Going Ape; or Stories I Like, Yet Am Not Entirely Convinced They Are True, Part Five

You don't exactly have to be a card-carrying member of PETA to have weird feelings about zoos. I mean, imagine - you're some huge animal, just chilling in Africa or South America, just being all majestic and wandering wherever you want when somebody shoots a tranquilizer in your ass. Next thing you know you're enclosed in a pen the size of a living room and getting stared at and photographed by human families.

Some of my conflicted feelings probably come from growing up in the '70s in the tail end of 'private zoos.' I'm not sure if these were all over the country or just the South, but I remember my dad pulling over so we could look at a sad black bear pacing on a cement floor in a little barred cage out in the middle of nowhere. Even though it was cool to see a bear up close, I remember thinking he didn't look too happy in his new home.

Modern zoos do a lot of work in conservation and education, and the habitats for their animals are close to what the animals are used to, rather than a homemade cage baking in the Florida sun. Plus, with loss of natural habitat, you could make a case that the animals are safer in captivity than in their home; sort of like a witness protection agency.

This attention to large, natural enclosures is a fairly recent development. In fact, in the story I heard, we'll have to go back, back to a time of more primitive zoos. Back to the '70s. Or possibly the '80s. I've heard it both ways.

Back then the Lowry Park Zoo in Tampa was like most zoos of the era, in that they still had cages instead of habitats. Except for the lions, as we've learned from Goodfellas. Most animals adjusted to their lives behind bars. Except for the orangutans. Using their smarts and Beast Strength, the apes would wait until the keepers went home, reach out of their cages, bend the locks and take off through the streets of suburban Tampa.

This always cracked me up, because I always pictured families sitting down for breakfast glancing outside at an ape just truckin' down the sidewalk.

After a while the keepers figured out what was going on and created more moats and stuff, saving families from marauding orangutans.

This sort of thing happened all the time in Tampa.

I have no idea where I originally heard this story, but like the Elvis story, I've used it for years. If I was at a fancy dinner party or event, and someone mentioned zoos, or apes, or orangutans, I'd have a great little story to bring out. And yes, that happened more than you might think.

But is it true?

Well, sort of.

Apparently I was off on the date. According to "Zoo Story: Life in the Garden of Captives" by Thomas French, the great escape was in 1991, which for some reason isn't as funny. Basically, Rudy, a young female orangutan was having trouble fitting in with the rest of her ape roommates. She climbed a tree out of the enclosure and willingly surrendered when French showed up. It's actually kind of sweet.

As for overall truth, I'd have to give this one an almost true. There was an orangutan that got out, but the best part of the story to me was the orangutan snapping the lock and wandering down the streets, which resulted in subtracting some points from the overall score.

We hold things to a very rigorous standard of truth here.

An Artistic Catastrophe

Remember in school when you'd hear about people rioting when they first heard "The Rite of Spring" or went all crazy over some Picasso paintings or beat up Ornette Coleman? And then you'd go experience the art that got everyone so pissed off and you'd just sort of shrug and wonder why people were so much more excitable back in the old days?

Maybe you even thought that those reactions you heard about years later were exaggerated; I mean nobody really goes that crazy over art that you could just as easily ignore, you know?

I am here to tell you that some art is still so ahead of its time, so revolutionary, that the masses erupt in rioting and poor behavior when confronted by it.

I speak, of course, of the cat circus.

Years ago, my ex-wife (who was my wife at the time) called me at work and informed me that there was a cat circus that weekend, and we were going.

I might have put up a bit of a fight just to keep things interesting, but I was intrigued. Plus, it was only five bucks and in a hot sauce store, so how bad could it be?

The hot sauce store was very small. Probably about twice the size of my living room. When we arrived with our friend Keith and his daughter, the place was packed. I guess they underestimated Jacksonville's love of art and culture.

They had to schedule a second show because there were so many art lovers. It was tight, but we were able to squeeze our way up front. As we made our way up there, we could hear people loudly complaining trying to get their money back because of the poor conditions.

The complaining would only grow louder.

So we watched the cat circus. It was pretty much what I wanted to see. From what I remember, some cats walked on a little tightrope. A rooster did...something or other, and I think there were some rats doing some stuff. It was hard to see. I think they rang some bells or something.

And yeah, some of the tricks were a little rusty, like when the lady sort of had to coax the cat onto the tightrope, but still, she got a cat to walk across a tightrope. That's more than I've ever done. And I wasn't really expecting to see cats flying out of cannons or catching each other on trapezes, you know?

But the cat circus was just a warm up to the main event. The cat band.

Check 'em out! Cats rocking the house!

I've seen a lot of bands in my time. I've seen bands at house parties where condensation was dripping off walls and the floorboards creaked as people danced. I've seen amazing, cathartic sets at the Hardback, when it seemed like the whole crowd and band was one pulsating organism. I saw The Who finish up "Love Reign O'er Me" as a rainstorm started in Tampa Stadium. I saw the Jesus Lizard and Fugazi in their prime, multiple times.

But none of these bands could hold a candle to The Rock Cats. Never have I felt such primal energy combined with musical talent as I did from those three kitty cats that night in the hot sauce store.

OK, not really. It was three cats playing instruments. What did people expect it to sound like? Beethoven? King Crimson? It actually reminded me of that post-college time when people started playing "sound sculptures" or "experimental music" or "noise" instead of playing music that was all full of fun and rock and roll. That stuff is a lot more tolerable coming from little kitties than from arty musicians.

I guess the band rubbed people the wrong way, too. People were going crazy, demanding refunds (a whole five dollars!) because the show wasn't "professional" enough.

Me, I got my five dollars of entertainment out of the thing.

I felt sorry for the hot sauce store owners, having to put up with people angrily shouting, complaining about the poor conditions and lack of  professionalism in the cat circus and band. I also felt sorry for the cat circus woman, who was only trying to expose our fair city to some art.

But most of all I felt sorry for the crowd. These people were experiencing some of the greatest, most groundbreaking art of the 21st century and all they could do was complain about the temperature in the room or the fact that three cats couldn't play "Eruption" or "A Love Supreme."

I wept as I started the car and we drove home. I wept that our city could not appreciate the power, the art, and the majesty that was the cat circus. I wept that years from now, children would not understand that the cat circus was ahead of its time. Would they judge us harshly? I hoped not. There were some of us who got it, some of us who were hip.

I pray that history remembers us.

The Earl of Eatin'

Who doesn't love a sandwich? Got some meat or a piece of cheese that's been sitting in the refrigerator that you're not too jazzed on? Put it between two slices of bread, slap some condiments in there, and it instantly becomes exciting!

The Earl of Sandwich, with the original sandwich recipe.

I've eaten my share of sandwiches over my life - day after Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches, exotic treats like the banh mi or the torta, reubens, Cubans, and grilled cheeses galore. Put it between some bread, and I'll probably take a chance.

I've noticed that some of  you aren't as adventurous as I am, however. In fact, just the mention of one of the sandwiches I grew up on is enough to nauseate many of you.

I speak, of course, of the banana sandwich. Not the peanut butter and banana sandwich of Elvis fame (although I've had a lot of those, even if they were unfried), I mean the other banana sandwich, the one I thought my mom made up, just based on people's reactions through the years.

Basically, you take a ripe banana (and who can eat those brown mushy bananas? Ugh.), cut it into sections, sort of like big coins, spread mayonnaise on two slices of white bread and arrange your banana coins on one slice of bread. Slap the other slice of mayonnaise bread on top, and you have the banana sandwich.

Through the years, so many people have expressed so much disgust at this recipe that I began to think that my family and I were the only people in the world who experienced this treat. But now with the internet, I see that it even has a Facebook page. I don't exactly know if it's a Southern thing or what, but it's nice to see that other people have eaten them.

I think the main thing holding people back from enjoying a banana sandwich at their favorite restaurant is the lack of a striking name. How about Tropical Surprise? Mayonana? Ape's Delight?

I haven't had a banana sandwich in years, and I can't say that I miss it, but every once in a while I'll think about one. Trust me, once you've had an Ape's Delight, it will lodge in the pleasure centers of your brain.

Days of Fish and Death

So my girlfriend arranged a whole Valentine's Day surprise for me. She wouldn't tell me anything about it, only that the day had a theme. I would find out later the theme was "fish and death," which there's no way I would have figured out. Oh, don't act like you would have got it, you would have been as clueless as me.

Things got off late thanks to my drive the night before, since I sort of hit a deer. I guess. It was in the middle of the interstate and I thought it was a log. I heard this huge crash when I hit it and pulled over to the creepiest gas station ever, surveyed the damage and drove the remaining 2 hours in a state of fear and sweat. It wasn't until the next morning that we noticed that the log left hair on my bumper.

So I'm dealing with insurance and wondering what's going to happen, but was remarkably able to relax and go with the day's theme (which was not revealed to me until the end).

First up, Atlanta Aquarium. This place is awesome! We got to see all the stars - otters, penguins, sharks, all your A-teamers.

We also got to hang out at Jellyfish Wall. Check it out:

I don't know why rich people buy boring stuff like yachts and memorial walls at hospitals. When I get rich (hey, there's still time), I'm buying a wall of jellyfish. I will sit in front of it in a leather chair wearing a smoking jacket petting a cat while I plot my kung fu treachery. And yes, I like how I went from rich to Bond villain in about 3 seconds.

And of course, any aquarium that doesn't have lots of stuff that can kill you isn't worth your time:

Piranha 3D!

It was also cool just hanging out and looking at fish whose friends and family I caught and ate:

Hangin' with Mister Grouper

After looking at fish for a few hours, it was off to part two, Oakland Cemetery. It was cold.

This is right after a ghost told me not to be shitty about Christmas

We had a pretty awesome tour, then we wandered the cemetery on our own, writing poetry and reflecting upon the futility of life.

Actually, I was thinking about the ending of "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly."

After that, we ate about 30 pounds of seafood across the street. I think that's where the ugly fish from the aquarium end up.

Oh crap! She also got me this awesome shirt - check it out:

If you live in Murray Hill, or I've driven you around, you'll recognize this as the logo on the baseball field. Every time I pass it I say, "I wish I had a shirt like that." Now I do. I figure I'm either gonna lead a team of scrappy kids from the poor side of town (which I guess is Murray Hill) to a baseball championship, or I'll have to start a gang or a doo-wop band.

She also collected all my old Myspace blog posts in a book, bound with fine Corinthian leather. So yeah, I really made out.

Guess I'll really have to up my game next year from this year's half-off day old candy and flowers from the gas station.

How My Uncle Eddie Promoted World Peace and Understanding During World War Two; or Stories I Like, Yet Am Not Entirely Convinced They Are True, Part Four

My Great Uncle Eddie was awesome. He was a retired attorney for as long as I was aware of him, and in my mind was the origin of all those "Now I may be just a simple country lawyer" tropes. Always wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, thick glasses and short cut white hair, he was a favorite of all the kids in the family.

Uncle Eddie owned a big spread of land with a house that was full of stuff; he was a hoarder before hoarding was cool. As kids, we'd drive through the orange groves (this was the late '70s/early '80s when kids were allowed to do stuff like that) or explore his garage which was full of old cars and boats or just wander around the property. I learned to drive a bulldozer there once. Like I said, different times.

Eddie had a big, booming voice, and would frequently start his stories with an exclamation that sounded like "Weayah," sort of a mixture of well and yeah.

Oh yeah, the stories.

Uncle Eddie loved to talk. His stories were legendary - when I was older he'd always start out by saying, "I hear you're studying journalism at the University of Florida." I'd say yes, and he'd be off. He'd start by talking about I.F. Stone (look him up, dummies), his trips to Cuba, Castro, Rosa Parks, Abraham Lincoln, court cases he was following in the paper, honestly, just about every topic or historical figure under the sun, never really finishing up one story before going off into another. By this time I was glancing around for a cousin or sister to pawn him off on. Looking back, I feel bad about this, because I really enjoyed his roundabout jaunts through personal and  U.S. history and now wish I had given him more time.

About a decade before Uncle Eddie died, my dad got into genealogy and thought it would be a good idea to capture some of Uncle Eddie's stories on video while he was still around. Dad wanted to focus on Uncle Eddie's World War Two stories, which apparently he would bring up almost as often as he did local court cases.

So dad filmed Uncle Eddie sitting on a couch, while dad questioned him off-camera and attempted to keep him on topic.

Best part to my sister and I watching later was Uncle Eddie discussing  his training. "Well, I met me a little nurse in San Francisco, and I was with her about ...three days."

After hanging out in San Francisco, Uncle Eddie was transferred to the Philippines, where he flew one of the coolest looking planes ever, the P-38 Lightning. Check it out:

Seriously, it's like someone took a bunch of awesome looking planes and glued them all together.

I knew about the P-38, because Uncle Eddie had told me about it years ago. Every time I'd see a picture of one, I'd imagine his voice coming through the intercom: "Weayah, just bombed us a little Japanese battleship. Kinda like when I was at the 4H Fair and saw this prize-winning steer. You know who never had any use for fairs was that ol' Abraham Lincoln..."

The part of Uncle Eddie's story that stayed with me to this day was the story of one of his last flights. He was alone and came across a lone Japanese Zero. Uncle Eddie looked at the pilot, the Japanese pilot looked at Uncle Eddie, and they both gave a 'I don't see you if you don't see me' gesture and turned around.

I liked the idea of Uncle Eddie and this unknown Japanese pilot having their own silent Christmas Truce, both of them surviving the war and going on to prosper in their own countries, perhaps thinking every once in a while of what might have happened on that day. Did the Japanese pilot ever look out into the night sky and thank Uncle Eddie for not shooting him down over the Pacific Ocean? Did Uncle Eddie pause during one of his stories and wonder what caused him to not pull the trigger?

But the more I thought about it, the more certain details bothered me. Like, why would Uncle Eddie be out all alone? And how close would he have to be to the Japanese pilot for them to see each other? Why would the Japanese pilot be all alone?

In the spirit of hard-hitting investigative journalism, I searched tirelessly through yellowing Department of Defense records until I uncovered the truth*. According to my research, the P-38 was notoriously quiet, so it is conceivable that Uncle Eddie could have possibly snuck up on the Japanese pilot. They were also used for reconnaissance, so that would explain him being alone.

Based on these two facts, I declare Uncle Eddie's story to be 100 percent true, the highest possible rating this series can bestow, and the only one I have handed out. True, I could have done a bit more verification, but hey, it's Uncle Eddie. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt.

I am also giving his three-day San Francisco nurse story a 100 percent true rating, and two thumbs up for studliness. High five, Uncle Eddie!



*OK, a five second Wikipedia search.

Publish or Perish

Guess what I got for Valentine's Day? Yeah, I know it's early, but my girlfriend couldn't wait. Check it out:

She looks like she's opened the Necronomicon.

She compiled all my old Myspace blog posts into a book. It looks all important bound up like that, sort of like a thesis, or perhaps a fancy cookbook.


It's been strange reading about myself for the past couple days, other than reminding myself how fascinating I find me, it's funny to see how many stories I used to write about work. I also used to write more short pieces, but I guess now all my two sentence funny bum stories are used on Facebook statuses.

Reading between the lines, I can also sense a lot of stress, especially when dealing with being a new homeowner being overwhelmed with the huge thing I had gotten into. I'd like to say that I can feel myself growing, changing, and becoming more mature and responsible, but I haven't gotten that far, and I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen.

Wait. I know that doesn't happen.

As with all thoughtful gifts, the pressure is now on me to step up and come up with something equal. Without spoiling the surprise, a hot air balloon ride with special navigator Burt Reynolds just might be in someone's cards in a few weeks.

The Old Man and the Sea

As a kid, most of my favorite books discussed scientific facts about dinosaurs. One of my absolute favorite books, however, was titled "A Little Old Man," which sounds like a title slapped on right before the book went to press.

"You still don't have a title? What's this book about? A little old man? Done. Roll the presses!"

Holy crap! I actually remembered the title and plot accurately!

Not much happened in the book. This little old man lives on an island by himself, does some chores, catches some fish and endures a hurricane. A boat washes up on shore after the storm, and he hangs out in the boat, finds a cat who has kittens and that's pretty much the end of the story.

I don't know why the man was marooned on the island, but he seemed happy. In fact, I really wanted to live on the old guy's island. He seemed to have everything he needed, he could catch fish when he got hungry, he got to explore an abandoned boat, and even had a pet cat.

When I read this book, my family didn't live anywhere near the water, but it seemed very peaceful and relaxing. Although why I wanted to relax as a kid is sort of a puzzling. What the hell was I looking to get away from?

This is where I wanted to retire to after another stressful day of being seven.

If the old man's island seemed interesting, the abandoned boat was even cooler. Several pages were devoted to the man exploring this boat before finding his cat. I was mesmerized by those pages. Maybe my later love of discarded, neglected items owed something to vague memories of the old man exploring this abandoned boat. Or perhaps the little guy finding and keeping a boat would inspire a lifelong affinity for scams in which I could get what I wanted with little or no work

Years passed and I forgot about the old man and his kick-ass solitary life. I was in college but back in Bradenton for Christmas Break. I had been in town for about a week, along with my friend Curt, and we were both planning to leave Sunday afternoon.

Curt called me early on a cold and rainy Sunday morning.

"Get up and come to my house."

As a twenty-something male, you could not ignore a message like that. Many adventures started from such a simple opening, and you certainly didn't want to miss out on any possible excitement.

So I got dressed and drove down to Curt's parent's house where he directed me to the DeSoto Memorial, a series of nature trails where Spanish conquistador, explorer, and Indian torturer Hernando DeSoto possibly landed hundreds of years ago.

"I was walking the dogs this morning and I found something," he said.

I knew better than to ask. It could be anything. Pirate gold, old Penthouse magazines, a secret trail to Crazy Nathan's* house, anything.

We parked the car and walked down the grey beach.

"Check it out," Curt said.

He gestured to a partially submerged houseboat about ten feet out in the river. Holy crap! Just like the little old man!

"The Law of the Sea says that if we occupy the boat, we own it."

I wasn't sure how Curt knew so much about maritime law, but this was intriguing.

We could totally fix it up, I thought. Screw going back to school. We could sail around the world, gaining knowledge of the seas. We'd catch fish when we got hungry. Dock in exotic ports all over the world. Maybe we'd even have a cat, like the old man.

"We could use my dad's canoe to get out there," Curt said.

"Yeah, that'd work," I replied, even though the thought of getting out on the swelling, cold river was taking some of my enthusiasm away.

"Yeah, we could do that," Curt said, his inflection matching my loss of enthusiasm.

After a couple of minutes we realized that we weren't going to occupy the houseboat, so we chucked some rocks at it and walked back to the car.

Like most ideas you have in your twenties, it made a much better idea than reality. My childhood dreams to own an abandoned houseboat would have to wait.

I still don't have my abandoned boat, but I'm constantly on the lookout. 





*Crazy Nathan was a crazy guy who we were somewhat obsessed with. It's a long story. I'll tell you some day.