If you ever want to feel important, just drop in on a town
that’s been through three days of a tropical storm and is relatively abandoned—then
start spending some money. Tuesday night,
we (that being Siobhan, Teutonic Visitor Kristina Maier and local land magnate
Jenny Hollis) travelled to Cedar Key on the Gulf for dinner at the venerable
Island Hotel and were highly appreciated by the remaining hotel staff, which
had been reduced to standing around solving puzzles. I mean, who goes to the coast in a storm,
except us?
By the time we got there, the rains had largely abated
although the winds could still blow you down.
The only signs of life were from the scattered television trucks which
love to skulk about scenes like this, filming waves slapping through the
streets and papier-mache docks being shredded to confetti. Ironically, weeks of drought had caused an
incursion of salt water into the tiny island’s well field so the drinking—and cooking—water
was being made whole by some weird combination of science and witchcraft which
escaped me and didn’t particularly elate Siobhan, who stuck with the bottled
stuff. We were the only people in a
dining-room of 20 tables when we arrived and the service was, well,
exemplary. A couple more parties of
crazy people arrived as the evening wore on and a good time was had by all.
As we left, the manager smiled and expressed his fervent
appreciation. “No big deal,” I told
him. “We’ll be back for the next
disaster.”
A Letter From Boca
Irana writes:
Brilliant column on
Superheroes. But I don’t want a super
power. I’d for sure f*ck up, burn my
house down and melt my knee replacements.
I still would like to be Veronica (from Archie Comics). It’s
official. I’m pathetic.
Well, if you have to be somebody from Archie Comics,
Veronica would certainly be the character to choose. I mean, who else could you possibly select? Nobody liked Reggie, the rich, arrogant kid
and the name “Jughead” speaks for itself.
Oh sure, everybody favored poor old put-upon Betty who, despite being a
perky blonde, was always upstaged by the more desirable Veronica.
And Irana—despite you being one of our best friends in the
whole wide world—you have a little work
to do to get up there in Veronica’s neighborhood.
By the way, why did they name the comic book after Archie, anyway? How does a geeky red-headed kid with freckles
get his own comic? I think Bill Comics would have been much better
except for the certain X-rating. Hey,
and comic books sell for what, FIVE DOLLARS now? There could be a future in this. Let’s see—Bill
Meets The Green Monster—it has a certain cachet to it.
Bill Meets The Green
Monster
Gilbert Shelton sent a note last week asking if I remembered
the Great Ice Cream Eating Contest of 1962, held in Austin, Texas. And that would be hard to forget. Tami Dean and I represented the Texas Ranger humor magazine and Billy
Strong and Clark Santos represented the Daily
Texan student newspaper. The task
before us was to devour the Green Monster, which, Shelton reminds us, consisted
of your choices of 15 flavors (there were 36
available) of ice cream or sherbet, two fried pies, a couple of bananas and
various sauces. If you were somehow able
to actually digest this mess (regurgitation was a disqualifier), the meal was
free, certainly an incentive.
Being inexperienced in these matters, the contestants
probably gave too little consideration to the eventual appearance of this sad potpourri, a potentially fatal mistake. Tami, ignoring the future coloring
possibilities, opted for the lighter sherbets, orange and lime, which soon
melted into something resembling wet cement.
When you have finished about two-thirds of your meal and have lifted a
fork full of grey fried pie, you have a challenge on your hands. Tami was the first to quit, running to the
bathroom where she quickly dispatched all she had eaten. Clark Santos didn’t make it that far,
retching into his lap. Billy Strong and
I finished, causing a Ranger-Texan
tie but we didn’t feel like celebrating too much. When we emerged from the ice cream shop
swollen with sugar, some wit in the crowd yelled, “Race ya to the corner.” Just the thought made you faint. Shelton remembers finding me later, lying on
a bench in the Ranger office. I told him I felt like I had swallowed a
bowling ball, but that was not the worst of it.
Ruined now was my plan for surviving on a very small budget by eating
one Green Monster a day for free. I didn’t
eat much ice cream for awhile.
Nothing lasts forever, of course, so eventually we must go
down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky. I returned to the ice cream shop weeks later
by myself to try it again, failing miserably without the competition to bolster
my resolve. I probably didn’t make it
three-quarters of the way through.
Despite all this, I am happy to report that this nefarious experience did
not destroy my considerable regard for ice cream, which I continue to enjoy
today. Gilbert reports that I am the
only survivor from the group of contestants, a fact which makes me both happy
and sad. Sad for the fact that this band
of life-savoring pirates has been reduced by three, happy for the fact that I am
still around. And eating ice cream.
A Blast From The Past
One of the best things about writing this column is that
occasionally people from the Old Days track you down and can catch up on what
you are doing. The only reason I have a
Facebook identity is to be findable for such folks, the Facebook page
eventually leading searchers to The
Flying Pie. Two weeks ago, I heard
from another one, Marcia Hansen,
lost for 35 years or so. Marcia’s last
name is Dalton now, but she’ll always be Marcia Hansen to us, married as she
was to the star-crossed Ted Hansen,
erstwhile proprietor of Acme Records,
a booming little business he ran in the back of the Subterranean Circus. Ted, a gentle man who set his mood each
morning with the inhalation of a joint or two, built his business one customer
at a time with his knowledgeable advice to record buyers and his personal
attention to their needs. He ordered and
got back requests far faster than anyone around and his customers appreciated
the effort. Acme Records grew into a
nice business for Ted and he enjoyed his
work, even with the occasional struggles.
One night, three teenaged black kids grabbed a couple of
albums and ran for the door. Ted and I caught
them in a parking lot across the street and whaled the tar out of two of them,
retrieving the records, before the third reappeared behind me and smashed me in
the back of the head with a large rock which created a sizeable divot. When we returned to the store (with the
records, I might add), I looked like those pictures of Jesus crowned with
thorns. I made a mental note to give
future consideration to chasing when outnumbered. Ted, however, had ripped the coat off one kid—a
coat containing ID, which aided in the eventual arrest of the three—a fact
which didn’t make the hole in my head any smaller.
A few years later, Ted fell back into Dilaudids and a
serious regression began, culminating with the discovery of his body in the
backyard of his house, shot in the head, hands tied behind his back, his dog
staked off in the distance. As far as I
know, the perpetrators, drug sellers for sure, were never found. Not that the Gainesville Police didn’t hang
around the store for days, wasting their time with insipid questions. His mother kept the record store going for a
long time afterwards but it was not the same without Ted, a kind and gentle
man, a great friend beloved by most who knew him, but a friend with unfortunate
appetites which laid him low.
As If Once Wasn’t
Enough….
We got another blast from Chuck Lemasters, artist extraordinaire, long time Circus employee,
after 40 years of silence. One of Chuck’s
trademark airbrush paintings, for years adorning the front wall of Silver
City, the Circus’ sister-store, still hangs above our bed today.
Chuck came out to Fairfield for dinner. Like Ted Hansen, always a friend of the weed,
we were happy to see that Chuck has not entirely renounced his earlier
ways. He has also retained a quiet wit
and a pretty good memory, though not entirely recalling The Battle of the
Holiday Inn.
The Subterranean Circus was located on SW 7th
Street in Gainesville, just a few steps around the corner from University
Avenue. If you stand outside Leonardo’s 706 and look south, you can
almost see it now. On the northwest
corner of University and Seventh was Dan’s Beverages, a drive-in beer store operated
by ex-Gator lineman, Dan Iannarelli, who leased the property from us. Dan stayed open LATE, sometimes til 2 a.m.,
and sold tons of “the coldest beer in town.”
In those days, many of the local
businesses were harassed by roving gangs of “homeless” street people and not
the kind you see today, who are mostly tired and humble. A lot of these guys were young—in their
twenties—and aggressive in their quest for undeserved benefits. One night, they accosted the Circus crew,
which promptly dispatched them. They
went around the corner and attempted entry into Dan’s Beverages. The lone employee, nice guy Bert Issenberg
(also an occasional Circus worker) repelled them. A few steps away, the leader of the pack
unloaded a large rock, splitting open Bert’s chin. Somebody called an ambulance, alerting the
Circus staff, among which were Chuck and I.
Visiting at the time was our old pal, Larry Johns, a roto-rooter genius
who had emptied bars in fistfights in every city in the Florida panhandle.
“Let’s get those bastards!” I
said, grabbing my trusty blackjack, always kept nearby for unruly customer
discipline. Chuck looked at me like, “Oh
God, Bill, what kind of trouble are you getting me into now?” But he was a strong guy—and game—so he
grabbed a three-foot long metal pipe and came along. Before you cast a dubious eye at our weapons
of choice, consider that we were outnumbered two to one, although Larry Johns
might probably be given extra weight. As
we rounded the corner, we noticed a couple of cops attending to Bert. Save this fact for later.
We caught the miscreants in the
parking lot of the Holiday in on the corner of University and 13th. Suffice to say, they had little taste for
combat and went scurrying off in all directions. We could only catch three of them, but we
made it count, administering revenge liberally with our implements of
destruction, stopping traffic as they tried to flee. Larry Johns felled the leader, a guy twice as
big as Larry, ground his face in the dirt and verbally disparaged his
ancestors. In short order, the cops
pulled up, which caused us a brief interlude of concern. I tossed my blackjack into the back of Larry’s
truck before the cops could see it. And
then I noticed Chuck—in an image I will hold forever. He had smugly hidden his pipe behind his back
lest the minions of the law take umbrage.
Unfortunately for Chuck, the thing was still sticking out a foot over his
head, a humorous detail if not for the potential for arrest.
Harken back now to the crushed
Bert Issenberg at Dan’s Beverages, attended by the police. These same police, as it turns out. The head cop looked at Larry, eyeballed Chuck
and his pipe and walked up to me. Out
the side of his mouth, he quietly rasped, “Personally, I think you deserve a
medal. Now get the hell out of here.” We gladly did. Bert recovered handsomely, none the worse for
wear. The pipe went into the Circus Hall
of Fame, above the counter. Chuck
eventually disappeared into the shadows.
Larry Johns is living out his life as a dollhouse builder in Union
County. And I’m here to tell about
it. Now you know The Rest Of The Story.
But that’s all, folks….
