The Fruitville Chronicles, lost count of the days

Today is the penultimate day of our vacation and I am sitting at the table, staring up at the ceiling fan like Captain Willard. Something tells me that I'm not going to drink a bottle of cheap hooch, hallucinate that the neighborhood is going up in napalm flames, and smash my hand through a mirror, although I may get up from my seat in a minute and walk over to get an oreo. Take that for a dramatic embodiment of the perpetual conflict between conscience and ego, Francis Ford Coppola.

When we last huddled together for a chat I believe I had to cut things short to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Much like in the north, family gathered, football was watched, the food staples were served (albeit in a slightly different form) and gratefully consumed. It certainly was a nice change to be able to gird up for the giant meal by walking along the beach in shorts and bare feet rather than pushing through grit and sleet whipped around by the Alberta Clipper; it was odd to feel the cold pulse of the air conditioner rather than the warming rumble of the furnace while sitting at the table. I think I shall file this year under the subjective title of "Bizzaro Thanksgiving", when everything was opposite it's normal state.

We haven't slackened in our pace and have continued to explore Sarasota and its environs. I must admit that I'm rather taken with downtown Sarasota as it still carries the air of the sleepy yet quietly prosperous town this place once was before A/C, final value pensions, cheap credit, and the ideas of Victor Gruen transformed life in the south. The main street bears the stretch marks of a revitalization in progress, with the usual crop of gourmet stores, clothing boutiques, and restaurants. It may be getting gentrified, by gentrified beats atrophied in my book. Besides the presence of the old hardware store, a less-than-elegant liquor store, and the Gator Club bar serve as anchors of authenticity for the purists. Country Mouse and I are taking advantage of the in-built babysitting to go eat at one of downtown's many restaurants tonight, and maybe a pint at the Gator.

On the subject of dining, I'm sad to report that the majority of places we have eaten at down here serve the same variation on the theme of fried/blackened white fish (substitute tilapa, mahi mahi, haddock, etc based on specific geographic location), burgers, french fries, and caesar salads that signify casual family dining from Key West to Lubec. Your vegetable for tonight will be coleslaw, once more; and would you like something fried and cheese covered on top of your romaine lettuce? I believe that there is a central distribution point, in Nebraska maybe, that handles all the food service orders for these joints on the east and west coasts (and which is also responsible for clam bellies on Iowa menus).

I know there are different options down here and that our dining out menu these past two weeks has been a function of pleasing as many palates as possible while offending none. It does sadden me somewhat however to see that while there are miles of coastline in America and much of it is inhabited, fresh fish markets are few and far between and sourcing good, fresh local produce that can stand on its own without immersion into a fryolator is still a fringe activity among restaurateurs. Nothing I have eaten has been bad and much of it has been pretty darn tasty. I just know it could be better.

In addition to exploring downtown and hitting the casual dining joints, Country Mouse, Scout, and I commandeered the Astro van this past weekend and spread our wings south and east. On Saturday we had a delightfully low key reunion with my old pal Max, who now lives in Nokomis. He and his partner Melissa have carved out an eclectically beautiful spot for themselves, as is their wont wherever they pause to lay out their bedrolls, and he proved to be a most wonderful barometer of local opinion on a whole range of topics. We stuck around neighboring Venice for that evening's holiday parade (multiple Santas [santii?] at 70 degrees F is most surreal) and were rewarded with an amazing display of rhythm and pyrotechnics from Max and his pals in the Nokomis drum circle. The evening ended with a phosphate and sundae binge at a restored 1950s soda fountain: quite excellent.

On Sunday we again took the van and this time we headed east, to Mayakka River State Park. I had never seen an alligator in the wild before yesterday: I certainly never expected to see close to fifty of them out the window of a slow moving airboat. The various wading birds and vultures were fantastic, and I was struck with the particularly pooterish thought of how much the wide and shallow (4 feet at the deepest point) tea colored lake resembled the Norfolk Broads. Mondale- if global warming continues you and I could make our names as the men who introduced alligators to Hickling Broad. Just a thought.

Once again social demands require that I finish up. People are stirring for the early evening activities and I should go lend a hand before taking Country Mouse on a date. We fly out of this lovely yet peculiar place on Wednesday: back to cold, dark, and the USB cord for uploading photos....

The Fruitville Chronicles, Day 9

Six months ago I didn't think I'd be sitting in shorts and t-shirt on Thanksgiving morning having had grits for breakfast. Que sera, sera.

Today is the first day of our trip when we aren't off exploring in the specially rigged Chevy Astro van. A lawn chair has been bungeed in the back so one of us can ride tail-gunner fashion, as there are more passengers than there are seats. As with all families, we take a distinct pride in adapting existing resources when visiting rather than shelling out for a rental. "Shoot- there's three cars between the fifteen of us: y'all can fit!" is our merry refrain (y'alls supplied by the southern contingent). We have been riding in the specially rigged Astro through some of Sarastoa's more expensive neighborhoods, alternating between ogling the ostentation and figuring how many of those floor-to-ceiling windows will blow out in the next hurricane. At first glance we must look like a van load of undocumented Guatemalan landscaping laborers: the surprised looks we get when we pile out brandishing cameras instead of weed whackers are superb.

We haven't just been emulating Robin Leach, however. We are half way through checking out all the attractions Sarasota has to offer, and so I thought I'd offer up a handy cut-out-and-keep guide to the must-sees we have taken in so far:

Things to do in the Greater Sarasota area (a guide by W. Weasel)
Siesta Key Beach: famous for its sand with the consistency of sugar which doesn't get hot under foot no matter how fierce the sun, Siesta Key's public beach is the perfect spot for that classic Thanksgiving time tradition, turkey hunting. We aren't talking about the noble birds of course, but rather the human phenomenon of barrel-bellied middle aged men sun-cooked to the color of an Etruscan pot and slathered with some sort of vile oil. These men look like they have either been basted or shellacked, and for an alabaster freak like myself it is quite disconcerting. I can't figure out why the look is so popular- maybe its how they attract their Thai mail order brides, turning up in their home village looking like something that could feed the whole extended family should things go badly and thus winning the matriarch's approval. I do believe some of these chaps have Coastguard banning orders forbidding them to swim, lest their crispy skin and oily outer layer cause an environmental holocaust.

St Armand's Key Circle: This is a popular shopping district, anchored by the Columbia Cuban restaurant ("since 1905"). As you might expect for an area popular with tourists and senior citizens, the shops generally cater to the "retired color-blind Baptist minister and his secretly rum-nipping wife" set, with a sea of choices for the lover of pastel citrus palette prince of wales check sports coats and burn-victim pattern golf sweaters. Country Mouse and I were able to find some gems among the -ahem- brighter clothing choices. However having packed every garment Scout owns to bring with us and thus not having any space in the suitcases we had to content ourselves with window shopping.

Venice Beach (FL): Unlike Venice Beach (CA), there are no nutcases bench pressing roller-blading Baywatch extras. Instead there is just a stunning beach, a grand fishing pier, Sharky's Restaurant, and a sobering display of jaws from tiger- and black-tipped sharks caught off the pier that put me right off going for a swim.

The Mote Aquarium: Out on Lido Key, past the Salty Dog, sits the Mote Aquarium. Its really cool, does incredible research, and has a pair of resident dolphins. Scout loved this place more than anywhere we have been so far- apparently, 6 month-olds can be rendered insensible with glee by the sight of clown fish swimming in an enormous tank. Good to know, for future reference. The next time she's fussy I'm taking her to loiter in the lobby of Rockland's only Thai restaurant so we can stare at the fish tank.

The dolphins live at the aquarium due to chronic health conditions that preclude their release into the wild: the Mote also tends to sick turtles, manatees, small whales, and other dolphins before returning them to their natural habitats. This leads to a memorable docent speech, in which he lists the various ailments these sea creatures present to the vets: "We had a pilot whale with sunburn. A spinner dolphin with chronic fatigue syndrome. A myopic minke. A leatherback turtle with crabs. A manatee with the shits. A bi-polar moray eel..."

The Ringling Museum of Art, Circus Museum, and Mansion: John Ringling, circus master and entrepreneurial investor, put Sarasota on the map. He made a colossal fortune (not from 25c circus tickets alas, but from oil leases on land he owned in Oklahoma) and with his wife Mable spent much of their lives trying to acquire the trappings of American aristocracy, even going as far as buying whole rooms from the Astor mansion in New York and reassembling them in Florida. They were never accepted by high society, and predeceased by Mable John died broke, having been all-but wiped out by the 1929 Wall Street crash. How do the house and grounds look? Exactly as one would expect the house of a carnie who came into money would look. I think that says it all.

The art museum is great for lovers of European art from the 1500s to the 1700s. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. The Defenestration of St John the Baptist by plump topless ladies egged on by satyrs- eh, seen one like that, you've seen them all. The best part of the museum was far and away the tall wall that allowed me to crouch down and pose Scout like Mussolini giving a speech from a reviewing stand- photos to follow upon our return.

The circus museum is something else. I hate clowns, but even I was impressed, especially by the miniature circus that one man spent 20 hours a week for 50 years building before donating it to the museum. Such lunacy rarely gets recognized in this day and age, and I am glad that the Ringling went so far as to build a pavilion to house the output of this peculiar genius. Also impressive was the enclosure for the two clowns with chronic medical conditions that preclude their release into the wild. They also treat other clowns there for a variety of ailments and you can check out the hospital cages. Even behind bars and heavily sedated you can still sense the terrible power and palpable evil of these smiling killers: it is a salutatory reminder to treat these grease painted carnivores with a healthy respect at all times.

My time with you today draws to a close: no doubt I shall have more to report soon. A Happy Thanksgiving to my American visitors, and to the rest of you- back to work, stop wasting your employer's Internet connection reading this drivel.

The Fruitville Chronicles, Day 7

Much like George Lucas I figured I would start my story cycle half way through. It made him millions, after all, and what's good enough for the bearded killer of movie dialogue is good enough for me. Let us begin.

Tuesday November the whatever finds your correspondent in Florida, a week in to his two week sojourn in the sunshine state. Thanks to the generosity of mother-in-law, her consort, and said consort's extended native Floridian family the Weasel Unit has been luxuriating in a borrowed bungalow taking in the sites as well as a modest amount of beer (not Scout- she has been sticking to milk).

The house comes with a beautiful tile swimming pool which is equipped with a woefully underpowered heating unit. Of course, being residents of Maine the general expectations of the Florida relatives have been that we will jump in the pool even if we have to chip ice off the surface. So with an air temperature of 80 degrees and a water temperature of 68 degrees we have been taking turns amazing the locals with our polar bear impressions. "Its no colder than Loonlips Lake in August" we say through gritted teeth with exaggerated New England cadences as we shiver through a few lengths of the pool. What the relatives miss are the early morning screams as the Yankee drive to puritan self-mortification hits chilly chlorinated water for a few chest constricting lengths of unvarnished agony.

We have a grapefruit tree (on its last legs) and an orange tree with fruit that is just coming ripe. Scout has been helping consort Les pick the oranges, extending his reach by 26 inches and employing her surprisingly strong grip to good effect. Cousin Gary brought by a sack of avocados from his daughter's house and we are eagerly awaiting their ripening. We have made many trips to the so-called "Third World" Publix (we aren't exploring the racial implications of that nickname in the interest of preserving the family dynamic).

We have split our time between cultural pursuits, getting sand between our toes, and eating fried seafood in a variety of guises (please don't batter anything that swims for me for a while, please, please). I imagine I will provide details in future dispatches.

I could write much more but I hear relatives filing in to the lanai and beer bottles clinking in the fridge door. Tonight we are grilling: a little chicken, a little salmon, and baked potatoes. I'd better go grab my plate and get in line for the buffet.

Toodle pip,
Weasel

Off Away On Our Hols

The Family Weasel are departing for warmer climes for a couple of weeks for our first short-sleeve shirt Thanksgiving. Might post from the road- depends on the perfect intersection of subject matter, wireless signal, and energy (mine).

Have a lovely,
Weasel

A Demi-Snort

I was going to give the Sunday morning continuity announcer on Maine Public Radio both barrels this evening. However I just learned that there are actually such things as "Olympic -sized trampolines", as the bouncy discipline so beloved of 4th graders was recognized as an official event in 1999.

I will not refrain from calling him a pathetic gobshite arse-wrbling turd git who cannot pronounce the word furniture* for his use of the phrase "courtly wisdom" to describe UMaine basketball coach and sapphic fashion plate Cindy Blodgett. I'm not sure if was meant as a pun or as an attempt at higher poetic truth, but it did make me spit a mouthful of tea onto my breakfast plate.

In other news, I'm off on me hols as of Tuesday: two weeks in lovely Sarasota, Florida. Its where the circus folk spend the off-season. Fingers crossed I don't get abducted by clowns.


*(It is not, and never has been "fhur-nut-choooor", you mush-mouthed arse-head).

Science (Sepcifically Engine) Questions: Anyone?

I heard a great story on our local public radio station tonight about Maine car dealer Adam Lee. I've had a soft spot for Lee ever since he pulled his ads off the Sinclair Broadcasting stations who ran that spurious John Kerry "documentary" in 2004 and now admire him even more for standing up to his own industry. On his website 35mpg by 2020 Lee challenges everyone involved in the US auto industry to rise to the challenge and make fuel efficient, attractive cars.

Its a good case he makes but Detroit and their pals in DC rail against it as bad science. The industry lobbyist rolled out to pooh pooh Lee came across like Scotty from Star Trek: "they cannae run any leaner, capn: its impossible, beyond the laws o' physics!". Which leads me to my first question:

I may be thinking like a complete dunce but don't many European cars already exceed the 35mpg standard: cars manufactured not just by the Japanese or Euro-marques but by subsidiaries of GM and Ford? I know some of the engines are turbo-diesels but why is that technology in particular considered a no-no over here? Am I missing a large, obvious point?

And second more locally based question: can trains run on biodiesel?

OK, I await answers from technical types...

If I Put A Donation Link, Will You All Buy These Guys For Me?

A few weeks ago I shared with you my long-held desire to have a personal horn section follow me around as I stomped the streets in an Italian bum-freezer suit, spread collar, skinny tie, and pork pie hat while going about my business with elan and panache.

Now I stumble across these cats while searching for a Propellerhead's remix of the theme from On Her Majesty's Secret Service:



Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Bond Band. And here's where interest is teetering on obsession for me: "The Bond Band works with various actors including a Jaws lookalike and of course a fabulous Sean Connery lookalike too!"

Oh. My. God. Where do I get me my own band. I mean seriously- help me out here. Oh alright, let's have another:

Bugger...

... I forgot it was Bonfire Night yesterday. In an attempt at amends, here's a couple of minutes on the loony protestants of Lewes, Sussex:

Two More Things That Made Me Smile This Week

One- my daughter dressed as Charlotte the spider for her first Halloween, and;

Two- the fact that the band of the Irish Guards played the "Imperial March" from the Star Wars score as King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia reviewed the troops on his visit to Britain. As we hardcore nerds know, the "Imperial March" is used to herald the arrival of Darth Vader and all things sinister. Nice to know someone has a sense of humour in either the Ministry of Defence or Buckingham Palace. (Clip below, but not of actual event. I wonder who was visiting that time?):