In
the thoroughbred racing business, you have to renew your license every year or
every three years, as you wish. The
other day, when Siobhan appeared for her renewal, she was advised she needed to
redo her fingerprint card, something an owner is obligated to do every five
years. Frankly, we never understood the
reasoning behind this. Can your
fingerprints actually change in five
years? I don’t pretend to be an expert
in these matters but from watching all the crime shows on TV, I don’t think so. So what can be the possible purpose for this
major inconvenience? Oh pish tosh, you
may say, just go down to the sheriff’s office and get it done. Sure.
Easy for you to say. But listen to what happened to Siobhan.
“Hello,
I’m respectable citizen Siobhan P. Ellison and I need to be fingerprinted for
my racing license.”
Clerk: “Did
you bring your fingerprint card?”
SPE:
“What fingerprint card? I don’t
have any fingerprint card?”
Clerk: “Well, ma’am, you need to
have a fingerprint card.”
SPE:
“Well, where do I get
one? Don’t you have any here?
What if I’m a perp (this is one of Siobhan’s favorite words)? Do the perps have to bring their own
fingerprint cards?”
Clerk:
“Those pink cards over there are for the felons. If you’re not a felon, you can't use the
felon cards.”
SPE:
“Well, what do the misdemeanor folks do?”
It’s
a quandary. Maybe if you’re a
misdemeanor offender they don’t fingerprint you any more. Or maybe if you’re an affluent offender, you can afford to carry your card with you. Siobhan eventually got her card from the
state racing office, but I’m telling you these cutbacks are killing us. It may get to the point where they’ll
actually have to start letting people out of jail because there’s no more room. But don’t concern yourself. After all, this is Florida, so only the
rapists and murderers are likely to be set free. You won’t have any of those heinous marijuana
smokers to worry about.
Siobhan Fought The Law
And The Law Won. But Only Temporarily.
Siobhan
has a long history of problems with the sheriff’s office, dating back to an
episode with equine veterinarian Dr. Llewellyn Peyton and a couple of Marion
County deputies many years ago. Dr.
Peyton, then at UF, was a member of the African-American persuasion and owned a
shiny new pickup truck which he was driving, in tandem with Siobhan, to visit a
horse owned by one of her clients. The
horse was suffering from a life-threatening canker on the sole of a foot and
Dr. Peyton had expertise in these matters.
Not
far from the intersection of Marion County roads 329 and 318, one of the
deputies decided it was mighty suspicious that Dr. Peyton should be in possession
of such a fine new vehicle, he being so black and all. So he stopped him. Siobhan was outraged and leaped from her
truck to provide support. Dr. Peyton
showed the deputy all manner of identification and truck ownership but this was
a Marion County deputy, remember, so he
wasn’t going to be distracted by mere documents when he knew in his gut
something was amiss. Dr. Peyton wisely
remained fairly quiet but Siobhan, of course, was mad as hell and not going to
stand for it anymore. The deputy told
her that he and Dr. Peyton would remain
there until another deputy brought in a drug-sniffing dog. Peyton, of course, had plenty of drugs
aboard, but probably not too many of the sniffable variety. Siobhan was told she could either leave or be
arrested. Even though she is only 112
pounds soaking wet, Siobhan is very feisty.
She called the sheriff, himself, an amiable fellow named Ken Ergle, and
recited the dilemma. It didn’t hurt that
her client with the affected horse was Hans Tanzler, son of the Jacksonville
ex-mayor of the same name. Siobhan said
if the matter was not quickly settled her next call was to the local newspapers
and television stations. No fool he,
Ergle radioed his minions and called off the search. The stunned deputies let Peyton go. Ergle called Siobhan to let her know all was
now well. Not entirely, said Siobhan,
asking for a personal meeting with the sheriff next day, to which he acceded. In the meeting, Siobhan insisted the deputies
personally apologize to Peyton, which they did, and the department work on
their profiling problem, which they seem to have done. Ergle gave Siobhan his card and all his
personal numbers. “Call me anytime,” he
said.
Just
when you think you have an ace in the hole at the sheriff’s office, however, the
world caves in on you. Not one year
later, Ergle was cited for sniggling over $170,000 in sheriff’s office funds to
buy his demanding wife all manner and make of snazzy automobiles, fur coats and,
for that much money, probably a seat on the next Russian moon rocket for all
anybody knows. He was summarily
dismissed and even put in his own jail in a masterpiece of irony.
“Wouldn’t
you just know it,” lamented Siobhan. “My
own personal sheriff and now he’s finished forever. It’s enough to give you apoplexy.”
His
successor would be well-advised to stay away from easy-to-rile female
veterinarians. They may float like a
butterfly but they sting like a bee.
Micanopy
In
the 1991 Michael J. Fox movie Doc
Hollywood, the actual star of the show is the tiny town the movie is set in—supposedly
a place in South Carolina, but actually the town of Micanopy, a little over ten
miles south of Gainesville on U.S. 441.
Micanopy was the first distinct Unites States town in Florida with
settlement beginning after Spain ceded the Florida territory in 1821. In the year 2000, the population of Micanopy
was 653. In 2004, it was 652. You get the idea. Things don’t change a whole lot in Micanopy.
The houses the people live in, many of them old Florida cracker houses, have
been there forever. A new house in
Micanopy is one that was built less than fifty years ago.
Siobhan
and I traipsed around town last night, waiting for the fireworks, joined by
international wild woman Kristina Maier and local mule-keepers, Hal and Jennie
Hollis. The visit reminded us of all the
old Micanopians come and gone, people like Rick Nihlen, long disappeared into
the ethers, hale-fellow-well-met and wife-swapper Leland George Shaw (and who
can forget his bride Suzy—not me), Chuck Lemasters, recently rediscovered after
generations, and a long chorus line of others.
When old pal Mike Garcia returned from Vietnam, we feted him with a
spectacular party at the overflowing home of Rick Nihlen on Wacahoota Road. Don Felder, later of the Eagles, was a member of the band which played on Rick’s porch.
Many
of the residents of Micanopy in those days were agriculturally oriented with a
special emphasis toward growing marijuana.
The locals were very proud of their product and with good reason, it was
some of the best weed in the state. Each
year, the cultivators looked forward to the Autumn harvest (most of the current
folks don’t even know it but today’s Fall Harvest Festival originally
celebrated the annual reaping of the crop), albeit with a little edginess. Occasional infiltrators would discover some poor
farmer’s field and make off with the plants just before the picking, a
heartbreaking crime, often depriving the rightful owners of tens of thousands
of dollars.
Worse
yet, was the occasional Simple Twist of Fate.
Interstate-75 almost borders Micanopy on the west and one Fall day an
accident occurred not far from Wacahoota Road.
A highway patrolman investigating the accident decided to move into the
woods to take a leak, probably gravitating a little further in due to the size
of the accident-monitoring party.
Whereupon he discovered a vast field of marijuana ready for the picking. He called in an army of goons which quickly
destroyed the farmer’s gentle work of many moons. The latter, a good friend of ours, took
flight, abandoning all his earthlies. In
the universe of dope-growing, ‘twas ever thus.
In the interests of fair reporting, we knew another fellow whose fields were
spoken (and amply paid) for each year by a financier from Cambridge, the better
to wet the whistle of his Harvard and MIT customers. Those days are gone forever and, judging from
the look of the audience we surveilled last night, not likely soon to return. Thank God we still have our memories. Most of us, anyway.
Bestiality In Our Town
I
know, it’s shocking. But from time to
time, stories like this turn up. It started
simply enough. Kristina, Siobhan and I
were wandering around St. Augustine, just off St. George’s street, when we came
upon the perfect gift for Jennie Hollis.
It was a magnificent wooden chicken, beautifully rendered and
painted. It even had legs that moved so
that a person might place his wonderful chicken on a desk or nearby shelf to
keep an eye on. We knew Jennie would
love the chicken because she already had a very large one parked in her yard—though
certainly not of the high quality and rare beauty of this one.
When
Hal and Jennie came to dinner, an odd celebration of the Higgs Boson near-event,
Jennie’s chicken was waiting for her, sitting on the table. Being a discriminating lover of avian art,
she quickly fell in love with her new acquisition. No, I mean she fell in love with him. When she
left for the evening, she carried him off on her shoulder like a kitty-cat and
when Hal offered to hold him while she struggled with her shoes at the door,
Jennie would have none of it. Nobody was
carrying her chicken.
I
would like to report that this ended well but I am not so sure. I have a sneaking suspicion that the chicken
made his way into the conjugal bed and that Hal was displaced, a regrettable
occurrence. I would feel bad about it,
too, if I weren’t privileged to see Jennie’s magnificent smile in the morning.
Swimming With The
Dolphins
When
Kristina Maier got clearance to visit us from Germany, Siobhan asked her what
she most wanted to do while here. The
two prime objectives she elaborated were a visit to Kennedy Space Center and a
trip to Marineland to swim with the dolphins.
It is absolutely amazing how many people are enthralled with this
dolphin-swimming business, especially considering the massive fee. I mean, for $200—count ‘em, TWO HUNDRED—dollars
I would need to be swimming with Scarlett Johansson or, at least, Dara
Torres. That’s a lot of money. Anyway, as you can see from the photograph
above, Mission Accomplished, Part I.
We
haven’t been to St. Augustine for awhile but it never changes. Which is, after all, the idea. The old fort, the Castillo de San Marcos,
still packs ‘em in, the Raintree Inn is still the best restaurant, the shops on
St. Georges are little changed. Kristina
picked up a dress. They only came in two
sizes, Busty and Extra Busty, so while Kristina thrived Siobhan went home
empty-handed. I told her that in a
recent poll I had read, a large majority of men claimed they preferred more
modest-breasted women. “They’re liars,”
she retorted. In recompense for the
dress disappointment, I’m treating her to her first real Hair Readjustment in
25 years. She’s been keeping it halfway
down her back because she knows I like it but the time has come to be
reasonable. The great event takes place
at B.J.’s in Gainesville on Thursday. Barbara
the hairdresser says I can have “input” since I am paying for it but I’m not
sure I believe her. I think I’ll show up
when it’s over. That way nobody can
blame me if things don’t go well. I
remember the days when I had to give consideration to what I was doing with my
hair but for some reason the subject seldom arises any more. Anyway, along the lines of “It was the best
of times, it was the worst of times,” later in the week she goes to the rolfer
for one last attempt to repair her “frozen shoulders.” A split of this series would be acceptable
but we’re fervently hoping for a sweep.
You’ll be the first to know.
Help Marty Week
You
remember Marty Jourard—musician par excellence, wiseguy, profane reviewer of
this column. For some reason, Marty
resides out in a place called Kirkland, Washington, which seems unnecessary to
us, and he’s gone and written a nice book about Gainesville’s Rock
History. It’s a look at not only the
local music scene of the seventies but also all of the ingredients which
contribute to the essence of the town (even the headshop, by the way). Trouble is, Marty can’t come up with a
satisfactory title for this little gem—and that’s where you—yes, YOU—come in. Marty, no piker, is offering a REWARD to
anyone who comes up with either a title or a subtitle for his book. The prize for the latter is either a fruit
basket—or, should you prefer, a hetero basket.
For the WINNER, though, Marty is offering an all-expenses--paid trip to
Kirkland. Alright, it is by bus, but still. Just send in your entries to us and we’ll
pass them on. We are not making this up,
so take advantage of this rare opportunity before someone else beats you to the
punch. After all, this is the only time of year to be in Kirkland.
Set
your chickens free….
