Yikes, it’s New Year’s Eve and I’ve neglected you all for months and I should probably be writing something profound about the new year (or something snarky about resolutions). Instead, I’m posting a draft that’s been hanging around since last New Year’s Eve.
I’ve been a little disorganized this year.
Last year, we drove to Florida and spent a few weeks with my mom for the holidays. The night before we set out on our journey, I had a nightmare.
A terrible, crazy nightmare.
A wake-up-drenched-in-sweat nightmare.
Here’s what I remember: Husband and I were driving on I-4 in Orlando, near Gatorland. There was a huge traffic jam and we weren’t going anywhere.
Suddenly, Harrison Ford sprinted by the car. We leaped out of the car and ran after him to help. It was the (dream) logical thing to do.
Ford was being pursued by Florida Governor Rick Scott, who was in the process of shedding his human skin and turning into a giant Chupacabra-like monster.
Now, in real life, I’d recently presented a conference paper on archaeology in feature films. Gatorland was on my mind because it was used as a location for Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Also, because it’s awesome.
Clarification: Gatorland is awesome. Temple of Doom was kind of a stupid yet lovable mess of a movie. The racism, however, not lovable.
I went back to sleep after my heart-rate returned to normal and didn’t give the dream a second thought in the morning.
Until I got a text from JunglePete.
JunglePete was a bit disturbed about the dream he had that he was stuck in traffic on I4 and Rick Scott turned into a Chupacabra.
I have no explanation for this shared brainwave. We’ll be visiting him again in a few days so I’m sure we’ll figure it out.
One year later….
We never did figure this out. The only logical explanation is that the Governor is a Chupacabra.
image: meanlouise
I know, I know – my photoshop skills leave much to be desired.
When I was a small child, my parents adopted a kitten. A Siamese kitten who I loved dearly. Siamese kittens grow up to be Siamese cats, creatures who possess a very special kind of crazy.
This cat was very tolerant of family members, but had a tendency to bite other people – viciously, and with the intent to maim. But not until she’d thoroughly washed the location she was about to bite. You can tell people this, but they don’t listen.
“That cat is going to bite you.”
“Oh no, cats love me. Look, she’s licking me!”
“She’s preparing the surgical site.”
“Ha-ha. She’s adorable.”
“You’re going to be sorry.”
etc.
2 years later, we adopted a second kitten. The picture at the top of the post shows Kitten (left) and Cat (right). It looks like Cat is about to eat Kitten. They were probably actually sitting around trying to look harmless, biding their time until they could partake in their favorite Christmas-time activity: rocketing around the house and launching themselves up the middle of the tree to bring the whole thing crashing to the ground.
My brother and I thought this was hilarious.
My mom did not.
My mom did find it hilarious when our Pentecostal neighbor, tired of being bitten by Cat, decided that the only course of action was to pray the devil out of her. My father pointed out that she could avoid being bitten if she’d just leave Cat alone, but the Exorcist was determined to rid this cat of demons.
Kitten, she reasoned, was a good Christian, so surely it was possible to save Cat’s soul, as well.
She prayed and prayed for the demonic forces to release their grasp on this poor beast.
Then she prayed some more.
Then she pointed her finger in Cat’s face. “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I command you not to bite me!”
I’m sure you know what happened next.
Then my mother laughed until tears ran down her face.
For years I could reduce my mom to hysterical hiccupy laughter by mentioned what a good Christian Kitten was. Her name, incidentally, was Angel.
That kitten was many things, but angelic wasn’t really one of them.
In retrospect, it’s astonishing we didn’t all find ourselves on the receiving end of an attempted exorcism, because this lady was not to be trifled with. (Neither, apparently, were my Cat’s demons).
A Siamang, photo courtesy of JunglePete Corradino.
Technically, it wasn’t a monkey, it was an ape called a Siamang, but I wouldn’t learn that detail for many years. 30 years, to be precise(ish).
Back on that day in the late 1970s, dad and I stopped at Wendy’s.
I guess we were there for lunch. We definitely weren’t there for primates.
We chose a table and I sat down. Dad was about to go to the counter to order when I noticed there was a bag behind my chair, presumably left by the recently departed occupants of the next table.
(This isn’t the weird part of the story).
In my memory it was one of those canvas totes like they sell at LL Bean, but I honestly can’t recall much about the bag.
Other than the fact that the bag was moving.
The bag was moving because there was a monkey inside.
Long hairy arms reached up out of the bag and grabbed the back of my chair. A small furry head followed and the two of us had what seemed to me to be pretty meaningful moment.
The events that followed probably unfolded quickly, but in my memory they happened in slow-mo:
My dad matter-of-factly instructed me not to talk to strangers or feed the monkey, since it might have a special diet.
My dad was very practical.
My dad went to call a deputy to come and pick up the monkey, since dad figured mom would kill us both if we took it home. Plus, it’d be wrong to take a lost-and-found monkey home.
While dad was at the counter asking for the manager and I was chatting with my new simian friend, a Wendy’s employee began to wipe down the table, saw the monkey, and freaked the fuck out.
The memory may be slightly murky, but I’m pretty confident in the sequence of events because I thought the employee was screaming because she saw me.
Which was more than a little upsetting. I was wearing my favorite dress! I loved that dress! Why was the woman screaming at me? Didn’t I look adorable in my favorite dress?
A girl came running in from the parking lot, panicked because she’d left her sister in a bag.
I swear that’s what she said.
“I forgot my sister. She was in the bag.”
She grabbed the diaper-clad creature and the bag, and then she ran back out.
I immediately stopped caring about the Wendy’s employee who was still staring in my direction and screaming, for I had just had an epiphany.
Wow! My parents can trade my baby brother in for a monkey! I knew this had to be possible!
My parents didn’t trade in my brother, but I guess in the long run that worked out okay.
(Still not the weird part).
Now that I think about it, this incident probably precipitated both my lifelong love of primates and my lifelong wariness around fast food.
Fast-forward a few years.
I was at a new school and one of my classmates lived on a monkey sanctuary. I was at his birthday party or something. We’ll call him JunglePete, because that’s his name.
(Calling a kid JunglePete would be weird, but at the time he was still just plain “Pete,” so in the final analysis this isn’t the weird part, either).
I was talking to one of his sisters. This, I shit you not, is a pretty accurate approximation of the conversation she and I had:
Her: “My sister left a monkey in a Wendy’s one time!”
Me: “We found a monkey in a Wendy’s one time!”
Her: “No way!”
Me: “For real. A monkey!”
Her: “That’s crazy! I wonder if it happens a lot?”
For smart kids, we weren’t always very smart.
Fast-forward a whole lot more years, to last Saturday, June 15, 2013.
Husband and I were at the Central Florida Zoo with JunglePete, his wife and son, and his father and his father’s wife.
.
Our first stop was the Siamangs.
When we made plans to meet at the zoo, I didn’t understand there was a personal nature to our mission. I thought we were just too cheap to go to Sea World during the peak season and had chosen a more off-the-beaten track Father’s Day outing destination.
It turns out that in the 70s, the sanctuary had a rescued Siamang named Bridget. Eventually, Bridget went to live at the Central Florida Zoo, which had better facilities for apes and a mate for Bridget. Bridget had some babies over the years, but she rejected one of them. JunglePete’s parents took in the baby, who they named Topaz.
(We haven’t gotten to the moment of weirdness in the story yet, but we’re getting closer).
After we visited with the Siamangs, we wandered around the zoo for a few more hours.
JunglePete & I at the Central Florida Zoo, photo courtesy of Eric “Husband” Gordon.
(Whatever is happening in this photo may or may not be a little weird, but is otherwise unrelated to this post).
At some point, JunglePete and I ended up back at the Siamangs and I casually mentioned to Pete that my dad and I found a monkey one time in a Wendy’s in Venice, Florida.
JunglePete replied that his family once almost left someone behind in a Wendy’s in Venice, Florida. But they didn’t leave a monkey – they left Topaz! Fortunately, they remembered as soon as they got back to their van and JunglePete’s older sister dashed back into the restaurant to reclaim her.
Being older and a little bit wiser, we understood that we were remembering the same event.
Okay, to be honest, we didn’t realize it immediately.
We didn’t realize it until Husband started laughing at us for being idiots.
Then we realized it was the same incident. What. Ever.
The fact that our childhoods had intersected years before we met was, even to us, pretty weird.
Then I made JunglePete talk to the Siamang. (While I made a video so he couldn’t deny it later).
[embedded video: me forcing JunglePete to speak Siamang]
Then 6 full-grown adults crammed themselves into a 1951 1/5 size replica train operated by a dude in a conductor’s hat who probably didn’t even think it was weird to be wedging himself into a tiny car and driving grownass people around all day in a miniature steam train.
I bet you think I’m making that part up.
I’m not.
This post is full of hazy memories from the late 1970s and early 80s. JunglePete’s mom and my dad are both deceased, so you’re at the mercy of mine and JunglePete’s memories on some of the details (and may god have mercy on your souls) but we do have witnesses who can corroborate the important points.
While writing this post I realized that I still have a habit of automatically checking behind my chair whenever I sit down in a restaurant, hoping to find another monkey.
I haven’t ever found another one. It’s probably a rare occurrence, but if you ever find one, please let me know!
On Saturday, standing there watching the relatives of the gibbon I met at Wendy’s several decades ago (and a hundred miles away), with the people who left the ape – that was weird. I think the word surreal is overused and often abused, but I’d go so far as to label the moment surreal.
Back in the 70s none of this was newsworthy. Or if it was, it didn’t occur to anyone involved to contact the press. Very few things in Florida are particularly odd to native floridians (except the weird & crazy crap that snowbirds and transplants do, but that’s a subject for another day). While writing this post I did, however, do a bit of googling and turned up a picture of Pete’s mom and Topaz from an unrelated news article about the sanctuary:
As for that day way back when? After lunch, dad and I went about our usual errands. We probably went to Lido Beach so I could play on the swings or up to Jungle Gardens to visit with dad’s friends. They’d shoot the breeze while I watched them milk the cobras to make anti-venom.
You know, the usual father-daughter stuff.
—–
editor’s note: I just changed some of the dates because JunglePete informed me I was off by a year or two here and there.
Also:
Full disclosure: obviously, it wasn’t a monkey. It was a lesser ape, but monkeys make better headlines. Plus, from 1978 to 2013 I thought it was a monkey so I use the word monkey a lot in this post even though I am well aware of the difference. Get over it.
97 year old Captain Ralph Styles (USN, retired) presides over two flag ceremonies a day in front of his house on Beach Road on Siesta Key. Local Coffee and Tea has a short article on their website declaring Styles a “Local Treasure,” and noting that the ceremonies have been taking place for about 12 – 15 years. I’d swear they started before I moved away, but I must just remember them from visits home later on.
The evening ceremony takes place minutes after the sun sets, and since his house is located on the point, on possibly one of the nicest spots to watch the sun set, he always has an abundant supply of participants and onlookers. Some days, there are costumes.
Thanks to the magic of youtube, I can post someone else’s video, since I was too lazy to shoot one of my own. I’m sad this one doesn’t include a live drummer, but that’s okay:
I really should have shot one of the morning flag-raising ceremonies, which are just as nice but aren’t well attended because they’re, well, early.
If you’re interested, here’s Captain Styles describing his military experience at Pearl Harbor:
Last week, as you well know, I was down in la florida. Life is so strange there that it’s normal, if you know what I mean.
I laughed hysterically when I saw that Inverness was planning a month-long “Cooter Festival” but then didn’t even bother to mention it here because I figured it wasn’t that interesting. I figured I was just getting in touch with my inner Beavis and Butthead the first day I saw a poster advertising the festival (now I wish I’d stolen one of the posters).
Consequently, when I saw last night’s Daily Show, I laughed til I couldn’t breath. I actually thought I was going to pass out. I’m both relieved that other people find it funny and disturbed that I passed so quickly into acceptance when I saw the ads for the festival in the first place. You can take the floridian out of florida, I guess, but there’s apparently no cure for our particular brand of madness.
The press in Florida still doesn’t seem to get why it’s so damned funny:
By Mike Wright
For three guys used to dealing with the media, this was something quite unusual.
A city manager, a newspaper editor and a government critic all were put on the spot Wednesday by a crew from Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show,” a news program that tends to poke fun at small-town life.
The crew was in Inverness for a story about the Cooter Festival or, more accurately, the strange controversy that has erupted regarding the festival’s name.
City Manager Frank DiGiovanni said the festival, which debuts in October, was named after a small turtle common to small lakes such as Cooter Pond.
Greg Hamilton, editorial page editor for the St. Petersburg Times’ Citrus edition, wrote a column last month that noted the “cooter” also is a slang word that refers to the female anatomy.
[read the rest of the article]
I just refuse to believe that the reporter who wrote this piece – or anyone else – thinks this is funny just because the Daily Show likes to “poke fun at small-town life.” People, people, people. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, making fun of this festival. I don’t think Ed Helms had to go far out of his way to make the whole thing look silly.
I think Inverness is just bitter because Allendale, South Carolina already owns the domain name for Cooterfest.com.
