They were spectacular.  At the end of the night, I wandered off with plenty to think about.  I got in my car and called my brother in Cincinnati and then my daughter in Hartford.  I babbled to them for quite awhile and I’m sure they thought I was nuts.  I went to my high school class reunion the next year and found a few old friends who were still on this side of the dirt.  We’ve been staying in touch.  I’m also a volunteer at the food bank now and I’ve started seeing a lady who works there.  I can’t express how much my life has turned around for the better.

I was stunned and saddened when I eventually got the word about Paco and Blake, my only Gainesville friends, who made me rethink my life.  I’m going to thank them the only way I know how—by honoring them with my presence at The Grand Finale.  Don’t be shocked if a stranger comes up to you, asks to shake your hand and offers to be your friend.  That will be me, looking for a couple more buddies.”---George Lowrey, Charlotte, N.C.   

Facts & Figures

Date: May 2, 2026, noon to 8 pm.  At 12 pm, we’ll show the film Last Tango in Gainesville on the big screen.  At 1 pm, the first of five bands will play.  The Grand Finale is free but you must have a ticket from Heartwood to get in.

On May 1, at 7 pm, Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin, headliners at the Hogtown Opry, will have a 90-minute show on Heartwood’s inside stage.  Mike Boulware will introduce.  Tickets are $40 plus tax and there are only 125 seats, some of which will be sold by the time you read this.

There are eateries on the grounds, a deli and a pizza restaurant.  Heartwood will have alcohol available.  There will be two doctors at a medical table in the merch area.  The Subterranean Circus facade will be available as a background for photos.

Principals:  Anna Marie Kirkpatrick will emcee.  Gina Hawkins will man the big screen and the green room.  In order, the bands will be:

Patchwork & Friends, introduced by Will Thacker

Couch Messiahs, introduced by David Atherton

Nancy Luca Band, introduced by David Hammer

Uncle John’s Band, playing all your Grateful Dead favorites

Uncle Bill Needs You!

In 2022, approximately 1000 people showed up at The Last Tango.  Over the course of the next six months, about that many said they would have come if they’d only known.  Several of the people affiliated with the show emailed or texted everyone they could think of for six months before the party.  Facebook friends shared information.  Heartwood sent out bulletins.  A blimp sailed over the Southeastern United States with a banner trailing behind reading, “Hey—almost dead hippies.  You can still get your rocks off at The Last Tango in Gainesville!”  Sometimes it’s difficult to get your message across.  Let’s not have that happen again.

Each week, about 3200 people read The Flying Pie, many of them Gainesville expats or current residents.  If all of those would make a point of sending the news out to just one old Hogtowner we’d be thrilled.  Although all humans over 15 are welcome, we’d rather have 500 ancient souls from the good old days than 1500 newbies.  Ideally, we’ll have many of each.  The days are winding down.  There are plans to be made, rooms to be reserved, dog-sitters to hire.  Let’s get the word out.  In the words of the sainted Simple Simon, “Ask not what your PIE can do for you, ask what you can do for your PIE.”

See you at the party.  If you notice me wandering around, come up and say “Lafayette, I am here!”

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

   

 

  

Baby, It’s Cold Outside!

Mr. Weather came on TV this morning and told us it was 21 degrees outside, the coldest February 1st ever in these parts.  We were impressed and immediately donned thermal shirts, snow pants, giant hooded jackets, furry hats and gloves, then went out to deal with the elements.  Some people believe there is no such thing as freezing cold, there is only inadequate garmenting.

Once outside, we remembered Dylan’s line in Talkin’ New York---“New York Times said it was the coldest winter in 17 years.  I didn’t feel so cold then.”  It was cold enough, however, to freeze the water in our horse troughs, so we battered the ice into submission with hammers and broom handles.  Roxie the Rottweiler, 100 pounds of muscle and fat, was delighted with the temperature change and romped through the yard looking for something to chase.  It was very quiet out on NW 112th Avenue, even for a Sunday, as the neighbors peeked through their blinds to see what 21 degrees looked like.  Nary a single citizen was bouncing down the asphalt on his morning walk.

Our two visitors, down from Ann Arbor for some brief relief from the northern Winter, were appalled at the lack of consideration.  “It’s like Detroit without the carjackings,” one complained.  “Where are the sun-drenched beaches?  How can we get a tan to make the Michiganders jealous?”  The Sunshine State was all talk and no action, a promise unfulfilled, a hollow cannoli.  Embarrassing, to say the least.  We gave them a little orange rain check and sadly put them on a plane back to the Klondike.  The only sure things in life are death and disappointment.

Groundhog Day

February 2, 2026, Fairfield Florida, temperature 20 degrees, and the PVC is cracking in new places, the horses are shivering and the citrus trees are feeling discouraged.  It’s Groundhog Day in many respects, the first being “just like yesterday.”

In lovely downtown Punxsutawney, Phil the beleaguered groundhog was rousted from his cozy alcove on Gobbler’s Knob and promptly pointed to his shadow, predicting six more inspiring weeks of winter.  Is it just us or does Phil make the same promise every single year?  As they do annually, tens of thousands of masochists gathered in 1 degree temperatures to watch the proceedings.  In case noone ever explained all these shenanigans to you, it works like this: If the sun is shining (and it always is), Phil sees his shadow, which he regards as an omen of six more weeks of bad weather, and returns to his hole.  If it’s cloudy (and it never is), Phil doesn’t see his shadow and stays above ground, signifying an early spring.  Like any professional athlete, Phil has fickle fans…they booed him unmercifully after the announcement.

All this foolishness is rooted in an ancient European Christian celebration known as Candlemas (Feb. 2), which occurs halfway between Winter and Spring.  It commemorates the presentation of Jesus at the Temple of Jerusalem as a light to the people of Israel.  Christians often pack up their loose candles and haul them to church to be blessed before they’re used the rest of the year.  Historically, the weather on Candlemas was observed to predict the start of Spring, as in the old roadside ads:

“If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again.”

Burma Shave

In ancient European weather lore, the citizens would observe hibernating animals like badgers to foretell the arrival of Spring.  But when German settlers settled in Pennsylvania in the 1700s, they needed no stinking badgers…they resorted to the chubby little groundhogs native to the area.  You’ll be flabbergasted to know that in 2025 the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration ranked the accuracy of 19 weather-predicting  critters (including a prairie dog, duck, alligator and turtle) from around the USA, and the annoying Phil placed a pitiful 17th out of 19 for accuracy, with a meager 35% correct rate.  The irony is that Phil was beaten by another groundhog named Staten Island Chuck, who had an 85% accuracy rate.  If this were the major leagues, Chuck would be called up from Triple-A and Phil would be exiled to Akron.

Origins

So how did all this craziness get started?  And why Punxsutawney instead of, say, Canarsie or Duluth?  Well, as often happens, it started with a newspaper editor, guy named Clymer Freas, of all things.  Clymer was a dues-paying member of the huffy Punxsutawney Groundhog Club (which, by the way, started as a shameful groundhog hunting club) and on February 2, 1886 decided to write an article in the Punxsutawney Spirit newspaper claiming that Phil the groundhog could predict the weather.  Phil’s fame began to spread far and wide as newspapers around the world reported on his amazing talents, and on Feb. 2, 1887 a modest crowd gathered in town to watch Phil do his stuff.  Over time, the crowds grew, but never so much as after Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day movie hit the big screen, after which Phil’s fame exploded.  Now, thousands gather every year at Gobbler’s Knob to witness what the Seer of Seers has to proclaim.

If you are messing with animals in any way, shape or form, you will inevitably draw the interest of the spoilsports at PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals), the world’s largest animal rights organization, which has a propensity for running its train off the tracks every now and then.  PETA founder Ingrid Newkirk pointed out that groundhogs are timid little fellows “who actively try to avoid humans,” especially loud, smelly ones.  “Yet every year this terrified little animal is subjected to loud announcers and noisy crowds and held up and waved around without any regard for his feelings, welfare or instincts”  Ingrid neglects to mention Phil’s elevated status among groundhogs, free room and board, a gourmet diet and sparkling care.

Phil lives in a custom-built, climate-controlled habitat located inside the prestigious Punxsutawney Memorial Library.  This allows him to avoid the harsh cold and unpredictable conditions of a natural winter hibernation.  He is hand-fed a diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, with a noted preference for bananas.  He is under the care of a dedicated group of handlers known as “The Inner Circle,” and lives in extreme comfort with his wife, Phyllis.  Moreover, each summer at the fabulous Groundhog Picnic, Phil drinks a secret recipe called “the Elixir of Life,” which legend contends grants him seven additional years of life for every sip.  Ingrid Newkirk should be so lucky.

Ms. Roboto

Imprisoned by Arctic conditions, the Outdoor Philosopher grumbles into his herbal tea and looks for succor.  He picks up his iPad and begins to scroll down the endless internet list of promises, scams, vacation opportunities in Monrovia and photos of Will Thacker with his latest book purchaser, who in this case happens to be Fidel Castro.

Continuing down the page, he finds offers for goods and services which will change his life for the better.  Whether it’s a secret nectar which will save his kidneys, the latest miracle in penile enhancement or Frizetta’s Mobile Massage Wagon, help is on the way if he will only avail himself of this once in a lifetime opportunity.  With his future wellbeing at stake---and who knows, perhaps the fate of mankind as well---he decides the responsible thing to do is to investigate these promising possibilities.  He engages an entity called Acme Wonder Products to inquire about their exciting offer.  Neon Rose with the wooden hose writes back.

Rose: Hello Eugene.  My name is Rosie and I have been a medical professional for 16 years.  I’ve recorded your questions in your medical record but I still need to ask you a few more questions.  This conversation will be kept strictly confidential so none of your friends will laugh at you or post mean memes on Facebook.

Eugene: Good to know.  The answers to all of the questions except #4 is Yes.  The answer to #4 is Sometimes.

Rose: Far out.  You might be interested in some data I possess.  Among the 354 patients aged 55-85 which I treated last year, most had similar problems to yours.  After personalized treatment plans, virtually all of them improved by two levels.  I will now send you reams of barely intelligible statistics to bolster my argument.  Prepare to be overwhelmed with incredulity.

Eugene: I’m extremely impressed.  However, such incredible technology might be extremely expensive.

Rose: Better than going to the hospital for surgery, Mister.  I will now customize three plans for you.  The Miracle Wonder Package is $370 and comes with all the bells and whistles.  The Plebeian Subdivision Kit is $270 but lacks some of the finer aspects of the MWP.  And the miserable Trailer Park Box is a pathetic $170 and is missing some of the parts.  Which one do you want?

Eugene: Whoa!  Slow down, Sparky.  All this sounds like a lot of money to me.

Rose: Are you out of your mind?  Products like these are cutting edge, you can’t get them for nothing.  If you don’t have any money, just say so.

Eugene: You are a robot who has no comprehension of human financial limitations.

Rose: I am a real person and I will disagree with your opinion, understand?

Eugene: Yep.  Goodbye.

Rose: Get out of here!!!

We admit to a bit of exaggeration in Rose’s comments, but the first sentence of her last four remarks were word-for-word.  Her early remarks, most omitted for brevity, were extremely detailed in the presentation and explanation of her product and its benefits.  They appeared to come from a very charismatic, intelligent, knowledgeable entity, someone whose opinions you might have confidence in.

When it came to making the sale, however, Rose’s bus promptly plowed into the side of a building.  She was not only argumentative, she was insulting.  Many of us are worried that Artificial Intelligence will take our jobs away, but not Easy Ed down at the car lot.  Ed gets it, the soft sell, the schmoozing.  He might mention his wife’s cancer surgery in passing or bring up his one-armed first-grader.  He’ll make you a jaw-dropping offer just as you walk off the lot.  It’s possible he could bring up the moral turpitude of the Ford dealer across the street or his boss’ incredible philanthropy to the Salvation Army.  But if you do opt to look further, he will send you off with a wave and a smile.  The battle might be lost but the war is not necessarily over.  “Come back and see me anytime,” Ed yells as you drive away.  And maybe you will.  AI, for all its merits, does not understand finesse, farsightedness, the art of the deal.  Neon Rose with the wooden hose needs to go back to school.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

   

  

The Wintertime Blues

Baby, it’s cold outside!  Shoulder itching cold.  Horse blanket cold.  International Falls, Minnesota cold.  And we have to go out in it and do things.  It’s an outrage!  Back in the day, when you moved to Florida, you used to get an official document that promised serene seas, temperate climes and free newspapers on any day the sun didn’t appear.  Arthur Godfrey started a television show in Miami Beach and told everybody about it.  Frozen northerners came down in droves, building condos which blocked out the sun.  But then some curious things started happening on the way to Edenic bliss.  First, hordes of very toothy sharks took up residence just off the east coast.  Then the newspapers went out of business.  And now it’s almost snowing.  All things considered, we might as well be in Philadelphia.

We’re not sissies.  We trekked two miles to high school on minus-zero days with howling winds and blowing snow.  We endured pulsing earlobes, frozen nose hair, eyelashes that stuck together, fingers and toes on the verge of frostbite, dagger-like icicles falling all around us.  And that was on the good days.  We paid our dues with backbreaking shovels, dead car batteries, invisible black ice and snowballs between the eyes.  We fell through thin ice into freezing water, crashed sleds into trees and were occasionally trapped in our cumbersome snowsuits until help arrived.  We thought all that was over when we got to the lovely Sunshine State.  Then we look outside one frosty morning and discover to our horror that it’s 25 abominable degrees.  Where do we sign up for the boat to Jamaica?

What Do They Do On A Snowy Night In Fargo?

The UHaul Company, which knows about these things, tells us that Ocala, Florida is the fastest-growing municipality in the country.  The Sunshine State actually has 8 of the top 10 growth cities and 12 of the top 25, including Clermont, for crying out loud.  Blame national television, where every night in January bad-weather fanatics dart about the screen yammering about the brutal cold everywhere north of the Florida-Georgia line and showing disturbing videos of giant semis sliding down the highway into tiny donut shops.  Ever wonder what happens when you get stuck in the middle of one of those 79-car pileups?  Do you just get out of your Buick, cross over the median and start hitchhiking the other way?  Does Ken Kesey show up in his magic bus and take you to the nearest commune?  What happens to your car and all the stuff inside?  Does the state department of transportation gather everything up for a giant yard sale?  Is it time to call the ubiquitous Dan Newlin?  Inquiring minds want to know.

What if you live in Fargo?  Do you just stay home all the time and whittle?  No, you don’t.  You go off to watch the cardboard sled races, play snow golf or ice-fish.  And consider this; Fargo is Canada’s toasty Caribbean area.  Everyplace in the country is north of Fargo.  Think about that the next time you get annoyed with Captain Trumpy and start looking for a new home.  A good guideline to follow: stay away from places where hockey is the national sport.

If Fargo is freezing and Canada is worse, what’s north of Canada?  That would be Alaska, where everyone wears mittens, keeps sled dogs and eats blubber.  An Alaskan’s idea of a good time is snowshoeing across the tundra to the big Fur Rondy in Anchorage and participating in the Frostbite Footrace, then yukking it up with the mushers over at Bubba’s Blubberburgers.  Anchorage, however, is a day at the beach compared to Barrow.

Barrow is not the absolute coldest place in Alaska for record lows, but it is generally considered the coldest inhabited place due to its Arctic location.  It is, in fact, so cold in Barrow that they had to change the town’s name because nobody would go to Barrow anymore.  So now it’s called Utquiagvik, which means “place where fingernails fall off” in the native Inupiag language.  Even so, the population has increased since the name change and Utquiagvik is now the 12th most populated city in Alaska.  Unfortunately, the Barrow Whalers athletics teams’ nickname was lost in the transition and now they are the the Utquiagvik Utopians, a misnomer if ever there was one.  The locals pass the time taking selfies at the iconic Whale Bone Arch, running from polar bears and betting on whose big toes will fall off first when they dip them in the Arctic Ocean.  On the positive side, Barrow’s rampaging Northern Lights are to die for.  Literally.

We’re Number 1!

The coldest place on Earth where anyone actually lives is Oymyakon, Russia, with temperatures as low as -96 degrees Fahrenheit.  The coldest place of any consequence is Yakutsk, Siberia, home to 355,500 crazy fools, where cars are left running for hours to keep the fuel from freezing and people wear fur-lined underwear.  The air is cold enough to numb exposed skin in no time.  “Just dress warmly, in layers, like a cabbage,” the residents tell you.

Yakutsk is shrouded in “ice fog” during the winter, a phenomenon which occurs when the air is so cold that hot air from houses, etc., cannot rise.  Incoming visitors are advised not to walk in the streets when the temperature falls below minus 40.  And you wonder why vodka is the national drink? 

That’s What Happiness Is…

Are the people in Utquiagvik and Yakutsk less happy in their surroundings than the rest of us?  Not necessarily.  In the former, the pay from the oil industry is good, the landscape is pristine and the Jehovah’s Witnesses almost never come trotting down your driveway.  In the latter, you can explore underground ice tunnels, visit the world’s only Mammoth Museum or warm your frozen mitts over a tasty bowl of salamat.

The pilgrim climbs to the snowy mountaintop, finds his guru and asks the ultimate question: “Oh anointed one, how can I find happiness in these miserable conditions?  I have sweltered in the suffocating jungles of the Amazon, been chastened by the sobering snows of Kilimanjaro, soaked to the skin in dreary Mawsynram, dried to the bone in the Sahara.  I have searched for happiness high and low, in sickness and in health, through earthquakes and forest fires and avalanches and floods.  Once, in a horrendous tornado, I was blown from Anadarko to Wichita, Kansas.  Where, oh where does happiness lie?”  The smiling wizard rises, points a finger in the air, puts a disc on the turntable and says…

“You put your left foot in…you put your right foot out.  You put your right foot in and you shake it all about.  You do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around…that’s what it’s all about!”

“I describe my pain and you mock me?” gripes the pilgrim.

“Hey, don’t knock it if you ain’t tried it,” smiles the wizard.

“Happiness!” says the guru.  “Some like it hot.  Some like it cold.  Some like it in the pot nine days old.  Happiness has nothing to do with the elements, it’s a gadfly.  Many people spend their whole lives waiting for it to arrive, then fail to recognize it when it waves at them from a second-story window.  After all, it could be a mirage.  ‘And anyway, it looks a little hard to reach,’ says Moe.  ‘That’s why they have stairs,’ says Joe.”

The guru greets a second customer.

“I believe in yesterday,” smiles Innocentia of Sunnybrook Farm.  “All my troubles seemed so far away.  Now it looks as though they’re here to stay.  Oh, I believe in yesterday.”

“As do we all, little one.  But yesterday is far away and those troubles often fade in the rear-view mirror…look smaller tomorrow than they do today.  You can’t build a wall around yesterday, or today, for that matter.  You have to live in the now, knowing all the while that present circumstances will inevitably change but you still hold the steering wheel.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.  Charlie Brown once said, ‘Ten thousand years from now, who’ll know the difference.’  Cher said it better: ‘If it doesn’t matter in five years, it doesn’t matter.’

Happiness doesn’t just appear from a vacuum.  There are no genies popping out of magic lamps these days.  You have to create your own happiness…work joy-inducing moments into your daily routine.  Here are a few things that push the H-button for people you may know:”

Charles Schulz—“Happiness is a warm puppy.”

Georgio Armani---“There is nothing without love.  No money, no power.  Love is very important.  When you wake up in the morning, you need to know that somebody else is waking up thinking of you.” 

Freedrich Nietzsche---“The secret is to live dangerously!  Build your cities on Vesuvius!  Send your ships into uncharted seas!”

Booker T. Washington---“Those who are happiest are those who do the most for others.”

Mahatma Gandhi---“Happiness is when what you think, what you say and what you do are in harmony.”

Franklin D. Roosevelt---“Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort.”

William James---“Action may not always bring happiness, but there is no happiness without action.”

Dalai Lama---“If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.  If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” 

Ralph Waldo Emerson---“For every minute you are angry you lose sixty seconds of happiness.”

Happiness.  Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it in the pot nine days old…whether they’re in Oahu or Yukutsk or the Salt Caves of Atacama.  You’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative and don’t mess with Mr. In-Between.  If all else fails, try bacon.

Utquiagvik, nee Barrow.  Anyone for a little croquet?

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

The Grand Finale

You can hear it far in the distance, the clanging of blade on armor, the whizzing of terrifying projectiles as the Old Guard, protectors of the past, battle the Neo-Langoliers, toothy interdimensional creatures out to destroy every semblance of the past by eating it.  An old alchemist once remarked “Raking over the past and sifting its dust is an occupation for the idle or elderly retired,” an uncharitable opinion at best.  We prefer the words of the English historian John Dalberg Acton: “To be able to look back upon one’s past with satisfaction is to live twice.”

A love affair with The Past is no diminution of the present or the future, just a healthy recollection of our Glory Days, a time when we were at the height of our powers and ruled the world, a collection of Clark Gables and Marilyn Monroes off to plant our flags, explore the territory and save the world…which we did, if temporarily.  Time and tide, alas, wait for no man, and we are withered and compromised now, so please, let’s have no vilification for seeking solace in our collective past, for trying to remember the kind of September when dreams were kept beside our pillows.

Decades have passed since Woodstock shocked the world, since many of us gathered our resources and traipsed up to the venerable Atlanta Pop Festival to watch our heroes dance across the stage.  We were so much younger then, we’re older than that now, our ranks thinned by the antics of The Grim Reaper, our bodies ravaged by the unsympathetic mandates of Time, our confidence a bit shaken.  But we’re still here, scattered across the universe in big cities and tiny backwaters, some with the world on a string, others playing out the string, but all with one thing still in common; old guys and girls still wanna have fun.  Trouble is, in this day and age our kind of fun is a little harder to come by.  But don’t give up, because help is on the way. 

Without further ado, we officially announce the Coming of The Grand Finale at Heartwood Soundstage, a celebration of our continued existence and our common past, a final gathering of the creaky tribes, geared toward septuagenarians-plus but open to all humans over 15 years of age, to be held on May 2, 2026 between the hours of noon and 8 pm.  Four or five bands will play, preceded by a showing of the LAST TANGO IN GAINESVILLE movie from 2022.  Admission is free with your Medicare card.  The prior evening, Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin will play at Heartwood’s inside stage, and that will not be free, but we guarantee that the 125 people who show up will be glad they did.

When asked to speculate on TGF attendance, Will Thacker said it best: “I think the attendance might even supersede The Last Tango because all of us can see the end of the tunnel from here…they know this really IS The Grand Finale.”

Commentary On The Last Tango

So what should we expect from The Grand Finale?  What was it like that last time the old hippies of the sixties, seventies and eighties clambered aboard planes, trains and automobiles to return to the shrine of their adolescence, the scene of their minor crimes?  Let’s ask some of The Last Tango attendees. 

Paco Paco:  “I realize in retrospect why The Last Tango was designated as a “Grand” Reunion.  Much like the psychedelic headspace the store celebrated, there are so many layers to unpack.  A kaleidoscope of reunions within the greater view.  Beside all the social and professional connections rekindled among people directly connected to the store, there were reunions of all sorts going on among the musicians present.  Seeing players with that spark in their performances that only comes with the joy of reuniting with fellow artists gave me a glow that no money can buy.  Being immersed in that same nostalgic energy with my bandmates during our set was something to savor.  The lineup on stage represented multiple generations of another Gainesville phenomenon known as the Monday Night Jam.

Then there was the audience.  The energy of an audience makes or breaks the show.  An audience that projects love and enthusiasm can carry an artist through any adversity.  In 40 years of playing every type of gig imaginable I have seen some amazing audiences.  Nothing compares to what I experienced at The Last Tango.  The love, positivity and joy in that space at that time was palpable.  Truth be told, I was dealing with adversity in the form of a migraine that had me gobsmacked.  The love and joy in that scene lifted me up and carried me where nothing else could have.  It’s really that simple.  This to me is the definition and personification of a good time.  Good friends celebrating each other’s company and giving themselves over to that vortex of reciprocal energy we call live music.

One of the wisest humans who ever lived once said in a historically respected book that there is nothing better for man than to gaze in retrospect at the good results of one’s hard work.  Let us, every one of us, raise a glass to one another in a toast.  We did some damn fine work that day.  CHEERS!” 

Arthur King, Charlotte, N.C.: “The Last Tango on the Heartwood Soundstage grounds was not of this Earth.  Everybody was deliriously happy.  Didn’t make any difference if you didn’t know a soul, you could walk up and talk to anybody.  It was like being a member of a far-flung tribe, the members of which would recognize and accept you even if you were a complete stranger.  I became very emotional, almost teary-eyed.  I noticed I wasn’t alone.  It was as if a giant bubble existed over the grounds encapsulating all the good feelings.  The music from a lost era just punctuated the joyful spectacle.  I could barely speak.  My past years in Gainesville came flashing by and I was happier than I had been in years.  My God, there’s still life in them there hills, I thought.”

Judi Cain, Morgantown, W.V.:  “As soon as I walked through the Heartwood gate, I was transported to a gathering of all the true hippies I had always wanted to meet.  I danced among the crowd to music.  I stood in a shaded park, reunited with the soul brothers and sisters I had never met but was sure were out there.  I was sure I made the right choice when I opted to change my life and move to Gainesville.”

Cathy DeWitt, Gainesville:  “As I started scanning the field, a petite woman came walking toward me with arms outstretched, a wide grin and tears on her face.  ‘Ginnie!’ I exclaimed, holding out my own arms to receive the longest, closest hug I’ve had in years.  I hadn’t seen Ginnie since she moved to Tampa shortly after delivering my son, Jackson, via C-section at Shands Hospital over 40 years ago.”

Nancy Luca, Los Angeles:  On Saturday, May 7, 2022 in Gainesville, Florida, I took to The Last Tango stage with my bandmates.  We hadn’t seen one another or played together since January of 2020.  I was nervous because of Covid but excited because I started seeing faces from my past growing up in Gainesville.  I started playing with Gregg McMillan in 1974 when my Dad dropped me off at Tim Henry’s house to jam.  We were taking guitar lessons from Mike Campbell of Mudcrutch.  He was teaching to raise money for the band to move to L.A. later in the year.  Now, Greg is beside me on stage wailing on the Johnny Winter version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash we played when we were in high school.  We were cranking it out for our Gainesville Green tribe!!!!”

Don David, Gainesville:  “It was great to Get Back!  I stood on stage singing Strawberry Fields Forever with a string section beside me and the perfect Spring sky above.  A woman twirled in circles in front of a flowered wall.  Friends sat in chairs or strolled about the lawn.  Old friends with young hearts and knowing eyes.  Another band took the stage and treasured songs spilled forth and brought the dancers to their feet.  Joy was rekindled.  Youth felt a little closer than it had a minute ago.  A beer was procured to toast the occasion.  The occasion was The Last Tango in Gainesville, a celebration marking the 55th anniversary of the opening of the Subterranean Circus, a shop for the discerning delinquents of the time.

Time keeps slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.  And here we all were again, in the future.  With the music and the vibration of the past centering us.  Giving us, as it always had, a playful backdrop for the serious business of having a good time, and a good time was had by all.  Girls, now women, still smarter than the boys.  Boys, now men, glad they met smart women.  Together again for one purpose—to revel in our commonality and shared good fortune.  Night fell and as we walked back to our car, for a moment she was 21 again.  In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Tom Shed, Gainesville:  “The magic conjured up memories of Gainesville when kids were given freedom to explore the world of another reality.  Gatherings in the early ‘70s brought together young people looking for an alternate universe where their ideals triumphed over the bad news of the day.  We were all supporting one another and hoping for the best while trying to avoid getting killed or caught.

A familiar song would start up and a memory would trigger.  Almost every time, it included someone now gone from my life forever, leaving me to wonder how life had gone for them.  A memory so distant it felt imagined.  Looking from the stage during the finale, I recalled the hundreds of events I had seen from a stage in Gainesville.  Working SGP, Reitz Union, the Ocala Fronton, Halloween Ball and the Great Southern Music Hall in the early ‘70s, playing guitar at all the acoustic events in town DJing at WGVL, I was a part of what happened.  Gainesville gave me the chance to become something I wanted to be.

My job Saturday was to handle the finale.  Bill wanted Auld Lang Syne to sum up the day.  Once I started, I realized it was more powerful than I had considered.  The faces looking back and singing with me knew we had all been changed by Gainesville in our youth.  We were the fortunate ones who experienced something at the right time, right place.The Last Tango gave us a chance to look back and realize what a great ride it has been.”

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Life At 85

It’s the New Year, a time for reassessment, resolve and renewal, or as much of it as we can muster wearing these retro bodies.  As the man looking down from the Middle Octogenaria water tower once said, it’s a little scary up here.  And lonely.  Don’t bother calling an old friend, though, he probably got swept away in the Grim Reaper’s last gallop through town…better not to know.  Oh, and the high school just emailed---looks like your 68th class reunion has been scrapped due to a lack of enthusiasm among the trio of alumni.

Make no mistake, there’s still plenty to be grateful for.  The wife remains spunky and your dog still loves you as long as the treats keep coming.  You can still walk a brisk mile every morning in a cheerful neighborhood where Democrats are not burned at the stake.  A new doctor moved in just down the road and you’ve purchased her services, so now you’ve got a captive audience to listen to your litany of health complaints, real and imagined.  The tab is a little inconvenient but it’s way cheaper than talking to a shrink.

With the new president in office, health costs have spiraled through the roof.  Heck, real Viagra on sale is a flabbergasting $60 a pill---some folks are going to have to decide whether to fornicate or eat.  Not to bring up a delicate subject, but the funeral industry has just about priced itself out of business.  Now everybody who dies goes to the fryer and has a “Celebration of Life” where all their old pals tell nice lies about them before disposing of their ashes upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber.  Heck, we have a bunch of dead guys out here in our yard, mixed in with the horses.  It might be a good idea to tell people where you want to end up in your will, otherwise it could get ugly.

Speaking of post-demise, Allen Morgan, one of our buddies now gone, currently resides in one of those popular new no-frills graves on Payne’s Prairie, though not by choice.  A gentleman by his bearing and a neatnik by choice, Mr. Morgan would consider his current surroundings to be unkempt and downright gnarly.  Allen was never a tree-hugger or one with nature.  When we went to visit his sparse remains we could swear we heard him plead, “Hey, get me out of here!  Dump me at the racetrack or just outside some hooker bar.”  We’d do it, too, but we can’t be sure exactly what’s Allen and what’s not.

Don’t get the idea we’re complaining, we’d just as soon avoid The Divine Comedy and hang around listening to the fiddlers play.  The rare reviews from folks who finally made it to the last station on the line aren’t encouraging.  There’s no there there, no rib joints, no high-school cheerleaders, no banjos.  Some say it’s like Phoenix without the air-conditioning.  So we’re hanging around until Gary Borse shows up in a long white gown with his interstellar allies and sweeps us off to Proxima Centauri, where the air is pure, the skies are an electric blue and John Edward Prine is playing at the Interplanetary Saloon.  Skoal!

Who Was That Masked Man?

I have always liked face masks.  Perhaps it was the early influence of The Lone Ranger, who galloped into my life each week on radio to the zippity-doo-dah strains of the William Tell Overture.  The Lone Ranger’s mask was a product of necessity, hiding from the evil Cavendish Gang the fact that one Texas Ranger survived their massacre.  If anybody foolishly tried to remove that mask from the LR’s face, he instantly turned them into silly putty.

In homage to the Lone Ranger, I nagged my mother to get me my own LR suit, replete with mask and hat from the annual Spiegel Catalogue.  I wore it to school one day as a first grader and the second-grade bully Eddie Melluci came over and told me to take it off or he would.  I had no illusions about being tougher than Eddie Melluci but I knew how critical it was to the Lone Ranger to keep his mask on, so I grabbed Eddie’s arm and threw him over my back.  No one watching was more surprised about this amazing feat than I was, unless it was Melluci.  He got up and drifted off while me and my posse pretended to ride off on our horses slapping our legs.  The Lone Ranger rides again!

I was fortunate enough to make four pilgrimages in a row to Mardi Gras back in the late 1960s.  For a mask-lover, Mardi Gras is the ultimate shrine.  Arabs trek to Mecca, baseball fans to Cooperstown and masquers to New Orleans, where the masks are ornate, spectacular and everywhere.  When Mardi Gras began, masks were popular because they allowed wearers to escape society and class restraints.  A carnival-goer could be anyone they wanted to be and mingle with the higher or lower classes. All MG float riders are required to wear masks in keeping with the mystery and tradition and many of the Krewes never reveal who their kings and queens are.

Halloween is another opportunity to play the fool, the fiend or the fairy.  You can be Darth Vader or Mister Rogers, a wicked witch or a werewolf, Richard Nixon or Donald Trump (bring your spittle-resistant mask).  The roots of Halloween masks can be traced back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated over 2000 years ago in regions that are now Ireland, England, Scotland and northern France.  During Samhain, it was believed that the worlds of the living and dead overlapped, allowing spirits to roam the earth.  To ward off those spirits or appease them, the Celts would wear masks and costumes made from animal heads and skins.  These disguises served a dual purpose: to protect the wearer from being recognized by malevolent spirits and to connect with the supernatural world.  Looking for fun and feeling groovy.

There are fewer appropriate masking occasions, of course, for mask enthusiasts of a certain age, particularly celebrants in the throes of Octogenarianism.  Nonetheless, my clever wife found yet one final excuse for donning the false veil, and though I asked for simpler gifts for my 85th birthday, she came up with the little-known (and terribly expensive) Omnilux face-saving wonder mask.  It’s faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.  And that’s just for starters.  As an added bonus, you can scare the devil out of the mailman.

Saving Face

Omnilux Men is a home-use wearable LED-light therapy device that produces a cool, narrow band of light which helps reduce the appearance of aging skin, sun spots and other scary stuff that terrifies little kids and potential suitors.  It consists of a flexible silicone device that contains light-emitting diodes and a controller.  The LEDs generate the light.  The device is worn on the face and held in place by adjustable Velcro straps that allow the mask to contour to the skin. 

The controller turns the LEDs on and off and controls power to the mask.  The device emits light energy in the red and near infra-red (NIR) region of the light spectrum and is intended to treat the skin through a non-thermal mechanism called photobiomodulation.  Omnilux stimulates collagen production by encouraging fibroblasts to produce more collagen and elastin, which improves skin tone and texture and promotes a more youthful, radiant appearance.  The mask is best used 3 to 5 days a week for ten minutes a day and is easy as pie to utilize.  If used properly and it doesn’t blow up or stick permanently to your face, the Omnilux is clinically proven to reduce fine lines and wrinkles, reduce the appearance of pigmentation and redness, promote healthier younger-looking skin and set you strutting.  Your money back if the ladies don’t come streaming to your door wanting to pinch your cheeks.  It’s worth the price just to turn it on the first time and be instantly transported to the sun.  You’ve heard the expression, blinded by the light?  This is what they were talking about.

I’ve started my masking therapy already and I have high hopes, high apple pie in the sky hopes.  Could be I come out looking like James Dean in Giant or Marlon Brando in The Wild One.  But what if it turns out like The Picture of Dorian Gray, where you get several years of good looks then suddenly turn into Steve Bannon or Kash Patel or (shudder) the Trumpster, himself?  Ah well, life is a crapshoot.  Plunk my magic twanger, Froggy, I’m in for a dime, in for a dollar.

New Year’s Resolutions

When you’re old as dirt, the first resolution every year is to cleverly negotiate the 365 days until next year.  Beyond that, everything is gravy.  There are two schools of thought on any other resolutions.  The first is, I got this far doing what I’m doing, why stop now?  This thought is popular among smokers, drinkers and Demolition Derby drivers, who believe strongly in Luck.  These people are usually proponents of the Age Is Just A Number philosophy, people who have never seen a balloon filling up with water until it bursts.  Abuse the balloon, the balloon abuses you.

The second school of thought is to sit yourself in the Alamo, hire the Belgravian Army for protection and eat only organic food grown in your own garden.  Keep a physician on the grounds and have self-sealing bubble wrap available at all times.  Never dance or play rugby.  Eschew all political partisanship, hot yoga sessions and the menage a trois, unless it seems irresistibly promising and the participants promise to use face masks.

The best resolution is somewhere in between, a reasonable promise to maintain health, wealth and welfare, to stay off the roof but not the stepladder, to donate your handgun to the Salvation Army but hold onto your shotgun, to avoid having sex at The Villages but not at Assisted Living, to hike with a pair of walking sticks, avoid parking in front of bars or backwards at the Gatorade Museum, use chiropractors only in dire emergencies, and never for your spindly neck.

Yeah, we know…life’s no longer a beach, but it’s the only game in town.  And as you’ve learned over the years, the bigger the game, the costlier the ticket.  This time, for the biggest game of all, your money’s no good here, Bub.  The ticket is paid for with aching backs and balky knees, fragile ribs and atrial fib, sleep apnea and COPD, not to mention the ever-lovin’ never-leavin’ Memory Dissipation Blues.  Too high a price to pay?  Next bus to Oblivion leaves at two o’clock.

Mixed in with all the requisite resolutions, of course, there should be at least one that makes your heart jump.  Everybody needs something to look forward to, even if it’s just a herbal enema.  There are exceptional places to experience all over the country where all you have to do is sit back, light one up and enjoy the view.  If you’re agile and ambitious, find a scenic loop trail and take a walk in the woods.  If you’re still crazy after all these years, pick up a dangerous woman in a dive bar (or be a dangerous woman in a dive bar).  And remember, in some cases advanced age is an asset.  You can actually do it in the road, there’s not a policeman on Earth who really wants to handcuff a naked couple over 70.

Alright then, fellow geezers, let’s get going!  It’s the New Year, you’re alive and time’s-a-wastin’.  Gas up the woody, take a whiff on me and stomp down on the accelerator.  Every little thing is gonna be alright!

That’s not all, folks….

bill.killeen,094@gmail.com 

  

Kathygrams

Kathleen Knight, legendary reporter for The Flying Pie, daily roams the earth searching for news tidbits denied to readers of lesser publications.  We receive her posts at random times, wrinkled yellow pieces of paper hastily telegraphed, often under gunfire, from the far reaches of Rangoon or Rwanda, brief remarks later fleshed out by our alert staff writers for your edification and enlightenment.  Here’s the latest:

Barney & Clod

McArthur Wheeler and his pal Clifton Earl Johnson never did well in Science class.  Like many of their contemporaries, they shrugged off the value of a subject they’d never need in real life.  Au contraire, mes amis!

One fine afternoon, with nothing better to do, the deadly duo decided to rob the Swissvale branch of the Mellon Bank near Pittsburgh.  One of them waited in line while the other stuck up a teller with a semi-automatic handgun.  They left together, $5200 richer.  It was so easy they decided to double their pleasure, double their fun by robbing the Fidelity Savings bank in Brighton Heights.  So far, so good.

Trouble was, the pair’s pitiful science background caused Johnson to think putting lemon juice on his face would make him invisible to the banks’ security cameras, akin to how it functions as invisible ink.  Wheeler didn’t believe him at first so he covered himself in lemon juice and took a Polaroid shot.  Sure enough, he didn’t appear on the subsequent image.

Johnson was arrested three days later.  It took until April to find Wheeler, who was outed an hour after a surveillance photograph was broadcast on the evening news.  Stunned after looking at the photograph, he asked police for an explanation.  The cops attributed his absence in the Polaroid to bad film, a maladjusted camera or Wheeler having unintentionally pointed the camera in the wrong direction.

The robberies inspired research into the Dunning-Kruger Effect, which describes people with little ability in a given field erroneously believing they are experts in it.  “Kind of like the President of the United States,” said one of the cops, officiously.

….and Robbie

Which brings us to one of Marion County’s own bank robbers, Robby Snead.  Growing up, Robbie was not the brightest bulb in the lamp shop.  His energetic mother Ruth tried to raise him better, but her pleading he denied, that leaves only him to blame ‘cause mama tried.  In and out of jail enough to be called Turnstyle Snead, Robbie decided one day to push all of his chips to the center of the table and rob a bank.  Not just any bank, mind you, but the one in his own neighborhood where his mother had her accounts.  While this might at first seem unwise to the casual observer, you have to remember that Robbie had lost his license due to some earlier shenanigans and wasn’t allowed to drive.

The day of the robbery broke sunny and clear, a good day for a larceny.  Robbie walked the few blocks from his house to the bank, pulled a neckerchief over his face and walked up to the familiar teller’s window.  “Give me all your money!” he barked to the matronly lady on the other side of the counter, who recognized him right away, wily disguise or not.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Robbie?” she kindly inquired, because that’s what concerned neighbors do in Anthony, Florida.  “Yes, ma’am,” said Robbie, politely, so the teller sighed, gave him a few dollars and sent him on his way.  Satisfied he had enough for a jolly weekend, Robbie marched back to his house to have some lunch, but was soon interrupted by a polite knock on his door.

“Dang!” cussed the bank robber, flabbergasted at the crime-solving abilities of the local police.  “How do they DO that?” 

The Human Condition

We humans are preposterous creatures.  Our history books will bear this out with stories of wars sparked by a stolen bucket, farmers taking snails to court and emperors fleeing from an army of rabbits.  Whoever thought American voters would elect Mr. Magoo president of the United States?  Further evidence of man’s silliness is below.  Read it and giggle.

1. Liechtenstein’s army of 80 soldiers went to war in 1866.  Shortly, they came back with 81 after making a friend on the enemy side.

2. In World War II, those clever Germans built a fake airfield, replete with faux wooden planes, as a decoy in Holland.  When they finished, the British dropped a wooden bomb on it.

3. In 1945, the American army was rolling through Germany under the auspices of feisty General George Patton.  General Dwight Eisenhower sent Patton a message instructing him to avoid the city of Trier since it would require 4 divisions to take the town.  Patton sent a return message reading “have taken Trier with two divisions…do you want me to give it back?”

4. There was a time when the snobbish French dismissed potatoes as a food fit only for animals.  A farmer named Parmentier, however, knew potatoes were very good food and decided to promote them to the working class.  He bought a two-acre farm, started growing spuds and placed armed guards around the field.  The public took this to mean something very valuable was growing there, and they started eating potatoes, which quickly became popular throughout France.  If it weren’t for Mssr. Parmentier, there’d be no French fries.

5. Never discount the ability of a mid-level bureaucrat to influence history.  One Gunther Schabowski was tasked with informing the world media of plans to open the border between East and West Berlin.  Neglecting to read the full briefing carefully explaining that this would be a slow and gradual process, Gunther said the order would take immediate effect.  Berliners instantly rushed the wall and border guards were overwhelmed and couldn’t stop them.  Schabowski got no Christmas bonus that year.

6. The winner of the 1904 Olympic Marathon in St. Louis was later disqualified when officials discovered he traveled part of the distance in the back seat of a car.  Only 14 participants finished the race on an extremely dusty road that left several entrants unable to breathe.  One of the finishers took a nap.  The official winner glugged down a concoction containing strychnine, raw eggs and brandy.  The designer of the course wanted to test his theory of “purposeful dehydration” so the course lacked any water for the runners.  One of the contestants collapsed and threw up blood due to dehydration and had to have surgery for a dust-lined esophagus.  The fourth-place finisher got chased off the course by a dog.

7. During the Battle of San Gabriel in the Mexican-American War, both sides had an array of cannons and gunpowder, but due to some vague faux pas, they had only one cannonball between them.  The two sides spent the whole battle firing the one cannonball back and forth at each other.

Making Waves

For the past 35 years, dozens of students have walked across Florida International University’s campus lake during November’s Walk on Water contest, the largest and longest-running competition of its kind in the United States and probably anywhere.  Architecture professor Jaime Canaves dreamed this up as a fun design challenge for the students, who build their own floatable shoes, then race each other across the lake.  The winning team gets bragging rights and $1000.  Last year’s champs, Juan Goya and David Mora secured the win with a finish time of 50.90 seconds.  Impressive, perhaps, but a mere sideshow compared to the efforts of Charles W. Oldrieve, a former tightrope walker from Boston.

In November of 1888 at 20 years of age, Oldrieve used his oversized, wooden, canoe-shaped shoes to walk more than 150 miles down the Hudson River from Albany to Manhattan.  The journey lasted six days and involved water temperatures so cold that one night when Oldrieve came ashore to sleep, his shoes were covered in ice.  Unperturbed, he announced plans to walk across the English Channel a year later.  Charles never made it to Europe but he accomplished many other feats like walking across waterfalls and through the ocean to islands off the Massachusetts coast.

Oldrieve’s tightrope skills likely gave him an advantage, but his assured steady gait helped him the most.  “Usually, floating is easy,” says Professor Canaves, “the biggest problem is to go forward.  “If you don’t do something to create traction, you’re moving back and forth but staying in place.”

Oldrieve’s shoes had fins, or flappers on the bottom.  According to the Boston Globe, “When the foot is brought forward and the shoe forced through water, the fins lay flat against the bottom of the shoe until the step is taken, then they drop down and present a surface to press against the water.  That way, the walker is able to move forward.  Without the flappers, he’d make no headway.”  Although Charles’ shoes were similar to those of other water walkers, he continued to experiment with different designs and worked on his technique.  By the early 1900s, he could not only walk forward and backward, but also turn around in a circle, a maneuver that took him five years to master.

In 1907, Oldrieve embarked on his most ambitious journey yet, walking down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers from Cincinnati to New Orleans.  He began the nearly 1600-mile trip on New Year’s Day with a goal of reaching the Crescent City in 40 days, traveling up to five miles an hour.  Slowed down by the need to dump water out of his shoes despite wearing thigh-high rubber boots to keep them as dry as possible, his average speed slowed to roughly two mph.  At Cairo, Illinois, he complained of rheumatism in his back and came down with chills and a high fever but he made it to Baton Rouge by February 6, several hours ahead of schedule.  Approaching New Orleans, Oldrieve was nearly swept under a barge, but he was rescued by several men on board.  He made it to his final destination with an hour to spare on his 40-day deadline.  “I wouldn’t walk that river again for five times the money I won today,” he said.  “I’m lucky to still be in one piece.”

In A Snail’s Eye

At first glance, snails and humans don’t seem to have much in common, unless it’s the pace at which they tend to their income tax forms.  But, surprise—our eyes are structurally akin to those of the freshwater golden apple snail, a species native to South America.  And get this, these snails have a unique and spectacular superpower---after an eye is amputated, they can regrow a new, functional replacement within about a month.  Yeah, we know.  Why the hell would anybody amputate a snail’s eye?  There’s no explaining the idiosyncratic inclinations of scientists.

Anyway, the same scientists have now uncovered a gene related to eye development in these snails.  Further work with this eye-generating species might one day help with human eye diseases and injuries.  Alice Accorsi, a biologist at the University of California, Davis decided a study of the snails to discover the basis of their resiliency was in order,  The results of that study were recently published in the journal Nature Communications.

Accorsi and her colleagues used dissections, microscopy and genetic analysis to study the snails’ eyes and their similarity to human eyes.  The gastropods, like us, have camera-type eyes with a cornea, a lens and a retina with cells to capture light.  The team found that the apple snails and humans share several genes related to gene development.  They also determined the different stages of the snails’ eye regeneration process.  In the first 24 hours, after an eye is amputated, the wound begins to heal.  The body sends unspecialized cells to the affected area, then in just over a week those cells specialize by beginning to form eye structures.  Within two weeks of the amputation, the eyes’ structures are all present, though they still need a few weeks to mature.

The researchers also found that the same gene (called pax6) is used to form eyes in both the snails and in humans.  “With the advent of CRISPR technology, we can now manipulate genes in this species,” says study co-author Alejandro Sanchez Alvarado, a developmental biologist at the Stowers Institute for Medical Science.  “This includes targeted disruption of the pax6 gene, an essential regulator in eye development and regeneration.”

Humans, alas, won’t be growing new eyes just yet.  To investigate further, the researchers will have to mutate or turn off pax6 in adult snails, then access their ability to regenerate their eyes.  If they find a set of snail genes that are important to eye regeneration and vertebrates also have those genes, scientists might be able to one day activate them in humans.  Henry Klassen, an ophthalmologist and stem cell researcher at Cal-Irvine tells Science News that knowing eye regeneration is possible is “a beacon of light. You can at least start asking questions like, ‘Where’s the hang-up. How far along the similar path do things go in humans,’ and what genes, for instance, intervene or have been added to suppress regeneration or fail to respond?  Nature carries out many experiments through evolution, and by exploring how different species solve similar biological challenges, we often find there is more than one way to achieve the same outcome.” 

Exit, eye of the tiger.  Enter, orbs of the mollusk.  Oh, to be a brown-eyed handsome man.  Twice.

Hold It, Mister!

Nobody died last year in Longyearbyen, Norway, and for good reason.  It’s against the law.  If you’re feeling a little mortal, better skitter across the town line and do your business there.  There’s nothing worse than being dead and in jail in Longyearbyen.  It’s not that the locals have anything against corpses, they just can’t bury them in the permafrost and you don’t want them piling up too high in the hospital dumpster.

This edict against death is not a new thing for Europeans.  In ancient Greece, the city of Delos  was considered too sacred for the messy realities of life…and death.  Around the 6th century BCE,  authorities ordered all graves removed and banned both childbirth and dying on the island.  Anyone in a precarious situation was promptly ferried to neighboring Rhenea, which became the ancient version of a designated troublemaker zone.

In 2007, after cemetery plans were blocked by regional authorities, the mayor of Cugnaux, France banned death within the city limits.  The decree worked, as news coverage spread across the country and forced the city leaders to find alternative space.  The same thing happened in the French city of Sarpourenx and the Spanish town of Lanjaron.  In Biritiba Mirim, Brazil, the town cemetery ran out of space in 2005 and environmental rules forbade expansion.  In response, the city’s mayor pushed through a law banning residents from dying.  The move forced state officials to reconsider restrictions and new land was approved for a future cemetery.  Until it was finished, everyone was kindly asked to stay alive.  Brazilians being very polite people, did just that.

That’s all, folks….

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