Boondocks

Finally, a not too cold March evening in the Lower Keys, with temperatures in the mid 60's (17C) a light north breeze and a clear cloudless sky, as befits the passage of a mild Spring cold front.We drove the mile from our house, I walked Cheyenne along State Road 4A, and then joined my wife for an evening of hot dogs and hilarity at the famous Mile Marker 27 Tiki Bar. I am fed up with people who can't put their phones down, but this guy at least took his phone outside before arranging his Spanglish business meeting in stentorian tones.Inside the bar we took one of those absurdly high tables surrounded by the sorts of high stools that make you feel like an extra in a doll house and I took the time to look around. I immediately started to lust after this guy's hat, sweaty, well worn and weirdly authentic in a county that doesn't see a live cow from one year's end to another. Perhaps he was visiting from Arcadia in central Florida, home of the southernmost range. Nancy was sitting at the opposite side of the table checking the hot dog table out and soon she managed to attract some loose men in search of I don't know what. Well I do, but they were class A no hopers so I am forced to wonder how completely unaware men can be of their grodiness. Hope springs eternal. Boondocks is a vast spacious area underneath a palm frond type of ceiling. It's so big the numerous television screens hardly impinge at all on the central area. Some sports bars are so overloaded with giant screens I tend to get sucked into them like a moth to light.
But we were here for more than just eating and drinking and picking up loose women. We were here to cheer on Michael, the master hot dog eater. He is a teacher by day but he recently discovered, quite by accident, that he has a talent for woofing hot dogs faster than anyone else in the room. He entered the contest as a lark and when he started winning he decided to set his mind on winning the grand weenie eating prize at Boondocks. And, by gum here he was in the final round, a plate of ten dogs separating him from a hundred dollars, a three hundred dollar blender and a year's worth of Pepsi Cola. He even had women groupies, and he was totally psyched up to win. I was quite surprised how intensely he was going for it. The peanut gallery ordered ordinary food, one plate each and tucked in as we waited for the gorging to begin- in front of us! Nancy, Nan, my wife and I had never actually witnessed a speed eating contest before and Michael was quick to point out that he had only seen one once before, when he won his heat and passed through to this, the final round. We were all, in some measure or another, newbies. The at-risk kids at my wife's school were depending on Michael to bring home the Pepsi. I cannot get excited about the food at Boondocks. My wife likes the smoked fish and mussels when they have them. My burger was okay, the bread was sweet and lacking in texture and the chili that came with the Texican burger was nothing much. I've eaten here a few times and it never amounts to much. The choice of beers is not much either. The best they have on draft is Grolsch but I'd rather have Guinness or Smithwicks at Parrotdise with reasonable food, or organic draft and excellent food at The Wharf on Summerland. But there again you can't get to see people stuffing their faces on hot dogs at those restaurants.

People were sitting around waiting for the contest to begin but we had to sit through something they called a "grudge match" between two female employees of US1 Radio. Green Judy beat blue Judy when all was said done and eaten.The crowds built and some surprising characters were attracted to view people stuffing themselves on hot dogs at high speed. Then with a flash and a bang the Pirates of the Marquesas showed up. This man asked me what I'd done to get three wives. I needed riepe to help out with a quick witted answer.My wife asked this man, identified as "Boats" if he would donate any winnings to her good cause, the School for At Risk Students, known as Keys Center. His reaction took me aback. Some people are really into this speed eating stuff, red eyes and all:The first heat saw a best time of more than six minutes which put our man Michael in with a good chance as he had won his round previously with a time of 3 minutes and 45 seconds for ten hot dogs. This guy didn't come close in the first set of contestants:Contestants get their plate with stern instructions not to squeeze the buns until after the start. They get to add ketchup or mustard on the theory that more moisture helps the food slide down but it sounds a little intense to me, high speed mustard eating... The judges watch, the contestants suck down glasses of water or dunk their food in the jugs to moisten the mess to help it slide down. This guy was not a winner but he enjoyed the dogs with some beer and he never had to use the vomit bucket set in front of him. When they called out the second set of contestants Michael got organized with his condiments: The pirates were watching intently because their man Boats was in this the final group of contestants.This pirate wench caught a glimpse of someone who put her mind of riepe and this was her reaction, a mixture of disgust and a desire to blow him a kiss.Then the last three contestants got stuck in:This guy is Steve Miller, apparently another employee of US1 Radio:It didn't end well for Keys Center. Michael used the vomit bucket after desperately trying to keep up with Boats who finished first with an incredible time of two minutes and forty seconds. Vomiting disqualifies a contestant and Michael looked quite ill as he staggered away. If this display of grossness doesn't put you off you too can enjoy hot dogs at Boondocks for 69 cents every Wednesday:I recommend eating them slowly but that's just me being bourgeois. My wife guessed within seven seconds the winning time and won a dust catcher for coming in second place. Her friend Cathy did the right thing and admired the objet de junque with proper compliments:We took our leave clutching our prize and wondering what the hell we had just lived through.
These people were happy eating and enjoying a warm night out. They were smart enough to avoid the weenie spectacle. What a strange evening I had.

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I have a new essay on party politics at http://conchscooterscommonsense.blogspot.com/

Wayne And Chuck And Bank Of America

My wife has agreed at last to clump Bank of America and go with a local bank. She manages our paperwork and the prospect of making the change was more than she wanted to handle but her irritation at the Big Banks finally overcame her reluctance and she sent me out to find a local bank that would work for us. Bank of America used to be my local bank decades ago, when I lived in Santa Cruz, California. It was founded in 1904 by Amadeo Giannini an Italian American in San Francisco. He made a name for himself by making collateral-free loans after the 1906 earthquake to anyone who spent the money to help rebuild the city. You can't get more local than that! He was also famous for pointing out that not one of those loans ever defaulted. In 1922 he bought an Italian bank and changed the name to the Bank of America and Italy. In 1930 he acquired the Bank of America in Los Angeles and then he tried to go national by creating the Transamerica Corporation as a way to avoid New Deal anti-trust laws. This was in the days when banks were regulated to be risk-averse conservative places of deposit.

Cheyenne Getting Fresh

In the 1980s deregulation began and led to Bank of America growing and merging and moving it's headquarters to North Carolina after being absorbed by Nation's Bank. By now any vestige of a local banking operation was long gone and Bank of America boasts it has more assets than any other bank in the country. Perhaps but the Bank has taken tens of billions of public money to maintain it's status as "too big to fail" and I am no longer willing to support them with my tacit complicity. So my wife set me the task of finding a new bank which all goes to explain why it was that I was in the parking lot at First State Bank on Summerland key this afternoon. First State is the only local bank left in the Keys. The Island Bank (TIB) is based in Naples and Centennial Bank is owned by people in Louisiana while Orion Bank went bust. We have an account at my wife's credit union but we wanted a bank with branches (and free ATMs) so we seem to have settle don First State. I am glad to have finally joined the national movement to dump big banks, even if First State is a creation of the Spottswood family, people who never saw a piece of open space or a low income trailer park that wasn't worth leaving alone. Which brings up the very pertinent question asking who are these people in the photographs? Strangers it turns out, but when one lurks on the Web it seems one is not destined to stay a stranger for long. I was walking out of the bank enjoying a warm sunny afternoon when a debt collector approached. He had my name right but I was sure I was the wrong person as we have no outstanding debts (my wife assures me). It turns out these wastrels have nothing better to do with their time than read my blog and raise abandoned dogs.

It was pretty funny actually because I got the blame for them adopting these puppy mill mothers. It turns out we had in common the need to replace expired dogs in our lives and when i got over Emma they got over Napoleon and off they went to adopt about the time I found Cheyenne. Apparently they are Vizsla dogs originally bred in Hungary as hunting house dogs (who knew?). Cheyenne took my interest in these very sweet dogs as an excuse to get involved far more than she would normally.You might say they, like Cheyenne have won the lottery. Had Wayne and Chuck not grabbed them they would have been killed as being of no further use to the puppy mills. Look at these retired mothers and ask yourself why not adopt.And there I was just minding my own business. A day full of surprises in the Lower Keys. I've got a new bank, two new neighbors and I found out about Vizlas. Too much to absorb, I need a cup of tea.

Iron Butt Member 39523

The peanut gallery which has been harassing me about motorcycle content on my diary can kiss my iron ass.

My membership number might seem a little high, indeed it's hard to imagine there are 40,000 nutters ahead of me who have ridden at least a thousand miles (1600 kms) in less than 24 hours, and my membership number is a little higher than my badge number at work, BUT, I made it. Read it and weep: It takes toughness to be...tough and I grant you "World's Toughest Riders" may be a nice touch of All-American Hyperbole but when I was standing in the gas station at 3 o'clock in the morning in Lake City, Florida last October I felt less... tough than I should have...The paperwork requirements seem daunting but I managed those too, because these people are tough...If you want to join them they measure and double check everything so you had better do that too.Go on line at Iron Butt Association and download the forms and go riding. I recommend a long straight road for ease and simplcity. The Florida Turnpike isn't terribly scenic but it gets the job done. The loneliness of the long distance rider. Tough all right.My wife was grinning when she handed me the Manila envelope that came in Saturday morning's post (How dare they consider abolishing Saturday delivery?). Cheyenne knew something was up.
You get a nice wordy certificate that lists your accomplishment. This says I completed a Florida Saddlesore 1000. Very cool.

Absurd but I was pleased.You get some bits and pieces in the stout Manila envelope.

This clever little plate goes behind the tag on the motorcycle and can be reversed to stick up above the license plate if that suits your motorcycle's tag arrangement.

Plus you get a pin. It would go well on my mesh jacket but honestly all these labels are a bit embarrassing. I've only done one ride, the shortest qualifying ride and I am a member alongside people who have done some truly extreme rides. Their stories are on the IBA website and you should read them to appreciate how modest my accomplishment actually is.They send along a sample magazine to induce you to join the newsletter club at $40 a year which seems inexpensive enough but it comes with some pretty intimidating topics: Auxiliary Light Systems, Fatigue, Tech Inspection and Going the Extra Mile. I was a total amateur when I jumped on the Bonneville and got going. No auxiliary anything, just me and the Bonneville.

I've got the badges though: And I do have to say that NOT riding a Goldwing, a BMW or a Super Sport Tourer from Japan does make the ride feel a little more seat-of-the-pants fun. Hey it's just a 60hp chain driven roadster with a plastic windshield, no heated gear and a plank for a seat (that I alone among Triumph riders find quite comfortable over the long haul).This is the machine that replicates the motorbikes that I used to ride all over Europe and North Africa as a kid. I knew no better and now that I do I still like the simplicity of the biplane style over the jet airliner way of traveling on two wheels. I used to read the exploits of a Canadian sailor (Larry Pardey) who crossed oceans deliberately choosing not to use a GPS which I thought was extreme. He's still doing it and I would never leave port without a marine GPS these days, but on a motorcycle with a time constraint, I like the challenge of leaving the electrons behind. Perhaps one day I will be riding with fuel injection, a tach and a full complement of gadgets. Not yet though.But you know what? This Iron Butt thing is starting to get to me. I don't feel like I am stealing time from my wife by doing this because she wouldn't want to be riding past all the sights (and neither would I if this was the only sort of trip I did), but this is something I can do for me, alone, just as I like it, responsible only for myself.

I am going to go up a step this Spring and try the 1500 miles in 36 hours, called a Bun Burner. Maybe that will help me feel like I have really earned all these badges of merit. Oh, and it will be attempted by me, on the Bonneville, with the stock seat. And no GPS.