LIQUID STUPID AND THE LEGAL EAGLE

  We once had a judge--Herbal Smoot we'll call him--that liked to have an evening toddy or two. Or ten. Or twelve. Then he liked to get in his little fastback car and drive home. He lived fairly close to the old PD, at 8th and 8th South, and we'd see him trying to get the horse in the barn without running over all the chickens. I decided to have a talk with him.

  I explained to him that we didn't want to see him--or anyone he encountered--killed and he was welcome to give us a call if he drank too much and needed a ride home.

  "Don't want any special considerations," he said.

 "It wouldn't be," I countered, "we take lotsa folks home." And we did. This was before the personal injury Aholes started suing us if we took the guy home and, after he got there, he got in more trouble. This was a time before total avarice and greed. Now if the cops stop you for excessive drinking, you're going to jail.

 Judge Smoot was noncommittal but did say, "I might give it a try. I certainly don't want to drive when I drink."

  "Just give me a call," I said, "or anyone at the station. They'll be glad to assist you."

 The very next night my phone rang. I recognized the voice. Now Judge Smoot was a brilliant man, an accomplished orator, except when under the spell of liquid stupid. " Smoooosh, here," he'd say or something like that, "and when I drivel I don't drunkel. Or I don't dink when I dunk. Or drunk when I drink. Or something nonsensical like that. Anyway, I got the idea and took him home or arranged for it to happen.

  And we did that for several years. Then, for some reason, he  quit the heavy drinking, and never called again. Maybe it was old age. Maybe a medical reason, but he dropped the excessive part. 

 We were happy for it. We liked Judge Smoot and certainly didn't want to see him the victim of drunkling while dribbling. Or whatever.

  

A REALLY MULTI-PURPOSE BUILDING

 When our family moved here in 1956, my Dad went to work at the post office. He'd transferred from the office in Charleston, WVa. He later became Postmaster.

 The post office, see photo below, was on the corner of Broad Avenue South and 3rd Street, across the street from the building shown--or a semblance of it. This,  now, Old Naples Building has been remodeled and updated but you can still recognize the original in it. Kinda.

 This very versatile structure was also, over the years, City Hall, the library, the original movie theatre and a retail store. Before the quonset hut theatre and Beach Store was built across the street, a projector was set up on a table in one of the rooms, and the latest Hollywood epics were run home-movie style. The building was originally used as the Beach Club "Company Offices."

  Dave Dampier remembers that the area also hosted an airport. Research indicates it was the original Beach Club Golf Club and planes used it as a landing strip.

   The Old Naples Building is kitty-corner from the Broad and 3rd traffic light. This was one of Naples original lights. Since the exclusive 3rd Street shopping area was shut down all summer, the light was turned off during those months. And most of the other time, too.

 Folks didn't like the damn thing. Said we were getting so many durn traffic lights you couldn't drive any longer. It was after all, the third traffic light installed in the City of Naples.

  (The other two were at 4-corners and 5th Ave So and 8th St.)

FAMOUS POLICE SAYINGS

 Cops have said some funny things.  For example, Commissioner Frank Rizzo, of the Philly PD, when asked if reforming people worked said: "Get Serious. Most of them have been arrested so many times they're humpbacked from getting in and out of police cars."
 Florida Sheriff Grady Judd said when asked why his Deputies shot an A-hole, who killed a Deputy, 68 times, "That's all the bullets we had."
  At the Collier County Sheriff's Office Kurt Klutchy said some things, too. Utterances that have become legendary at the SO, handed down like the proverbs from veteran to rookie.
 Kurt's observations are the kind that make you stop, recycle what you've just heard through your mental processor and wonder if that could possibly have been what he said. An example. Kurt was in charge of the Sheriff's vehicles during that time when there was a push to convert we stupid Americans and our primitive measurement system to the rest-of-the-worldwide metric system. This lasted about a week but it did cause automakers to quit defining engine size with cubic inches and switch to cubic centimeters--cc's.

 During that time we had a run of bad vehicles from the factory. Porous motor blocks or something. Kurt allowed that he knew what the real problem was: "These engines ain't been worth a damn since they started puttin' them durn cc's and liters in 'em." And he was serious.

 Then there was the safari. Kent was an avid hunter and decided that he'd murdered enough animals in the USA and would like to try his serial killing skills on the game in Africa. Maybe a nice fat elephant. A lion. A tiger. Wouldn't they look great on his wall? So, he worked up a safari, in the company of another Deputy who liked to hunt, and they headed for the Dark Continent.

  At the end of the very first day, before they'd even even gone in the Jungle, Kurt told his partner he was going home. The partner, astounded, asked why. It seems Kurt was aghast to find out that Africa was a predominantly black country. "I can't take it," he said, "this damn place is fulla n-gg-rs." And he got on the next plane and came home.
 And, oh yeah, Kurt was a Captain with the agency. 

THE ART CRITIC

  Everyone has an opinion on what is good or terrible art. Some say Picasso was a modern Michelangelo, a genius in composition, color, and draftsmanship. To others he was just a con man whose works looked like they could've been painted by a monkey.

  Whatever.

  Once the City decided that the front yard of the newly constructed City Hall needed a piece of art to show folks how cultured we were. Hearing of the City's desire, a kind lady donated an artwork from a local sculptor to fill the need. It was called Homage To The Sun.

  The fella who welded this thing together had a shop in the old house on Goodlette Road where Fire Chief Pearly Riner used to live. The front yard was full of his creations. Most people that drove by thought it was a junk yard and didn't even realize it was an art gallery. Evidently the benefactor and members of the City Council had more eclectic tastes and they thought Homage was a welded  masterpiece.

  In fact, it was a monstrosity about 10 feet tall and sorta looked like--if you could determine that it looked like anything--the lady with her arms reaching skyward that appears on the top of many trophies.

  When the town folk got a look at this thing, most didn't appreciate that they were in the presence of great art. They griped that it was a desecration of the new building and was, in general, just uglying up the place. I was among them. 
  It became a sticky issue that should've caused me to keep my mouth shut. But, that ain't me and when a Naples Daily News reporter asked what I thought about it I said, "Hideous. It looks like Winged Victory on LSD."

 This observation made the front page the next day and caused me to be persona non grata at City Council meetings for several months.

 And got me out of the art critic business, but if you'd like to judge for yourself, it's still there.
  Like the fellar once said "all beauty must fade away but ugly goes all the way to the bone."

YOUR GUESS AS GOOD AS MINE

 In Brent Batten's Naples Daily News column today he speaks of the unreliability of those who would predict the End of Days. Most recently, a buffoon named Harold Camping got it wrong and seems to be the only one who has disappeared.
  Weasels pretending to be purveyors of God's word, have been around since they invented religion. And they do well. Reports have it that Harold collected over 100 million from those who could swallow his pap.
  The most famous rascal I can remember we'll call Offal Rogers. Offal, who talked--literally--out of the side of his mouth amassed zillions. He'd been caught scamming but the faithful didn't seem to care.
  Once, on a national TV show, they brought to the stage--to his surprise--a former employee who pretended to be healed by Offal of being lame over 300 times. He'd glide up front in the wheelchair, Offal would lay hands on him, and he'd jump up and dance. 
  Then another stooge was brought forward who had a giant goiter that Offal made disappear. It actually was a rubber bladder glued to the neck, that Offal would squeeze the air out of when he "laid hands" on him.
 He also peddled "prayer rugs" at $30 a pop that he'd personally knelt on. They were paper, like the mats they put under your plate at The Greasy Spoon.
  Offal was a great predictor, too. There's always room for more.
  And Harold Camping will be seen again. I suggest he join that bunch in Colorado that predict hurricanes. Hell, he could air his asininity every year and still probably be more accurate than those clowns that do it now.

BE BACK SOON

 WE'RE EDITING THE BOOK AND WILL SOON BE FINISHED. THEN, BACK TO THE BLOG.