Caught Up In the Digital Revolution

It struck me in the car, on the way to get a pizza, just how far technology has come, and how much a part of our lives these days it is.

I was listening to a CD, one I had just bought online. I had purchased it with the click of a finger, and downloaded it to my computer where I burned it to a disc and minutes later had it spinning on my automobile CD player.

Was it always like this? So quick? So convenient? So easy to spend money that you never held in your hand? So impersonal? So digital?

Am I a part of the technology revolution or what? (Forget that I still get lost on a fairly regular basis, or that I have a receipt sitting on my dresser that I can’t for the life of me figure out what it’s for.)

What a technologically amazing world we live in. I wake up early Saturday to watch English soccer on my digital cable. I have high speed access that allows me to spend even more time in front of the computer at home than I already do at work. (Wait a minute, benefit where?) And I carry computer files home on a little portable memory device no larger than a peapod, but capable of storing more information than the computers of yesteryear which were large as houses.

But there are always downsides. Why is it the more advanced we become, the harder it is to tape something on television? Take my digital cable for example. Once upon a time all I had to do was program my VCR, pop a tape in and cross my fingers that I had punched in the correct date.

Now I must consult a checklist that begins with a warning — “Failure to follow these instructions could result in death by static electrocution, or worse, taping C-SPAN instead of ‘Survivor.’”

I feel like an airline pilot preparing for takeoff. “Rotary flaps set?” How would I know? I just want to see “The Amazing Race”!

I have to switch the switcher, make sure the digital cable is on the right channel, program the VCR in some precise order so it doesn’t get an attitude and eat my tape, sacrifice a chicken, read and re-read the instruction manual, check the atmospheric pressure and then cross my fingers that I punched in the correct date.

I go to replay the tape after all this and find that while the TV volume was up, the digital cable volume was all the way down. Now I’m watching my show trying to read lips.

Thank you technology.

I’ve got an Internet connection that sometimes gives an error message that is longer than Idaho, and mixes in with code I can’t understand two messages that I can — “up the creek” and “consult God.”

Thank you technology.

On the one hand, I love this plethora of modern technology that surrounds me. (I’m making use of it right now, and if it weren’t for E-mail, this column would get to my editor even later than it already is.)

But on the other hand, I’m plagued by it, constantly caught in a giant shoulder-spasm of a panic attack while trying to figure out error messages or blinking red lights that have no meaning. I’m suffering from digitization.

While I feed on it, I also sometimes wonder if we’re not better off without it. Maybe we should go back to reading books, drawing pictures, sending mail, listening to tunes on record players and ruling technology, instead of it ruling us.

Or, I could just order another CD online and drown my misery in some downloaded digitized tunes. Back to the computer.

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Who will win the worst road trip championship?

So it’s a competition, eh? My parents, divorced since the invention of rocks, can’t stand to let the other one win. Competitive parents. And not competitive in anything that matters.

What’s the game? Who can have the worst road trip to St. Augustine.

In the left corner, weighing in at two sacks of flour, my mother, who won the heavyweight champion of the world title a couple months back when she got speeding tickets both to and from Tampa. It cost her a whopping $380 to J.Q. Law, and landed her in Internet traffic school.

In the right corner, weighing slightly more, my father, who took a stab at dethroning her this past weekend, and landed a couple of good upper cuts that might just put him over the top.

Ding, ding, ding.

My father, whose favorite driving move is to back into those yellow pipe bumpers that gas stations use to keep people from running over fuel pumps, came from Tampa late Friday night. He decided to take the route through the Ocala National Forest because, like my mother, there is too little that can go wrong when you get on an interstate, set the cruise control and kick back for the ride.

It was this haunted forest that became his undoing. Not long into it he heard a sound coming from the passenger seat where one of his two dogs was sitting. It was a sound you could identify through jet engines and a heavy metal concert — someone was throwing up. Now, it’s not a big dog, quite small in fact, but those are the ones who do the most “damage.” And damage she did. My dad pulled over and screamed for clean-up on aisle 6.

To spare you, we’ll move the story along. At some point he was back in the truck, back on the road and pointed toward Palatka. But not long after he was hit with another of those unmistakable noises — flat tire.

Now, there are flat tires, and then there are flat tires at 10 p.m. in the middle of a desolate national forest, in the capitol of nowhere, on a stretch of highway where gangs of bears are known to take your credit cards and order peanut M&Ms.

Changing a tire anywhere is terrifying. I always fear I will kick over the jack by accident causing the car to tip over and pin me by my pinky toe. But on the side of a dark road in the middle of the night is the making of a bad slasher film.

Yet, tough as it must have been, at this point in the story I’m thinking he’s a lightweight.

“Wait!” he says. “There’s more. So I got to your brother’s house. We have a beer while I tell him about the expedition, and after awhile I decide to go out to the car to get my bag, only … IT’S NOT THERE! I left it on the side of the road in the middle of the forest.”

So in the middle of the night, with my brother in tow, he goes out looking for his bag, which had to be found because it had his favorite cargo pants. They raced an hour and a half back like a cruise missile, eyes all-the-while trained on the side of the road until somehow, they found it. The trip ended at 3:30 a.m.


“No way,” said my brother Scott over lunch at Ann O’Malley’s. “His is more cost effective. All he wasted was gas, time and a few burned-out brain cells. Plus, he found the bag. Mom racked up hundreds of dollars in speeding tickets, points on her insurance and a dump truck full of brain cells. Only an alien abduction could top that.”

I couldn’t tell if my dad was relieved or disappointed when the scores came in. Will he hang up his gloves, or try to knock out the champ next time?

Only time will tell if a rematch awaits.

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Mother and her bridges

There’s something about the way she says my name.

“Bri-annnnn,” and the “n” trails off into infinity like a chain saw, or a motorcycle racing into the distance.

It was my mother, of course. It was time for her to make her 13 phone calls to me in the span of 11 minutes. There must be equipment at the phone company that burns out on a regular basis because of her quick-on-the-button redials. I’m also sure there is a man whose sole job is to figure out why it’s happening.

“We’ve tracked it to a short woman in Tampa who always remembers something she forgot to ask her sons, and calls back 1,500 times. We also suspect she caused a blackout in China.”

I was waiting for the calls, expecting the calls like you expect high tide or bills. I knew they were coming because I knew she was coming. Up to visit for the weekend, the weekend between my brother’s and my birthday. (I’ll be 32 by the time you read this.)

As we get closer to one of her voyages, it begins with messages at home, a fleet of them, and then calls to work.

The closer we get, the more frantic. The more pressing. The more critical to the fate of the universe.

So the phone rang one night.

“Bri-annnnn,” she said. “Your brother won’t speak to me anymore so I’m calling you. He’s threatening to change his number and not list it.”

No “hello.” No “how are you?” No “how’s the weather?” This is how she begins conversations. And no waiting for a response. She goes right into, “Is the bridge in the Ocala National Forest on State Road whatever taller than the Palatka bridge?”

Sometimes it’s like trivia night with my mom. Like she’s calling from some sweepstakes offering me $1 million if I can just answer a some random, off-the-wall question.

I like to throw her off. “Who is this?” I said.

“Brian!” she said, and this time my name came like a thunderclap or a slammed screen door. “This is serious. This bridge looks like it’s as big as Orlando on the map. I need to know.”

I saw where this was going … downhill on a big bridge fast. My mother doesn’t drive interstates anymore, and prefers the backroads through towns with names sounding like things you made up as a kid: Upanockee,

But she doesn’t like bridges. She’s afraid of heights, and thinks if the incline is too steep, it affects her high blood pressure, or her low pressure, or whichever a quick change in altitude messes with (which is probably neither.)

She was about to take an extraordinary chance, switch her route and possibly face a bridge so tall it brushed the beard of God, all because the cops on her other route now knew her on a first name basis.

“So is it taller?” she asked.

“Of course it’s not,” I said.

But there’s no convincing my mother. She wants to know steepness, incline and pitch, which I thought were all the same thing. Is it longer? Does it curve? Do birds fly into it? Does it have bandits.

“No!” I told her. But she was not satisfied.

“Fine. I’ll go to AAA tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll have the heights of all the bridges.”


And she did. She came that route, and was not happy about it.

“I am so mad at you boys, and I’m canceling AAA,” she said over lunch, and that wasn’t anything new to hear. “That bridge went straight up like an elevator. I thought I was going to fly off. It was all I could do to keep the car on the road. The altitude was terrible for my high blood pressure.”

“Or was it your low blood pressure?” I asked with a smile.

What’s a good son to do?

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Belated Valentine’s Day Wishes

A week-old letter to my wife on the pinkest holiday of them all.

Dear Sweet Pea,

Happy Valentine’s Day. I know you are a big observer of this holiday, and you’re shackled to a man who likens it to being pitched off a cliff into a field of sandspurs, or worse, having his toenails clipped by a badger.

But, learning to recognize fights I can’t win after 7 years of marriage, I give in and send you Valentine’s Day wishes. All the best. God’s speed. May the wind be at your back and the sun never set. All the typical loving and romantic things Valentine’s cards usually wish.

This isn’t to say I understand the holiday. Oh, to the contrary. I still find it horribly irresponsible, and that’s saying a lot coming from a guy like me. But how, as a society, can we possibly condone giving a bow and arrow to a little baby named Cupid? My brother and I each had a bow and arrow when we were kids, and family members quickly realized how foolish a decision that was when their car tires went flat and we almost pierced a neighbor’s ear by accident one day.

And even worse, we actually allow this little baby archer to run around and shoot people? Uh, hello! Maybe rob from the rich and give to the poor, but don’t be shooting people.

Alas, I won’t discount a holiday because its symbols are a bit violent.

But a little explanation: My dislike of Valentine’s Day probably stems from my days spent at the all-boys Academy of the Holy Names in Tampa. Do you know what it’s like to be a fourth grader required to give out Valentine’s to your schoolhood chums? And Valentine’s cards that read something like: “John, on this day I want to express my dearest love for you. Your secret admirer, Brian.”


But, that aside, I do want to take a moment to impress upon you your importance in my life … for who else is going to make me take out the garbage. Ha ha! A joke. Just kidding.

You see, and you’ve probably noticed this, a guy like me is not so easy to live with. (In fact, a guy like me is lucky to even have a woman who speaks to him.) Sure, it would be easier to get a herd of elephants to do laundry than me. And sure, you can still see the outside world through holes in the walls of our house that I haven’t patched. But the reason I don’t do these things is so I will have more time to devote to loving you. It’s true!

Yes, I know I don’t come off as a romantic guy. But that’s the irony. Deep down, I’m Mr. Romance. I just don’t show it. Deep down, I shower you with kisses, buy you roses until federal law makes me stop and worship the ground you walk on, even if it’s a cow pasture. Granted, that’s only in my imagination and I would never do these things in real life, but doesn’t it feel good just knowing that I want to? You must be swooning right now, so sit down for a moment.

And I guess I don’t show it because society frowns upon it. I blame football. Football and beer commercials. If not for that, I’d be a different man. I’d be the kind of romantic guy every girl dreams about. I would probably grow my hair long, start riding horses without a shirt on and say things like, “Mi Amor, would you like more mashed potatoes with your pork chops?”

Oh, if I only I was that man. (Sigh)

Anyway, just thought I would take the time to express my undying love here on this very special holiday that I can’t appreciate, or stand. May it truly be wonderful, but if I see that little kid with the bow and arrow, I’m calling the cops.



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Super Bowl Mania Strikes

Super hype. Super hoopla. Super shindigs. Super headaches.
Whoo! Thank goodness it’s over.

The Super Bowl blows in and out like a hurricane, folks, and the good thing is there are no tree branches left to pick up.

Has it already come and gone? All these years of preparation, and it’s over like that? Little left to show for it but stale beer cups and pins that didn’t sell.

For me it was not successful. My attempts to rent a room at the last minute to some needy celebrity pretty much went down in flames. Amenities! It all comes down to amenities. And when all you have to offer these people are overdone poached eggs, a bowl of Special K, slightly worn slippers, whatever beer’s in the fridge and the promise that you will be woken up in the morning by a dog sitting on your face, it’s a tough sell. Real tough. And my asking price — $100,000 or a part in their next movie — was a little steep.

Alas, my room went vacant.

There weren’t many celebrities that I could tell. No shortage of sightings. Everybody had a sighting. Vin Diesel spotted at the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A; Brad Pitt shopping for art; Celine Dion staying at a B&B downtown and breaking glass with her singing.

A few you may not have heard:

• Hugh Heffner and a couple of the Playboy Bunnies enjoyed a bag of pork rinds at a Jiffy Mart before heading for the airport.

• Donald Trump was seen firing a homeless man who he didn’t think did an effective enough job begging for a quarter.

• Charlton Heston coming to see the Castillo de San Marcos because he couldn’t believe there was anything older than he was.

I think it’s best that I don’t see or meet celebrities. I wouldn’t know what to say, yet something about me always feels I must say something. And it’s usually ridiculous because I can’t help myself.

If I met Donald Trump I would probably ask him whether he has someone warm up his deodorant in the morning before putting it on.

“If I were rich as you, Mr. Trump, no more frozen shocks to the arm pits,” I would say with a shiver.

My wife would clutch her head like she had an ice cream headache.

If I met Brad Pitt I’m worried I would — like a pig-tailed fifth grade girl — tell him I thought he looked really “hot” in “Troy.” Why would you say that? But my brain, it just can’t be contained.

Lucky for me, I don’t get the chance to meet a lot of celebrities so I minimize the depth of my embarrassment.

I did see an extreme number of limos, and in fact on some of St. Augustine’s tightest streets, they’re still trying to pry a couple loose.

It appears they will stretch anything into a limo these days. Stretch Ford Expeditions and even the .20-mile-to-the-gallon stretch Hummer. But you never see any originality. Where’s the stretch Pinto? Has there ever been a convertible limo? What about the stretch VW bus?

Plenty of stretch yachts, my eyes did see. Boats worth more than most buildings in town. Oh, there was money around. Champagne flowed until the gutters were full. Furs, Ferraris and food that would make you wonder, “Do I eat it, frame it or beat it with a mallet?”

And all the while poor Jacksonville got skewered by the national media because the city’s idea of an expensive night out is a can of Cheese Whiz and a six pack of Miller Lite.

Be glad we live in cosmopolitan St. Augustine. Things will get back to normal here, just as soon as they get those stuck limos out.

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The Trappings of a Good Newsroom

A Good Newsroom …

It doesn’t matter if it’s the New York Times, The St. Augustine Record or the Flagler College Gargoyle. As far as I’m concerned, a newsroom is a newsroom is a newsroom.

I’m thinking this because I spent the past week working with the “kids” of the Flagler paper.

They listen to alien music and talk in a strange free-flowing language I can’t seem to understand.

I’ll say it: I think I’m getting old.

But it was a blast (even if they did call me Old Man Magoo.) Sure, no police scanner, AP feeds or people yelling, “I brought pruning sheers if that page isn’t down by six,” but it was the same old thrill.

I always loved newsrooms because you never knew what was going to come your way. And you never knew what was going to be thrown your way.

I’ll tell this little story since I don’t work at the Record anymore, making it a little harder to fire me. One day someone threw a ball in my direction (I swear I was not participating) and it ricocheted off my computer. Now, a ball has 20 million places it can ricochet to, but this one decided to pick a full glass of water. It toppled in a giant flood, and despite the 20 million places it could have spilled to, it drowned my keyboard instead.

I stared in shock expecting sparks to fly. When they didn’t, I turned the keyboard over to drain it and fish fell out. I swapped it with another, left it upside down overnight and was amazed to find the next day it actually worked. To this day I’m sure someone at The Record still wonders why there are high-water marks on the keys.

These are the kinds of things that go on in newsrooms. And I’m hoping to bring more of what I learned over the years at The Record to the Gargoyle.

There are a few criteria (ingredients you might call them) that I think are highly necessary to make a successful newsroom, and some of these have already been mastered:

• Food needs to be ground two floors deep into the rug. It should never be identifiable — not even as liquid or solid. A good newsroom floor should be covered in great stains covering vast sections of the floor.

In slow times, you can use them as ink blot tests, or pretend they’re chalk lines for bodies. “What happened to him that he’s shaped like this?” And if anyone high-up asks, you blame it on someone from the pressroom with ink on his shoes walking through.

“Honestly, I know it looks like pepperoni, but it’s red ink!”

• There should be a map the size of a basketball court on the wall with every street in the county on it. Forget the fact that no reporter dashing out the door to a fire or some breaking news event will ever check the map, and inevitably will call 10 minutes later lost and out of gas.

• There needs to be a stack of newspapers piled up so high (no one claims ownership of the pile, yet it grows higher every day) that it causes the steel supports in the floor to sag so much that chairs roll downhill toward it.

• There must (despite rules strictly forbidding it) be some kind of food source kept in a Tupperware container that (despite the fact it could be either three weeks or 11 years old) everyone eats.

And the Tupperware will never be cleaned, meaning leftover petrified bits hard as marbles get mixed in, chipping teeth and lodging in throats.

• A newsroom should never be clean. It’s a sign that work isn’t getting done. Journalists don’t clean. They wallow in their own slovenliness. Like packrats, they store everything ever given to them for the simple reason that it’s much easier to fill up file drawers with pens, magnets and handfuls of candy than actual files.

• And finally, various projectiles should always be nearby. I learned very little from that spilled glass of water.

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Cold and the Winter Snow

My wife called her cousin in Long Island, New York, just to see if they were OK. It was the blizzard, you know? Twelve inches of snow had fallen — an inch an hour. The roads were impassable. The front yard now stretched for snowy miles. The cold was pounding on the front door, demanding to come in. The insulation in heavy jackets had called a strike, tired of all the overtime and demands to keep people warm in steadily declining conditions.

The salt had frozen. The wolves were out asking people for spare change. The snow was marauding through town, drunk and kicking over street signs. And if the federal government didn’t start dropping-in hot chocolate, people were surely going to die.

Well, these are things I figured happened in a blizzard. I’ve never witnessed one firsthand, and never want to. Check that: Most of me doesn’t — the part that gets so cold that my internal organs tie-up into Christmas bows and makes my toes want to drop off and crawl to warmer climates.

I’m third generation from Tampa, and before that, two-thirds of me came from places where you’re lucky if ice will last in your drink. My DNA is coded to withstand heat, like Teflon, and has several warning labels about letting the temperature get below 50. “Caution: In freezing temperatures, skeleton may eject from body. Look for it in Key West.”

I don’t know blizzards, but some strange part of me — the part I’ve asked doctors to surgically remove and then beat with a mallet — longs to see one. To see the mountains of snow. To step out into it, only to find it has swallowed me whole and that I’m trapped until spring, when it thaws. To shovel paths and chip ice off of windshields. To get frostbite and finally try out hypothermia.

Just like most northerners don’t understand what it’s like to go through a hurricane — “I thought it was some wind and TV reporters pretending to get blown away” — I haven’t an ice crystal of knowledge what it’s like to bear the brunt of a blizzard.

I have a romanticized few of snow, and it never involves the bone-curdling cold, being trapped in your house or how it makes heating bills resemble third-world debt.

I’ve only seen snow a handful of times in my life.

As boys, my father used to take my brother and me to Gatlinburg, Tenn. There they have a mountain where you can go skiing and sledding Tennessee-style, which is to say Dolly Parton serenades you and there are moonshine stills on the trails.

They never had any real snow — any powder. It was has-been snow, now frozen solid like icebergs and lying on rocks and paths like drunk men on the couch watching football games.

“Hey, pass me the peanuts,” the lazy snow would moan, slowly trickling away.

On occasion they would make more snow, but as well as I can recall, skiing down this mountain was like skiing on frozen gravel. There wasn’t the swoosh like you see on TV where jets of snow fan up. Instead there was a rooster tail of sparks that followed you, and because the whole slope was like a hockey rink tilted at an angle, the method they had taught us to stop — the snow plow — didn’t exactly work.

A quarter-mile of screaming later, and after zipping through the gift shop, I would finally come to rest in the parking lot, my skis smoking and pine tree needles puncturing my thighs like some horrible organic acupuncture.

I always wanted on those trips, but never got, a lot of snow. I wanted to be buried in it. To get the full experience out of it. To live it like an Eskimo.

Well, part of me did, and still does. The other part (shivering uncontrollably) is trying to talk me into a trip to Key West.

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The Secret to Effective Warning Labels

I think it’s time we do something about warning labels on products, and especially tools. Oh, and if you think I’m going to advocate removing them all, you’ve got another thing coming. I want them to be more effective — even interesting — and I think I’ve found a way.

First, let’s remember that the real purpose of labels stuck on power saws, ladders, toasters and toothbrushes is not safety, but preventing lawsuits. When a guy named Drunk Bob accidentally plugs his un-electric toothbrush into a wall socket, that tends to, uh, spark legal filings. But not if Drunk Bob’s toothbrush had a 13-page manual that clearly warned of this, right after it told him, “Don’t stick in ear while lit with kerosene” and “Do not use as a weapon during a bar fight.”

Only they’re so ridiculous, no one pays attention to them. Warnings should be heeded, not something you try on a boring weekend — “I wonder what WOULD happen if I dropped a running hair dryer into a bath tub full of water.”

So I’ve struck upon something, and hear me out: Instead of warning labels, lets use the X-rays of people who have misused these products and wounded themselves. I’m serious. A recent and perfect example: A man was using a nail gun. It misfired and a nail several inches long shot into the roof of his mouth and poked about four inches into his brain.

Miraculously, he survived. Even more miraculously, he didn’t realize he had a nail tickling the ‘ole brain until some mild pain and discomfort sent him to a dentist where his wife works. An X-ray showed a nail pointing straight to heaven, a reminder it’s where he’s going next time if he’s not more careful.

Now, let’s not get sidetracked by how he didn’t realize he had a nail stuck through the roof of his mouth. I get a popcorn kernel up there and I’m calling rescue personnel to bring the jaws of life. “Please, get it out. I think it’s burrowing into my brain!”

Put that aside and let’s stay focused — see that a positive can come out of this. It’s a terrifying X-ray, and would make anyone think twice about shooting themselves in the mouth with a nail gun. I know I won’t do it anytime soon.

Most men have no regard for the power of power tools. I have a lot of tools, but rarely read the warnings. I feel they don’t relate to me. They don’t speak my language. So don’t show me a stick figure falling off a ladder to explain the importance of putting it on solid footing.

Shoot, when I put a ladder up it’s hanging on by a leaf, on ground that is slowly sinking, often a hair away from power lines, and all the while at such an angle that it bows and sways like it was made of licorice.

But put a picture of a guy broken in half being loaded into an ambulance and I’m going to pay attention.

The other day I was using a rotary saw in the front yard in such a way that a guy walking down the street stopped because he thought I was doing a magic trick. But put a picture of a guy trying to dial “911” with a missing finger and I’ll be more careful.

Some group recently came out with a list of the year’s worst warning labels. The winner was a toilet brush with a warning that read, “Do not use for personal hygiene.” The point they were trying to make was that our society has become ridiculously litigious that something must be done about it.

I agree, and I think I have the answer. That’s why I’m taping the X-ray of the guy with the nail in his head up in my shed. If nothing else, at least I can say I was properly warned.

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An Alligator Addiction

I got my wife a lot of nice things for Christmas. I always do. I’m a nice guy. I buy nice things.

I got her a spa package, and a calendar with very bizarre chickens in it, and a book the size of a garbage dumpster with every cartoon that has ever been published in The New Yorker.

They were nice gifts. I spent a lot of time thinking about them. But I don’t think anything she got this year came close to something her mother got her — a year’s pass to the St. Augustine Alligator Farm.

Her eyes lit up like a little kid and she blurted out, “YES! Just what I wanted.”

“Eh?” was my reaction.

I had never been to the alligator farm in all the years I’ve lived in St. Augustine. And neither had my wife. She has been talking about it since about the day we met, but I had never taken her. A strike against me, but it didn’t seem like the kind of place you take a girl on a date — “And over here is another reptile who can rip off your limbs before drowning you. Feel like making out during the animal show?”

So when her sister came to town, she went without me, and now she’s a regular Crocodile Hunter. She wants the newsletter. She wants to work there. She wants to raise alligators and teach them how to be civilized and knit. She wants to give them all names and start a fund to get all the snaggle-toothed ones braces.

And now she has a year-round pass so she can go all the time and study them and talk to them and give them love.


Although, not to sound like an advertisement for the Alligator Farm, but I went there this past weekend and … well … I’m a little bit hooked myself.

What is it about big, ugly reptiles who spend most of their life sleeping that is so darn exciting? Nothing, really. I don’t get it. But I was mesmerized.

Pools of young alligators, their eyes like a bowl full of black marbles, gazed up at me, just hoping I would lean over the railing too far. They have these little pellet-food dispensers where you put a quarter in and get a handful of foul-smelling niblets that the fellas’ absolutely love. I thought it was great, but I would pay extra to be able to throw a corn dog in there.

I got to know the Cuban crocodile, who likes to rhumba and smoke the occasional cigar. I stared at the needle-nosed crocs who look like someone took their snouts and squeezed them as if it was Play-Doh.

And then there was the alligator feeding show when a park employee throws big chunks of nutria at the gators. One’s name was Lock Jaw and another stood halfway out of the water right below the platform. He reminded me of my dog on Thanksgiving while I’m carving the turkey. He was ramrod straight, not a bone in his body moving with his eyes locked-on. I’m sure his brain was screaming, “Gimme’ one, come on. Right here. I’m right here! Pleasssse!”

Here he is the size of a school bus and he’s behavin’ like my little dog. I almost ran up and screamed, “Stop beggin’, get away from the table and stay out of the garbage can.”

Are dogs and alligators that different?

I’ll tell you one way: A dog would never stand for a turtle riding around on his back like the captain of a ship sunning himself.

Swat him off? You’re an alligator! Have some dignity. You’re a big, ferocious beast. I’ll have to take this up with them next time. I have a feeling we’re gonna’ be spending a lot of time there, especially if we’re gonna’ get the snaggle-toothed one braces.

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Here Come the Big Keys Rats

So here it is Jan. 7 and we already have a contender for the most bizarre story of the year. Maybe you saw it the other morning. It was headlined “Large African Gambian rats have Keys officials worried.”

This should be one heck of a new year if we’re starting it like this.

It was really the subhead that caught my attention: “Rats that can grow as big as a raccoon could threaten other species …”

What? Big as raccoons? Now that’s what I call a rat.

The African Gambian pouch rat. And officials down there are worried the needle-nose critters could decimate local wildlife and run off tourists. Tourists will swim with barracuda, but mention a rat and they’re off to the other coast.

What a great story. When I was a reporter it was the kind of piece I literally begged for. Something that is filled with color and total absurdity — that draws all kinds of great imagery in a reader’s head.

Like how it mentioned pouch rats are so big they don’t have any natural predators. Cats won’t go near them. It cites a woman who went outside one night to investigate a loud shrieking noise only two find two pouch rats fighting, maybe over a girl named Judy or some pizza crust. Then, and here’s the kicker, what’s watching the whole thing but two cats.

In my mind I hear one cat lean over to the other and whisper, “Jeez, the neighborhood’s really going downhill in a hurry.”

The story also said experts fear that the pouch rats could spread to the mainland and the Everglades (where they might start wrestling alligators). These experts weren’t too worried they could walk the distance, maybe because these are generally lazy animals and don’t wear the kind of comfortable shoes needed for such a long trek.

“But they could get in the back of a truck and make it that way,” one person actually said. This just had me in stitches and again my mind was all a flutter.

See, I always picture animals as stars of action movies or in Broadway musicals. Two pouch rats fighting? I see “Westside Story.”

“When you’re a pouch rat, as big as a coon, you revel your fat, and the ladies all swoon.”

Pouch rats in a truck? I picture them with tattoos, wearing vests and leather jackets hiding out in a gas station parking lot until the perfect truck with a tarp over the bed pulls up. There it is! After a quick fight over a peanut, the leader, Eddie, prince of the pouch rats, yells out, “Load ‘em up, boys. We’re headed for the big city.” The pouch rats clamber in and I see them with their little pouch rat arms hanging over the side while passing around a pack of cigarettes. Every couple of miles a fight breaks out.

“When you’re a pouch rat …”

This is the kind of stuff I think about when I’m up early in the morning.

I did some research on pouch rats, and I found out they’re called “pouch” because they stuff things in their cheeks. I don’t know if that’s food or lug nuts, but they look ridiculous.

And they’re actually considered an exotic pet, which simply means there are people out there who like the idea of a rat curling up with them at night.

An MSNBC story I found on pouch rats quoted an owner who called them wonderful companions, despite the fact that they eat furniture and tear up the carpets if left alone for more than a second. Oh yes, and the story said they’re also believed to be responsible for bringing monkeypox into the U.S.

Not to mention they would fight an entire biker bar … if they could only find a truck with a tarp to get them out of the Keys.

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