Just Keep Swimming

Hard Candy: Market Madness

2012-01-19T00:59:00.000-05:00

The St. Pete Beach commission can’t catch a break. Not that I care about them – those lunatics knew what they were in for when they threw their hat in the ring – but I do empathize with the sense of frustration that comes with the “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” situations that abound on our sandbar.

Last week at the commission meeting Mayor Steve McFarlin expressed concern about the Corey Market. No, not that Corey Market – the other Corey Market. The one not on Corey anymore. See, the original Corey Market – the one that used to be on Corey – now takes place in Horan Park. Think of it as the “Horan Corey Market.” You with me so far? Good. The new Corey Market – the one that doesn’t actually go by the name “Corey Sunday Market” – takes place on Corey. Think of that one as the “Corey Corey Market.”

Why the two markets? I have my suspicions that people couldn’t play nicely with one another, but that’s unsubstantiated. All I know for sure is that the city now has two Corey Markets (I know they have slightly different names, but who do they think they’re kidding?) and the mayor has a bee in his bonnet about one of them.

I think Steve’s a decent enough guy. We disagree on things – really, what the hell was he thinking when he reversed the vote on red light cameras? – but I believe he’s sincere in his desire to serve St. Pete Beach.

Sometimes misguided, but sincere. He’s also empathetic – mostly. He empathized with Best Buddies when code enforcement told them to take down the inflatable dog. Best Buddies loves him now. The other ninety-nine places who didn’t get a Mayoral Puppy Pardon when code enforcement came around? They don’t understand why one business gets special treatment.

See? Damned if you do.

Then, there’s the issue of the couplet, or this wacky idea that we can slow down traffic on Gulf Boulevard, make it safer for residents and tourists, and get people to notice the businesses instead of flying by at 40 miles per hour – if we make a portion of the street one way. As a resident who must regularly navigate the Dog Leg From Hell (not to be confused with the inflatable puppy; see above), I love the idea. The businesses on Corey? Not so much, initially. Then the mayor spent an afternoon on Corey – an area he admitted he initially didn’t think too much of – and explained the plan and heard concerns.

What strikes me as odd is that, after spending some time on Corey, it seems that Mayor Steve has an issue with the Horan Corey Market – the one that left Corey for greener pastures. Last week the mayor seemed pretty damn down on one of the best things I’ve seen on the beach in while, calling the Suntan-sponsored market a “flea market” and insisting that they should pay the city more money than they already do. He did not suggest the city collect more money from other markets, festivals and bazaars on other pieces of public property.

Now, I haven’t visited the Wagon Wheel in quite some time, but I fail to see the resemblance. The Horan Corey Market is a huge improvement over last year’s Corey Market. I’m sorry, guys, I love your shops and understand why you want the market on Corey, but the Horan Corey market rocks. There’s more space, better parking, and a wider variety of vendors. For what it’s worth, when I finish at the Horan Corey Market, I invariably stroll over to the Corey Corey Market, and I see plenty other people doing the same thing. I would even say that the Horan Corey Market drives more business to the Corey Corey Market than the market saw last year when it was the only game in town.

Clearly, Corey merchants do not agree. It seems some businesses think the city could treat them better. Which is funny, because it seems to me that the crux of the lawsuits that have rained down on the commission’s head like a plague of frogs is that the city treats businesses too well. One group sues because they say the city panders to businesses and another group thinks the city needs to help businesses more. I can point to several recent decisions that have helped local businesses, and I can point to just as many that have helped residents. In some places that’s called “trying to strike a balance;” here, the city’s damned if they do, damned if they don’t.

We are, sadly, not known for sitting down and working out our differences. We are, however, known for suing. It’s like we’re the city of brotherly hate.

Look, I’m the first person to point out the faults, like the glut of annoying signs, empty lots and buildings and full-combat-crosswalks. I choose to live here, however, because, while there’s change I’d like to see, think there’s still some paradise left out here. That means I accept dueling markets, resorts, and adult entertainment venues.

I would also like to point out that the people who come here to visit the markets, beach or shops don’t give a baboon’s behind who hates who, who has an agenda, and how much anyone pays for the privilege of selling them artisan cheese or locally-harvested honey. They care that we’re a neat place to visit, we have nifty things, and, oh, yes, we have a kick-ass beach. They visit, which is our end goal, right?

So maybe, just maybe, we can all pretend to like each other for a while and get something done? I know it’s a wacky thought, this “trying to settle things maturely, without causing harm to other people.”

But given all the other stuff we’ve tried, I think it’s crazy enough that it just might work.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Hard Candy: Thanks, Mom

2011-12-29T23:59:00.000-05:00

Hard Candy: Thanks, Mom!
By Cathy Salustri

I am 99% certain the nurses made some sort of mistake with my wristband when I was born. They must have switched mine with another pruny little baby’s when they were bathing us. Sounds like a movie, I know, but I cannot otherwise explain the fact that my mother and I are two very different people.
She is a wonderful woman and an ideal mother, don’t misunderstand, but we have very little in common. From a young age I challenged her; by the time I hit high school I’m fairly certain she’d made some discreet inquiries into the white slave trade. Honestly, I can’t blame her. I never passed up the chance to try her patience, sometimes unintentionally but quite often on purpose. You know all those mothers who say their child was a “delight” to raise? My mom chokes on her coffee whenever she hears that.
As an adult, I didn’t make her life any less stressful, making essentially the opposite of every decision she made for herself. My mom and dad have been together since the British Invasion, while I lasted seven years in a marriage before my spectacularly dramatic divorce. My mom devoted her life to raising a child, staying home with me until I went into middle school. I look at babies with a detached curiosity at best. My mom has worked at the same doctor’s office for 29 years, while I held more than 29 jobs before settling on the less-than-secure career of “freelance writer.”
She retires Friday, ending almost 30 years of haggling with insurance companies, doctors, and people who, for whatever reason, can’t or won’t pay their medical bills. She’s leaving a job where they received memos about what types of snack foods they could bring to work. She’s leaving the sort of place where she had a new boss about every year. She’s leaving the world of the working, where you have to get to bed at a reasonable hour because you’ve got to get up the next day and do it all again. Think Office Space with doctors and you’ve got a pretty accurate picture of her job, and she gets to walk away forever Friday afternoon.
I don’t envy her.
It’s not just that I can’t see a time in my life when I will retire – one, I love what I do and two, I hear 401K and I think “really long footrace” – it’s that I don’t think she’s expecting all that time.
You see, the one thing we have in common is that neither of us gets bored. The difference is I don’t get bored because when I’m not working I take the dog for a walk on the beach, hop in my kayak, or go bug my friends.
My mom, on the other hand, doesn’t get bored because she hasn’t had time. She’s worked full-time since I was in 6th grade, and, her being a good wife and my dad being a proper Italian husband, she still does most of the cooking, cleaning, and shopping, even after my dad retired almost nine years ago. I’m not quite certain how she’s going to handle 40 extra hours to do laundry and shop for the best deal on milk.
My dad’s also not exactly sure what to think. Since his retirement almost 10 years ago he’s carved out a rigorous schedule of sleeping and watching TV, and he and I are both pretty sure my mom has other plans for him. I’ve already discovered she wants to take a more active part in local government, and there’s also been talk of volunteering her dogs as reading dogs at the local library. The poor dogs will never know what hit them… one moment they’re dozing in the sunlight, the next minute they’re caught up in a flurry of activity.
I make fun, but, really, no matter what she does, she’s earned it. I remember when I started kindergarten I fretted about what my mom would do all day without me – I thought she’d be bored. She told me not to worry, she’d simply sit around and have ice cream sodas. I was jealous, yes, but secretly still worried she’d be lonely. Of course, I was four, but here we are again, only I’m 35 years older and I’m still worried my mother’s going to be bored.
Well, if she is, that’s her right. My dad worked so I could have what I needed; she worked so I could have the things I wanted, like a car or a special stone in my class ring, or clothes that hid the physical shortcomings – real or imagined – of a high school freshman. Because my dad worked, I could attend college; because my mom worked I didn’t have to hold a job while going to school full time. What did I give her in return? Sleepless nights and every gray hair on her head.
On a selfish note, I look forward to her not working. I’ve already asked her if we could do certain things together, like playing Scrabble (yes, I know how to party) with friends who play or having lunch with my friends. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind – I love her and she loves me but we still mix like a pigheaded German (I say that with great affection, mom!) and a wise-ass kid who knows better than she does – and just says, “Don’t make plans for me.”
So, OK, I won’t. I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s going to be bored out of her skull, driving my dad crazy, and inventing projects to fill her spare time, but hey, that’s her right, isn’t it?
After all, she’s earned it.
Thanks, Mom.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Where Can I Find Christmas?

2011-12-24T22:45:00.000-05:00

These are simply random Christmas thoughts, not a well-thought-out blog entry, but it's Christmas Eve and The Most Interesting Dog in the World, Scuppers and Elmo and I are holed up in the back half of my childhood home, my mom and dad are in bed, and I'm not ready for sleep yet. There's all this Christmas stuff whirling and twirling through my brain, and it won't likely wind down for an hour or so. I figured I may as well write while I'm waiting.

* Being at my mom and dad's house at Christmas is frustrating. I love them beyond measure, would die for them, count myself lucky to have been born to them, but I cannot believe that I am their actual biological child. They insist this is so. I feel almost a fish out of water in some ways, but in other ways I know that no one will ever be more a part of my essence than these people.

*Every year I have this moment when I feel like I'm the only one in my life who isn't traveling for the holiday. Driving to Clearwater totally does not count. When this happens I feel sorry for myself for a bit, then I feel like I'm holding down the fort in the Sunshine State and keeping our Orange Christmas real for us Florida-philes.

*I used to love getting a big pile of presents under the tree. I miss that plastic tree. I miss the paperboard reindeer that used to plaster our walls. I miss believing in Santa Claus. I love that now I just love the magic of Christmas night – somehow it just always feels clear and perfect.

*I'm a grownup with big responsibilities and a real job (OK, I'm a writer, but it COUNTS, dammit!), but I love being with my mom and dad on Christmas. It's "our" holiday – never was the same with anyone else. It's been pretty great in the past, but when I'm home, it's different.

*This is crap, but I'm publishing it anyway, because on Christmas, you get a pass.

*Merry Christmas.

Hard Candy: Believe

2011-12-24T21:42:00.002-05:00

I do not believe in theology behind Christmas. This is not some grand statement; anyone who knows me well already knows this. They also know I find the divine in nature. For this reason, I love Christmas and its pagan roots. Saturnalia, the solstice, all those lovely forgotten celebrations from which we get our beloved Christian traditions – trees, wreaths, and gift-giving – all suit my belief system more accurately.
Pointing all this out this time of year, my friend Leah points out, makes me kind of an ass. I’d love to disagree with her, but, actually, she’s totally right. Honestly, as much as I may like to think of my tree as a celebration of the seasons, telling people I have to head home to decorate the Saturnalia tree does make me into a pretentious, self-righteous ass, almost as much so as the people who insist that Christmas is a Christian tradition.
Why? Because the season is now and always has been about belief. Whether you believe that some lady in a manger just gave birth to the son of God or if you have faith that the days will now grow longer and spring will come, Christmas celebrates those beliefs.
I don’t believe in the divinity of Christ, but that doesn’t mean I lack faith. I believe that the Universe provides things as we need them, not because we ask. I believe I find what most people call “God” out on the water or amidst the trees in a forest, not in a church or temple. I believe that life goes on long after we do, but not in a heaven separate from us. I believe in karma, the divinity of the Universe, and love. I believe organized religion works for some people but not for me, and I don’t believe there’s a hell I can go to for believing that. Hell, like heaven, is a private destination by one’s own design.
I believe that miracles happen. I believe that one happened over 2,000 years ago, give or take a few months. I believe that for whatever reason things happened that no one then or now could explain. I believe, wholly and completely, that for some people, that miracle involved a variation of the same force in the Universe in whom I believe. Sometimes miracles happen for other people but aren’t meant for you.
A far cry from a baby in a manger, I know. No doubt many of you disagree with me, which is absolutely fine. I don’t need to convert you and will have zero patience if you try to convert me. I’ve explained these things to you so you’ll understand what I’m about to say next:
I wish you a Merry Christmas. Not a happy Saturnalia, or Chanukah, or even Kawnzaa. I’m not going to wish you a good solstice or a pleasant harvest (unless, of course, you actually have things to harvest, then by all means, let’s get to it!). This – Christmas – is the holiday we’ve celebrated for the past 140 years, not those beautiful ancient ones or the ones that I wonder if we’ve perhaps oversold in a misguided effort at political correctness.
My family and friends have given me amazing Christmas memories, not solstice traditions: the wonder of Santa Claus’ reindeer eating graham crackers out of our cupboard, the joy of seeing snowy bootprints on our hallway carpet on Christmas morning (Santa’s a bit of a slob, as it turns out), and the anticipation leading up to Christmas morning.
I like the idea of Saturnalia, but I love Christmas and all its traditions: the smell of fish on Christmas Eve, the cookie extravaganza leading up to the big day, the silly songs on the radio, the fact that for a solid four weeks before Christmas every event the Gabber sends me to photograph involves Santa arriving on a boat, fire engine, golf cart, or other non-traditional transport. I love the Grinch, Rudolph, Charlie Brown’s sad little Christmas tree, and Snoopy and the Red Baron. I love going to Leah’s house to decorate a tree the size of a small building; I love the Gabber’s “food festival” that leaves the staff rolling around and moaning for a good three days afterwards. I love heading back to my parents’ home for a few days before Christmas and remembering that I love my mom and dad more than anything, but I should never, ever attempt to live with them again.
I wouldn’t trade these things for anything. I love my memories, my traditions, and, to put it plainly, Christmas. If you find me flawed for thinking that they’re Christmas memories when I know damn well Christmas wasn’t the original winter holiday, then, well, I’m flawed. If you think I’m a hypocrite for celebrating Christmas when I have not a shred of belief in the religion of the holiday, then I’m a hypocrite.
Here’s what I have to say to that:
Merry Christmas.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Hard Candy: Mr. Murrow Wept

2011-12-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

“Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn't mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar.” – Edward R. Murrow

“The speed of communications is wondrous to behold. It is also true that speed can multiply the distribution of information that we know to be untrue.” – also Edward R. Murrow

My very favorite reader insult ever came from a lady who told me I was a disgrace to Edward R. Murrow. Obviously, I disagree, but I was loved the insult, which showed both intelligence and respect for the craft. For a week after she said that my Facebook profile picture was that of Mr. Murrow.
The Gabber matters to you; I’ve learned over the past eight years how very seriously you all take the words in front of the classified ads. I love that about this paper, and I love that about all of you. We make mistakes, just like every other paper in the world, and, like every other paper, we cringe when we do, because we take our responsibility to our community seriously. We want you to trust that we’ve checked the facts, asked the right questions, and tried our best to recognize and eliminate our bias from what what we write.
But what if we couldn’t? What would the world be like if we had no way of telling what was real and what was made up? What would our lives be like if we didn’t know who we were quoting?
What would our opinions be if we couldn’t trust where we got the facts?
Welcome to the Internet.
Yes, yes, I know, it’s not exactly a new invention, but lately it seems that things have ramped up on certain social media sites – that’s right, Facebook, I’m looking at you – and we are suffering from a marked lack of accountability and a noticeable decrease in civility.
I’m tired of the people who use the web as an excuse to be nasty. I’m exhausted from the sheer amount of opinion masquerading as fact online. I’m over the cowards.
Last week I received a letter calling me an overpaid Wop. On the regular, my readers either tell me I’m going to hell or give me instructions on how to get there. That doesn’t bother me; mostly, I can laugh it off. Plus, I’m putting myself out there – I can’t tell 15,000 readers I think that at least a few of you may be “cherry crusted nutbars” and not expect some sort of reaction, right?
But here’s the thing. While newspaper folk – columnists doubly so – have long received nasty letters, the Internet makes it easier than ever for regular people to take bring their A-game of nasty to the rest of the world, whether or not the rest of the world deserves it.
I’m referring most heartily to the pusillanimous miscreants who are too cowardly to sign their name to their version of the facts, insults and, in some cases libelous statements. I have no respect for these people, much less anything they post online.
There are a wealth of pages popping up on Facebook – Gulfport Good Girls, Heard in Gulfport, Gulfport Live, Visually Polluted and Blighted Homes of Gulfport – and every one of these sites exists, it seems, solely to pick at other people behind a white-livered veil of secrecy. They throwing stones at people, post photos of homes and make fun of them, spread rumors and, as far as I can tell, generally act like bullies who never quite graduated eighth grade. Big words from small people, it seems. They’re quick to insult the community, but who are they? Are they people out there, working for what they believe and trying to effect a change, or are they simply cherry-crusted nutbars, posting from their back room at 3 a.m. in a Wild Turkey-induced stupor?
Before these secret groups accuse me of whining, let me assure you I can take anything you can dish out – about me. You are not the great and powerful Oz you think you are; you little more than a scared little man behind the curtain. You do not matter.
Of course, if for our readers whose homes have been plastered on Facebook and identified as blighted, or for a member of the community who had seen their name dragged through the mud by some anonymous group, it matters.
I don’t know why or how these things became acceptable, but somehow it seems that people think if they don’t have to show their face or sign their names they can show the ugliness in their soul. The assumed anonymity of the web somehow makes these people think it’s OK to insult each other. This isn’t just about those faceless groups, either: people I know in real life who appear to be decent and kind morph into these hideous cyber-people who act like they’re back at the junior high lunch table.
It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if people didn’t read these exchanges and give them the same weight as they do reported news items from credible sources. By this I mean that I can spend the bulk of my work week researching an article, talking to sources, making sure I’ve quoted them accurately and reported the available facts. My editor checks my work. Only then does it get published in print and online.
By comparison, some anonymous person can post on Facebook that President Obama was born in East Germany and is the child of Nazi communists who don’t put their trash cans away after the garbage man comes. To far too many people, since both of these things are online, they are both equally true.
There is no way to change people. There will always be ugliness in some. People will always lie to make their point and further their agenda. The only power you have – the only power – is not to read. Remember that a real news source isn’t afraid to show itself. A real news source will tell you where it heard what it just said. A real news source doesn’t need to hide.
That chicken-hearted crap is not real. It’s the Internet. Real life is your neighbor, the people you see, the places you visit. No matter what we think we know about what we’re told online, we don’t know it. We don’t know who’s behind these “secret” web sites. We don’t know who anyone is at all online. We don’t know who’s talking about the latest rumor heard at O’Maddy’s and who’s doing their best to maintain the standards of the fourth estate.
It’s enough to make Edward R. Murrow weep.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Destination Clearwater: Ghosts of Yesteryear

2011-11-26T10:08:00.000-05:00

Over a decade ago, Clearwater changed the face of the bluff. Today, one divine slice of land remains.

When I was a kid we would drive to the bluff and watch the fireworks. The bluff, back then, was a verdant expanse of sloping grass. Two statues stood sentinel: The Spirit of the American Navy and The Spirit of the American Doughboy. On July 4th they watched families crowd their tri-fold beach chairs and aluminum-framed redwood chairs side by side and wait for the fireworks. Kids ran through the crowd with sparklers.

That was my sole interaction with the bluff, although I drove by it on the regular on my way to the beach. When the city of Clearwater started talk of changes downtown and a new bridge, I privately grieved for the loss of that stretch land that gave all of us not lucky enough to live on the water public access to one of the most stunning waterfront vistas in the city.

The Doughboy and the Navy took a vacation south to Sarasota to get some restoration work done, sort of a spa for statues. The construction began, and life downtown changed forever. The bluff surrendered its scratchy rough blades of grass for smooth, clay-colored ribbons of road leading to a massive bridge that better connected the beach with the mainland. I assumed the bluff was gone forever.

Today, though, for some reason a patch of malachite catches my eye as my vermilion Volkwagen rolls down the bridge and onto the mainland. I hit the brakes and smash the clutch just in time to make a sharp right turn into the parking lot of the Oaks. I pick my way through landscaping and find myself amidst an albeit far tinier but still lush bluff. It still affords a breathtaking panorama of the bay, the bridge and the beach. I can still look down and see the deceptively soothing froth of the whitecaps on the water; I can still stretch my neck to see the upright soldiers of development over on Sand Key. I can still hear the distant rumble of traffic over the bridge, although the distinctive tinny rattle as cars grate over the midsection is now gone, as is the metallic center span that held me up so many times.

The bluff is still there. It is smaller, less accessible, and a little sadder for its new neighbors. The tree at the bluff’s edge stands alone against the silhouette of the new bridge, the reason for the bluff’s demise.

That doesn’t make this little patch of public paradise any less sweet. If anything, it evokes happy memories and reminds me that no matter how much things change, there is always a small part of them that remain the same. I run my fingers over the itchy green grass and get into my almost-certainly illegally parked car and drive towards downtown.

As I go, the doughboy waves me on.

As published on the Clearwater Patch. Click on the title of this post to view the article on the Clearwater Patch web site.

Hard Candy: Gratitude

2011-11-23T00:00:00.000-05:00

This is not the week I pictured. This was not the Thanksgiving I planned. I was going to have a family dinner, something I hadn’t done in about a decade. In another life, when I was married to the wrong man, I did a lot of things I was *supposed* to do, including presence-required Sunday dinners with godawful Anglican food, social events with people I couldn’t stand and Thanksgiving dinners.

My family, we’re Italian, and our major holidays almost invariably involved lasagna. Thanksgiving is not big in Italy. It is certainly nowhere near the Seven Fishes of Christmas Eve. It’s not Easter lamb. It’s not even, really Sunday dinner. It was a rough marriage of the two cultures, with me bringing the food of my culture (sausage) with the food of his culture (white sliced bread). Top that off with my parents avowal that once they moved to Florida (away from both sets of parents) they would never do a Family Holiday Dinner (capitalization intentional) again, and it was, to put it best, a homogenized holiday. But if my inlaws wanted a big dinner, then, by god, my parents were going to be good parents and attend.

Ultimately it became quite the dance – where we would hold Thanksgiving, who would cook, what we would eat. Christmas and birthdays were similar nightmares: I spent more time doing things to make other people happy for the sake of a tradition none of us – myself included – really understood. By the last year I was married, all I wanted for Thanksgiving Day was to curl up on the couch in my pajamas with a good book, glass of rum, and maybe a holiday movie about how much the holidays stink.

After I divorced, I spent most Thanksgivings watching the sunset at Fort DeSoto. I wanted no truck with family dinners and tradition; I had had my fill, thank you very much. I ran far and long from anything resembling tradition; never again would I sit down to a big holiday dinner because I had to.

But a few years ago I realized that I could bring only what mattered to a holiday dinner table. I realized that sitting down to dinner on a predetermined day didn’t mean that you had succumbed to some sort of Chex Mix, bridge club, soccer mom life where you surrendered your beliefs to live by rote. I realized that when you truly have things in your life for which you are grateful, you want to celebrate them.

In fact, this year I was supposed to have everyone to my place for a big holiday dinner, complete with turkey and lasgana. After years of hating the tradition, then years of recovery where I pretended the tradition didn’t exist, this was huge.

Or at least it would have been if family illness hadn’t thrown a wrench in the works. Instead of having turkey day here, my better half (known informally as El Cap) will travel out of state to visit a sick family member, and my parents, well, without my guidance they’ll likely end up at Cracker Barrel or Applebee’s. They’re not Thanksgiving folk without my interference, which is fine. They learned long ago to please themselves, and that pleases me.

You can imagine that, once it took me years to get to the place where I wanted to host Thanksgiving again, I was less-than-pleased as it all falling apart. Actually, I was disappointed and angry, but it came and went quickly.

You see, I realize I am lucky beyond measure, both that I escaped the traditions I hated and that I rediscovered the part of me that enjoys parts of them. I’m fortunate that I can take only what I want of them and move forward. I’m thankful, too, that I worked harder in anticipation of company in town, clearing the decks for most of the week to come, because now I have that time off. And yes, I will spend quite a bit of it in my jammies, sipping on mulled wine, and dividing my time between books and classically hysterical holiday films.

Instead of a holiday ‘do, I will be here, just me and the dog and two alarmingly indifferent cats, watching the sunset once again. Alone, but never lonely. I’ll make a turkey and a lasagna, just because I can.

I’ll slip down and watch the sunset and be reminded how very lucky I am to have the people in my life that I do, the courage to live the life I want, and my little dog beside me. The sun will slip into the beryl blue Gulf on Thanksgiving night and I will head home, grab a piece of pumpkin pie, and think about everything I have instead of what the day was supposed to be.

I am grateful.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

We Are Journalists

2011-11-10T16:08:00.001-05:00

Being a journalist is pretty much a thankless task. Ask any of us. The pay is not exactly champagne and caviar, the hours are at best irregular, and there's always at least one person who thinks we're doing it wrong.

Nonetheless, those of us who report the news for a living – on any scale, be it local, national, online, or daily – understand the responsibility of what we do and have a passion we can't seem to escape. For some of us, it's a love/hate thing. For others, it might be only a hate thing. One thing, though, is that we all have days, I suspect, where we all feel like we're out there alone, Us versus World.

This nifty, nifty new blog takes all of our collective moanings and love songs about what we do and mashes them together. Thanks to local reporter Emily Nipps for the soapbox on which we are all scrambling to stand.

Here's what I had to say (and you knew I would have something to say, right?)

Also, if this gains momentum and she merchandises this, I can't wait to get a mug on Zazzle.

And yes, I am a working journalist. For that I am thankful, always.

Hard Candy: Breast Cancer... Wheee!

2011-11-04T00:00:00.000-04:00

So, OK, my friend Kelli has breast cancer. Which, I think we can all agree, sucks. She’s got a little kid and husband who love and need her very much, and she has, over the past 40-some-odd years, grown rather fond of being alive. The whole cancer thing inconvenient for her, to say the least.

Before I continue, I want to say that I’ve known more than my fair share of people with breast cancer and, sadly, many other varieties of cancer. My aunt and godmother died way too young of breast cancer, but my great-grandmother and grandmother both survived it. Cancer is as rampant in my family as anger issues, drunken fights at funerals and weddings, and grudges that last longer than most marriages; I am no stranger watching people battle cancer.

I tell you this so that you understand my sincerity when I tell you cancer is a laughing matter. It has to be. Kelli and her family could spend hours on the couch, fretting over what might happen and what, in fact, has happened to many others. It would not do them a bit of good, and she realizes this. The best thing she can do is demand the best care available, ask lots of questions, and, as she decided to do after receiving her primary diagnosis, laugh her way through the disease.

Cancer, we decided, can be funny. Breast cancer doubly so, if you’ll pardon the pun. Don’t think so? Kelli and I have prepared a short list of ways she’s going to laugh her way through this nightmare. As she said to me as we shopped for Halloween candy last week, she’s the one with cancer, so who’s going to argue with her?

6. You get to be bald. Look, I have no idea what my scalp looks like. Is it bumpy? Does it have any odd birthmarks? Is bald a good look for me? Most of us will never know, because we simply lack the fashion fortitude to shave our heads. Cancer patients, though... man, they get to find out. How lucky are they? Bonus: the hair could grow back a different color, curlier, or straighter. It’s like getting a whole new head of hair for free.

5. Until you do lose your hair, why not have some fun? Go big or go home, I say. Kelli didn’t start chemo in time for Halloween, so we missed the boat on dying her hair orange and black and shaving a pumpkin into the back of her head. With a little luck, though, she’ll have poisons whipping through her blood by Thanksgiving, so we’re thinking of shaving a horn of plenty into the back of her heard and dying her dark blonde locks some soothing horn-of-plenty colors.

4. Points. Kelli is lucky enough to have health insurance – she and her husband own PJs – but she still has to make co-pays to her new BFFs: oncologists, surgeons, and laboratories. She figures if she uses her American Express to make those payments, she can use the points to take a trip to Spain and eat grilled octopus.

3. Weight loss. For women, this is a biggie. How many of us struggle to keep those extra five, ten or twenty pounds off our hips? Once you start getting chemo, you’re probably not going to keep anything down. For people like me who are a big fan of food, that part, admittedly, is a bit of a downer. Kelli’s gym membership expired last month, and what great luck is it that she hadn’t gotten around to renewing yet? She can hang up her gym shoes and sit back and just watch the weight fall off! Plus, you know, the weight she’s going to lose with that double mastectomy she’ll be model-thin. As I understand it, a DD cup breast weighs about 10 pounds. That’s 20 pounds right there. Which brings us to our next major point...

2. You get new boobs. Most women get breast cancer either right about the time or just after their breasts start to, shall we say, feel their age. For you perky A and B cups out there, aging breasts aren’t an issue. For those of us slightly more well endowed, though, the prospect of gunning down middle age with a new set of the ladies is wonderful. Because – and this is the best part – the new set won’t sag. Ever. Think about that for a moment. You get to trade in the 1960s or 1970s models for brand-new cleavage that can be any size you want.

1. Nothing. Nothing is the best part about getting cancer, even highly treatable (when caught early) cancers such as breast cancer. The treatment isn’t fun. Losing your hair, not being able to keep food down, having a single or double mastectomy – it’s all just a rotten, lousy hand of cards that one in every eight women will be dealt in her life.

I have tremendous hope for Kelli and women like her, and I hope that as they go through the hell that is treatment they can still find ways to laugh. After all, journalist Linda Ellerbee says, a good time to laugh is any time you can.

I’d be lying if I told you Kelli wasn’t petrified. She is. But she chooses to laugh now. And, after all, she’s the one with cancer. Who are we to argue?

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

2011-10-21T00:30:00.000-04:00

Hard Candy: Sandbox Government

What the hell is wrong with people?

I mean, I ask myself that question on a fairly regular basis (hourly, in some cases) but the last few weeks I feel as though the ridiculosity has approached stunning proportions. One of my readers, one who doesn’t know me that well and therefore still likes me well enough to give me an honest opinion, pointed out that I seemed burned out in my last few columns.

He’s right; I’m tired. I’m tired of watching people who are supposed to be grownups act like their cities are some sort of sandbox and, when things don’t go their way, kick sand in everyone else’s face.

Let’s take, for example, St. Pete Beach. Granted, their attorneys seem to have difficulty ascertaining the difference between “what will get us more work” and “solid legal advice.” Granted, the commissioners aren’t exactly the vox populi. Granted, Tuesday night meetings can sound like an arrogant social club.

However, I’m not seeing much of anything that deserves better. Maybe it’s me, but I’m seeing a bunch of people acting like children and, when you act like a four-year-old, it’s hard to get anyone to take you seriously, much less a commission stoked on power.

Now, many of you deserve better. Much better. The problem? There’s a few clowns at the party who are ruining it for the rest of us. I’m speaking, chiefly, of the lawsuits against the city. Not all of them, because some people appear to be using the legal system as it’s intended: to protect their constitutional rights, but he slew of lawsuits surrounding the city’s comprehensive plan are a load of crap. They’re benefitting two groups: Ken Weiss, attorney for the plaintiffs, and the city’s crack legal team. No one else. Not the commission. Not the actual plaintiffs (I’ll be honest, guys, you just look like Weiss’ dancing puppets). Certainly not the rest of us.

Before you call me pro-hotel or pro-SOLV (the front group for the hotels), rest assured, I am not. I’d love to see a category five sweep across Long Key and raze every last one of the hotels, and I’d do just about anything to make sure none of them ever rebuilt. I believe beach renourishment is an environmentally unsound way to pander to the hotels. I think the idea that any portion of our city – be it a small district or the whole shoreline – allows waterfront development over two stories is a sign that we don’t deserve to live in paradise, because we clearly can’t handle the responsibility. So I am most assuredly not pro-SOLV, pro-development, or pro-hotel.

But you know what? I don’t sue over any of it. Because, like it or not, politics is not about what you want as an individual. The commission – misguided as they may be from time to time – is attempting to act in the best interests of the majority. I hope. Unfortunately for me, the majority of people who live and pay taxes on the beach don’t seem to mind any of this. I think that’s rather pathetic, but I accept it. If I don’t like it, I can try to garner support for my viewpoint. I can request meetings with my commissioners. I can, if all else fails and I remain in the minority, accept it or move away. I reject, however, the notion that acceptable responses include inventing allegations, threatening repeatedly to sue, or acting like a three-year-old having a tantrum. I reject the idea that you should intimidate government into doing what you want.

Is it fair to you if things don’t go your way? No, hell no, absolutely no. I’d like to note, however, that government isn’t about what’s right and fair for you; it’s about what’s right and fair for the majority. If you don’t like that?

Well, then, I suggest you pack up your toys and find another sandbox.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

2011-10-18T11:57:00.001-04:00

Hard Candy: The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
By Cathy Salustri

I love Halloween. I’m not a trick-or-treater, and I don’t dress up (although Calypso will wear a festive dog shirt or black and orange scarf every now and then), but I love the sick and twisted traditions my friends and I embrace this time of year. Starting with the first hint of fall in the air – and by that, I mean the first day we see temperatures under 85 – we start talking about the big event.

Dan decorates their house for Halloween. This includes but is in no way limited to a hand in a jar, skeleton butler, and glowing, motion activated maggot on the floor; going over to visit is not for the faint of heart, or those who have been drinking. Leah makes this popcorn and candy thing that we descend up on like hungry zombies. Amanda bakes, putting what I’m pretty sure must be crack into whatever it is she makes; Stacey picks the worst B-horror movie she can find (past winners include the Peter Jackson classic, Dead Alive and The Convent). Me? I bring the Awful Peeps Cake, a not-so-scary cake that reenacts B-movie scenes with – you guessed it – Peeps.

I blame Martha Stewart.

I used to love Martha Stewart. While I never spray-painted a turkey gold (I have standards), I made my share of “good things.” As time passed, my passion for Ms. Stewart faded, but on occasion I get sucked in by her holiday issues. Growing up, my grandmother always made a big to-do about the holidays, and I guess I still had that warm, happy childhood memory motivating me when I picked up – quite on impulse – a Halloween edition of Martha Stewart Living a few years ago and decided to make a cake topped with marshmallow ghosts.

My mom and I sat down with a cake, a couple bags of marshmallows, black icing (ghosts have eyes, after all) and toothpicks. It was a short trip from “excited optimism” to my sweet, puritanical mother swearing like a sailor at the marshmallows that just wouldn’t be, dammit.

When I showed up at Leah’s house, we all had a good laugh – marshmallow ghosties do not travel well – and forgot about it. The next year, with Martha Stewart just a fading, horrible memory, I wondered... what if I used Peeps? My mom and I decided, in a pure fit of optimism, that we would bond whilst recreating the shower scene from Psycho. With Peeps.

Halloween found me approaching the cake decorator at a local supermarket asking if they had tiny knives used in cake decorations. I received a weird look for my question but, as my mother pointed out, they didn’t call the police, so it could have been worse. More traumatic was the dearth of Peeps, so I had to settle on chocolate-covered pumpkin Peeps. Since I never found a tiny knife, I used a cocktail sword. The bathtub was an overturned butter dish; the shower curtain was wax paper.

Be very glad this column doesn’t come with pictures: it looked nothing like Psycho. With the swords and the butter dish it looked like two pumpkins dueling on a rowboat, which was totally not the look I was going for.

Which brings me to this year. This year, I’ve planned. I’ve sought input. I’ve decided that this year, Peeps will re-enact the Shining. It’s not a B movie, so that breaks with tradition, but I have every faith that, despite my best efforts, the cake will still look awful. I’m looking for two tricycles, a miniature labyrinth, Peeps, and some sort of ability to put that all together in a way that resembles the movie. My hope is that, by the time Dan finishes hanging spiders around his house, Leah’s done with her popcorn candy concoction, Stacey’s picked the absolute worst horror movie she can find, and Amanda’s bought out the neighborhood crack dealers for her cookies, I’ll have a Peeps-topped cake that has caused my mom utter frustration, looks like hell, and may or may not taste good. I might even throw in a sword just as a tribute to Peeps cakes of the past.

After all, what are the holidays without tradition?

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com, or just send Peeps.

Bridal Showers

2011-10-09T09:25:00.000-04:00

I don't have many close friends, and that's by choice. I am not a reliable enough friend to have lots of friends. We all know those people who have 50 people they consider "really close friends." I am so not that person. I'm too cranky, fickle and unreliable to keep up with that many people. The ones I do have matter greatly to me, mostly because they understand I will flake on minor events and often fall asleep at any event that runs past 10 at night.

It is only for these friends that I will do certain things. I will go places I would never go on my own and attend events I would never seek out if left to my own devices. They don't ask much of me, and, for the most part, they all let me sleep peacefully when I nod off at parties, so I figure the least I can do is support them at the things that matter to them. By "support" I mean, of course, show up and stay awake only after I've whined a little here.

Amanda is getting married, and while the wedding itself should be pretty wonderful, today is her bridal shower. At it's core, it's a bunch of my closest friends getting together and eating cake. That part is all good. Cake, friends, presents... I love it.

But there will also be games. For those of you (men and Maricris) who have never attended a bridal shower, let's talk about those games. Simply Wedding Stuff says this about those games:

"Before you get down to the serious business of ceremonies, vows and such, be sure to include some lighthearted bridal shower games to the agenda. All generations will enjoy a rousing round of bridal shower bingo or try their hand at a challenging bridal shower word search game."

Bridal shower bingo? Really, Simply Wedding Stuff? I think what bothers me more is not that they're trying to get me to believe that, but that someone actually wrote that, presumably with a straight face.

Bridal Shower Games A to Z sells a "finish the bride's phrase" game. I think I could really have fun with this one, and I'm hoping that if we're forced to play games, this one's on the list. The game goes like this: you're handed a list of words with blank spaces after them and you have to finish the phrase. So, if it says "Holy _______," I would fill in "Holy shit, I just got that $600 mixer I wanted!" and if it says "Champagne ______," you should complete the phrase "makes me throw up unless it's the really good stuff. That one may not be so bad...

Of course, you always run the risk of the inevitable "make a wedding dress out of toilet paper" contest, whereby you break into teams. Each team chooses one lucky lady to be the model who will wear the wedding dress her team designs out of toilet paper. There are no words to describe the hideosity of this game. If you've never experienced it, count yourself among the lucky.

The Maid of Honor Guide actually has the audacity to say their games are better, and perhaps they are. But, really, what are we, 12?

1 – Wedding Night Hand Game: This is a game your guests won’t really understand until later on when you explain it to them, but that’s the idea! Have a bridesmaid, ready with construction paper and markers, instruct guests to place the paper on the floor and trace their hand with the marker-they can’t bend their knees. The bridesmaid should write down everything the guests say as they try to bend over and draw their hand. Later, you explain that the point of the game was to find out what the bride-to-be will say on her wedding night. You’ll get classic soundbites like, “Gosh, this is harder than it looks!” and “Oh! This hurts!” You probably won’t be able to get through the list of quotes without dissolving into laughter. .

Really, this whole site is a treasure trove of things that make me shudder, including "What's in the sock" and "Pick the Groom."

Bottom line? I love Amanda and am truly delighted for her. I love that I get to see everyone today. But please, please don't ask me to bend over and trace my hand. I beg you. Oh, and one more pearl of wisdom about games from Simply Wedding Stuff:

"Everyone secretly enjoys being part of this long standing wedding tradition."

I promise you, Simply Wedding Stuff, I keep no such secret. My secret? I'll have a teeny-tiny flask of vodka hidden in my purse for when you want me to make a wedding dress out of Charmin.

The Lunch List

2011-10-02T13:19:00.000-04:00

As usual, everything fell apart food-wise the last two days. Still, I have vain hopes of preparing food and not eating trash. Hey, I can dream, right?

1. Crispy wontons with little shrimps inside (I have salad shrimp leftover in the freezer) along with bamboo shoots and other stuff.

2. Spare ribs in the slow cooker. It's cold now, right? I can pull out the slow cooker again? Yes, I know it's only 60º; in Florida, that's cold.

3. Stir fry with meat of some sort, depending on what's on sale. I don't have a link for this; I just heat sesame and chili oil in my wok, throw in onions first, then add the other veggies, and finally the meat. Unless it's chicken. Raw chicken disgusts me, so I usually cook the hell out of it. Also, I try not to make it.

4. Veggie burgers. I've been craving vegetables like a madwoman. That's the one thing about summer in Florida: we grow nothing. Everything gets shipped in from somewhere else and it takes like crap.

5. Paper Citrus Salmon. Hell, it sounds good. Why not?

2011-09-29T22:16:00.008-04:00

Hard Candy: The Times, They Are A-Changin’
By Cathy Salustri

If you don't like something change it; if you can't change it, change the way you think about it. ~Mary Engelbreit

As I write this I’m tooling along 275 towards my little scrap of paradise, although any adjective that implies I am moving in a speedy fashion would be a low-down, dirty, lying adjective. I’m stuck in rush-hour traffic in what appears to be some sort of modern-day epic of Gilgamesh. Cars line both sides of our “new and improved” interstate.

How many decades of construction were supposed to change this debacle we call Malfunction Junction? Seems to me all that work, money and time didn’t change much at all.

Perhaps this interstate offers a prime example of why so many people fear change and why others just plain don’t like it. Me? I’m all for it. I accept that everything changes. But I’m also highly in favor of thinking through the things we have the power to change before we change them.

There’s a lot of changes in town these days. On the surface, every one of them seems like a swell idea. Even so, I still wonder if we’re changing ourselves into something we won’t recognize a few years down the road.

To paraphrase Kierkegaard, we must live life forward. The bitch of it is, he went on to explain, we can only understand it backwards. We’re living forward right now, doing what we think is best for our city, but I’m starting to wonder if, when we look back, we’ll better understand what we should have done.

Last week I wrote in support of the beach smoking ban, and while I still support it, I’ve been thinking about things – namely, Gulfport’s litter situation – and growing ever-more-concerned that we may be going down the wrong road.

Don’t misunderstand; it’s not a mistake to say we don’t want litter on the beach. It’s not even a mistake to try and clean the trash from the town’s alleys and gutters. The mistake comes when we sanitize a community within an inch of its life. Gulfport appears to have gotten rather caught up in what we don’t want and what we need to change, but we’ve almost completely stopped talking about what makes Gulfport, Gulfport.

We are not doing that in Gulfport. No, we’re focusing on changing the things we don’t like. As I said, good, fine, great. Get rid of the litter. Clean the streets. Figure out the line between “rundown is just fine” and “gestapo code enforcement.” But be careful, folks. I’m watching everyone change things but I’m not seeing anyone talking about what we’re changing into. We had an embarrassingly small number of submissions for the new Clymer Park sign; perhaps that is not so much an indictment of the arts community as an indictment of us as a city. We don’t know who we are anymore; around what is an artist supposed to center a design?

I’ve spent the past three weeks peeling up the edges of many, many small Florida towns, and I’ve visited at least a baker’s dozen of communities that compare to Gulfport in size and character and charm. Obviously, I’m not privy to each town’s individual struggles, but I know what I saw on the outside. I saw communities with firm grasps on their identities: DeFuniak Springs has a spring at its core and a northern small-town feel; Fernandina Beach has a working waterfront; Appalachicola does oysters. Each town has its own thing going, and everything in that town communicates who that town is to visitors as much as it does the people who live there.

I’ve publicly criticized city council’s upcoming “visioning” session, and I still stand by my snorts of derision. It smacks of the movie “Office Space,” and Gulfportians never struck me as the sort of folks who march around like corporate zombies worrying about visioning and strategy. In fact, I’d say a lot of folks who live here escaped that lifestyle when they moved to town.

No, the city would better serve its residents by asking Gulfportians to define their city instead of the talking heads on council deciding that on their behalf. Gulfportians come from all walks of life, and only one thing unites all of them, from the business owner with a yacht in Pasadena Yacht and Country Club to the guy who can barely hold on to his two-bedroom 1920s home off 49th Street: they love Gulfport.

The other thing is, Gulfport can’t deny itself to become what it thinks it should be. That’s the oldest Florida story I know: newcomers move in and re-shape little Florida towns into something they find more palatable. I never got that; why not just move somewhere that already fits your dream? Eventually, the town’s identity disappears under a veil of uniformity.

Everything changes, Gulfport. You know that and I know that. The key is not just figuring out what we’re changing into, but what we stand to lose. Once we know that, we can decide what’s worth holding on to.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com, "like" Hard Candy on Facebook, or follow Cathy on Twitter.

The Lunch List

2011-09-26T16:10:00.001-04:00

As I merrily chug along 441, as barn-spoiled as a horse after a day in the fields (I mean, I'm assuming. I don't know), I realize that an empty refrigerator, a half-jar of peanut butter, and a couple cans of tuna fish await me at home. I have no clue what I'm eating for dinner tonight or what I'm making for lunch this week (if I don't make lunches ahead of time I end up shoveling anything into my mouth with wild abandon, which is so not a good look for me.) To that end, I started making a list of what I want to eat this week and, as I tried figure out where to save it, realized that blogs are PERFECT for this sort of things.

Considering that – and that this list will likely be of no interest to anyone but myself – here's what I'm cooking:

Tuesday:
If I make stir-fry tonight (Monday) I'll have the leftover rice for this salad, but no way in hell am I using a bottled dressing. I have standards, peeps.
Not Martha's Quick Salad

Wednesday:
So, OK, I'm craving veggies. It doesn't negate the healthiosity (is TOO a word!) of them that they're fried, does it? Also, the cheese. I feel like the cheese makes them somehow less healthy:
Zucchini ricotta fritters

Thursday: I love these little shrimp. I want to marry them and have their little shrimp babies. Except that would be disgusting, so I guess I'll just eat 'em instead:
Shrimp pasta salad

Friday: When I was a kid we always had fish on Friday. Oh, we're horrible Catholics – my family has divorce (yay me), not getting married in the church (yay me again, which may mean the first thing isn't a sin at all) and, I'm pretty sure, birth control and masturbation (I'm just guessing, y'all. We don't actually talk about these things in my family. Honest.) running rampant like little hell-bound Italians through our bloodlines. But the fish Friday thing I liked. So I'm bringing it back, except instead of breaded, fried flounder I'm going to pick up whatever's fresh at Shaner's (probably snapper) and a mess of clams and we'll have that for dinner Thursday. Friday there will not be clams left – this I promise you – but the snapper will go nicely into a fish-version of Tuesday's salad, except with this teriyaki sauce.

Saturday: I love these yummy little bastards.

And that's five working lunches. If you know of a great food site, please send it to me or post it in the comments.

Sebastian Inlet State Park

2011-09-22T18:19:00.000-04:00

Not too much now, because I'm sitting on the dock of the bay. Well, the inlet. The past two days have been... wonderful and horrible. Wonderful because a leisurely drive down A1A reminded me that not all of our coastlines are 3-for-$10 t-shirt shops and trinket stores; horrible because I can't believe a few miles inland at Pahokee such poverty exists in stark contrast to the riches funneled out of the town to those who raise cane. Sugarcane, that is.

One more day to go on this pilgrimage into sunshine. I alternately crave my Tempurpedic and regret every little hovel I will not see this trip.

By the way, if you ever camp at Sebastian Inlet State Park, try and get site #14. The view is inspiring.

Hard Candy: No Ifs, Ands or Butts

2011-09-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

So Gulfport wants to make its beach nonsmoking. I vacillate back and forth on the issue, between cheering wholeheartedly and then debating the civil liberties end of it, but as of this week, I think I’m in favor of the ban. I am just not in favor of it for any of the reasons people are giving at council. Those of you playing the home game? Don’t let ‘em fool you; I don’t think those people favor the ban for the reasons they give, either.

The reason I hear for the proposed ban is litter. Cigarette butts are litter. True enough, and, I’ll add, pretty disgusting litter at that. Proponents of the smoking ban say that banning cigarettes on the beach will stop the cigarette butt litter. Only councilman Sam Henderson followed the discussions about under-enforcement of current litter ordinances to their logical conclusion and asked how the city intended to enforce the smoking ban when they weren’t effectively enforcing current litter ordinances.

I agree with the councilman there. I think it’s ridiculous to ban smoking because it’s a litter problem.

No, I think we should ban smoking for health reasons. Of course, we haven’t heard this argument. It’s Gulfport; we’re all about live and let live, right? We go about our happy, quirky way, and if people want to engage in behaviors that will kill them, well, who are we to stop them, yes?

Except that isn’t really who we are anymore. We’ve taken to the streets and started the process of demanding a community standard. So we’re more “live and let live, as long as your life looks good on the block next to my life.”

That’s not what this column is about, though. It’s about smoking. And while I disagree with the arguments used in this process of criminalizing smoking, I do agree that secondhand smoke is vile and toxic and I really love the idea of being able to go to a beach and not smell someone else’s ashtray aroma. I wish St. Pete Beach would ban smoking on the beach, but they won’t. They lack the...let’s call it courage... to risk angering tourists. Thankfully, in Gulfport, that’s totally not a concern.

As an ex-smoker who was actually pretty obnoxious about smoking, I have to ask, what’s the big deal about outlawing smoking on the beach? When I smoked I accepted that it was an ugly habit and that the tide had turned in polite society; I never argued about smoking on planes or in a store. I may have made the tired joke – repeatedly – ”hey, if you don’t like it, don’t breathe!” but at the end of the day, I hated the smell of smoke so much I wouldn’t smoke in my own house.

Now, before you argue that my house or a store was private property, I would remind you that smokers already can’t light up inside city hall or on school grounds. Those are both tax-supported public places, so what's the big deal about outlawing it at another facility (the beach) where everyone's money goes towards upkeep?

Ah, I can hear the civil liberties arguments now. They don’t hold water. It’s like this: we have freedom of speech, but try yelling “fire” in a crowded theatre and see how fast you get arrested. It’s the same thing: you can’t exercise your freedoms if they endanger mine.

Here are a few more thoughts about our personal freedoms:

*It's not illegal to drink. You can't drink on the beach. No one says we're taking away civil liberties when you can't bring a bottle of wine down and watch the sunset.

*Nudity is also not illegal. Try that on the beach and then tell me how you like having to register with the local PD every time you move. No one's complaining about that one, either.

*It's not illegal to walk your dog, but god forbid I try and take Calypso down to the beach for a run. Council decided THAT wouldn't fly pretty damn quick.

Look, smokers, I get that you're tired of being shut out of places. I'm sorry that apparently every single smoker I’ve heard from is “responsible” and NEVER litters with their discarded cigarettes. I don’t care; it’s not about that for me. For me, it’s a health issue. I quit because I don’t want smoke killing me.

You see, no matter what you say I will never agree that you are not infringing on MY civil liberties by crapping up a public beach with your smoke. I quit smoking because I watched my grandmother suffocate from emphysema after smoking on the sly for years. I quit because I didn’t want to go that way.

I quit with the assistance of modern pharmacopoeia. It, to put it plainly, sucked. Please don’t nullify my efforts with some argument about civil liberties.

Smoke away, I say. After all, it’s still Gulfport.

Just not on the beach.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com, or tell her what you think here, at TheGabber.com, or on her Hard Candy Facebook page. If that isn't enough for you, you can also follow her on Twitter.

Grayton

2011-09-18T11:14:00.000-04:00

I haven't been so in love with a beach since I first laid eyes on the shimmering waters of the Florida Keys, what seems like a million years ago. I was in college, and we were on a field trip (I have a history of taking all the right classes) to Islamorada. I am ashamed, almost 20 years later, to admit that was my first trip to the Keys. As soon as we broke clear of the mangroves and I saw the sparkle on water that was unlike any transparent emerald I had ever seen, there was a sigh in my soul and I felt as though I had come home. I went back again a few months later, with another college class (as I said, I take only the best classes). I came home again, ever more resolute that that green was the color of my blood.

Years pass. Things change. I married someone who hated the beach. We only went to the Keys once. We divorced. These two things, while not the whole story, are more than a little related. No matter; before the judge decreed the divorce final I had packed my kayak and bike and headed for the Keys.

I still loved it. The water still took my breath away as I came over the bridge. But there was so much... crap. Key Largo had started to take on the familiar chain store patina I've grown to hate; Islamorada was still a respite, but clearly giving up the ghost. Marathon was nice, but KMart and Publix? No, thank you.

The water, though. Man, that water was still the same. It was ever glassy, eternally aquamarine. It's the kind of water that makes you yearn for better adjectives. I can write about it a million times over, and if you've never seen it, it will be a pale fantasy compared to what I see in my head when I write about it. It is paradise in a thousand shades of an aquamarine rainbow.

That's how I felt the past few days in the panhandle. The Keys will always, always have that place in my heart, but the placid thrill of finding a slice of paradise where I didn't expect it flowed over me anew when the sea forest opened up and I saw the beaches just south of US 98 along the panhandle. Glass met pale, luminous green, which met penetrating cerulean. The beaches were windswept sand dunes with sand fences; the sand itself felt like cake flour when I walked on it but sugar when I brushed it off my feet. I found sand dollars no bigger than a pinkie nail. The water was clear, like it wasn't there at all, and it felt so good to be surrounded by all these glassy green prisms sparkling back up at the sky that I laughed when the waves caught me unaware.

I laughed a lot in Grayton Beach, and I didn't want to leave. Gulf Beaches National Seashore and Navarre Beach made me want to cry for the sense of longing and realization I felt simultaneously in my soul. I loved Panama City, too, and its chintzy touristana. Apalachicola and her oysters also slurped me in to the unreality of living up here. If not for winters I suspect would be unfailingly cold, I could move here. I could make a life here. I could spend my afternoons on the beach and my mornings and nights trying to write a career for myself. I would never, I told myself, try and write on the beach; not for money.

Grayton Beach was, for a moment, the Florida Keys dream that I held for so long until I realized the dream has vanished under the weight of chain stores and chemical runoff. Will the panhandle meet the same fate?

We left this morning and will spend the night at Falling Waters State Park tonight, in the middle of the panhandle, west of Tallahassee. Monday night will be St. Augustine, and after three days along Florida's least destroyed beaches, I am anxious to return there. The spaces in between, it seems, are filled with cattle ranches, cotton fields, state forests, and forgotten downtowns begging the world to remember them. I want to race through them and find my way to the sea once again. I want to laugh as the salt water washes over me, and at the day's end, I want to feel sun soaked and salty sleep.

I fear, though, that it's the Keys all over again: no beach will ever satisfy unless they are these, the sugar and cake flour beaches of Florida's panhandle. We are but two hours gone and already I am planning my return, wondering about rental prices, dreaming about a life there.

It's a dangerous dream, because Florida is fickle. She will give you your dream and then change it on you. After all, look at the Keys. Hell, look at our beaches anywhere. They were all perfect, once. Now? Now popular has replaced perfection.

But still... that green. That perfect, undulating sea of green.

Hard Candy: Here, Here

2011-09-17T00:01:00.005-04:00

Orlando, you have broken my heart.

In the 1990s I lived on Morse Boulevard, just outside Orlando, and I loved it. Other than buying groceries I did all my shopping by walking around the corner to Park Avenue. I found birthday gifts at local shop. A local florist make me a Christmas wreath for my front door. I sipped coffee at a non-Seattle-based shop that was neither trendy nor pricey. Friends and neighbors would walk down the street and get sushi at a hole-in-the-wall; the bookstore next door always had a lively game of checkers at its sidewalk table. The Mill restaurant had food for non-sushi lovers and we could walk there in 10 minutes.

Orlando seemed very far away, but it wasn’t. Not really. We’d drive to Church Street to get terrified at Terror on Church Street and marvel at the tourists who’d managed to wander away from the theme parks for an evening. We’d use the parking garage that had flowering bushes on its outside so we didn’t have to fight street traffic, but we’d move the car if we wanted to head down Colonial to Dekko’s to go dancing.

I worked, once or twice, as a stagehand for Orlando Opera Company, and the company shared space with Southern Ballet in a building donated by Florida Power. Before every matinee my friend Angi and I would climb a narrow ladder up to the roof and spread Visqueen over the long, narrow skylight. Lake Ivanhoe curved along the building and, while I hated the climb, I loved the view.

In case it isn’t clear, I loved everything about Orlando and Winter Park. The only thing wrong was that it was way too far from the beach, and I need salt water like beagles need to howl. I moved back to Pinellas county.

At first I visited frequently, but over time the visits grew less frequent. I went back this week, and what I saw shattered my heart.

Dollar General, automotive chain stores, and fast food chains dominate the landscape. My college and early 20s memories are all that remain of a unique, untouched community. I don’t just mean Orlando; Park Boulevard has changed utterly, populated with the smaller chain stores you see in every small town trying to make itself distinctive from the next small town 20 miles over. A few holdouts remain, but the personal feel has disappeared under a cloud of assimilation.

Sadly, this is not confined to Orlando. Over the past few days the joke in our small camper has become “Look – a Dollar General. We must be downtown.” At times I feel adrift in Anytown, USA.

My thesis chair and Florida guru Dr. Gary Mormino wrote an article for the Tampa Tribune years ago. In it he referenced a 1990s postcard of the Orlando skyline. “Welcome to Orlando!” the postcard read. One problem: the skyline didn’t belong to Orlando. When polled, area readers thought it might be Halifax.

“There is no here, here,” Dr. Mormino laments in his article, and as I drove down US17 and 441 through the Orlando area and a dozen other smaller towns, my heart breaks for Orlando, for Winter Park, and for every little town in Florida who has lost its “here.”

Dollar General stores all look the same, whether they’re nestled under live oak trees or set amidst palm trees, and, after eight days of driving Florida’s back roads, those stores symbolize the loss of our “here.”

I see Florida towns as we travel from stoplight to stoplight through sand, forest and lakes, and some of these roads reveal the very worst of Florida: her homogenized outer skin, a veneer that is peeling up like cheap pressboard furniture that’s been through a flood. This is the US 19 through Largo or the Ulmerton Road of the state. This is the worst Gulf or Gulfport Boulevard we could conceive. This is neon and sandy asphalt and Anytown, Anywhere. This is hell.

I believe St. Pete Beach is trying to keep some of its “here”, despite what the people throwing around threats and yelling at commission meetings may say. I believe Gulfport wants that, too. I do not know they have the funding or the leadership, but I hope it finds the former and suspect it may have the latter. I’ll be honest, I’d feel better if the city planners had been more vocal about how to keep our here, here. I’d feel better if Gulfport hadn’t already started the march toward low-budget chain stores along its namesake boulevard. I would feel better if we could at least agree on what our “here” is.

Take a drive yourself and search for the here: some of it remains throughout Florida. It bleeds through in old diners with Cuban coffee and restaurants with frogs legs and catfish. It traces the rolling hills of north Florida and it invites you to roll down your car windows and breath in south Florida’s salt air. It knows who it is and can’t try and pretend differently. Each here has its own identities, filled with its own history and imperfectly beautiful. It has no apologies.

It has no Dollar General stores.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Goofy Golf

2011-09-16T13:01:00.001-04:00

Goofy Golf.

I spent about 20 minutes taking pictures at the Goofy Golf – octopus, dinosaur, Easter Island head (he was my favorite, and also apparently an institution at any Florida minigolf that is not a chain establishment. Only in Florida do we have franchised minigolf.) and the gamut of the sorts of things you would expect to find at a minigolf establishment along Florida's coast.

Panama City Beach offers untold riches of chintzy touristana. They did it first, and they did it best. Before them there was only gator wrestling and mermaids. Come on Florida, you can do better than that!, Panama City Beach must have said.

Unlike the newer, glitzy flavors of chintzy tourism, the shalmtzy flavor syrups that drizzle throughout the city are more traditional ones: wooden roller coasters, Ripley's and a more authentic version of International Drive. The gimmicks here hatched I-Drive; the extreme and the overdone cut its teeth on Panama City Beach's gritty fluffy sugar sand before corrupting our state's chewy center.

Goofy Golf remains. Established in 1959, it stands in tropical shades of purple, gold and lame´. You do not feed live gators here (as you may at some of the chains); you do not see a plane crashing into a faux mountain. You are surrounded by high rises and planned shopping experiences; nothing is left to chance. The beach, glittering aquamarine against fluffy buff sand, is down there, if you care to look.

It is tourism for tourism's sake, and the technicolor icons of the minigolf course sum up this pastel tourist life.

The Florida Sleep

2011-09-15T06:08:00.000-04:00

I can't sleep. It's 4:30 in the morning and I've been lying awake for two hours. Even a cheezy dime store romance from the KOA lending library (Why is it that the two times I've been in Tallahassee I've ended up at the KOA? What's wrong with me?) didn't help. The healthy shot of 151 I poured myself didn't help. If this blog doesn't put me to sleep I'm heading over to Facebook to play some stupid time wasting game.

{Time passes}

Not working. It's now 5:05 and all I can think about is everything of Florida I am not going to see in the next two weeks. There just isn't enough time; there's too much of her and not enough of me.

Picture Florida as a piece of orange slice candy. You know the ones I mean: chewy orange slices with a crusty sugar coating. You can't eat too many; the flavor will overwhelm after one or two.

I've spent the past few days peeling at the state's chewy orange center, and now I'm worried I won't have enough time to lick at its sugary outer layers. There's just so much to see, so many places almost no one knows about that I've yet to explore, and I really don't have enough time to give them the attention they deserve.

Take today: we have a less-than-three-hour drive to Port St. Joe, where we will camp on the beach. Sounds great, right? Yeah, I thought so, too. Then we drove through Monticello yesterday and I realized that I really wanted to walk around the town and explore the idea of poverty juxtaposed with pre-civil-war architecture. I want to spend enough time there to make the place breathe for the people who haven't been there.

So, OK, add an hour. If we leave our campground at 9 (this has yet to happen but hope springs eternal), we can still be in Port St. Joe by 1, right?

Not so fast, math wizards. Because there is still Natural Bridge Battlefield, which is only important because I just two days ago realized it referred to the river disappearing underground rather than some land formation arching over the river. So, OK, add another 30 minutes.

1:30.

PLUS there's Tallahassee, our capital and an awesome town even if it weren't. We need to take a look there.

2:30.

Wakulla Springs. That's where Rico Browning worked his magic with Creature From the Black Lagoon; it's where Tarzan and Cheetah frolicked. There's a great boat ride there and a lodge.

4:00.

Just hell. Oysters. Because we're going right through Apalachee Bay. And with oysters come beer. It's the law in Florida, in case you didn't know. Indian Pass Raw Bar and Moe's are currently vying for our dinner business, but who knows what we'll drive by that I don't already have on my radar?

6:00.

And then we get to the park. The beach. The panhandle's diamond gulf coast, except by the time we set up camp we'll have about an hour to enjoy it. Then it's sunset, dinner, bed, and time to do this all over again. All the while all I can think about are the people and places I'm missing.

Just bloody hell. These are the places that everyone visits, and I'm going because I want to go there; it's totally selfish. But what about the other places? What about the Sopchoppy cemetery? What about Double Bayou? What about Blount's Bay? What about all the little places with real people and real lives who deserve to be seen? They are no less valuable than the hairdresser who bought Moe's; they are of equal interest as the people who narrate the tour down the Wakulla.

I am failing you, Mr. Kennedy. I am failing and I am sorry. I just don't have the resources to do this on an extended basis. There's too much of Florida to see.

Florida has too many riches; she simultaneously has too much chewy orange center and sugar sand coating. I love all of it and wish I could gather it up in my arms, weave it into some great lime and sand afghan, and spread it out over the state for the whole world to grab a corner and snuggle up.

The Florida Sleep. I would love it if everyone could snuggle under the blanket of Florida and rest, knowing that they would all meet at some point. But that won't happen; the chances of a Miami boy meeting a girl from Panama City are slim, as are the chances of the two respective worlds coming to a mutual place of understanding.

What is my point here, I wonder after a few scant hours or sleep and even more hours of fretting? Do I want everyone to find the best oysters, or am I after something more?

Of course, I am after something more. Florida is more than oysters and sand. She is more than Disney and the Keys. She is salt and sun and citrus and pines, but she is more.

She is sleeping with your windows open in August and feeling like you could disappear in a pool of sweat.

She is watching the sun set over the shallow turquoise Gulf and knowing that you are home.

She is wading through the swamp, knowing that each step could invoke the wrath of a gator or – more realistically – a snake.

She is railing against big sugar and the oil rigs and everything else that threatens what you love, whatever that is.

She is Florida, and she is sunshiney and wonderful and perfect in all her flaws.

If only I could know I could show you all that, I would sleep. It wouldn't be just any sleep.

It would be the great sleep, the one that bears the weight of our history and our future.

It would be the Florida Sleep.

Sour Orange Pie, Where Art Thou?

2011-09-11T18:08:00.000-04:00

I just checked in to Highlands Hammock State Park, and there's a lot on my mind but it's been a long day involving Gertie The GPSs' cranky attitude and insistence on taking me an hour out of my way. I am out of the hell that is Orlando and into the woods. I had heard the restaurant here had sour orange pie, and that kind of kept me going, except the restaurant is no more. This makes me sad. Now all I can focus on is the pie I am not eating.

I will find you, sweet pie, and when I do, I will eat you.

I'm going for a walk in the woods. It's gorgeous here. But then, it's been gorgeous at every camp site. The state park service knows their shit.

After that, I'll map out my route and perhaps transcribe my notes. Also, does anyone know anything about a now-closed orange souvenir shop on 27 called Shonda's Souvenirs? It had a pineapple out front.

Why? Because this is Florida. It's how we do, people.

If you want to see photos, check out my Picasa gallery.

Bartram. Damn Him.

2011-09-09T15:43:00.001-04:00

I really, really wished I had paid more attention in my Nature Writing class with Dr. Hallock, because here in north-ish Florida there's all this Bartram stuff. We just left Ravine Gardens State Park, pretty in its own right thanks to the last Depression America had, and on the way out – after touring the loop encircling the ravine and enjoying a quiet lunch by the terraced amphitheater – I see a cabin with a sign, "William Bartram Trail."

For those of you not familiar with early Florida literature (although I'm not certain that Bartram, who wrote shortly before the Revolution), let me put it to you this way: Bartram was a breath of fresh air compared to the flat out lies told to the crowns financing Florida expeditions. See, "early Florida literature" is really just a euphemism for "reports to my boss to justify my large government travel budget." That's right, folks, besides from providing graduate students with scads of archaic language to wade through, these writers weren't writers at all – they were government workers who had to justify their jobs. 500 years and nothing's changed, except for the lack of brave new lands to visit and irrevocably alter in the name of "keeping your job."

When you consider this body of – we'll call it literature just to give it a name, if not an accurate one – literature consists of self-serving accounts of what the king's money was doing for the home country, you start to realize that these books are aggrandized reports home designed to make the explorers look good (and therefore stay employed, because if your explorers look good, you look good.)

Consider the narrative of LeMoyne, who explored La Florida in the mid 16th century with a group of Frenchmen: the pictures contained in this government report include water dragons and reptiles (I'd guess alligators) with snake-like heads and man-like arms (for those of you not intimate with crocodilians, gators have comically small, useless arms.) There's also a touching sketch of the Indians (yes, I said it) stabbing a man through the penis (clearly the source of all his power) and sawing off his other extremities with Stryker-like precision.

Fun stuff, good times, but wholly inaccurate as far as I can tell. Of course, that's just how Europeans described the natives. Couple that with how a few Europeans can beat down limitless earlier Americans (don't believe me? Read Pizzaro's account of what he did in Peru) and you've got yourself pretty much every exploratory account of the New World.

Enter William Bartram. The guy liked plants, mostly, and as nifty as they are, it's hard to make plants into man-eating vicious beasts. Well, mostly. It also helped that he explored Florida well after the Spaniards and the British wove themselves along the eastern coastline of America; it's harder to lie when there isn't an ocean between you and your boss. They could pop in any old time and see that those dragons were, indeed, tarpon. Fun to work on the end of a line, but not exactly fire-breathing beasts.

I like Bartram. He wrote real words. I mean, he's no chamber of commerce travel writer, but I like that, too. He wrote about what he saw up and down Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas in what I consider more realistic terms. He loved his birds and plants, so that was a lot of his work, not massacring injuns.

Sunday morning before I left the house I took one last look at my bookshelves. I have great bookshelves in the house I rent: they cover one wall from floor to ceiling. My hand paused over my copy of Bartram's Travels. I wanted to take it. I knew I would want it; knew I didn't remember half of his expedition. All the same, I had packed a lot of stuff. I ended up leaving the book.

So, of course, within two days we're at Manatee Springs State Park, with a spring so blue and encircled with knobby-kneed cypress that I never want to leave the waterside. As I take it all in, I notice a plaque that tells me William Bartram discovered this spring in the late 1700s. The plaque bears a transcription of his notes about the springs, but says nothing of how he happened across the cerulean oasis. I assume he navigated his way down the Suwannee River to find it, but that's just a guess.

It is also just a guess how today's lunch stop ended up on the trail. I'm not surprised, mind you, just curious. I can picture my copy of Travels sitting on the top shelf of my bookshelf, right hand side. Taunting me.

What a fun thesis it would have been, following Bartram. Of course, that would have taken me out of Florida, and we all know that I turn to stone if I look directly at another state's history. Also, I'm having a lot of fun now. After lunch we stopped at Angel's Diner, Florida's oldest diner (it opened in 1932), and had milkshakes.

Bartram, I would like to note, never stopped there. I'd like to believe either Stetson Kennedy or Zora Neale Hurston did.

Hard Candy: This is America

2011-09-09T08:51:00.000-04:00

This week we’ll remember September 11, 2011. It is a hallmark disaster. My mother’s generation remembers where they were when John F. Kennedy was shot; mine has etchings of collapsing towers burned behind their eyelids.

When the towers fell I was in San Diego on business with people I didn’t like much. They didn’t like me much, either, as hard as that is to believe. We were a day away from flying home and when the FAA grounded all flights indefinitely the idea of spending endless days with these people while 2500 miles from home made me physically ill. When a friend called and offered to bring me back to their apartment in Arizona, I jumped at the chance.

Of course, once we hit Arizona, I realized that no matter who you’re with, when you miss home, you miss home. And on September 12, 2011, I missed Florida like you wouldn’t believe. Once our family ascertained that all our New York members escaped the attacks physically unscathed, my focus sharpened and narrowed to one fine point: home.

For those of you who remember the days following 9-11, you know what I mean. For those of you who may not have quite reached adulthood yet, you probably remember it being scary. But it was more than that: combat – be it war or something else – is scary. Hurricanes – real ones – are scary. Horror movies – good ones – are scary. But this wasn’t scary; this was terrifying. All we wanted was our families and friends close. We had no clue when the next attack would come; we had no idea how the next attack would come. To be that far from home and and have my world so irrevocably, horribly altered was my own personal hell. I wanted home. I wanted to smell Florida’s familiar scents. I wanted my mother.

I hopped on a Greyhound bus. Good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I will never do that again. I found myself on some sort of “every stop in America” Greyhound tour that turned an 18-hour trip into four days. INS (back when it was called INS) stopped us when we were one minute inside New Mexico. Why? Because, apparently, on September 13, 2011, our priority was finding illegal Mexican families.

Things did not improve as we crawled through the barren landscape we call “Texas.” For those of you who have never visited the Lone Star State, allow me to describe it: dust clouds and oil rigs. Oh, and Big Macs. I am positive that Greyhound and McDonald’s have some sort of licensing agreement; we stopped at every McDonald’s along the way – and nowhere else. This, as you may imagine, taxed the nerves of every air traveler sentenced to bus transit to get home; apparently the only thing worse than airline food is quarter pounders ad nauseum. We were scared. We were tired. We were overdosed on sodium. We wanted to get home and the driver just kept stopping, at one point answering our complaints with a suggestion that next time we book the non-stop route. Next time? I don’t think so, Greyhound. I will yank my eyelids off with tweezers before I board your bus again.

Unsurprisingly, several busloads of passengers rioted at the Abilene bus station at 12:30 in the morning. We missed our connection in Dallas because a bomb threat at the bus terminal kept us out of the station. By the time we left Texas, we cheered, the high point in a trip through the bowels of lower America hell. At this point, there were five of us who had boarded in Arizona who were Florida-bound. We stuck together, refusing individual tickets on different routes that Greyhound promised us would get us home faster. We were Team Florida, knowing only that we alone shared the end-of-the-line promise of saltwater, shrimp, and sunshine. Terrorists had altered our America but we felt if we could just get back home something, however small, would be right again.

We hit Mississippi Friday night as the oil rig workers met the bus. Remember, these were the days before iPhones and web browsers on phones. Those of us who owned cell phones rarely had a signal throughout most of the trip, so we shared information as one of us received it. We felt helplessly uninformed – we had no idea if any other area of America had fallen prey to terrorists – but these poor guys had no clue; they were clearly dazed by the sheer number of us at the station, vying for bathrooms and outlets for our phone chargers. One of my road-weary bus-mates tried to explain what had happened to one young man. He did not believe her.

“I don’t get it,” the rig worker said, clearly searching for an alternate explanation to a crowded bus terminal. “You’re telling me that a bunch of sand n–––s took down planes with box cutters?”

We all looked at each other, sheepish and saddened. We’d somehow overlooked that incongruity: so involved with the aftermath was America that we’d thought little about how implausible the cause of deaths sounded to those not privy to the live horrors on major television that past Tuesday morning.

A few hours later, Interstate 10 delivered us to the Sunshine State. We looked at each other; a few of us – myself included – teared up. We had arrived; we were home. The whole of the bus, from Arizona to Tallahassee, was America. But this slice of America... this was home. This was our America. It was well past midnight, but we saw sunshine.

Harriet Beecher Stowe described Florida as a piece of embroidery, with two sides: “One side all tag-rag and thrums, without order or position; and the other side showing flowers and arabesques and brilliant coloring.”

On September 11 and the days that followed, never was that more true, not just for Florida but America. It was a collection of horrible, glorious moments I will remember until the day I die. There was a dichotomy in our lives: we were fallen, yet planning to rise. There were horrible, dusty moments when our defenses crumbled, and wondrous images of the black ribbon of road welcoming our tag-rag group home. We were tired patriots on a journey home through a fallen land.

We hated every state but our own, but we still loved America.

Contact Cathy Salustri at CathySalustri@theGabber.com.

Fernandina Spicy Shrimp

2011-09-06T20:09:00.000-04:00

Tonight we had "it was still alive this morning" fresh shrimp bought off the docks in Fernandina Beach.

Shrimp, preferably freshly killed shrimp.
Ro-Tel Diced Tomatoes with Green Chiles (or any other spicy diced tomatoes with chiles)
Brown rice

1. Grill or boil shrimp (it doesn't matter if you use water or beer for the boil; the spices of the tomatoes will override anything else you do.)
2. Cook brown rice. Add to shrimp.
3. Heat tomatoes. Add to rice.