We got a note the other day from one of our irregular readers, Nancy Mills, who didn’t see eye-to-eye with us on our opinions regarding the Florida moviehouse shooting of texter Chad Oulson by ex-cop Curtis Reeves. Nancy was willing to cut poor old Chad a little slack since his offense was committed prior to the actual start of the feature. We promptly advised her that we personally never start shooting before the curtain goes up, either. Nancy was more interested in getting after Reeves, wondering “how many people he beat to a pulp for failing to use turn signals or having a busted tail light.” That’s just Nancy. She doesn’t like cops much. Or authority figures in general.
Before you go off thinking Nancy is some kind of anarchist, we hasten to demur. She is actually a charming young woman, a thoroughbred rider of some experience, up at the crack of dawn to ply her trade and happily risk the consequences, which have included innumerable broken bones and stints on the sidelines. Nancy is feisty. She once discovered in the newspaper a request for companionship on a trip to India and quickly responded, pish-toshing all her friends who advised against such a risky venture and having a wonderful time. Nancy eventually managed to make a small heap of her riding profits and invested in lower-echelon real estate, so she is now the proud owner of several apartment units and therefore, a capitalist, certainly not one given to anarchy. Though she is unlikely to admit it, there have probably even been times when Nancy had to call on Curtis Reeves’ brethren at the local police department to contend with unruly tenants bound on throwing refrigerators down the stairwell or refusing to vacate after months of nonpayment.
Truth be told, Nancy is probably more of a Libertarian than anything else. She is certainly no Democrat, abhorring the untethered generosity of the Welfare State and the irking tendency of advocates of that party to “get in everybody’s business”. Nancy believes in as little government interference in one’s personal life as possible, a goal supposedly espoused by Republicans. But Nancy can’t be a Republican, either, because GOP devotion to less government apparently doesn’t extend to things like relaxed or eliminated marijuana laws or disallowing women to make their own decisions regarding abortion. Not to mention their unceasing inclinations to ram the Christian religion down the reluctant throats of nonbelievers.
It is easy to like Libertarians because they are really idealists at heart and they’re on the correct side of most issues. My neighbor, Hal Hollis, an avowed Libertarian, often claims “that’s the way things should be,” and he’s generally right. Trouble is, Libertarians have no use for incrementalism, they want immediate fixes, and quick fixes are hard to come by, as politicians like Rand Paul have discovered. It’s easy to understand their reluctance, eons having passed trying things the incremental way and little progress having been made. Libertarians also might be a little hard on their fellow man, a few of which fall into the ditch due to unfortunate cosmic intervention and no fault of their own. Still, it might be interesting to vote a few of them into office, the better to shake things up. We should probably start on the local level where quick changes are more easily made. And, as you might have suspected, we have our first candidate to proffer: Nancy Mills For Sheriff!
Another Happy Ending
Most long-time readers of this column are aware of my propensity to attend athletic events, sans tickets. I usually buy them outside the venue, either from a fan with extras or a scalper, of which there is usually no shortage. Two weeks ago, I went over to the University of Florida to watch a basketball game between the Gators and South Carolina. I usually hold out for a dangerously long time, searching for the perfect ticket, a habit my sometimes companion, Torrey Johnson, finds worrisome. Torrey wasn’t around this night, however, so fifteen minutes before gametime, I was still without. Then, out of nowhere, appeared a smiling man, the splitting image of Vladimir Putin. He offered me a ticket in the very first row behind the Florida bench for a mere $20, the regular price. I took it, went to the front and waved to all my friends on national TV. I was less thrilled the following morning when I discovered that I had, in the darkness, pulled a fifty out of my pocket and given it to Vladimir. Ouch, but no big deal.
Six days later, the Gators were playing Georgia, same arena. I again held out until the last minute, not expecting the same largesse as last game. The tickets offered by scalpers and fans alike were mostly in the rafters of the auditorium, suitable only for people with difficult cases of farsightedness. Getting great tickets in consecutive games was unusual, especially at the university’s regular prices, and I was on the verge of accepting less or paying more. When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, in the person of Vladimir, with yet the same available seat.
“I have one in the first row,” he said, not remembering me.
“I know,” I told him, “I bought it last time at a bonus price.”
His eyes widened and he smiled. “I told my wife there was no way I would ever see you again!” he exclaimed. He promptly handed over the ticket and my ten-dollar refund. I told him I appreciated the gesture and skipped merrily into the game, taken with the Fates and man’s humanity to man. In view of the circumstances, it was only natural to pose to myself the question:
Who says you can’t trust the Russians?
Ground Control To Driver Tom….
Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this story before. Hard as it is to believe, it happens with surprising frequency. Anyway, a Manitowoc, Wisconsin man who became lodged in the windshield of a car which plunked him told police he turned to the driver and calmly complained, “Why, hello! I’m the guy you just hit on the bicycle!”
This seemed to make little impression on Driver Tom (unlike his unfortunate victim), who drove on as if nothing had happened. On the way home, he ran a stop sign and hit another vehicle, making his windshield guest, Steven Gove, even crankier. Driver Tom finally made it home, where he was nonplussed to discover cyclist Gove. “He looked at me and said, “Who are you? And what are you doing in my car?” Gove said.
Now, I know this is a little hard for any person bordering on normalcy to believe. Fact is, it happens time and again. Couple years ago, a pedestrian in Miami was scooped up by an errant windshield and carried off several miles to another driver’s residence where he took the fun out of the story by….well….dying, of all things.
Now, I am not the perfect driver, I’ll admit. I can be a little inattentive sometimes, just like the next guy. But….um, I’m pretty sure I would notice if a HEAD suddenly came crashing through my windshield, especially if it started talking to me. There have been a few occasions when I may have overimbibed a little or inhaled a smidgen of weed before driving but I rarely became deaf, dumb and blind. On one occasion, a few of us had ingested a little LSD, even sharing a bit with a large middle-aged man named Bill Partin, an acid virgin at the time. We went to the movies and then to a concert by an outfit named Goose Creek Symphony at the UF Rathskellar. Goose Creek may not have been the greatest band of all time but they were certainly one of the loudest. Halfway through the concert, Partin was soaring on the chemicals, roaring through the halls, in love with everybody. Half an hour later, he was on his way home.
‘WHAT??!!” I asked my friend, Rick Nihlen, when he told me Partin was headed back to the Bambi Motel. ”He’ll KILL himself! He can’t drive! We’ll have to go get him.”
“You’re kidding, right? replied Rick. “WE can’t drive, either.”
We could, though barely. It took a lot of concentration to squeeze those two steering wheels together, but I did it. Rick helped in the pursuit by constantly reminding me that I just HAD to get the car over 35 miles per hour or the cops would be stopping us any minute. Miraculously, we eventually made it to the Bambi, reassured that Bill’s car was parked there, and knocked on his door. No answer. We looked in the window and there was Partin, sleeping like a baby. “Must be the extra weight,” surmised Nihlen, lost for answers. Bill Partin was about 6-4 and went about 300 lbs. “He must process the stuff faster.”
Getting back to the scene of the crime, Steven Gove, whose body had eventually travelled most of the way through the windshield, pulled his knees and feet into the car. By then, Driver Tom—careful to lock the vehicle doors before departing—had gone into the house. Gove unlocked the passenger side door and began walking down the street, was picked up by a passing motorist and taken to a nearby hospital, where doctors removed glass from his eyes, head and legs. Luckily, he was none the worse for wear. Not so fortunate was his twisted, totalled bicycle, an afterthought at this stage of the game. Driver Tom was, of course, apprehended forthwith. Charges are pending. Probably LOTS of charges. It will be amusing to see what some of them are.
We have a few suggestions for drivers. If you have the slightest suspicion you might have a windshield issue even if you do not immediately see a head, pull your vehicle promptly to the curb. Get out carefully and investigate the hood of your car. If there are LEGS flopping around out there, chances are better than fifty-fifty there is a torso connected and, sooner or later, a head connected to that. We HOPE, anyway. SLOWLY guide the head back out through the windshield and remove the body from the hood. At this time, you should IMMEDIATELY call the medics. Then, according to your personal disposition, you may either run like hell or responsibly comfort the victim until help arrives. It’s up to you. Good luck and may God Bless.
Java Report
It’s not that we’re being paid off by the National Coffee Congress (although we’re open to negotiations), it’s just that we feel a sense of responsibility to make our readers aware of the latest bulletins that could affect their lives. A new paper in the journal Nature Neuroscience illustrates “for the first time a specific effect of caffeine on reducing forgetting over 24 hours,” says Michael Yassa, assistant professor of psychological and brain sciences at Johns Hopkins University, and he should know.
Yassa and colleagues gave participants a series of images to study and five minutes later gave them either a 200-milligram caffeine tablet or a placebo. The subjects provided saliva samples before taking their tablets to measure their caffeine levels. Saliva was taken again one, three and 24 hours later.
Next day, the caffeine group and controls were tested on their ability to remember the images from the previous day. Some of the visuals were the same, some were new and some were similar but not the same. More members of the caffeine group were able to correctly identify the new images as “similar” to previously viewed images vs. citing them as the same. Until now, caffeine’s effects on long-term memory had not been examined in detail.
The average adult, by the way, has a daily intake of about 200 milligrams—the same amount used in the study—or roughly one strong cup or two small cups of coffee per day.
Training News
Cosmic Flash will work his first three-eighths on Saturday at Eisaman Equine, prepping for a mid-February return to trainer Larry Pilotti at Gulfstream Park. We’re keeping the times down, looking just to enhance fitness. A couple of fast works at Gulfstream should set him up fine for his first race back. Also on Saturday, newly-minted two-year-old, Bull Ensign, will two-minute-lick his first time. If all goes well, the latter will subsequently work every ten days or so prior to shipping to Miami in March. Keep your fingers crossed, the Racing Fates are harsh taskmasters.
The Big Guy With The Big Horse
That’s all, folks….
