Hello, hungry people.

The lovely lady above is my mother, Georgiana Robinson Morris, the renowned brawler who specialized in beating up Georgia Bulldog fans.

She retired as the undisputed featherweight champion (SEC division) with a record of 1-0. And, far as I know, she never fought again, unless it was verbal disputes with my father whenever he pulled out his 8mm movie camera at the beach and zoomed in on my mother’s backside when she was wearing a bathing suit.

He greatly admired her backside.

Which explains why our home movies were filled with shots of my mother — we called her George — walking toward the ocean and, suddenly realizing she was on camera, turning around, glaring at my father, jabbing a finger and shouting something for which you did not need sound-on-film to understand.

You could read her lips.

***

I bring up my mother not because it’s her birthday or because she has died — she left us back in 2019, age 93 — but because today is the annual Florida-Georgia football game, one of the most heated rivalries in college sports.

Even the game’s history is a point of contention.

Georgia claims the series began in 1904 when it beat Florida Agricultural College, based in Lake City, by the score of 52-0.

Florida claims the series didn’t begin until 1915, when it was officially called the University of Florida and based in Gainesville. Florida lost the game 37-0.

Indeed, Florida didn’t even score on Georgia until 1926 (another loss, 32-9) and didn’t win until 1928 (26-6).

That’s why Georgia claims it leads the series 58-44-2, while Florida, trying to minimize the lopsidedness, says it’s 57-44-2.

You might think this is nitpickery and totally irrelevant.

I remind you: This is college football. These things matter.

***

Which brings us to the Forida-Georgia game of 1946.

It took place on Nov. 9, just a couple of months after my parents got married. My dad — we called him R.J. — had met my mother a few years earlier after he dropped out of UF and joined the Army. He was stationed at Fort Sill, in Lawton, OK, my mother’s hometown, before shipping off for France in World War II. They tied the knot in Oklahoma soon after R.J.’s discharge and he brought her back to Florida.

George was 20 years old. She’d never seen the Atlantic Ocean. She’d never even been east of the Mississippi River. It was her first college football game. And she dressed for the occasion like most women did in those days — nice dress, corsage and high-heel shoes.

The Gators were awful that season, in the middle of a 13-game losing streak, the worst ever in school history. They lost that day, 33-14.

***

R.J. just might have taken a flask of bourbon into the game. Indeed, I never knew him not to take a flask of bourbon into a game. In any event, my father was feeling pretty full of himself despite that day’s outcome. As they left the stadium, he began singing, quite loudly, the song Gator fans sing at the Florida-Georgia game (to the tune of the chorus in the “Battle Hymn of the Republic):

To hell, to hell, to hell with Georgia
To hell, to hell, to hell with Georgia
To hell, to hell, to hell with Georgia
’Cause we’re from FLORIDA!

At which point, a couple of Bulldog fans jumped R.J. and they all fell to the ground.

It was not going well for my father. It’s fair to say he was getting his butt kicked.

***

Until my mother stepped in. And when the cops arrived to break it up, she was atop the pile flailing away and pounding on the Georgia guys with her high-heel shoes.

I don’t know that she drew blood. But in family lore, it went down as a victory for Team Morris.

Said my mother whenever the story came up, as it did every year: about this time “I was mostly proud of not losing my corsage or messing up my hair.”

***
The Morris family first became season ticket holders at Florida Field in 1939, along with seats to the Florida-Georgia game, which is traditionally played at a neutral site in Jacksonville.

And, except for those WWII years, R.J. attended every Florida-Georgia game until 1993. He wasn’t feeling well that year and chose not join me and my sons at the game. It was a good one. Florida won 33-26.

We could have given his ticket to someone else or sold it for a lot more than its $20 face value. Instead, we made this plaque.

R.J. died in 2002. And the plaque now hangs in my home.

***
As for today’s game, it’s being played in Atlanta while the stadium in Jacksonville undergoes a two-year renovation.

Georgia is favored by 11 points, which seems as if it would be a merciful outcome.

I won’t make a prediction. Except to say we’ll definitely be singing that song.

And toasting the undisputed feathweight champion (SEC division) of the Florida-Georgia game.

***
Thanks for dropping by.

There’s no cover charge at Bob’s Diner. It’s free for all and always will be. Paywalls suck.

But if you’d like to become a paid subscriber and help keep the lights on around here, please punch this button.

Subscribe now

If you don’t want to pay, that’s fine. But please consider re-stacking this post on Substack. It’s that little swirly icon that looks like a hurricane symbol.

Or, you can:

Share Bob's Diner

And, as always, if you’ve got something to say, please say it.

Leave a comment

Hello, hungry people.

Today, Oct. 27, is notable because it’s (choose one):

• The birthday of Theodore Roosevelt (1858).

• The 122nd anniversary of the opening of the New York City subway.

• UNESCO World Day for Audiovisual Heritage, recognizing the importance of preserving film, radio and television recordings.

• Black Cat Day (U.K.), for celebrating black cats and encouraging their adoption.

• All of the above.

Yes, it’s “All of the above.”

And each of them is surely worthy of its own special day, although if I had to pick the one I’d most enjoy celebrating, it would be Black Cat Day, despite the fact that pubs in the U.K. observe the occasion by serving a cocktail called The Black Cat, which is made from vodka, cherry brandy, cranberry juice, topped with Coca-Cola, garnished with two blueberries on a toothpick (to resemble a cat’s eyes) and which sounds more disgusting than eating a hairball.

***

But that’s not what we’re celebrating today.

It’s also Independence Day in St. Vincent and the Grenadines, the 90-mile long archipelagic nation in the Lesser Antilles that declared its freedom from the United Kingdom in 1979.

Several years ago, when I was editor of Caribbean Travel & Life magazine, I spent a week or so every month island-hopping in this part of the world. And so it was that I found myself on St. Vincent on October 27, driving north along the western coast.

Like always when I am cruising around a Caribbean island where mangoes and breadfruit dangle from trees, chickens and goats feed freely along the road, and the air is made luscious by greasy good things roasting over open fires, I was hungry, looking for a place to eat.

But since it was Independence Day, in every village and hamlet, from Kingstown to Clare Valley through Pembroke, Layou and Mt. Wynn, the shops and restaurants were closed so Vincentians could celebrate in proper fashion.

Marching bands played tunes that were definitely not Sousa. Schoolchildren in blue-and-white uniforms sang happy songs. Families toted baskets and coolers and blankets for picnics on the beach.

By the time I rolled into Barrouallie (rhymes with merrily), I was barely able to concentrate on much beyond my growling gut. I spotted a police officer on a street corner and asked if there was anywhere, anywhere, a starving man could find a bite to eat. He pointed to a weathered wood building just down the street.

“Shabba’s Place,” the police officer said. “He’s usually got something cooking.”

***

Shabba’s Place was your basic island rum shop, more for drinking than for eating.

A half dozen stools at a paint-peeled counter, bottles on shelves behind it. To one side, a stocky, 50ish man stirred a big aluminum pot atop a gas stove. Shabba himself.

I asked what was on the menu. He nodded at the pot.

“All I got is blackfish,” he said.

“Then that’s what I’ll have.”

Shabba ladled out a steaming bowlful and slid it in front of me. Chunks of meat in a thin, oily broth, along with yams and cassava. I took a couple of bites. A bit bland for my taste, but not bad. It was blistering hot and needed to cool off before I could really enjoy it.

It looked like this.

“So, what’s blackfish anyway?” I asked Shabba.

I figured maybe it was bonito or some kind of mackerel because the meat was so dark.

“It’s the big fish, mon. The blackfish.” Shabba pointed to the back door. “Fishermen out there right now cleaning some, if you want to go see.”

I stepped to the door and looked out to the beach. A dozen men worked with long shiny knives, their catch stretched out on the sand. One of the carcasses had been stripped clean. But the other two were largely intact.

Blackfish are big all right. The ones I was looking at were almost 20 feet long.

Whales.

Meaning: Whale meat.

Meaning: I’d just swallowed some.

***

St. Vincent and the Grenadines is one of the loveliest strings of islands in the region, save for the fact it’s the only Caribbean nation that allows commercial whaling.

Two days earlier I had been on Bequia, where the entrance to the Whale Boner Bar was marked by an arch of two whale ribs and patrons sit in chairs made from whale vertebrae.

Bequians are permitted to kill up to two humpback whales each year, using traditional whaling methods — sailboats and hand-thrown harpoons. In the waters off Petit Nevis, where Bequian whalers render their catch, I had snorkeled over the 40-foot-long skeleton of a humpback that was killed only a few weeks earlier. That had been troubling enough, but to learn that I was now lunching on a leviathan?

The whales I was looking at on the beach behind Shabba’s Place were short-finned pilot whales. Their skin was shiny black with a patch of white on their bellies. Even dead, they looked as if they were smiling at secrets known only to them.

Source: Wild Side Hawaii

Part of me wanted to get in my car and drive off. But the other part of me, the part that always wins, couldn’t look away.

I joined the men on the beach. They were laughing and enjoying themselves. A Japanese wholesaler with an office on St. Vincent had already paid them cash, lots of it, for the three pilot whales. Like their neighbors on Bequia, these whalers hunted from powerboats with harpoons fired from modified shotguns.

Source: Florida International University

Since short-finned pilot whales are officially categorized as “small whales” they fall outside the restrictions set down by the International Whaling Commission. The St. Vincent government doesn’t keep detailed records, but conservation groups claim the country’s whalers kill more than a hundred short-finned pilot whales each year, along with untold numbers of dolphins.

A couple of the men tended a large pot that rested atop a wood fire. Oil bubbled in the pot, the aroma nutty and sweet. A big bowl contained pieces of whale skin, and one of the men dropped a handful into the pot. It sizzled and popped.

It’s called “krips,” one of the men told me. Whale skin cooked in whale oil and then sprinkled with salt. A delicacy on St. Vincent.

“You got the flu or a cold, you just eat some krips and you’ll be well again,” said the man.

He told me he learned to hunt whales from his father who learned from his father “back into forever.”

“You American?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Americans don’t like it that we kill the blackfish,” he said. “But this is what we know in Barrouallie, this is what we do. It is part of us.”

***

Back inside Shabba’s Place, Shabba stood behind the counter, a glass of rum in front of him.

I sat down. I looked at the bowl of blackfish.

Part of me wanted to pay Shabba what I owed him and find lunch someplace else. But that other part of me, the part that always wins?

I looked at Shabba.

“Got any hot sauce?” I asked.

***
Which leads, as it so often does, to Today’s Poll.

Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon.

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Hello, hungry people.

Today’s post gets a little wonky, delving into federal policies that govern public schools, but bear with me, there’s a payoff.

*** It’s become a fall tradition for us to head downtown and watch the Winter Park High School Homecoming Parade, something we’ve been doing for more than 20 years. This year’s parade was particularly notable since it marked the 100th anniversary of WPHS.

About 30,000 people live in Winter Park, and a goodly portion of us turned out along brick-paved Park Avenue. Knowing it would be a zoo, Debbie and I made reservations for a table by the window at a favorite restaurant. That way we could split a bottle of bubbly and enjoy some snackage while keeping an eye on our grandchildren (ages 4, 6 and two 8-year-olds), who wanted to hang out streetside without us hovering over them. Mostly they were in it for the candy that gets thrown to the crowd.

It was everything you’d want from a smallish-town, homecoming parade: bands and cheerleaders and football players; the homecoming court, student council leaders and class officers waving from floats and snazzy convertibles.

And a whole lot of clubs.

When I was in high school — we’re talking Class of 1969 — the club opportunities were pretty limited: Future Farmers of America (not on my radar), National Honor Society (not for B-minus me), Future Homemakers of America (today’s Trad Wives Club) and, of course, the Audio-Visual Club, which was for students, guys mostly, who got to skip class to help out teachers by setting up the highly advanced technological equipment of the time — 16mm film projectors, stereophonic record players and reel-to-reel tape recorders. They were our era’s Geek Squad.

Back then, clubs had to be either curriculum-based (Spanish Club, Drama Club) or service-oriented (Key Club for guys, Tri-Ad for girls).

Nothing political, nothing religious.

All that changed when, with much bipartisan support, President Ronald Reagan signed the Equal Access Act of 1984. If, say, a public school allowed students to start a chapter of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, then it had to allow organizations based on other religions. Or, if the Young Republicans started a club, then the Young Democrats could have one, too.

All well and good and as it should be.

That’s why public high schools today boast dozens and dozens of clubs, some with serious objectives and some just fun or frivolous.

For instance, the lineup at Winter Park High School includes such organizations as Activating Faith in Young Women, the Gay-Straight Alliance, Students Demand Action (pro-gun control), the Arab-Mediterranean Club, and the Wealth Management Club (after all, it is an affluent community.) There’s a Dungeons & Dragons Club, a Mahjong Club, an Opera Enthusiasts Club, a Badminton Club, a Pickleball Club, a Foodie Club and something called a Schmear Club, which I can only assume is a bunch of students who like to get together and eat bagels.

There was another organization in the parade — Club America.

Its members rode an American flag-bedecked vehicle and were throwing some sort of trinkets to the crowd.

“What the heck is Club America?” asked a man sitting at a nearby table.

“Beats me,” said one of his tablemates. “They didn’t have it when I was at Winter Park High.”

The answer came a few minutes later when our grandkids ran in from the street. They had collected a whole lot of candy and dumped it on the table.

They were also wearing brightly colored silicone wristbands, like this one:

Club America, it turns out, is affiliated with Turning Point USA, the conservative Christian group founded by the late podcaster/rage-baiter Charlie Kirk. Launched to promote Turning Point’s ideology just a couple of months before Kirk’s assassination in September 2025, it has since grown to chapters on 3,200 high school campuses.

Again, all well and good and as it should be. If students want to start a Club America chapter then they have every right to do so.

Still, Debbie and I did not like the idea of our grandchildren wearing those bracelets.

“Who is Charlie Kirk?” asked one of our grandsons.

It was an uncomfortable moment. I didn’t want to get into the specifics of Charlie Kirk‘s racist POV or share some of the things he had said on his podcast over the years. Such as (quotes sourced from the September 23, 2025, issue of “The Guardian”):

• If I see a Black pilot, I’m going to be like, boy, I hope he’s qualified.

• Happening all the time in urban America, prowling Blacks go around for fun to go target white people, that’s a fact. It’s happening more and more.\

• (to Taylor Swift) Reject feminism. Submit to your husband, Taylor. You’re not in charge.

• I think it’s worth it to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the second amendment to protect our other God-given rights. That is a prudent deal. It is rational.

Sadly prophetic, those last words. So instead of troubling my grandkids with all the details, I just said: “Charlie Kirk was someone who was killed because of his politics.”

They took it in. And then one of our grandsons asked: “Was he for Donald Trump?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was.”

And, one by one, they took off the bracelets and put them on the table.

Message to Club America: Next time toss candy.

***
Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

Since today is a Sunday, our soundtrack is “Happy Talk,” by Rodgers and Hammerstein. It’s from the original film version of “South Pacific” (1958).

Sunday dinner was a big deal at our house when I was growing up. My mom did the cooking — fried chicken or pot roast, maybe a ham — while my dad held up his end of the deal by being in charge of the record player. He turned it up real loud. That way my grandmother, who was mostly deaf and too vain to wear a hearing aid, could catch snippets of music. Also, the record player sat two rooms away — there wasn’t such a thing as wireless remote speakers back then — and the volume had to be full blast to make it to the dining room. And then, when the LP started skipping, which it always did, one of us kids would have to get up from the table, clean dust off the needle and start it all over again.

My dad was a fan of movie soundtracks — “The Magnificent Seven” and “The Bridge on the River Kwai” were high on his list. But it was “South Pacific,” which takes place during World War II, that got the most play. My favorite song from it was “Bloody Mary (Is the Girl I Love),” mostly because each verse ended with the line “Now ain’t that too damn bad,” which gave me permission to sing along and cuss with impunity.

But back to “Happy Talk,” the theme of this post, if indeed there is one. I can’t say the song has aged particularly well. Nor can I say I had a clue back then about the main theme of “South Pacific” — the destructive nature of racial prejudice and how it can get in the way of love. In the video above, Bloody Mary tries to orchestrate the marriage of her daughter, Liat, to the U.S. Marine officer, Lieutenant Cable. He loves Liat but refuses to marry her, knowing that his high-society family back home would never accept an Asian bride. Spoiler: Lt. Cable gets killed by the Japanese.

Anyway, let’s just take “Happy Talk” at face value, an uplifting little something that brings a smile.

And carrying on with that motif . . .

Debbie and I recently went to see a performance by the Central Florida Community Arts Symphony Orchestra. With upwards of 400 musicians, it’s the largest community orchestra in the U.S.

There are no auditions. Anyone can join. You don’t even have to be an accomplished musician. Just ask my friend Johan, who signed up just so he could learn to play the cello.

For this occasion, the orchestra offered symphonic versions of rock ‘n roll classics, from songs by Led Zeppelin and Queen to the Cranberries. And Justin Muchoney, jumping around to Pat Benatar, is surely the happiest conductor I’ve ever seen.

***
The unranked Gators beat No. 7 Texas yesterday!

It’s just like the once No. 8 Gators to lose two consecutive games to unranked teams — Missouri and South Carolina — then come from behind to defeat the 11-point favorite Longhorns and their highly touted QB, Arch Manning.

But more to the point — Manning family quarterbacks (including Peyton and Eli) are now 2-5 against Florida.

Yeah, that’s some happy talk.

***

Seeing this sign at Costco the other day brought me much happiness.

Mangosteens are the most delicious fruit on the planet. But traditionally they have been hard to find and way too expensive to enjoy on a regular basis. You might recall that almost a year ago here at Bob’s Diner I asked you to donate money so that I could afford to order a mangosteen from a fruit vendor in Miami. The price — $27. For a single mangosteen.

But now you can get them at Costco. Of course, this being Costco, you can’t buy just one. They come 10 to 12 to a box, or less than a buck apiece. The mangosteens I bought were gone in quick order. And I urge all of you to get yourselves to Costco and buy some so they’ll continue to carry them and make this world a more delicious place.

***
Two of our grandsons recently spent the weekend with us. Things got suspiciously quiet one afternoon and I went looking to see what they were up to.

Imagine my disappointment when I found them upstairs in the office/guest bedroom reading books!

Yes, they have been discplined.

For the record, the books in question were part of the “Sherlock Society” series by my longtime friend, Orlando author James Ponti. Highly recommended.

***
And to wrap things up — a happy shot.

This field of sunflowers at Southern Hills Farm just west of Orlando.

We picked a bunch of them.

Enjoy your Sunday. I’ll be back here soon …

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

Down here in Florida, today marks the opening of stone crab season, which runs until May.

Crabbers started setting out traps ten days ago — the “soak season,” it’s called — using dead fish and pigs’ feet for bait. They began pulling their traps before daylight this morning, removing the claws, tossing back the live crabs to grow new ones (it takes two to three years), boiling the claws dockside for a few minutes, chilling them in ice baths for a few more minutes, then hauling them to seafood markets where, depending on the size, they’ll go for $25 to $85 a pound.

I love stone crabs. But I won’t be buying any.

For one thing, I’m a cheap bastard.

For another, I once ate more stone crabs in a single sitting than I could judiciously afford to eat again. It was one of the most memorable meals in a lifetime devoted to overindulgence and deliciousness.

And it ruined me. Any attempt to equal that occasion would only bring disappointment. They were the best stone crabs ever.

Because they were stolen.

***

Many years ago, when I was living in Fort Myers, I bought a sailboat, a Hunter 25.

Captain Bob aboard Soggy Cracker, back when you could accurately call me Blackbeard.

The boat’s name had just been applied to the transom — Soggy Cracker — when my friend Jeffrey Cardenas suggested a shakedown cruise.

So, early one morning we kissed our wives goodbye and headed for the dock.

Destination: Key West.

Soggy Cracker was a good boat, stout but slow. We planned a couple of days to get to Key West, then a couple of days doing all those things one does in Key West. Being married men of high moral fiber, it meant we would partake in more carousing than might ordinarily be our style, but not to the point that we would have to call our wives for bail money or our lawyers for counsel. Just enough to blow out the jets, then, mission accomplished, we would set sail for home.

***

The marine forecast was daunting. A nasty squall line was moving in from the Yucatan. That morning, looking at dark skies to the west, I suggested pulling the plug on the trip.

Jeffrey wouldn’t hear it.

“You need to go out in all conditions,” he said. “That way you know what your boat can handle.”

Good words, I thought, to go on a gravestone.

Jeffrey was a far more accomplished sailor than I, a man who once made a single-handed, trans-Atlantic crossing in a 23-foot sailboat and, in more recent years, has sailed mostly solo around the world.

I’d sail with him anywhere.

So we cast off the lines and set out.

***

It was miserable from the get-go, rain belting us as we passed under the Sanibel Causeway, the wind dead on our nose. Four hours later and it was worse. We were wet and cold — it was March — and not making much headway. Both of us had donated our breakfasts to the deep. No fun at all.

There comes a time on a boat when the captain must step up and take charge.

“We’re turning around,” I said.

“About damn time you decided that,” said Jeffrey, already preparing to jibe.

***

A few minutes later we spotted the first bouy marking a crab trap.

I don’t know what the statue of limitations is in such matters but, for the record, the crime was not premeditated. At least not for more than five seconds.

Jeffrey’s mind was working just like mine: There wasn’t much food on Soggy Cracker—just saltines, cheese, some butter and beer. We had planned on catching fish along the way — that wasn’t happening —followed by good eating in Key West. We were getting hungry. And now we were denied sustenance. We had met the elements head-on and wisely chosen to retreat. Surely we were due some sort of payoff. Besides, stone crab season would soon be over with no more of the delectable crustaceans available until October.

Surely, that bouy was a sign: God wanted us to eat stone crabs.

Who were we to defy higher authority?

***

Jeffrey grabbed the boat pole. I steered us close to the buoy.

We both knew that when it comes to protecting what’s theirs, crab fishermen are only slightly less zealous than she-bears.

“We could get shot, you know,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” said Jeffrey, eyeing the horizon. No other boats were in sight. “Pull a little closer.”

The trap yielded a pair of crabs. Jeffrey deftly twisted a claw off each and tossed the critters back in the Gulf so they could partake in the miracle of regeneration.

“Barely an appetizer,” I said.

“There’s another pot up ahead,” said Jeffrey.

And so it proceeded for the next hour or so, robbing the line of traps, until we had accumulated a couple dozen primo claws, the kind that fetch top dollar.

We felt badly about it, really we did. And we kept feeling badly about it, even after we tucked in behind Estero Island and found an anchorage and boiled water and began cracking claws and sucking out the sweet meat and making those noises typically associated with deep and everlasting contentment.

“We could call our wives and tell them we’re safe and share some of these claws with them,” said Jeffrey.

“We could,” I said.

Then we ate some more.

“We’re going straight to hell,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” said Jeffrey. “Please pass the melted butter.”

***
Thanks for dropping by.

Here’s some good news: Jeffrey has just launched his own Substack. He plans on posting a couple of times a week, sharing beautiful photographs and stories from his sailing adventures. You can find him here: These Ocean Moments.

***
Here’s more good news: Writing this story made me hungry and got me thinking that I really should overindulge in stone crabs again. That’s where you come in.

There’s no paywall here at Bob’s Diner and there never will be. But if you’d like to help keep the lights on and the cockroaches at bay, consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s just $5 a month, $50 a year or $100 for a founding membership.

I’m already tasting those claws, dipped in some Joe’s Stone Crab mustard sauce.

Now, punch some buttons.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

Debbie and I drove up to Deland on Saturday to honor a good man gone too soon.

It was standing room only at Northwest Square, a 1920s-era Methodist church that has been converted into a food hall/bar/event space. The scene was more like a tailgate party than a memorial service, which was altogether fitting. Lots of folks decked out in Florida Gators gear or the tropical shirts and tie-dyed tees that were hallmarks of Mac Steen’s dazzling wardrobe.

Friends and family got up and told good stories. Plenty of laughter, plenty of tears. All the markings of a proper send-off.

The music that accompanied the closing video of old photos was well chosen for those of our generation — Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers,” “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” by Randy Newman, “Teach Your Children,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and Jimmy Buffett’s bittersweet and apropos “It’s Been a Lovely Cruise.”

I knew Mac for 40-plus years, ever since he and his wife, Kathy, bought season tickets next to ours at Florida Field — Section 3, Row 54. A standout at Melbourne High School, Mac went on to be an offensive lineman for the Gators, co-captain of the 1969 team that went 9-1-1 and beat Tennessee in the Gator Bowl, and first team All-SEC.

Drafted by the San Diego Chargers, he decided to go to dental school instead and, after a stint in the Air Force, opened his orthodontist practice in Deland in 1980.

Mac liked to say his job was “building smiles.” That was more than just a glib professional slogan. You know how some people have that special knack for lifting you up just by being around them? That was Mac. He was always grinning that gap-toothed grin of his and it was impossible not to grin along with him.

Someone once asked him why, as an orthodontist, he didn’t fix the spacing in those two top teeth.

“There’s power in the gap,” he said.

No room for argument. As personalities go, Mac’s was a powerful one.

***

Sitting next to Mac at Gator games was a treat. He was the Mayor of Section 3 and knew most of the folks who sat for rows and rows around us. It always took him a few extra minutes to get to his seats because it was his nature to chat up everyone.

Once the game started, it was like having our very own color commentator.

“Think we’re gonna see a quarterback draw,” he’d announce. Or: “Time for the screen pass.”

More times than not, that’s what the play would be.

Mac stayed close with the Gator coaching staff, attended the spring practices, scouted up-and-coming players, organized reunions of that great 1969 team.

At Florida’s first home game in 1987, against Tulsa, Mac told me: “Keep your eye on number 22. Ran for more than hundred touchdowns at Escambia High School. He’s gonna be fun to watch.”

That was our first look at Emmit Smith. And, yeah, he was fun to watch.

***
Beyond football and his family, fishing and fixing teeth, Mac was a farmer. He grew ferns and came to specialize in Zamia integrifolia, aka coontie. It’s the only species of cycad native to the U.S., found only in Florida and parts of the Caribbean. It has shiny green leaves, is drought-resistant, doesn’t need fertilizer and is capable of thriving in soil that is mostly sand.

Mac was like the Johnny Appleseed of coontie. He thought all Florida yards oughta to have coontie instead of the exotic shrubs and non-native species that populate too many places. He planted acres of coontie around his home outside of Deland and sold it to landscapers and nurseries.

I come from a long line of Florida fern growers. My great-grandfather started a nursery in Lake County after the Great Freeze of 1894-95 wiped out his citrus groves. My grandfather, uncle, father and brother followed him in the business.

Between Gator games, fern-growing, a love of good food (and drink), a passion for travel, especially the Bahamas, messing around on boats, and the abiding love of wonderful wives and children, Mac and I shared a lot of common ground.

***

So it is no small coincidence that when I sat down to write Bahamarama, the first in a series of novels set in Florida and the Caribbean, and needed a name for the hero — a former Gator football player and charter boat captain who owns a palm tree farm and has a fondness for rum — I gave Mac a nod. I didn’t want the name to be too on the nose. So I called him Zack Chasteen.

Of course, I didn’t tell Mac about it in advance. Nor did I mention it when he and Kathy came to a book signing and bought a copy.

I saw Mac a couple of weeks later at a Gator game.

“So,” he said, “I read your book.”

“What did you think?” I asked.

“My attorney will be in touch,” he grinned.

***
It was back in August that we got word from Kathy: Mac was in Jacksonville’s Mayo Clinic, diagnosed with a particularly virulent and fast-moving form of leukemia.

I gave him a call. Despite it all, he sounded just like Mac — funny, upbeat and not about to wallow in self-pity.

We talked about our children and grandchildren, about the Gators’ prospects this season (Mac’s prediction, 7-4, which seems rather hopeful right now), and his most recent travels with Kathy. Just a few weeks earlier, they had visited Tasmania and trekked to the summit of Mt. Wellington, overlooking the capital of Hobart.

Like always, the conversation came easy and we could have gone on and on until a nurse stepped into the room and said it was time for meds.

“How’s your day going?” Mac asked her. “Are all your patients as good-looking as me?”

I could hear the nurse laughing. It was pure Mac.

“I’m talking to a friend who writes books about me,” he told the nurse. “He’s made me famous. You want my autograph?”

She laughed some more.

Then he told me: “Listen, she’s fixing to poke me so I gotta go now. But I’ve got a question: When you gonna write another book about me?”

I told him I was kicking around some ideas.

“Well, get busy,” Mac said.

Mac Steen, Green Turtle Cay, Bahamas (December 2025)

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Debbie recently went on a trip with some friends for a few days.

As she was leaving, she asked: “What do you plan on doing while I’m gone?”

“I’ll just lay around moping and missimg you,” I said.

We’ve been married almost 49 years. She knows better.

So, yeah, in her absence I really cut loose. We’re talking a wild, roof-raising time, folks.

Here is how I conducted myself in three major domestic categories.

• Food

The way the division of labor works around our house is that I do all the grocery shopping and cooking, and Debbie does, well, pretty much everything else. She is a marvel. And in gratitude for her hard work, I try to keep her well fed.

My wife is not a picky eater. But there’s one food item she draws the line at, something I dearly love to eat but never get to cook — duck. So no sooner had she left than I roasted a duck breast and made my favorite sandwich — duck with brie and caramelized onions on grilled French bread.

Pretty tasty-looking, yes? And that’s before I hit it with a schmear of aioli.

Another thing Debbie won’t abide — fish that tastes fishy. Not fish that has gone bad, mind you, but fish that has a pronounced and, in my opinion, delicious fish flavor. Lots of people have that aversion, which explains why the world is awash with farm-raised salmon. I don’t get it. You don’t ever hear anyone say the steak tastes too steaky or the chicken too chickeny, do you?

In any event, I came into possession of a nice hunk of amberjack, which tastes like amberjack and, knowing it would be too fishy for Debbie, I made myself a big batch of poke. I had a bunch of leftover cheese grits in the fridge so I mixed in an egg and some panko and . . . voila!

Fried grits! I put the amberjack on top and . . .

Southern-style, fishy-tasting poke!

Which brings us to Today’s Poll.

• Personal hygiene

Let it be known that I did indeed bathe while Debbie was away.

But this brings us to a point of some contention in our home.

Debbie is of the belief that after showering the showeree should take a squeegee and remove every single drop of water on the shower doors. Not only that, but the showeree should then take a towel and dry all the rails and gutters, along with the tile floor and walls so that if a forensic team were to investigate they would conclude that a shower had never taken place anywhere in the vicinity of our home.

In order to maintain domestic tranquility, I willingly have been trained to go along with this. I try to get into a zen mindset, telling myself that, like Daniel enduring Mr. Miyagi’s fence-painting instructions in Karate Kid — “Up, down; up, down; long strokes” — it will clarify my actions and lead me to a higher purpose.

But mostly it just grouches me out.

Yet another reason why AI should be outlawed.

So in a brazen act of rebellion, I did not squeegee the shower while Debbie was away.

Like I said, I really know how to cut loose.

And when she got home, did Debbie notice this dereliction of husbandly duty?

No, she did not.

Another poll:

• Entertainment

Debbie prefers smart, upbeat shows. I like mine a little darker and grittier. We try to find common ground so we don’t become one of those couples who watch different shows in different rooms.

Lately, we’ve been enjoying an Australian show — Colin from Accounts — which is smart and upbeat and wonderfully profane.

The set-up:

Gordon, a brewery owner, is stopped at a redlight when Ashley, a med student, walks in front of him and, being a playful sort, lifts her blouse and gives him a nipple flash. Gordon, understandably distracted, drives off and immediately hits a dog that is crossing the street. The dog’s name is Colin. Ashley and Gordon (Harriet Dyer and Patrick Brammal, who created the show and are married in real life) fall in love while taking care of the crippled dog, and much Aussie-style hilarity ensues along with highly inventive cursing. Five stars.

I would have happily watched several episodes of Colin from Accounts while Debbie was away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Because that would be sort of like cheating, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s a show we watch together and for me to watch it by myself just seems unfaithful.

So I dialed up something darker and grittier instead. I’d tell you the name of the show, but I want you to think that I have good taste in such matters.

I got under the covers and started watching. An hour later I woke up, the show was over and the credits were rolling.

Also, I had heartburn.

I’m not saying it was caused by the duck or the poke. It might have been guilt from not squeegeeing the shower.

And no, I’m not saying I lay there moping and missing my wife.

***
Thanks for dropping by. Now it’s time to punch some buttons. Especially the one where you subscribe and pay me some money. I will use it to buy a second squeegee so I can finish my chore in half the time.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

When I went looking for an image to run with today’s post, this one jumped right out at me.

Yeah, easy, it’s the last one.

That’s Hurricane Lowell, the Category 5 storm that nailed Hawaii earlier this month. Now that we know it’s a him, please take another look at the image.

What do you see? Maybe: Some guy on ‘roids, flexing his pecs?

Yes, this is yet another sign of my descent into delusion. Because something is definitely out of whack down here in Florida. Things are getting all-too subliminal.

I blame it on hurricanes. Or the lack thereof.

***

In the recorded history of hurricanes, which dates back to 1851, this is the latest in the year that not a single hurricane has formed in the Atlantic.

Thank El Nino. Or is it La Nina?

I can’t keep them straight or remember which one does exactly what or who portrayed them in the limited series on Hulu. Just like I can’t figure out how to make the little squiggly sign that is supposed to go over the second “n” to denote an “ny” sound. A “tilde” it’s called. It originated in Medieval times when monks working on illuminated manuscripts used tildes as shorthand for two or three letters so they wouldn’t waste ink. They named it after the Spanish martyr, St. Tilde, patron saint of apostrophes.

Tildes are also a big part of computer coding. Here’s a verifiable example, as cited by Wikipedia:

“In the Apache Groovy programming language, the tilde character overloaded as a bitwise binary negation operation, and as the "pattern operator" that creates a regular expression pattern object =~and ==~ can in Groovy be used to match a regular expression.”

Yes, we were. All I know is that in Florida, our country’s hurricane magnet, the state where 40 percent of the big storms hit, we’re feeling the hurricane hiatus.

For us, hurricane season, which runs from June to November, is a more legit season than our so-called spring or fall, which are often so subtle as to be non-existent. Hurricane season is when we stock up on canned foods we will never eat, horde closets full of Charmin Ultra-Soft and expend vast amounts of psychic energy willing storms to hit Texas instead of us.

And now, the rhythm of our life has been disrupted. It’s messing with our heads.

You’ve heard of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), right? It’s triggered in winter by shorter days and less sunlight, leaving some folks anxious and lethargic and inexplicably drawn to Hallmark movies.

In Florida, we are now experiencing Hurricane Absence Hysteria (HAH!).

Here’s a shot of today’s map from the National Hurricane Center, which after weeks and weeks of inactivity now has a couple of potential disturbances. Sadly, they are expected to either fizzle out or maybe hit the British Isles where they'll be greeted with a nice cuppa tea and a polite complaint about the weather being “a bit blowy.”

Typically, that map would look something like this:

Yes, Hurricane Absence Hysteria is a cruel and debilitating syndrome that manifests itself in many ways:

• Spaghetti model withdrawal. With no storms to track, Floridians have started boiling actual spaghetti, dumping it on the kitchen table, and staring at it for hours, looking for projected paths and cones of probability.

• Generator dereliction. Garages across the state are full of generators that have never been cranked. They’re developing abandonment issues. Some have started turning themselves on at night and running until dawn, just to feel wanted.

• Plywood regret. All that plywood once spray-painted with hurricane season slogans like “GO AWAY IRMA” has been quietly repainted: “COME BACK! WE’RE NOT MAD.”

• Shutter nostalgia. People are closing their hurricane shutters on perfectly beautiful days, lighting candles and eating Vienna Sausage in the dark, just for the ambience and to re-set their hurricane season rhythms.

• D-battery collapse. The market has cratered. Energizer is considering a bailout.

• Storm-chasing tourism. Floridians are driving to Oklahoma to follow tornadoes. It’s like methadone: It doesn’t really scratch the itch, but it takes the edge off.

• Meteorologist cosplay. With nothing else to do, TV weather people are standing in raincoats in their backyards while their spouses and children aim hoses and leaf blowers at them.

• The bottled water dilemma. Garages are lined floor to ceiling with cases of Zephyrhills Natural Spring Water. People are finally drinking it and discovering it tastes exactly like hurricane anxiety.

• Homeowners insurance: Despite the hurricane drought, insurance companies are raising rates anyway, citing a “pent-up wind demand.”
  
  ***
  Yes, I understand that by writing about our lack-of-a-hurricane season, I’ve just jinxed us. I take full responsibility. When that Category 5 storm zeroes in on us next week, you’ll know where to find me — at Publix fighting for the last loaf of bread. And it’ll feel great.
  

  ***
  You know what else would make me feel great? If you punched the button below and became a paid subscriber. Because, for therapeutic reasons, I need to go out and buy some more plywood.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

Help me out here.

Look closely at this photo.

I took it the other day while walking around town. I’d passed the exact same spot the day before and nothing was there except moldy concrete. Whatever this is had popped up over night.

***

OK, people who know these things tell me it is none of the above. It’s the work of utility crews that are getting ready to dig up the nearby street and lay cable or fiber optics or work on the sewer lines.

At least, that’s their story. But for all we know, this could be the first sign of the AI Apocalypse.

I ran that idea past my pal, Claude, who went undercover in the AI world and brought back this alarming report to confirm our worst fears. Here’s what that seemingly harmless sidewalk scrawl is really telling us, according to Secret Agent Claude:

“The pink bandit mask with little pink ears. This is the AI mascot, a raccoon in a domino mask, which tells you the robots plan to go through our trash and our data.

“The orange crosshairs. Two enormous arrows crossing at right angles, with a dot at the center. That’s a targeting reticle. This is Ground Zero for the AI Apocalypse.

“The mysterious letters ‘HO.’ It’s the first part of “HO HO HO,” meaning AI agents have merged with Santa. And it’s a warning that they’ve already read your emails and there’s nothing left to hide.

“The red scribble. A tilted kite shape with an angry little stick figure inside, arms flailing. This is a diagram of the human resistance, pinned inside a box, with the X telling you exactly where you stand.

“The pink comet tail. The smear trailing off toward the street is the AI escape trajectory. Or maybe the sidewalk is bleeding. One or the other.

“The verdict. The AI overlords have chosen the medium of spray paint on a public walkway, which suggests they’re still in the early, embarrassing stage of their attack. Once they graduate to something worse, we’ll all pretend we didn’t laugh at the raccoon.”

***
In other words: We’re doomed.

And if the world as we know it is about to end, why not . . . make art?

So, I grabbed my grandchildren’s chalk and got to work further beautifying our sidewalks.

***
I call this one: Punk Surfer on a Green Board.

And here are a few other creations you might spot around town.

BEFORE AFTER

You think you can do better?

Yeah, you probably can. And I encourage you to do so. Indeed, the damage has already been done to our sidewalks. Now you can have some fun with it.

If you don’t have chalk, you can use a Sharpie, like I did in a couple of those doodles masterpieces.

I’ll even sweeten the deal.

Send me a photo of your “artwork” and if our panel of judges (me!) deems it to be worthy, then I’ll share it on Bob’s Diner and send you something random and stupid in the mail. This is part of our ongoing and heroic effort to “Bankrupt Jeff Bezos,” in which we order something on Amazon Prime that costs less than the price of a first-class stamp, meaning Bezos loses a little money with every order.

One of the items that might come your way, which costs only 47 cents:

So, get out there and get drawing.

***

And as long as we’re talking graffiti …

My longtime friend, Orlando author James Ponti, just came out with the most recent addition to his wonderful “Sherlock Society” series. This one’s called “Art Attack.” It’s about a mysterious graffiti artist named "Funky Munky” who is tagging buildings all over Miami and the Sherlock crew has to find out who is behind it.

Yes, like all of James’s New York Times bestselling books, it’s aimed at midde-grade readers. But trust me, there’s plenty for adullts to enjoy, too. Especially if you like Florida history and wackiness — think Carl Hiaasen — delivered with sharp humor.

Yes, it’s late notice, but I’ll be joining James at 2 p.m. today (Sunday) at the Barnes & Noble in Waterford Lakes for a short Q&A session before he signs books. Please join us if you can.

***
Thanks for dropping by Bob’s Diner.

I’ll be back soonish.

In the meantime, here’s my craven pitch: Become a paid subscriber and I’ll send you something stupid and random in the mail, too. So … punch the button already.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

News report: Florida’s “Alligator Alcatraz” detetention center confined some detainees in small metal cages no bigger than a phone booth. Authorities called the cages “calming areas.”

***
Now that Alligator Alcatraz is shut down, we’re left with a whole bunch of these things.

What to do with them? I have some ideas.

But first . . . calming areas?

What a lovely and well-crafted euphemism, don’t ya think? Whoever came up with it deserves recognition, alongside whoever thought to refer to massive job layoffs as “right-sizing” or concentration camps as “relocation centers.”

Then again, perhaps there is something soothing about being stuck in a cage. I know one guy for whom the experience brought a disturbingly preternatural sense of calm.

***
So maybe we jump on the mindfulness bandwagon.

I’m thinking an international chain of “calming areas,” located in airports or at interstate rest stops, where travelers can relieve their stress by assuming the full-lotus pose and clearing their minds.

As for sexy branding, we’d call them “OM Boxes.” Or maybe “Zen Pens.”

***
Down here in Flori-dada, we’re coming up on stone-crab season.

Our surplus of cages could be repurposed as crab traps and revolutionize the way we catch the crave-worthy crustaceans.

True, these crabs don’t look particularly calm, but we know what’s best for them, don’t we?

***
There’s lots of alarming talk these days about the existential threat of AI and how we have to control it.

I don’t know exactly how it would work, but let’s just round up all those AI agents and stick them where we can keep an eye on them. Problem solved!

***
It would be wrong not to acknowledge the brain trust that came up with the name “Alligator Alcatraz” and gleefully promoted its many benefits. That would be Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis and his attorney general sidekick, James Uthmeier.

After an investigation revealed the detention center’s use of these cages “calming areas,” a spokesperson for DeSantis’s office said: “We wish we could have made them smaller.”

Hey, guys, we can make that happen.

And now for Today’s Poll.

Thanks for dropping by.

All the meals are free here at Bob’s Diner. If you like what we serve, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

It’s just $5/month or $50/year, way cheaper than dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

News flash: President Donald Trump announced Wednesday that if Republicans keep control of the House and Senate in the mid-term elections he’ll give every American adult $5,000.

Well, this certainly changes things, doesn’t it?

Don’t know about you, but this news really perked me up. Because either way, what we’re looking at here is a win-win.

Republicans lose — big win!

Republicans win — I get $5,000!

So many good ways for me to spend that bribe generous offer. And, wanting to show my gratitude, a few options come to mind:

• Be the first donor to the campaign for “Mitch McConnell for Senate in 2032!”

• Give a nice bonus to devoted presidential assistant binky Natalie Harp for “service” beyond the call of duty.

• Set up loudspeakers outside the home of Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney and blare Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to Be an America” 24/7 with occasional interludes of the Village People and “YMCA.”

• Put money down on a little place in Greenland and, after it achieves statehood, flip that sucker.

• Donate to the “Barron Trump Bail Fund.” Because sooner or later that kid is gonna need it.

• Put money down on a Bugatti Chiron (8 mpg, city) because the VSG1 says “gas prices will drop below $2 per gallon after the midterms and we win the war in Iran.”

• Buy stock in whatever company makes those little American flags for the Resolute Desk.

• Buy a case of whatever sketchy supplement Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is currently pretending cures everything.

• Rent a billboard on I-4 that says “ASK ME ABOUT MY $5,000” so Florida drivers can share in the joy.

• Finally pop for the Fox One + Fox Nation bundle — $24.99 a month — because plain old Fox News isn't enough since that’s where policy is made nowadays

• Help fund the “Repeal the 22nd Amendment” movement. Because the $1 trillion-plus it will cost to give every adult American $5,000 should rightfully buy a third term, don’t you think?

• Help fund the “Repeal the 25th Amendment” movement just in case Vance and Rubio start getting a little uppity and think the VSG is losing his shit.

• Buy one of these snazzy U.S. Space Force uniforms (endorsed and promoted by the VSG himself) because 1930s Germany is sooooo in style these days.

  

Which brings us to TODAY’S POLL!

And as long as we’re talking money, how about $5? That’s all it costs for a monthly subscription to Bob’s Diner, of which Substack takes 10 percent and Stripe, the payment processor, takes 2.9 percent, so a mere $4.35 comes my way.

Far better that you should pony up $50 for a yearly subscription. Or, if you’re feeling particularly flush, $100 to become a Founding Member, which comes with absolutely no perks but will make you feel better about yourself. And which I promise to spend foolishly.

Hello, hungry people.

I spent Labor Day doing something I’ve not done in far too long: I read a book from cover to cover in one sitting.

Granted, it was a short book, just 148 pages. And there were lots of wonderful illustrations, so just slightly more than 12,000 words. And accounting for a break to make an espresso and another break to make a sandwich (BBQ pork with coleslaw, left over from the Labor Day spread) and yet another break to walk Marcus between thunderstorms, it only took a couple of hours to polish it off.

It was such an uplifting couple of hours — and the upliftingness has stuck with me — that I figured I’d recommend The Puppets of Spelhorst to all of you who might be needing a quick timeout from the world.

Which is pretty much all of us, isn’t it?

***

The set-up: An old sea captain wanders past a toy store and sees five puppets in the window — an Owl, a Boy, a Girl, a King and a Wolf.

“There he was,” the story goes, “a man without family, a man without children or grandchildren, a man utterly devoid of whimsy or wonder, staring at a toy store window, bewitched by puppets.”

The old sea captain wants to buy only one of the puppets — the Girl, because it reminds him of a lost love. But the clerk tells him: “The puppets must be purchased together, or not at all . . . for they are in a story.”

So the old sea captain buys all five and takes them home. While the puppets can’t move or do anything on their own — they’re puppets! — this is a fairy tale and they can talk with each other. When the next morning comes, the sea captain is dead, and they wonder: What will become of us? What is our story?

Each of them has an idea of what their destiny should be. And for each of them, with plenty of bumps in the road along the way, it all comes true.

But that’s all I’m gonna tell you.

***
"The Puppets of Spelhorst,” published in 2023, was written Kate DiCamillo, who Florida can proudly claim as one of its greatest authors.

She grew up in Clermont, just a few miles down U.S. 27 from Yalaha, where I was born and raised, in that pre-Disney era when you could still see orange groves from the Citrus Tower and kids could roam free. She dropped out of Rollins College after a semester and knocked around at different jobs — Circus World! — before finishing at the University of Florida and moving to Minnesota where she lives now.

She has published 31 books. Among them Because of Winn-Dixie, The Magician’s Elephant, The Tale of Despereaux and Flora & Ulysses.

Look at that photo. Those are wise eyes. And a smile that’s real.

If you’ve not read her, then you really should.

***
OK, I said I wasn’t going to tell you anything more about The Puppets of Spelhorst, but I take it back. Here’s a conversation between the Girl and the King while they sit on a fireplace mantel worried about what has become of the other puppets and wondering what lies ahead.

The King says: “ ‘When I have my kingdom, songs will be sung all the time.’

“‘Yes,’ said the Girl. ‘Songs that break your heart and heal it, too.’

“‘Exactly,” said the King. ‘Just that.’

“And even though nothing was as it should be, even though the King and the Girl were powerless and stuck atop a mantel and separated from the ones they loved, a small peace descended over the blue room.”

Can we all agree that not everything in our world right now is as it should be?

Read the book, enjoy a little peace.

***
And because I hear from some of you when I don’t include it . . . here’s Today’s Poll!

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

If you aren’t in the mood for a heaping plateful of fresh adorableness this morning, then read no further.

Because, fair warning, this is one of those mushy posts where I go on and on about our grandkids.

So . . . I’ll give you a moment to step away and dine elsewhere.

(If I knew how to insert a musical interlude here it would be: “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” by the Animals, circa 1965.)

***
Good. Now that the grumps are gone and it’s just you sentimental fools who stuck around, please turn your attention to the photo above. It shows the back of our SUV moments before we set out for “Bobby and DeeDee Camp,” which is what we call the three or four days every summer when we relieve our sons and our daughters in law of the spawn of their loins and head off to seek adventure and semi-mayhem somewhere in Florida. Which is never hard to find.

All the essentials are there: espresso machine (we don’t travel without it), food (mostly snackage and Capri Suns), lots of wine (a necessity for Bobby and DeeDee, don’t judge), and a last-minute addition — an indoor bowling game, which along with Monopoly turned out to be a giant hit.

The grands are packed in there somewhere.

***
Our destination this summer: St. Augustine, where we rented a condo on the beach south of town and visited the Castillo de San Marcos (built by Spain in 1672.)

The Official Castilllo de San Marcos Cheering Squad, from left: Zeke (4), Zaven (8), Poppy (6), Boz (8).

***
One of the first things you see when you step inside the fort is this: The gift shop!

Which prompted Boz to ask: “Did they sell merch here back in 1672?”

I’m proud to say he has a bright future as a professional smart-ass.

***
Mostly we hung out at the beach and the condo and observed the primary rule of Bobby and DeeDee Camp: No tablets or digital devices!

We brought a lot of books and laid around reading them.

There was marathon Monopoly . . .

And dominoes-bowling . . . invented by Zaven.

Boz used his magical powers to control the waves . . .

Zeke did his best to keep up with the rest of the gang.

And then, we collapsed.

The End.

Thanks for sticking around and indulging me.

I’ll be back soon.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

At the encouragement of my wife and sons, who have taken up an increasingly popular act of physical punishment known as “rucking,” I recently started strapping on a weighted vest (20 lbs.!) in order to add further agony to my morning walks.

“It’s a double workout,” said one of my sons, as if this should be an enticement.

“You feel it all over,” said my wife, swallowing the Ibuprofen that typically follows her ruck outings.

Said a friend who has joined the Cult of Ruck: “It’ll add years to your life!”

Despite such warnings, I bought one.

***

And so it was that I set out the other day on my normal route, which takes me across the grounds of Rollins College.

It’s a gorgeous, idyllic campus, a place cloaked in the serenity of academia, a respite from the rest of the world. I never get tired of walking there.

I was striding powerfully in my life-changing ruck along the walkway near the Rollins Chapel when I spotted a man and woman heading my way. They were wearing uniforms, Rollins groundskeepers. I could hear them talking and recognized it as Haitian Creole.

They saw me and froze. The woman grabbed the man’s arm and stepped behind him, as if for protection.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“We have papers,” the man said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“We are legal,” the man said.

Only then did it dawn on me that, yeah, despite being 76 years old, and with the get-up I was wearing and my sunglasses, and looking my gnarly self (refer again to the photo above) I might at a glance resemble an ICE agent.

“No,” I said. “No ICE.”

But they weren’t convinced. They still look scared.

The woman kept holding onto the man and standing behind him. They were looking in all directions to see if there were others like me swarming in. But there were only a few students, faces buried in phones, oblivious to everything.

“It’s OK. Really. I’m not ICE,” I repeated. “I promise.”

The man seemed to believe me. The woman not so much. She looked like she was about to cry.

“Tell her it’s OK,” I said.

The man said something in Creole. The woman relaxed. A little. She smiled.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the man.

“Thank you,” I said, not fully understanding why we were thanking each but not knowing what else to say.

***

I gave them a friendly wave and went on my way.

After a few yards, I looked back. They hadn’t moved and were still watching me. I waved again. They waved back.

I walk across the Rollins campus most every morning but haven’t seen them since.

***
As you might imagine, the folks at ICE aren’t altogether forthcoming about the agency’s recent arrest statistics.

While media coverage of ICE has subsided since its invasion of Minneapolis earlier this year and the departure of Barbie action-figure Kristi Noem, the arrest numbers have continued to increase. Rather than a shock-and-awe demonstration of dominance, the agency has become more and more stealth about it.

And it seems to have evolved into a competitive sport, with Texas and Florida vying for the No. 1 and No. 2 spots from month to month. The two states combined for more than 20,000 arrests in July alone.

A lot of these, especially here in Florida, followed the June expiration of the Temporary Protection Status for Haitian nationals, which the Trump administration chose not to renew.

And despite the official stance that these arrests are getting dangerous felons off the streets, fewer than 10 percent of those arrested have records of criminal violence.

Many of them are decent, diligent people who have been here for years. Perhaps working as groundskeepers at a local college.

***
Which brings us, as it so often does, to . . . Today’s Poll!

Thanks for dropping by. And if you’d like to support me in keeping our streets free of violent immigrant criminals, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Leave a comment

Hello, hungry people.

Between 2004 and 2011, I published five mystery novels with St. Martin’s Press. They were set in Florida and the Caribbean and featured a main character named Zack Chasteen.

The books did well enough. They won some awards, went into multiple printings, got published internationally (a Russian version inexplicably featured the gangsta rapper 50 Cent on the cover) and continue to bring in a (very) little money every now and then.

But I headed in another direction after the last novel, launched my own publishing company (Story Farm) and am content in knowing the Zack books enjoyed their place in time. They were a lot of fun to write, and I’m proud of them. Who knows? Maybe I’ll write some more.

Do I wish my books had spent months on the New York Times bestseller list and brought in tons o’ dough? Of course, I do.

Every writer thinks they deserve a wider audience and more money for their work. And for every writer who thinks that, there are plenty of charlatans assholes ready to exploit their dreams.

***
Which sets the stage for an email I received a coupla weeks ago.

Lots of writers have received emails like this recently. It’s AI slop, obviously, and it goes on and on with unrelenting praise for my storytelling skills and winds up with a pitch to market and promote my books so that gazillions of readers will buy them.

As much as I like to think that most writers will see through the scam, I know that many will gobble the bait and lose hundreds and thousands of dollars in the process.

So it was for them — and for my own entertainment — that I decided to screw with James Whoever-He-Really-Is.

I should mention here that “In Search of Lost Time,” is also known as “A Remembrance of Things Past” and is generally regarded as the world’s longest novel. Many people praise it and have read it in its entirety.

Good for them.

Anyway, I slip back and forth between those titles here, as well as font sizes.

James then goes on to tell me how much all this will cost, with a three-tiered option that offers increasingly valuable “levels of marketing and outreach.”

Basic: $297

Standard: $497

Premium: $797

He replied almost immediately with this very generous offer:

And from then on, well, I just couldn’t help myself.

And:

***
As much fun as I was having with this, I didn’t reply for a fews days. And got this:

***
Which brings us to, you guessed it: Today’s Poll!

***
That’s it for today, folks. I’ll be back soon (but don’t tell James that.)

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Hello, hungry people.

Today I’m sharing a few observations and comments from you, the astute readers of Bob’s Diner, many of whom actually pay to read this and for which I am grateful. 1

***
”You call your Substack “Bob’s Diner” and yet there’s seldom anything in it about food. This is false advertising.” — Alice P., Columbia SC

I should point out that this is a metaphorical diner, a convivial place where anyone, even those of you who don’t pay (ahem, Alice) can drop by, hang out, take your chances regarding what’s on the menu and even insult your server should you like.

But you are absolutely right! There hasn’t been nearly enough talk here lately of food, which is not as it should be. Because food is always on my mind.

So what you’re looking at in the photo above is The Best Thing I’ve Eaten Lately.

Which brings us to Today’s Poll. Two polls, actually,

And:

It’s the last one: Red Snapper Ribs and Throats, which too seldom appears on restaurant menus but which I snatched up when I found it at Outriggers Tiki Bar & Grille in New Smyrna Beach last week.

Yes, it looks like it might fly off the platter and strafe your table. And yes, it demands eating your way around lots of bones. But it’s served with Thai chile sauce and two kinds of seaweed (to give the dead fish a sense of place) and for $20 you get 2-plus pounds of red snapper (including carcass) which translates to more than a pound of delicious red snapper flesh and which is more than most humans can eat.

I should point out that those pectoral fins are particularly crunchy and delicious and can also be used as toothpicks.

***

And as long as we’re on the subject, here’s what else I’ve been eating.

Field peas!

Which are one of the few things that will grow in Florida vegetable gardens during these, the most hellish days of summer.

These particular peas came from my son Dash’s garden. For whatever reason, he did not see fit to pre-shell them.

But that’s as it should be. Because here’s the importance of field peas: Not only are they delicious when cooked with bacon and salt and anointed with butter, but shelling them takes time. And if you are lucky, then you have someone to sit and shell them with.

So, Debbie and I sat at the kitchen counter for the better part of an hour liberating the peas from their pods. And talking. Just talking. And shelling peas. It was wonderful.

***
And okra!

The Noble Pod thrives in Florida’s summers. It can also grow a couple of inches overnight. Meaning you have to pick your okra daily or it gets tough and stringy. Fortunately, there is a delicacy known as Pickled Okra. Again, from Dash’s garden:

Quite good on its own. Spectacular in a Bloody Mary.

***
But enough about food. Back to your comments.

***
”How is Marcus? Is he still alive?” — Pete D., Ventura, CA

What a question to ask, Pete. Yes, Marcus is still alive. Do you think that, if he had died, I would not have already exploited his passing by writing something sappy about him for Bob’s Diner? Dogs are God’s gift to writers. Especially when they die (the dogs, not the writers.)

As proof of life, here’s a photo of Marcus taken this very morning as he stands guard against the imaginery FedEx delivery guy and imaginary squirrels he sees outside. He’s mostly blind, but he still has gumption and works fulltime at his job.

Marcus recently observed his 17th birthday. And he celebrated by:

Breaking Debbie’s kneecap!

OK, he didn’t do it on purpose. But he was sleeping in his spot on the tile floor you see above, as he so often does, and Debbie was vacuuming, as she so often does, and she tripped over him. The rest is orthopedic history.

Fortunately, it was a clean break. Debbie didn’t need surgery. For the past month, she has been wearing a knee brace. She can’t bend her knee. She can’t drive. And we had to cancel a planned trip to Mexico City. Because what’s the sense of going there if you can’t spend hours walking and getting lost and eating and then walking and getting lost and eating some more?

But that’s not the unfortunate part. The unfortunate part — and this is a big unfortunate part — is that Debbie had to miss pilates class. I will not say she is a pilates fanatic. But she is exceedlingly devoted and typically goes to five classes a week.

It’s bad enough that she has been forced to miss class. What makes it worse is that she was closing in on her 2,000th class in six-seven years — just 18 classes short — when Marcus she broke her kneecap.

I had no idea that pilates was a competitive sport. But there is only one other person at the pilates studio who has attended more than 2,000 classes and Debbie has been in dedicated pursuit. The payoff? Nothing. Except the instructor takes a photo and everyone applauds.

I’ll catch hell for this, but here’s Debbie when she hit the 750th-class milemarker a few years ago. For the record, she’s just as beautiful with a broken kneecap.

And furthermore:

Q: Who in their right mind, upon learning they had a broken kneecap, would immediately buy one of these weighted exercise rucks and actually go out and use it?

A: My lovely wife.

Says she: “I might not be able to go to pilates and I might have to limp along in a knee brace, but I’m gonna stay in shape.”

Bless her heart.

***
And also from our Dept. of Women’s Wear:

Bob’s Diner received a lot of response to this recent post: Boob’s, Etc.

By “response,” I mean that 22 readers canceled their subscriptions (a new record!). But that’s OK, because it netted 26 new subscribers. And two of them paid bona-fide gringo dollars for the privilege. So . . . a win!

And it provided me an excuse to again share the photo that ran with the post, which was about a store in Winter Park — klassy — that sells fitted, padded clothing so women can go comfortably braless.

It prompted this from a reader:

“I love this post and I had to tell you a funny story.

”I probably have 10 of their tops. I love them all. This morning we left for Canada. I had laid out my clothes the night before since our pick up time was 4 AM.

“It included a boatneck tank top, with the klassy built-in bra, including the cup inserts. My 4 AM brain put the thing on backwards. It wasn’t until about 3 PM that day that I realized I’d been walking around all day with protruding bulges in my back.

“My ever observant husband, of course, never noticed.

“I’m not quite sure what I need, a new wardrobe, a new enlightenment at 4 AM or a more observant husband. Can AI teach him that?” — LSG, Winter Park, FL; currently in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Dear LSG: I know your husband. Like me, he is untrainable. Be glad you are in Canada where, even if you put on your clothing backwards again, the people are far too polite to point it out.

***
That’s all for today. See you back here soon. Please consider punching some buttons.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

I was out for a morning walk the other day — it was 7:30-ish — and Winter Park’s main drag was largely deserted except for us early a.m. pavement pounders

Then from the block ahead came a loud commotion, lots of cheering and shouting.

And I saw a dozen or so women dressed in red and waving signs that said: “Go Braless!” and “I ❤️Boobs!”

I picked up the pace.

***

From a distance, it had all the signs of a 1960s-era women’s lib demonstration, but for the fact that the participants were better dressed. And not angry. They were smiling.

So, being a creepy old guy, I stopped and gawked and asked what was going on.

Turns out, it was a photo shoot for a Labor Day sale at the store where they work.

“We specialize in clothing that women can wear without needing a bra,” said one of the women in front of the store.

This gave me pause. I had reached a point where I could not hold up my end of the conversation.

And yet, I persisted.

“Can’t women go braless in any type of clothing?” I asked.

This got laughs and indulgent smiles from the women in red.

“Sometimes that’s too revealing,” said one of them. “And jiggly.”

“And sometimes it’s too scratchy,” said another.

“Plus, bras aren’t comfortable,” said yet another.

Again, not my field of expertise. But I wasn’t finished being a creepy old guy.

“OK if I take a photo?” I asked.

They were, as you can see, all for it.

“We love encouraging women to go braless,” said one. “In the right kind of clothes.”

Said another: “We love spreading the word on social media.”

And so, friends, here we are.

***

The name of the store is — klassy. — and that period, apparently, is necessary.

Yes, it looks like a comma in the photo below. But that’s a shadow. It’s really a period, And it has a purpose.

Other brands — JOANN. and Marc Jacobs., for instance — employ periods, too. It’s a design thing. The period, I am told, “sends a psychological cue of confidence, completeness, and finality — communicating that the brand is the ‘definitive’ word on what they do.”

And the lowercase presentation, I am further told, “mimics modern texting habits, making a retail storefront feel more human, direct, and casual rather than corporate.”

Who knew?

Now for the klassy. origin story. (Actually, that period is confounding and we will henceforth dispense with it.)

The klassy co-founder, Natalie Rogers Soto, grew up right here in the Orlando area. She got tired of uncomfortable bras that weren’t flattering to her outerwear, and she couldn’t find built-in bras that felt right. So she started designing her own.

In 2018, she and her husband, Jacob, launched klassy online. It was slow going at first. But they posted twice daily on TikTok. And in 2022, klassy went viral with its summer “brami” (a hybrid bra and camisole) and hit $1 million in sales in a single day.

They opened the first and, so far, only klassy retail store in Winter Park at the tail end of 2025. And in March 2026, Natlie was honored by her alma mater with induction into the University of Central Florida College of Business Hall of Fame.

How’s that for an “uplifting,” story?

***
”It’s all about body positivity and feeling good in your own skin,” one of the women outside the klassy store said.

It reminds me of the origin story of another clothing line, Lululemon, which has a store just down the street from klassy.

Back in 2002, when Lululemon launched its first shop in Vancouver, the owners advertised that they would give $200 worth of clothing to the first 30 people who showed up naked on a specified morning. Being Vancouver, it was rainy and very cold. Yet, way more than 30 people stood shivering outside in bathrobes that day and, after they stripped down, Lululemon let them all inside and gave them free stuff.

I have searched for photos of this historic event. Sadly, I’ve come up short.

Fast forward to present-day: Lululemon now has 811 stores and, in 2025, rang up sales of $11.1 billion.

Far be it from me to suggest that klassy is on the same trajectory. But to think that you could become a billionaire by helping women go braless? Surely it would boggle the minds of 1960s-era feminists.

***
I kinda wanted to take a peek inside the klassy store. Just so that, years from now, I can say I knew it when.

“Come back at 10 o’clock when we open,” said one of the women in red. “We have a little coffee shop inside. You can try our specialty, a ‘matcha k.’”

Maybe another day.

And so I carried on, just a guy on an early morning walk who set out with no expectations, learned a little something, met some lovely women, and came away with a bounce in his step.

Is this a great country or what?

***
Wouldn’t you like to help keep that bounce in my step?

All you have to do is punch the button and become a paid subscriber to Bob’s Diner. It’s cheap. Less than $5 a month for a yearly subscription.

Who knows? You might just find it uplifting.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon.

Hello, hungry people.

Let’s start today’s business with a poll.

OK, moving on . . .

***

Full disclosure: I’m a big Obama fan. I miss him in the White House. More every day. Plus, the two of us have a lot in common.

— We’re both left-handed (read into that what you will.)

— We both have a pair of great kids (adults now) who make us proud every day.

— We both married up . . . to smart, beautiful women who somehow manage to tolerate our many flaws.

So, yeah, for the trip Debbie and I have been planning to Chicago in October, the Obama Presidential Center, which opened in June, is at the top of our places to visit, along with a long list of restaurants and a whole lot of walking to work off the restaurants.

Thing is, tickets to the center are hard to come by. Within a week of the center’s opening, they were sold out through the end of September. Tickets for October went on sale yesterday (Wednesday) at 10 a.m.

Unlike some online sites where buyers camp out hours in advance to scoop up blocks of tickets and then re-sell them, the Obama center handles things a little differently. It doesn’t matter how far in advance you log on to its site, at 10 a.m. everyone who’s there is randomly assigned a place in the digital line.

Some folks will surely say this smells of communism. A random lottery determining who gets access to a limited resource, administered by the state.

But I think it's fair and equitable and, yes, democratic. It’s really a Vegas-kinda-thing. You’re gambling, you’re taking your chances. As American as it gets.

Either way, it's the first time in memory that a website has treated me exactly the same as everyone else who logged on — no fast lane for the guy with three monitors and a Ticketmaster bot, no VIP presale code. Still, somewhere a guy in a “Don’t Tread on Me” t-shirt is muttering: “This is how it starts. With tickets to a museum.”

***

The Obama center tells you in advance that if your wait time is more than one hour, then you’re probably outta luck.

So, I logged in at 9:55 a.m. Central Time and this is what I got.

Outta luck. And I didn’t stick around just to sink deeper into Loserville.

Which leads us to another poll.

For the record, we won’t be going to Chicago in October. And we weren’t about to take a shot at those January tickets. Because, well, it’s January. In Chicago. And neither the Cubs nor the Sox will be playing.

An extreme reaction? Maybe.

But I ask you: What if you were planning a trip to Yellowstone National Park and got a text saying the geyser was “taking a break between shows.” Would you hold off until the time was right?

I rest my case.

***

Since we’re poll-crazy today, here’s another one:

It’s low-hanging fruit, but we’ll take a beat here to allow your snickers about “Trump Presidential Library” being an oxymoron.

***
Plans are well underway for the Trump repository-of-who-knows-what. It will be erected (snort) in downtown Miami — a 1,067-foot (60-story) glass tower that will be just 2 feet short of the Federal Aviation Administration’s height limit for the city.

Here’s a recent rendering

By comparison, the Obama center is just 225-feet tall.

Far be it from me to suggest which one of these guys might be suffering from an edifice complex.

***
I am, of course, a renowned architect critic. So, I admire the design of the Obama center, which is meant to symbolize four hands coming together — unity, collaboration, collective action.

Whoops, did I just say “collective?” There’s that pesky communism sneaking in again.

By any measure, the designs of both buildings are deeply symbolic.

The Obama center has a certain whimsy about it that hints at something deeper inside.

The proposed Trump library? It’s a golden phallus that you can see right through.

***

The full details of the Trump Presidential Library have not been divulged. Although His Supremeness has hinted that it will likely include a hotel and corporate office space. Because why not?

Bob’s Diner has uncovered further details.

Here’s how things will stack up between the two places:

That’s it for today, folks.

I’ll be back soon.

Meanwhile, please punch some buttons.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

Hello, hungry people.

When I went in for my annual physical the other day, the nurse asked: “Mr. Morris, do you have a living will?”

“No,” I told her. “I do not.”

She gave me a look. And said: “You really should make one.”

To which I wanted to ask: “Do you know something I don’t know?”

Instead, I went home and jotted down a few things that I hope will settle the matter.

-- If I should remain in a persistent vegetative state and mutter only guttural, meaningless sounds, it’s obvious that I should be . . . elected to Congress.

-- If it appears that I am unable to interact with certain acquaintances or family members . . . this is normal.

-- If I am unable to clean or bathe myself, it’s OK to call me . . . Sponge Bob.

-- Do not resuscitate me unless . . . there is a double espresso at bedside.

-- If I do not respond to stimuli, such as Wet Willie’s in my ear, please tell my grandson Zeke to stop it already and go torment someone else.

-- Once I am allowed to die a painless and peaceful death, I would like my organs donated to any church that will agree to play them on alternate Sundays.

-- If my death is particularly dramatic, I expect an eight-part limited series on Netflix and, if Clooney turns down the part, it’s OK to get any reasonably handsome actor except Timothee Chalamet.

-- If there is any family dispute over my medical condition, it must be settled by playing rock, paper, scissors.

-- Even if I remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than fifteen years, that still doesn’t mean my lovely wife can wear a T-shirt that says “I’m with Stupid.”

-- If my doctor pronounces me brain-dead, I grant permission to change my voter registration to Republican.

-- I do not wish to be kept alive by any machine that has a “baked potato” setting.

-- I would like to die at home, surrounded by my Visa bills.

-- At my wake, I insist upon a martini bar (gin only), exceptional ganja and a strolling accordionist.

-- Despite having never served in the military and having gotten kicked out of ROTC in college, I demand a 21-gun salute at my memorial service. Make sure it’s performed with those Super-Soaker water guns that kids play with in swimming pools and fill them with champagne.

-- In the event of an open coffin, someone please trim those wiry little hairs that grow out of my ears.

-- I would like my entire estate to become the property of my dog, Marcus, so that he might travel widely and share his flatulence with the world.

-- Assume that, even in a coma, I can still hear any and all discussions pertaining to food and unless you can jam it in the tube then kindly shut the hell up.

***
Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon. I think. But in lieu of flowers, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Hello, hungy people.

In what is now an annual tradition, Bob’s Diner is celebrating the birthday of John D. MacDonald, who would have turned 110 today.

We’ll have a bottle of Plymouth gin at hand for cocktail hour (the fave of Travis McGee, although he later switched to Boodles.) And some of us will be sporting our “Busted Flush” t-shirts (thanks again, Karen Turville, for sending them along.) 1

The only action item on our agenda, and one we’ll eventually get to: What would MacDonald think of the most recent adaptations of his 1957 novel “The Executioners,” more widely known these days as “Cape Fear” and source material for two feature films and a 10-part series now on Apple TV?

***
First, an interesting backstory.

“The Executioners” was written as the result of a bet between MacDonald and another Sarasota-based writer, MacKinlay Kantor, the Pulitzer-Prize winning author of the much-admired Civil War novel “Andersonville,” among other books, screenplays and newspaper/magazine journalism.

Their longstanding friendship is mentioned in “The Most Famous Writer Who Ever Lived: A True Story of My Family,” a 2016 book by my friend and one-time colleague Tom Shroder, Kantor’s grandson. The title refers not to MacDonald, but to Kantor, who called himself that to his family.

Kantor wrote dozens of crime stories and novels early in his career. Yet, he was a man of high-minded literary leanings and dismissive of the prolific output of MacDonald, who published 70 novels and more than 500 short stories, the latter mostly in the pulp and digest magazines of the 1940s-50s.

Says Tom: ”I have a letter he (MacDonald) wrote to my grandfather, who apparently had been condescendingly urging him to write ‘real novels.’ John was obviously deeply affected by it, and struggled with it . . .”

If you’d like to learn a bit more about this, please click on over to Tom’s Substack — “I Chat with Chat (So You Don’t Have To).“ It’s an ongoing and highly readable conversation between Tom and ChatGPT on an always-surprising range of topics. Even if you despise everything about Artificial Intelligence, it’s worth a visit. Because Tom is a deep thinker and a great writer.

Today’s episode will dip into the MacDonald/Kantor friendship, and I can’t wait to see how Tom and his AI co-conspirator handle it.

***
Which leads to that bet.

During one of their many get-togethers, and prickled by Kantor’s disdain for genre fiction, MacDonald wagered that he could write a novel in just 30 days that would be serialized in a national magazine, bought by a major publisher, get picked up by a book club and become a film.

I have two words for you: Confident sumbitch.

MacDonald churned out 224 pages (about 65,000 words) in a month. “The Executioners” appeared in two installments in Ladies Home Journal in 1957. Simon & Schuster published it in hardback in 1958. It was a pick of the Literary Guild book club. And the first movie based on it came out in 1962.

MacDonald won $50 from his drinking buddy.

***

*** So why did the name get changed to “Cape Fear?”

Thank (or blame) Gregory Peck, who starred in the film, which was made by his production company. Peck was a big fan of films with geographic titles, like “Casablanca.” He looked at a map, spotted Cape Fear, North Carolina, and the rest is cinematic history.

For the record, there’s absolutely no mention of Cape Fear in “The Executioners.”

***

Next up — Martin Scorsese’s 1991 “Cape Fear.”

It featured a bad-ass, tattooed Robert DeNiro as the villain, Max Cady, and a wonderfully skanky Juliette Lewis, who didn’t even get a poster credit but won an Academy Award nomination.

But we’re gonna skip right past that so we can (finally) get to:

***
Just wanna say right off: I’m a big fan of this series.

Javier Bardem eats every shred of the scenery in “Cape Fear.V3.” Which, by happy coincidence drops its ninth episode tonight (July 24).

As for being a faithful adaptation of “The Executioners” . . . ha-ha-ha.

Consider the many departures:

— The “hero” (Gregory Peck, Nick Nolte) attorney is now a woman, played by Amy Adams, who may or may not be the mother of a child by her former client, the killer Max Cady(Javier Bardem)

— There’s an AI subplot (go for it, Tom!)

— While Robert DeNiro’s tattoos were crude inkings of the prison variety in the previous “Cape Fear,” Javier Bardem’s speak to devil worship and the occult.

— Amy Adams’s husband (I forget his name) microdoses LSD and their whole family, thanks to Bardem, accidently takes some and trips out.

— Plus, a whole lot more weird and creepy stuff. Especially Bardem. He’s as creepy as creepy gets. Whatever awards they hand out, he oughta get one.

So.

Would John D. MacDonald, a guy who won a bet by writing fast and clean, be baffled that it now takes ten hours of screen time, LSD, weirder sex than he could have imagined, a demonic subplot and a skanky reappearance by Juliette Lewis to tell his story?

And would he object to the commercialization of “The Executioners?”

I asked Tom about this.

“As for John being tolerant of commercialization, my clearest memory of him personally was at a party Mack (Tom’s grandfather) was throwing. We kids had been banished to the back rooms under threat of severe admonishment so we didn’t interfere with what were undoubtedly very adult activities going on in the main part of the house.

“Suddenly John D. swept into the room where we were serving time, like a freak wave, to hand out all sorts of random Travis McGee-themed merch — and this was before people HAD promotional merch. I remember I snagged oversized pencils that had BUSTED FLUSH printed on the side. Wish I still had them! So yeah, the guy was a salesmen first and foremost.”

In other words, John D likely would have just chuckled and put the money in the bank.

Happy birthday, bud.

***
Which brings us to Today’s Poll:

Thanks for dropping by. See you back here soonish.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share