Bill and Siobhan are in Lexington, Kentucky where Siobhan is dispensing her wisdom to a meeting of the EPM Society. Bill has to go so that Siobhan will not get lost in the airport or mistakenly drive the rental car to Louisville, so obsessed is she with mentally rehearsing her talk. I suggested practicing on the Delta passengers on the way up but she thought I was kidding.
Anyway, herewith is presented The Flying Pie column of July 27, 2010, one of the earliest efforts. It contains a little bit of Gainesville history and a whole lot of Mexico. Enjoy. We’ll be back next week with news from the Bluegrass.
Silver City
With the Subterranean Circus inventory increasing dramatically by the month, the store soon became too small to comfortably display everything we wanted to sell. Especially the clothes. And so, after protracted negotiations between our realtor pal Louis Bliziotes and the Standard Fertilizer family which owned the building, we purchased the building next door and also the one next to that on the corner of SW 7th street and University Avenue. The building next door snugged right up against our building. It was the same length but about five feet wider. This is where we moved the clothing and jewelry. We called it Silver City.
Before we bought it, the Silver City property contained, barely, Cecil Shannon’s auto salvage operation. Cecil had automobile engines in various stages of disarray scattered all over the building. We had to spray the place first with hydrochloric acid, then water, to get it sufficiently clean to move in. We decided to put the retail area on a wooden platform about 6 feet high and connect it to the Circus with a large doorway in the middle. On the first floor, we erected a fountain which we had shipped in from Mexico in sixteen crates (don’t ask what the freight on that one was). In the right front corner, we established a triangular garden and bordered it with a rock wall, the stones of which were once ballast in a ship that sank off Miami Beach. We put in a skylight so the plants would grow. Then we strung leaded glass lights on chains from the ceiling from front to back. For a very short time, we had an enormous plexiglass aquarium opposite the garden in front. After a couple of days, it exploded (too much pressure, despite the assurances of our engineer friends that it was fine). We saved all the fish, though.
On the floor, we had a couple of large burl display tables for ladies shoes and photographs of our clothes modeled by our staff, including Harolyn, once a fashion model. The long, curved stairway from the first floor to the platform was crafted by Ron Blair, then a member of local band Mudcrutch and later one of Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers. My semi-office, which had been in the Circus was moved to the east end of the platform, well away from the retail area. We brought in a mobile unit from one of the popular local radio stations and had a giant opening which lasted past Friday midnight. And for several years, the daily gross of Silver City exceeded the nice figure the Circus was earning. The building on the corner was rented to Dan Ianarelli, an ex-Gator lineman, who opened a drive-in beverage mart, which he kept open until 2 a.m. The Circus and Silver City were both open until 10, so if you ran out of things to do there was always our corner. And now you’ve had your history lesson for today.
Thinking Like a Mexican Meets The Evil Eye
After several trips to Mexico featuring fiascos of every stripe, we started to get better at Thinking Like a Mexican. Most of our visits were for several days, no more than a week, often to pick up specific items. We had established a good relationship with an American-owned business out of Guadalajara called Char Leathers, from whom we bought pants and jackets which were just a skosh below the quality of Italian or Spanish leathers, but were half the price. We sold tons of this stuff during the annual Gatornationals, the well-attended drag-racing event that came to Gainesville each Spring….much of it to the drivers.
We had become pretty familiar with Mexico from Oaxaca to Puebla to Puerta Vallarta and Acapulco and so we decided we would take three weeks to travel though the central part of the country, hitting the various market days, and loading up a rental van, which we would then drive back to Florida. This would enable us to circumvent the enormous shipping fees we had been paying previously and would provide a semi-vacation as well as a business endeavor. What’s that? Oh. Harolyn and Rick Nihlen, our other traveler, wanted you to know that Bill’s tight schedule did not allow them to have any vacation, but surely they exaggerate.
I guess we need to tell you about Rick Nihlen. He, along with wife Lynn, had a store not unlike ours in Tallahassee. They called it, ahem, “Gemini Bear.” It was their store, remember, so they could call it anything they wanted. Anyway, Rick and Lynn were our main companions on buying trips to NYC and we even had a brief wholesale operation together. Rick was one of those guys who likes to drive all the time so we let him be our Neal Cassidy. And off we went.
Guadalajara is a large, attractive town with a lot of wide boulevards featuring vast traffic circles, easy to drive in despite the maniac Mexican drivers. Some of the buildings looked like they had been there since the dawn of time, and they were still beautiful. In the middle of downtown Guadalajara is the Plaza of the Mariachis, where people sit around at night, drink beer and hire one of the meandering mariachi bands (of which there are legions) to play a song or two at their tables. If you get a good band (through blind luck), they’ll know maybe twenty songs that you know. If they don’t know it, they will shake their heads as if they do and then play Cielito Lindo. If there is one song you are guaranteed to hear in Guadalajara, perhaps a trifle more than you would like, it is Cielito Lindo. Otherwise, a lovely song.
Harolyn, Rick and I were sitting at our table in the Plaza of the Mariachis enjoying our beer and tacos when I noticed a college-aged fellow across the plaza looking over at us. I thought he was looking at me, but, in retrospect, he was surely looking at Harolyn, like everybody else did. Anyway, I looked back at him, I guess a little too long. He got up and headed our way, weaving a little and muttering unpleasantries which, or course, I couldn’t understand. Fortunately, a couple of his friends followed him over and grabbed him just as he got to our table.
“He is drunk,” one of them said, in English. “And he says you are giving him the evil eye.”
With that, they haul the guy, protesting, back to his table. And I am left to ponder the mystery of the evil eye which, before this trip is over, will rear its ugly head once more.
A Travelogue
During our journey, we visited Morelia, Patzcuaro and Uruapan (meaning: where the flowers grow). In the latter, we rode horses down perilous cliffs to a terrific waterfall, putting lie to my companions claims of no vacation. In Uruapan (uru-apn), we happened on a wonderful Mother’s Day celebration in the city square, where little children in white garments, group after group, paraded up to a gazebo and, in song and dance, extolled the virtues of their mothers. This day is a very big deal in Mexico, perhaps second only to Christmas, although they sure do like their Day of the Dead, unhappily also my birthday, November 2.
We visited San Miguel de Allende, a picturesque little hamlet and home of a sophisticated population of university students, San Juan de los Lagos, where the women embroidered the best blouses in the country and Leon, producer of more shoes than you could ever want to see. We wanted to go to Petamba, where the natives created beautiful ceramic museum-quality pineapples but we only made it to Paracho (home of beautifully crafted guitars and other musical instruments).
We found a guy in Paracho who spoke English and was delivered to us by half the population of the town (they knew this must be important, why else were we there?), trailing him down the street in homage. Turned out he used to work in the steel mills of Pittsburgh, so we had to reminisce for a while. You don’t want to rush these Mexicans, especially when they are doing you a favor. Anyway, he told us Petamba was only eight miles away. Glory be! And we could find a cab driver who would take us there. Well, yeah, but.
“It takes three and a half hours,” said our translator, citing the cabbie. “And three and a half hours back.”
“But you said it’s only 8 miles.”
“Ah yes, 8 miles. But the roads are very bad.” This must have set a new standard for “very bad.” We left the pineapples to their own devices and moved on down the line, leaving one very sad cab driver and his buddy from Pittsburgh.
Thinking Like a Mexican Meets the Evil Eye: Part 2
After almost three weeks of bobbing and weaving, we had just about everything we wanted loaded up so we began the long trek to the border. Uneventful, until we reached the booming metropolis of Tamazunchale (just like it sounds).
In Tamazunchale (San Luis Potosi), they have this little bridge. Now, for all our travelling in Mexico, you think we’d know this esoteric tradition, but apparently the motorist approaching a bridge who first flashes his lights gets the right of way to cross first. Even if he is further away. This, of course, would prove inconsequential if the bridges were built wide enough for two cars to occupy them at the same time, but budget considerations often dictate otherwise, as they did in Tamazunchale. So we entered the bridge (crossing a modest river) first. Bearing down on us at considerable speed was a large dumptruck.
“This asshole isn’t stopping!” Rick screamed. “I’ll pull over as far as I can.”
Which wasn’t far enough. The truck hit the back part of our van, jamming it into the side of the bridge. Before that, he hit a fruit cart on the bridge, knocking it to smithereens and forcing the fruit peddler to dive into the water to save his hide. There was watermelon everywhere. And pineapple. And bananas, lots of bananas.
The policia arrived, a force of two, including the chief. Feeling wronged (we were on the bridge first, right?), we pled our case. I did, especially. The chief said we should come to the station. The van was driveable—that far. At headquarters, I was ranting and raving. The chief had a young boy from the mission school there to translate. After listening to me for what he considered long enough, he spoke a couple of words to the lad.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He say if you not stop talking, he put you in jail.”
“Oh.” Well then.
We retreated to the only decent hotel in town, run by an American. He was very kind. Gave us the grand tour, intervened with the local justice system to grease the wheels. All for naught, however. There was only one Judge Roy Beaner in the area and he wouldn’t be there for four days. We would have to wait. Did I mention there was no, count 'em no, air conditioning in this hotel? And it was so hot in this town that orchids grew in the streets?
In the intervening days, we learned more than we ever wanted to know about Tamazunchale. Including the fact that it was some kind of Lepidopterist Mecca. Guys with nets came in from all over the universe to capture giant moths and etcetera. We almost went to a movie one night. After all, Los Mundo Fantastico de los Jipis (The Fantastic World of the Hippies) was playing and what could be more a propos? But we mostly hung around the hotel, waiting for the judge. And when he finally arrived, he produced a righteous verdict. Both parties, he proclaimed, were equally to blame. Us because we ignored the flashing lights, the other guy because he had time to stop and didn’t. The verdict was that both of us would have to contribute equally to the purchase of a new fruit cart (and fruit) to the unfortunate peddler who had his livelihood ruined. We all thought this a fine solution and went back to the hotel to meet the rental car representative, who was bringing us a new van.
The rental man arrived brilliantly attired in a new suit and a beaming smile. He apologized for the inconvenience and started enumerating the wondrous qualities of the new van parked outside. As we sat at our table having drinks, however, he began to grow uncomfortable. I had been paying close attention to his conversation and couldn’t understand the problem. Finally, he jumped up, pointing to me and reverting to Spanish.
“What the hell happened?” I asked the hotel owner, flabbergasted.
“He says you are giving him the evil eye,” he said. Well for Chrissakes.
Harolyn looked unfazed. She smiled, leaned over and whispered her motto.
“When you got it, flaunt it,” she said. Good advice for all of us.
Old College Humor Magazine Joke (from 1964):
Two young lads, six and seven, were sitting on the curb in front of a house of ill repute. They noticed over a period of several hours that a number of men would knock at the door, show a five-dollar bill and gain entrance. Finally, their curiosity gained the better of them, and although they only had forty cents between them, they decided to try their luck.
They went up and knocked at the door and when the same woman they had seen earlier answered, they walked in and dropped their forty cents on the table. Whereupon she snatched them both up, paddled them vehemently, kicked them around the room, busted a chair over their backs and then threw them out the door.
After a few silent, stunned moments, the first young lad picked himself up and slowly turned to the other.
“Man,” he shook his head. “You know, I just don’t think I could have stood five dollars worth!”
That’s all, folks.
