We were sitting on the back porch sharing some adult beverages with Mitch and Audrey and watching the Folly River roll by when we got the idea for the road trip. They had recently moved from Grand Turk to Tampa, and we know lots of people in Florida that we don't get to see all that often. I was almost finished reading all of Tim Dorsey's books in the Serge A. Storms series, and we are all fans of Carl Hiaasen. Needless to say, the idea got stranger and stranger. So I drafted an email to our unsuspecting Florida friends telling them of our plans. Greetings to our friends in the Sunshine State! We realize it's not even Thanksgiving yet, but we can't help anticipating the holiday season, when uninvited guests drop by, eat all your food, drink all your booze, and generally are a pain in your ass. So we made a list, checked it twice, and YOU are on it! That's partly because you live in the state responsible for the Allman Brothers, Tom Petty and of course Lynyrd Skynyrd. (Free Bird!!!) Since lots of them are dead, we're bringing our own musician, Mitch Rolling, and his handler, Audrey Harrell. As there is also a bit of Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey inspiration to this trip, Mitch and Richard are assuming the roles of Skink and Serge Storms, respectively. Audrey and Marsha will be competing for the role of Coleman (Serge's bombed out companion) and mainly just going along for the ride. Here's our tentative tour schedule: Tampa St. Pete Cocoa Indialantic Fellsmere Ft. Pierce Palm Beach Sarasota Let us know if you think you can put up with us as we come through your area. We are not averse to couches and floor sleeping, but beds are nice. If you're lucky (or lying), you won't be home when we pass by, but we'd love to see you all. If you don't want us, just say "fuck off!" And like we said, this schedule is tentative, so if the date we supplied does not work, perhaps you can give an alternative. We are also interested in catching kitschy attractions or "gotta see this" places you may know of in your area. Richard and Marsha  So in December, we flew from our warm home in the Turks and Caicos Islands to Tampa, where it was cold.  Mitch and Audrey picked us up and took us to eat at "world famous" Big Ray's Fish Camp at Ballast Point. You can't miss it -- it's right next to "world famous" Tee Pee Taco.  About the time our food showed up at the outdoor picnic table, this big guy walks up and introduces himself to me. "Hi, I'm Tim Dorsey." Mitch had emailed Tim, who lives in Tampa, and mentioned my condition and that I was a big fan. I'd read all 20+ Serge titles. So Tim dropped by to meet us, and he brought along some gifts -- an autographed "Coconut Cowboy" hat, a "Serge and Coleman" bumper sticker, and an autographed draft copy of his upcoming book, "No Sunscreen for the Dead." Quite appropriate title for the occasion.  You thought Trump was unpredictable.  We also took a little tour of Tampa, which would not have been complete without going to see the sculpture affectionately referred to as the "Exploding Chicken." Florida loves its guns and cock fights.  Then we hopped a ferry over to St. Pete, where Terri and David picked us up in the back of their pickup truck. They whisked us off to see the world's largest private home Christmas light and decoration spectacle.  And a fabulous meal complete with entertainment!  Terri and David's condo is at a yacht club with docks out back. Rudolph is not their boat.  Spanish Angel is their boat.  Nothing like a good mimosa to start the day!  Then we headed east across Florida to see Vicki and Danny in Cocoa. And watch football.  Not to be outdone by Terri and David, Vicki and Danny provided some quality entertainment that was appropriate for our trip.  Before leaving Cocoa, we just had to stop to pay tribute to "I Dream of Jeannie." They named a street after her and put up a sign explaining to today's kids about the show. Us old codgers are still wondering why Tony wasn't boning Jeannie in the bottle. We assume that's what he was dreaming about.  On a detour to see Maureen and Toby in Indialantic, we arrived at Christmas, even though it was Dec. 11.  And what would Christmas in Florida be without visiting "Swampy, the World's Largest Gator?"  Toby cooked us a fabulous meal, and Maureen took us out for brunch the next morning. Mitch took this picture. Apparently he was making sure his shadow was included.  South to Sebastian, we took a right and headed to Fellsmere to see Megan and Gary and their new kitchen. Unfortunately, we missed the Frog Leg Festival.  Mitch and Richard decided that Twizzlers and Gummy Lifesavers alone aren't good enough.  Heading south on U.S. 1, we passed through lovely Vero Beach, where you see things like a Quick Loss Weight Center next to Five Guys Restaurant and a hungry old panhandler under a no panhandling sign. Followed by lawyer billboards, pig roasters for rent, trailer parks and RV sales. No wonder they call it the Treasure Coast.  We were pleased to see that we didn't have to worry about zombies.  Just bums, everywhere you looked.  In Ft. Pierce at Fitz's house, we made Mitch cook us some scallops. On his birthday.  The next night we went out to eat some real good food at the "world famous" 12A Buoy Diner.  And we were happy that Chris could join us.  Happy Birthday, Mitch!  A good time was had by all.  Now as Mitch will tell you, there's no such thing as shark infested waters. They live there. Now if a shark attacks you on a sidewalk...    For our last stop on the East Coast portion of our trip, we arrived at "world famous" Joe's Bar in Palm Beach. In Joe and Retta's backyard.     And theres' Joe whipping up some jalapeno poppers!  Mitch met Joe and Retta on Grand Turk many years ago. He and Joe both had read "An Island to Oneself" by Tom Neale, which had encouraged Mitch to move to Grand Turk in 1980. So they went to the Cook Islands together.  Apparently they donned toilet seats because they knew where this was headed.  There was MORE birthday celebration for Mitch.  And Marsha and I were inducted into Joe's Bar "Beach Bum Hall of Fame." Now THAT is famous!  And a good time was had by all. Again.  Across the state, we continued our trek and stopped in Punta Gorda -- which means "big dickhead" in Chilean slang Spanish. There the first white man died in Florida in 1513, courtesy of the native Caloosa Indians. Ponce de Leon's men also killed a "several indians," but the Caloosa ended up mortally wounding Ponce de "big dickhead" eight years later. Small victory. The Caloosa are now extinct.  Up the coast a ways, we reached our final destination. Sarasota, whose real slogan is, "Where urban amenities meet small-town living." I swear.  Larry is the city's ambassador, and his home is a fine example.  He actually works really hard, but he plays really hard too.  Finally, we got back to Folly Beach, where this whole thing started.  Happy New Year! |
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