As the title of my blog might suggest, I live in the State of Florida.
The home of Katherine Harris and hanging chads is always good fun for pundits and Late Night Talk Show Hosts whenever the polls are open, and this election season is no exception.
The 16th Congressional District in the Sunshine State will be picking somebody other than Mark Foley to represent them in Washington, DC.
I'm sure you know Foley's whole story by now.
Junior High School students in Wisconsin and members of Cargo Cults in New Guinea know Foley's whole story by now.
It isn't pretty.
Meanwhile, the local Republican Machine in Palm Beach County has been scrambling to fill Foley's spot on the ballot with a guy named Joe Negron. Negron has been a State Representative since 2000, and was running against fellow Republican Bill McCollum for State Attorney General, before dropping out earlier this year.
The guy is not some unknown found hanging around GOP Headquarters.
The problem, is that the ballots cannot be changed to remove Foley's name and replace it with Negron's before November 7th.
So the Republicans in Palm Beach County wanted to put up a sign in every polling place saying a vote for Foley is actually a vote for Negron. In short, they want to tell voters to choose a disgraced Republican, so they can actually get a squeeky clean Republican instead.
Local Democrats objected, saying such a notice would be a clear violation of Florida Law, which prohibits campaign signs within 100 feet of any polling place.
What to do?
Well, according to Reuters the State Supreme Court said local election officials could not put up the Negron signs, unless they also put up signs mentioning Democrat Tim Mahoney and Independant candidate Emmie Ross.
The Democrats immediately agreed with the court's decision...and no wonder.
They now get a free sign for their guy, while manageing to keep Foley's name in the eye and mind of each voter just before they pull the lever.
Like I said, everybody knows Foley's whole sordid story by now.
I would think that, if I were a highly paid Republican Operative, I would want to eliminate any mention of the former Congressman and his suddenly well known "proclivities". I would prefer to saturate the airwaves with the name Joe Negron, and hope for the best, while trying to make Mark Foley as much of a "non-person" as possible.
But that's just me, and I don't expect to be asked to consult with the State Republican Party anytime soon...
Instead, the pros in the local GOP will try to link Negron with Foley, and ask the voters to read the damn signs!
Well, you may say, the voters in Florida aren't that dumb...are they?
Hard to tell.
I know that in one case, specifically in my own back yard, I kind of hope they really are that dumb.
Running for re-election in Florida's 24th Congressional District, My District, is incombent Tom Feeney. Feeney is one of Jack Abramoff's buddies. He appears to be utterly corrupt and completely for sale, but not necessarily open to the charmes of underaged male pages.
Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that there may be voters in my district who will be saying to themselves:
"Feeney...Foley...Feeney...Foley...hmmmm...now which one was the drunken pervert? I think I'll vote for that nice Clint Curtis fellow instead of that Feeney guy, just to be on the safe side."

This is Florida...
It could happen.

This is going to be our little secret...just between you and me, OK?
I have become prematurely gray, and have decided to do something about it.
Actually, I suppose all gray hair is premature; nobody looks in the mirror and thinks "well, it's about time that hair has changed color! God knows I'm old enough!"
Yet, I'm still a relatively young "Boomer".
I may be too old to play Major League Baseball, and could never hit a slider anyhow, but am still too young to order off the Senior menu at Denny's.
I don't get "carded" anymore.
Fortunately, the problem isn't the hair on my head that has helped to foster the old man look...I've been betrayed by the hair on my face.
While I wasn't paying attention, my beard went from a nice shade of Viking Red to genuine Santa Claus white in what seemed to have been only a few months. In an effort to keep small children from climbing up on my lap and making demands, I shaved the entire thing, leaving only short snowy sideburns.
Women have always been an influence in my life, and when one or more suggests a return to facial hair would be a good thing for me, I have tendancy to listen.
Male vanity is alive and well.
Right now I need a haircut, but one woman suggested I let it grow, because she liked the "Byronic look" I was cultivating.
I told her I didn't understand Birony.
Yet, there seems to be a general agreement that a moustache, at least, might be desirable.
Desire is good, so I stopped shaving under my nose around the first of October, and an amount of hair somewhere between that of Errol Flynn and Kaiser Wilhelm is now in place. Full, well shaped...and white as the Buffalo snow.
So last night, I bought a box of "Just for Men" brush in color gel. (On sale for just $6.99 at Winn Dixie!) I searched the rack, hoping for Viking Red, but ended up having to settle for Ash Brown. We want to avoid looking like Groucho Marx, if at all possible, here.
The instructions were printed on a foot and a half long piece of paper, telling you to use rubber gloves to mix the two tubes of secret ingrediants.
I tried not to think that I was going to apply this compound just above my mouth, but had to make sure not to get any on my hands. Once mixed, you dip in the supplied ergonomic brush, apply the stuff directly to the facial hair, and note the time.
For five Minutes, no more and no less, you have to let the goop set in, before jumping in the shower and shampooing it off.
I emerged with something not quite white, but not quite right either. I look sort of like I'm doing a magazine advertisement, asking "Got Chocolate Milk?".
It really isn't all that drastic of a change, so the other people at work will probably refrain from pointing and staring, while trying to stiffle a giggle.
Still, let's keep this our little secret, OK?
I knew I could count on you.

For the last time, this morning, I sat and watched Fox 35 with a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, smirking at the traffic reports while allowing my bathrobe to fall open.
I've been on vacation all this week, and have taken a perverse pleasure in waking up at my usual time, and then not having to rush to get to work by 8am. Watching reports of the snarled traffic I won't have to drive in just adds a little icing on the cake.
Monday, a friend of mine flew in from Los Angeles (I generally refuse to refer to it as "El Lay" as some people do...just not trendy enough, I guess...although I do refer to the Florida panhandle as L.A. It stands for Lower Alabama.)
Her mission was to take three days and re-hab a house she had inherited from her mother. Mine was to accompany her, and provide whatever help that was needed, which included saving her hotel and rent-a-car charges and being a second person in the house when tradesmen arrived.
We've been friends since college.
The tennants she had for the past 5 years had just moved out and bought their own house, agreeing to paint the place and give up their deposit in return for breaking the lease. When you consider that their rent had not been raised in the previous five years, and that they were living in a two bedroom, two bathroom house twenty minutes from Disney for around $500 a month, it is no wonder they could afford to buy their own home.
My question was why they ever wanted to leave at all.
But leave they did, and we walked in Monday afternoon to give the house a quick once-over. It smelled of smokers and cats, but the walls were painted. The carpet was old, but in relatively good shape (considering its age) with no glaring stains, and there were no holes in the walls or doors.
I had rented my own house out for a couple of years, and found far worse damage when I had returned to live in it.
"My GOD! Look at that!", I heard her shriek.
"What?", I said.
"THAT! THOSE! Those HORRIBLE STONES!"
She was pointing with one hand, while the other covered her mouth...a look of pure horror in her eyes.
In the kitchen, someone had taken hundreds of clear glass beads, the kind you find at the bottom of a fish tank, and glued them on nearly every open surface. The middle of each kitchen cabinet, the sides of the counter (in a neat row), the stove hood and the light coverings in the dropped ceiling all sported the multi-colored beads. The walls of the bathrooms had even more.
To go along with the beads, was an overall "nautical" theme, with shades of of torquoise and aquamarine painted on the kitchen walls and floors...involving grasshoppers and shells.
Someone had taken, and failed, a home decorating course.
I sort of shrugged my shoulders, but my friend's emotions quickly turned from horror to hate.
"How DARE they do that to a place they are renting!", she shouted. "It's one thing to do this to your own place, but you have no right to do it to a place you don't own!"
I calmly agreed, thinking it reminded me of a place I stopped at in Couzemel once, years ago, for a beer.
So for the next three days, we ran around from Lowes to Home Depot to Wal-Mart trying to buy white paint and new knobs and hammers and chisels, to remove the offending beads, as well as cleaning products to clean the window blinds slat by slat.
On occassion I would mention to her that she was renting the house, not actually moving into it, but she seemed to believe she could increase the rent a dollar for every bead she could chip away.
When they were all removed, I asked what she was going to do with the ten pound bag of beads she had collected.
"Take them home", she said. "I might be able to make them into a really cool mosaic." We shoe-horned them into her carry-on bag, and I put her on her Delta flight, back to El Lay.

So here I am, watching the last few days of my time off slip away, glad that I haven't had the time or the desire to read a newspaper or watch any television since Monday.
Did I miss anything?

The weather here in Central Florida has cooled off enough for me to open the windows, letting the breeze of notably lower humidity squeeze through the screens. Sometimes I use the industrial strength ceiling fan to help things along.
I should explain that in my attic in the middle of the house is a fan that looks like it came off a Cessna. With the flip of a switch, a
32" x 38" covered hole in the ceiling in the middle of the house comes to life, moving nine slats from horizontal to verticle and sucking in even more air from the outside.
It makes a hell of a noise, but cools the place off within minutes, without using the air conditioner.
It is one of the ways we, who live in the tropics, have learned to adapt.
We also take alot of showers.
Unlike some members of the European Community, we can't just work a sponge around some strategic areas and trust to the benefits of cologne and dining "al fresco". We need to shower, using actual soap, in order to interact...or conduct business...or date.
So on Friday morning, when I couldn't get any hot water in the shower, I walked out the back door and across the open porch to inspect the hot water heater. Finding two inches of water in the laundry room, I reached for the gas line shut off valve and dropped the towel I was wearing in the standing water.
When you're walking naked in your own backyard, you should be prepared to smile and wave at neighbors.
***
Today, a plumber named Eric, who was scheduled for "9am to 12 noon", showed up at close to 1:30. He had been involved in a bad day before he ever got to my place, and immediately started to bitch about it. Having taken cold showers for three and a half days, I just wasn't in the mood to hear it, and quickly pointed out the now empty hot water heater.
He would end up with the biggest check I would write this month, so I found it hard to empathize that he had to unexpectedly install a garbage disposal at his previous stop.
When he drove off at 4:15 (check in hand)I was presented with just one more dilema...what do I clean first, me or the dishes.
My natural hedonistic nature wanted to immediately jump under a shower of hot water, but my often supressed practical nature noticed the various cups, glasses, cereal bowls and plates piling up in the sink.
As I write this, the dishwasher has just stopped...
Now it's my turn.

I'm not married, but I feel as though I have just removed my shoes at the front door, brought the keys up really close to my eyes (to find the right one), and thrust the one I picked into the lock, turning it slowly.
The eastern sky is beginning to lighten, with the promise of a new day.
The door opens, and I triumphantly fling it inward, only to knock over something previously un-noticed, that clatters to the floor. I quickly put an index finger to my own lips, stupidly trying to "shoosh" a sound that has already happened.
Suddenly, the lights come on, including lights I never knew I had before, and a voice yells out;
"WHERE IN THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN!??!!"
I start to mumble something about another writing project, this one for radio that a dear friend put me on to, that could actually mean some actual money. Then, there's another involving an erotic story from another very good friend who only needs to discover the rythmn of the written word to blow you all away. Both are talented women, but you don't want to hear it.
Time to improvise.
"But, they mean nothing, NOTHING to me...compared to you...my Dear Blogstream reader", I moan with more than a bit of drama.
You seem totally unconvinced...but you give me that look...the one I've seen before.
The look that says you will forgive me again...one more time...as long as I get off my arse and start writing some more stuff for you.
"I promise I will," I say, crossing my heart and making a sign of the cross for good measure. "but first, I really need some sleep."
You nod, and allow a slight smile...
Tomorrow will be another day...a good day...on the Blogstream.