Advice for the urban male..

I know this has been around a while but I feel with hot summer nights not far away it bears repeating. Another community service announcement from the advice column of Mr. C.

Evolution Debunked In One Photograph

It would appear that men haven't evolved all that much.

Vaya con Dios Detroit

The Walking Man waxes poetic about it nearly every day, but nothing can really prepare you for the shock of one of the biggest tragedies in our nation's history... Detroit.  No war could have wreaked more havoc, more loss of life, more loss of dreams than capitalistic greed and governmental mismanagement has on what was once one of America's greatest cities.

A 60% loss of population in 25 years.  Jobs, livelihoods, generations torn asunder in pursuit of the bottom line.  I would rather deal with a tsunami, at least it has a face on it.

And God Created Fat Girls... and Boys

Check this out:  The Sistine Chapel   Pretty amazing and proof, yet again, that thing's ain't changed all that much.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

This past weekend was one of a trilogy of events that bring my old buddy and I together to enjoy what has become a tradition.  In this case, the Amelia Island Concours d'Elegance.  It was hard for me to believe, as I strolled amongst some of the most rare and expensive automobiles on earth, that the event is in its 16th year.  I attended the first one and haven't missed many in-between.  It's that fine a show.  So fine, in fact, that my buddy Punch has made the trip from south Florida to join me for the past 10 or 12 years running.

The event is held on the 18th green of the Ritz Carlton and I can't help it that my skin crawls a bit as I, one who has to think about the price of a ticket as opposed to what else that money might buy, rubs elbows with people discussing the similarities or differences between their Ferraris and the one on display.  In this single event is displayed the gauchest of the gauchely wealthy, and the most beautiful machines of mankind's creative imagination.  In any case, it's an automobile lovers paradise and a target-rich environment that no photographer can resist.

Our weekend began on Saturday with a discussion over coffee of what we might do with the day and it was decided that a visit to St. Augustine was in order as we hadn't been there in a while.  A quick trip down ever-more-crowded US1 and we arrived in St. A.  As we drove along the waterfront we noticed a gathering crowd lining the street and decided something was happening and that we had better duck for cover to avoid the traffic.  Using my superb driving skills and local knowledge, I managed to duck directly onto the parade route for the local St. Patrick's Day celebration.  All the exits were blocked and we were heading directly towards the oncoming parade.  Fortunately there was an open alley and we took it, ending up in the front yard of my old friend Isabel who was happy to see us and joined us watching the parade.

There's nothing quite like a small-town parade.  They're so hokey they're camp.

This crew looks like they've been hitting the Guinness before the parade began.  Probably started the night before.  Check out the pooper scooper.

Even though they brought up the political "rear", the Tea Party seemed to be having the most fun of the lot.

St. Augustine truly is one the most charming cities in America.  Even though it's become so overly commercialized that it is no longer the cultural refuge it once was, it is still always worth a visit.

There are so many architectural details to catch the eye you could spend a lifetime photographing them.  Come to think of it, that's pretty much what I've done.

No photo journey to St. A would be complete without at least one shot of the fabulous Hotel Ponce de Leon, now the home of Flagler College.

Sunday dawned cool, bright, and clear.  The perfect day for a drive up the coast to the Concours d'Elegant.  A few photos that caught my eye.  They need no caption.  They speak for themselves.  I'll have to do another post on the event for you gearheads among us, or perhaps Punch will over at A Theatre of the Absurd.  

Enjoy.

The Ferrari Daytona that Dan Gurney and Brock Yates drove to victory in the original Cannonball Baker Sea to Shining Sea Rally.  Not the movie:  for those interested, here's the Brock Yates article that made the whole thing famous.

Amazing Satellite Photos of Japan

Nothing I have seen has brought home the devastation in Japan like this.  Unbelievable.

Click HERE

Not Your Average Jaycee Shindig

Caution:  This story contains explicit adult material.

I once lived in a South Alabama town where I became a member of the Jaycees. For those of you who may not know, Jaycee (JC) is sort of a nick-name for the Junior Chamber of Commerce, an organization created to give young men a place where they can get their feet wet in local politics and charitable endeavors before hitting the big time in the grown-up Chamber.

Each year, as a fundraiser, the Jaycees sponsored a local carnival.  Over the course of the week-long event we each took our turns manning the ticket booth or the cotton candy stand. This was back in the day when carnivals still had a real midway and there were sideshows with babies in jars, and freaks, and a peep show.  Everyone wanted to work the final night because at the end of the evening, we were all promised a private show in the “Gentlemen’s” tent.  When the last patron was gone and the money counted, we hurried through the darkest recesses of the midway and sought out “the” tent.

  

My buddy, a long, lanky attorney with a giant handlebar mustache, had a pint of Jack Black and a joint, and being a veteran of these things, he situated us at the back of the tent were we could watch the proceedings from a safe distance.  He cautioned, “ We don’t want to git too close.”

The air was electric with excitement. Thirty-five or so young men ready to party, and a party they got.

In short order the girls came out and sashayed around the stage.  A loud cheer arose from the gathered throng.  I believe there were three of them.  As the saying goes in LA (that’s Lower Alabama), these girls had obviously been rode hard and put up wet.

But when the music started, so did the girls.  Dressed in the cheesiest outfits imaginable, they gyrated and rotated and grinned and teased the testosterone-crazed crowd pressed against the stage.  Bit by bit they slowly stripped themselves of scarves, teddies, stoles and boas until little was left to the imagination.  Or so I thought.

One of the girls, now dressed only in 5” heels and a g-string, squatted right down in front of a chubby boy (who had helped me sell cotton candy only an hour before) and began grinding her pelvis inches from his face.  His eyes were glued to her crotch as she slowly reached over and removed his glasses.  She pushed them up into her g-string, rubbed them up and down a few times, and placed them back on his face. They were so covered with goo that it was impossible to see through them, but he was loving it.   Then, to my compete disbelief, she pulled aside her panties and spread her legs.  Without hesitation, he thrust his face squarely into the Gloryland where he commenced to making noises somewhat like a hog eating slop, all to the howls and cheers of the appreciative crowd.

Having by now consumed half of the joint and most of the pint, my buddy and I were bowled over laughing.  I had to force myself to stop long enough to catch my breath.  Like most of these kinds of spectacles, it isn’t only what’s going on on-stage that’s hilarious, it’s watching the people.  It was like a lust-driven feeding frenzy.

No sooner had chubby had his fill than the girls got together and began taunting the boys, challenging them to come up on stage.  Even as crazed as they were, none of them took the dare.  Finally, the crowd selected its own volunteer, a skinny kid who looked like a bookkeeper.  They grabbed him up and threw him onto the stage but before the girls could catch him, he scrambled to his feet and leaped head first back into the crowd where he was caught and again, kicking and struggling, hoisted back onto the stage.  This time the girls got him.

Two of them held him down as the third undressed him. She began fondling him until he got an erection and squirted his essence into the air.  The crowd roared.  Mortified, the boy grabbed his clothes and ran from the tent buck-naked into the night, never to be seen again.  I mean that.  No one ever saw him again.

Over the next few weeks I learned that he wasn’t one of us at all, but an interloper who had sneaked in and had gotten his just desserts.

When I got home that night, the moon filled the sky and the sweet smell of magnolias filled the soft summer air.  Fireflies flitted around the yard.  I stood there for awhile, taking it all in.  I knew it was a night to remember.

Sexual Harassment Training For Men

I recently paid a visit to my new friend Nance's blog, (Mature Landscaping) to see what was going on whereupon, I was referred by her to another blog entitled, Hen's Teeth.  After a look around, it quickly became apparant that this was no place for a good old boy to hang out, much less to open one's mouth, unless he enjoys being flayed in public as only gentile "Southern Ladies" are wont to do.  I haven't lived this long to learn nothing.

But the visit reminded me of a pledge I had made some time ago to diligently keep the male population informed of timely and important information as pertains to our collective health and survival, in this case, on-the-job sexual harassment... of men.

This is one of those areas where the cards are definitely stacked against us guys.  A woman wants to cook your career, all she has to do is claim sexual harassment.  Poof!  All gone.

So, I feel it is my duty, indeed... my calling, to blow the cover on outright trickery and unjust treatment of men whenever and wherever I find it.  The video below is to warn you of one of the most egregious examples of on-the-job female underhandedness I have yet uncovered.  

Beware men.  Beware.  This could happen to you.

A Chance Encounter

I am the only employee of a local non-profit and therefore, the touchstone for all traffic and inquiries.  A few weeks ago I got an email from someone saying that she would be in town for a conference and that she was going to stay over for an extra day to see the area and wanted to know how she could get to my organization, a botanical park.  She didn't have a car so would have to come by bus or taxi.  I snagged a pdf of the local bus route and emailed it to her.

She replied with a thank you and further elaborated that she was from New Mexico and this was her first trip to Baja Georgia and that she wanted to see some of the natural beauty of the area.  I thought, jeez, this woman wants to see the area badly enough to stay over an extra day and I'm going to put her on a bus through a mile-and-a-half of butt-ugly to reach a destination where there isn't even a bus stop within a quarter of a mile.  Before I knew it, I found myself replying that she couldn't come to Baja Georgia and only see the city and a bus route to the park, as nice as it is, she had to see the Talbot and Amelia islands but she would need a car to do so.  Then, completely out of character, I found myself saying that I would be glad to take her if she could go on Sunday morning.

She was delighted.  The die was cast, and this past Sunday was the rendezvous.

Sunday dawned cool with a thick blanket of fog.  Beautiful in its own right, but certainly not sunny Florida and providing little chance of seeing the ocean on the trip up the coast.  Anyway, I picked her up at her hotel at the appointed time and we struck out.

The drive through the marsh to our first destination, The Kingsley Plantation, was beautiful.  The heavy fog covering the marsh gave it an ethereal feeling.  In conversation along the way I learned that she, Shelly, was a teacher on the Navajo Reservation in northwestern New Mexico.  She spent a good deal of time talking about her kids and taking photographs of the fog-shrouded landscape which is something they seldom see.  She said she always brings back photos of her trips for the kids to enjoy.

The Kingsley Plantation, a national park, was founded in the late 1700's and grew cotton and indigo.  There aren't many plantations in Florida as it was a Spanish colony that didn't allow slavery until 1763 when it fell under British control so, this is a special and unique place.  The state was a notorious haven for run-away slaves who became known as the Black Seminoles.  But that's another story.

The remains and restored slave cabins at the Kingsley Plantation.

A stately Live Oak on Ft. George Island near the plantation.

Leaving the plantation, we headed up the coast towards the Talbot Islands, Big and Little.  Our original plan was to hike the Little Talbot Island trail, one of the most beautiful in the entire state, but Shelly was recovering from a bout of pneumonia and we thought better of it.  So, we stopped at Big Talbot Island and an easy walk to the beach.

The Skeleton Coast of Big Talbot Island State Park.

It's funny how quickly the fog dissipates just a short distance from the beach once you get into the trees.  Gives you an idea of just how much moisture trees can capture.

Determined to find the sun, we continued up to Fernandina Beach for a walk on the beach.

A visit to Ft. Clinch State Park in Fernandina and the sun finally burned through.

Ft. Clinch was one of several coastal forts commissioned by George Washington.  Though it served through all of the wars, except for a brief skirmish during the Civil War, it never saw action.  Its sister fort, Ft. Pulaski in Savannah, saw plenty of action and was the first fort fired upon and destroyed by rifled cannon, forever ending the building of forts for defense.

The fort has been very nicely preserved and restored.  Lots of fun magazines, bunkers and ramparts to explore.

By this time our stomachs were telling us it was time for lunch so we headed into downtown Fernandina and settled on an old seafood restaurant near the waterfront.  It was pretty bad, the oil was burnt and old, but, being from the New Mexico outback where a fish is a picture on the wall, Shelly thought it was fine so that was OK by me.

A quaint cottage in the quaint village of Fernandina Beach.

A good time had by all and I got home in time for a beer and a nap accompanied by my favorite white noise, NASCAR.