The Doughnut Killer

So one night while running the register at Bert’s Market, I wore this t-shirt with a cartoon doughnut evading a pair of police officers. The inscription beneath the cartoon read: “Hiding from the cops!”

So guess who show’s up at the counter? Not a fireman. Not a doctor. But of course; a cop.

COP: “What? You think that’s funny?” (gesturing at my t-shirt)

ME: “What? My t-shirt? Nah. I think it’s f*ckin’ hilarious, freakin’ doughnut killer!!”

Okay! So, I really didn’t say that. I mean let’s face it, the man WAS wearing a sidearm.

So, instead I respectfully said: “It’s only funny cause it’s true.”

In the immortal words of my father who, as he was being hauled away by the police for having just kicked one of them in the groin, looking back his nine year old son while laughing hysterically in a Jack-Nicholson-"Herrrrrre's-Johnny!"-kind-of-way:  “F*ck ‘em if  they can’t take a joke!”

KNOW YOUR HISTORY: The Male Head-Nod

The male head-nod; A silent form of acknowledgement and/or recognition between two members of the male species who are far too engrossed in their own machismo-ness to exchange a hug or a firm handshake. A popular greeting whose usage can be traced throughout the annals of history, is commonly, though not always, followed with a slighted and barely audible “Wassup?”. Legend has it that Caesar himself received a casual male head nod from the emotionally torn Brutus seconds before violently thrusting his blade into the fallen dictators back. What is often overlooked, however, was the unexpected and startling “Who’s got yo’ back NOW, mutha-f*ckuh!!” Brutus snapped as he stepped back, pulling up on his crotch with one hand snapping his fingers down towards a dying Ceasar with the other.

Know your History, people!

Look! A CARTOON!: "Cookie Monster"

Look! A CARTOON!: Penguins Don't Smoke!

Look! A CARTOON: "Turkey Shoot!"

The Offspring.

Once upon a while back, in the Deep South somewhere between the far most eastern surf of South Carolina and the most western borderline of Mississippi, was a thin man.
A thin man whose sole ambition in life was to trod the ends of the globe and rail as many souls as he could. With an Adam's apple the size of a bent knuckle, a receding hairline and a never ending case of the sniffles, souls a plenty he would rail.
At the other end of the never ending graveled road, a pink skinned, triple chinned mother and a denture wearing, wiry man of a father continued to bicker, mostly in public more than anywhere else, about whose side of the family was responsible for this particular crude 52 year old ogre of a son.
"Why, he's as freakishly bow-legged as your father was..." the four feet, ten inch woman snapped.
"...and he hates himself for it!" Tilting her head back she inhaled the last wash of her light beer.  Flexing her knees slightly outward, the ornery mother aligned the empty aluminum can horizontally between the inside of both knees and with a hefty grunt, she pressed both knees inward crushing the can into a miniature aluminum accordion. A bellowing burp was followed by her barrelled size forearm swiping across her crackling lips as she mumbled loudly enough to be heard, "It's your family to blame here. Not mine!"
The husband while stringy and with a natural quiver about him, loomed heavy in pride. With one hand rolled in a clenched fist piercing the air over his balding head, he retorted aiming a bent, bony finger at his stocky, pouting wife.
“Why you miserable, sloth-toed, hog-fondling heifer! If it weren’t for all the over-the-shoulder knitting lessons you forced upon him when he should’a been outside amongst the foliage and the woodlands...” he stormed angrily, “…and the endless evenings of reading to him from your personal diary of new wart growths, why...why...he’d be as happy as your father  at the downtown cabaret!” His hooked nose aiming down towards her perspiring forehead as she returned his glare by sneering up at him with burrowed brows, while popping the top back to another generic brand can of light beer. The excessive skin beneath her upper arms rolling and swaying like a doughy pendulum as she pulled the ring back and off.

Meanwhile at a state fair two time zones away, a bow-legged middle-aged man flings yet another egg from within the bushes located just on the other side of the carnivals fence-line. He ducks and recoils, eyes wide open, shifting from side to side. Placing an open palmed hand against his chest, he catches his breath,  mumbling whispers of assurance to himself that none of the yolk-drenched Ferris wheel riders spotted him from above.

Wrasslin' Bears.

Today, I wrestled a bear.
Granted, it wasn't a very big bear, but a bear, never-the-less. Okay. So, perhaps it wasn't really even a medium size bear, but a tiny one. An infant bear, maybe. But, is not a rose still a rose by any other name? I believe the same could be said for a bear. Except a bear is alot bigger, doesn't smell as nice and will eat you if it's really, really hungry. Oh very well damnit! It wasn't even a real bear. It was in fact: A gummy bear. And it wasn't the gummy bear I wrestled but the annoying little plastic bag they come in that if you rip apart too hard and too fast the gummy bears will go flying everywhere!
Damn you gummy bear plastic bag makers!

Look! A CARTOON!: Sheen/Bieber. by joel.

Look! A CARTOON!: Lights OUT, Folly Beach. by joel.

Look! A CARTOON!: Lost Dog. ...by joel.

Look! A CARTOON!: Stoned Temple Pilots.... by joel.

In Other FB News….

[ NOTE:  This is a piece that I wrote for the 2011 April Fool's edition of our islands local fish-wrap. I didn't submit it in time and therefore it was not published. So, I pretty much wasted alot of time and effort putting this piece together. Until I got this crazy idea to give this whole blog thing a try. So, here it is. Read on and Thank You for your support!]

-Last week, the U.S. Coast Guard and local authorities were put on high alert as a single manned ship was discovered suspiciously anchoring off the Edwin S. Taylor fishing Pier. The chief officer of the naval vessel, who would identified himself only as Capt. H.M. Crunch, made communication efforts by Folly Beach Mayor Tim Goodwin, virtually impossible as the mayor, via bull-horn from atop a jet ski paddled by Councilman Eddie Ellis, was consistently being cut off in mid-sentence with threats of burying the small surfing community with a ferocious non-stop volley of crunch-berries. “What are your demands?” The mayor finally managed to convey. “Your children’s teeth, your middle-aged men’s reluctance to eat like adults and a calzone from Woody’s. Extra marinara sauce!” …the short mariner bellowed in retort. The mayor conceded the calzone and girths of the islands males in the 35-50 age group but warned the sailor that his request for the teeth of Folly’s children would have to go through their mothers and warned the animated Captain about the possible consequence’s of pursuing such an endeavor wishing the naval officer “…good luck with that one..”, noting… “..you’re gonna need it!” Meanwhile, surfers and dread-heads, after a long day of wave-riding began showing up with bowls and eating utensils in case the good captain was true to his word about the firing of crunch-berries.

Former Sports Illustrated cover girl and Victoria’s Secret model, Marissa Miller made a surprising and unannounced appearance at the Wash-Out last week-end. Ms. Miller, an avid surfer herself, stated that she had read about the Wash Out through the constant bombardment of correspondence she’d been receiving over the years from Folly Beach local and Guinness connoisseur, Joel Flores who was also standing by as Ms. Miller’s official iPod holder. “This place is simply breath-taking. I’m talking to my people at Sports Illustrated about bringing some of the other models down here for next year’s swimsuit shoot.”  Ms. Miller then ended the interview by having Mr. Flores wipe her down, handing him the key’s to her Ferrari and both of them driving off into the Folly Beach sunset.

Public Safety reported seeing absolutely no car plates from the state of Ohio for the entire day last Wednesday. “It was the damnest thing.” reported one of Folly’s finest who asked not to be identified because Officer Jimmy Coushe doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s got anything against people from Ohio (because he does not!).  “Even during the heart of the recession and winter months you could count on at least half the cars on Center Street being from Ohio, but after a full 24 hours of patrolling the entire island, we found no plates from the buck-eye state.” He said.  Store manager, Heidy Rucker of Folly Trading Company, also took note of the spooky phenomenon. “It was eerie. Every morning I’ll go on the floor and chat with some of our out of town customers and nearly three fourths of them are from that damn state! Wait a minute...” she paused, “... I’m from that damn state!”   The islands churches and bars began to fill as word of this peculiar occurrence began a wide spread panic throughout the island. “It’s a sign!” screamed local walk-about “Walking Joel” who then turned and, for the first time ever witnessed, broke into a frantic sprint. Fears quickly subsided however as a caravan of tour buses from Sandusky, Ohio made their way down Center Street about high noon the following day. It was business as usual and relief was felt by all.                                                                                        

“There is a god and his name is Puxatawney Phil!” exclaimed retail store owner Eli Rom from behind his cash register at Folly’s Beachwear and Gifts.  The pre-mature six-weeks of spring forecasted by the worlds most popular, if not only, weather prophesying groundhog back on February 2^nd, has been a business manager’s dream. “Because of the huge financial windfall we’re experiencing, I’m buying myself a Mercedes next week.  A convertible!”  announced the upbeat bald-headed owner . Thanks to the famous animal not seeing his shadow, businesses all along and off of Center Street are getting a tremendous and unexpected boost. “Stimulus package?? Who needs a stimulus package when you’ve got a rodent with bad eye-sight!” proclaimed Paul, long time resident and owner of Folly’s iconic Mr. John’s Beach Store. Meanwhile, back in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the world’s most famous weather calling varmint, resides warmly underground catching up on some precious slumber after being rudely awoken for his annual weather gambit. The habitants above ground, however, are freezing their butts off cursing the over-sized rat, his inability to ever get it right and the fact that without him, Punxsutawney wouldn’t have a tourist dollar to stand on unlike other successful tourist communities who don’t have to rely on whether or not a ground dwelling animal sees his freaking shadow to sustain their communities existence.                                     

And finally, contrary to popular belief, part-time Folly Beach retail employee and Guinness Extra Stout abuser, Joel Flores is not Hawaiian. That’s right people. NOT Hawaiian. Not Samoan. Not even a well-fed Filipino. “I have absolutely no idea where these rumors get started. It’s crazy.” He replied in his best Christopher Walken impersonation. When asked what exactly his ethnicity was, Mr. Flores replied “I’m basically your every day, average Hispanic Hippie which means, yes! I will steal your hub-caps but then, turn around and have them recycled.” Mr. Flores also went on to explain that just one hub-cap from any of the many luxury cars driven in and out of our island can bring in as many as three possibly four cases of Guinness Extra Stout.  “..and don’t even get me started on how many cases of PBR I can cash in on!” Mr. Flores also wanted to set the record straight on the scuttlebutt going around town that he was, in fact, the islands original Taco Boy. “Okay. Now that’s just getting personal! It’s no where near being true. I can’t even eat Mexican food. Too spicy. That’s why I eat at Taco Bell.” When asked where these false rumors could be stemming from, Mr. Flores replied, “Probably the Surf Bar. I still have an unpaid bar tab there from 2008.” Attempts to retrieve comment from the Surf Bar were both unsuccessful and very poorly pursued. 

Dr. Joel Cortez-Consuelo-Rodriguez-Smith-And-Wesson-you-wouldn’t-happen-to-have-an-aspirin-would-you-Flores Jr, III is a Pulitzer Prize winning columnist for the The Wall Street Journal, Jack and Jill magazine and half the stuff you read on Bert’s bathroom wall. 

Any comments, remarks or questions for Dr. Flores’ can be directed to: 

bitemyhappysamoanbutt@alosersayswhat?.com



A Folly Beach Lampoon’d Vacation.

[NOTE: A couple of short years ago, visitors and locals alike were so anxious to return to their work sites  after a week-end of massive Fourth of July celebrations that all along the shores of our beloved Folly Beach, USA they left without stopping to pick-up or clean-up after themselves. It was repulsive. And this did not make our locals, our city council or our mayor very happy. So in a frantic response to assure that nothing like this would ever occur again, solutions and suggestions ranging from ticketing litterer’s to banning poopy diapers began to surface. A couple of these suggestions led to the creation of the now defunct Beach Management Program, which, oddly enough, proved to be quite successful, which begs the question “So why does it not exist anymore?” But that’s another bizarro issue altogether. Soon, other more far-fetched recommendations started getting attention from some of our city council members. Like the one banning alcohol from our beach. That idea died quicker than a Union soldier in a Charleston Civil War re-enactment scene. Still, had it lasted just a week or two longer, this was the op-ed waiting in the wing’s.]

(Sometime in the very near future, Folly Beach, USA.)

That first beer together; A right of passage celebrated by father and sons everywhere.   Well, almost everywhere.

“Here we are son. Finally! Folly Beach!”

“Dad why couldn’t we just talk back at the rental? It’s hot out here.”

“Well, son, you’ll be off to college next year. On your own. Not my little boy anymore, …”

“Dad? Are you crying?”

“Crying? No. Don’t be silly. I don’t cry. Just a sand flea in my eye that’s all. Hey! Wanna guess what I’ve got in this knapsack?”

“An onion?”

“Again, not crying. No, no you see this is a very special moment for us. One shared by father and sons…”

 “Dad? Didn’t we have this talk already? Remember? Dairy Queen? Burger King? Make a Little Caesar?”

“No boy, pay attention! We’re talking about a ritual every father and son go through. Here... hold these?”

“What’s with the plastic cups…..hey. What was that?”

“That, son, was the opening of our first beer together. Bring that cup over here.  Just listen to that will ya’? Nothing sweeter than the pouring of that very first father and son beer.”

“Dad. Is that a tear rolling down your…”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Here, take it. Here’s to you son. May your entrance into manhood…”

“Hold it right there!”

“Who are you guys? And why are you all in bathrobes, slippers and...are those quacamole facial masks? It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon !”

“We’re the Folly Beach City Council and you’re both under arrest!”
“Why? We’re just a father and son trying to share our first beer together!”
“We don’t care if you’re sharing the last note of the National Anthem butt naked in the middle of Center Street; drinking is no longer allowed on the beach. The moose out front should have told you.”

“The moose out where? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, if you were gonna do a parody on that Chevy Chase/Anthony Michael Hall sharing a beer in the desert scene from “National Lampoons Vacation” we figured we could spoof the John Candy in the amusement park scene. Now that was funny...but we’re not laughing.”

“Why not?”
 “We’re the Folly Beach City Council. We’ve imposed a ‘no laughing’ ordinance against ourselves. It passed unanimously. Unless, of course, there’s a dead puppy involved which we then have to request and issue ourselves a special 2 minute chuckle permit.”

“What?! That’s ridiculous. Look, this is a genuine moment here. We came all the way down from Ohio for this! To share that first beer with my one and only child..”

“Uh, Dad. You have two...”

“Shut up, Rusty.  To think that of all the places we could’ve picked to share this special moment, my son, my one and only legitimate son picked Folly Beach. Remember Rusty? When I asked you if you could pick any city in the world to share a very special moment with your dear old man? What did you say?”

“Hawaii, Dad?”

“’Folly Beach, Dad, Folly Beach’. And now you guys are saying we can’t? Because of some absurd, asinine ordinance that makes it illegal to drink on the beach? Are you joking?”

“We don’t joke, sir. Again, we’re the Folly Beach City Council. In fact, we’re pretty pissed off the word “Folly” is even in our title. The point is; drinking is now illegal on the beach and therefore you and your son will both be given a citation so ridiculous that it’ll make your head swim and convince you to never, ever come back to Folly Beach. Ever.“

“But why?”

 “Let me explain. Just four days into the month of July, we had so many people celebrating and boozing it up on the beach that when they left there was far too much trash for us to clean up. And since we’ve already spent millions and millions of dollars on our really, pretty new street signs and our sweet new municipal building with a brand new microwave, well, we simply couldn’t afford to pay somebody to clean the mess up or pay for more trash receptacles. No, we just figured it would better suit our council’s agenda to simply outlaw the drinking of alcoholic beverages on the beach altogether.”

“Exactly what kind of an agenda are we talking about?”

“To one day become a successful and snobbish retirement community. No more surfers or bar-flys. We’re talking the return of silent bingo, blue plate specials at 3 p.m. and lots and lots of rich old people walking their little tiny dogs. “

“That’s not an agenda, that’s the blueprint for Bishop Gladsen phase II.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. Now look! There’s no drinking on the beach and you and your son will just have to pay the price for doing so!”

“But what about all those couples who come here to celebrate their wedding anniversaries’? Or take a romantic walk along the surf while sipping from a plastic glass of wine? Or the college spring breakers celebrating that all too brief moment between youthful exhilaration and the drudgery of adulthood? And what of the many couples who come to this beach to exchange their vows? How are they expected to share a toast to a new and wonderful beginning? By yelling “HEY KOOL-AID!” and watch some fat ass pitcher of strawberry flavored water burst through the wall of their rental?

“Hey Dad! I think that chick in the corvette was checking you out!”

“Don’t interrupt, Rusty. And what about all those people who work so hard just so they can …”
“Look here she comes again….”
“Whoa mama! Hey! How do I look, Rusty?”

“Hi everyone. Sorry I’m late. Seems someone was raising a pint of beer in memory of someone whose ashes were about to be tossed into the ocean. We hauled ‘em all in though. Dead guy included. ”

“Glad you could make it Councilwoman. “

“So. What have we here?”

“Got us a father/son sharing their first beer together. You know, like in that movie…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve seen it. I like the part where they tie their Aunt to the roof of their car in a rainstorm.”
“Yeah. And the dog tied to the bumper while they were on the road. That was, oh what’s the word I’m looking for? Hilarious?”

“Well said Mr. Mayor.”

“This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy...”
“I’m sorry what was that?”

“Look. My son and I..we didn’t know. We were…”

“No,no, no. What was that you just said.”
“Nothing. I was just talking to myself.”

“I don’t know Mr. Mayor. Sounded a lot to me like an ‘utter’.”
“A what?!”

“What say you Council members? Did this man ‘utter’?”

“Yes sir, your Mayor-ness. Definitely a clear violation of Noise ordinance 555-4, Sect. IB, para. 3 sub-section four and I quote:  “Blah, blah, blah, no uttering.”

“No what?! No uttering? No UTTERING? Are you people nuts?!”

“Councilman, would you please call Public Saftey. Tell ‘em we got us a multiple violation’s here and they’d better bring some back-up. The whole force. In fact, a couple of the county boys’ couldn’t hurt either.”

“No uttering? No beer on the beach? A noise ordinance? Where are we? The Isle of Palms? Sullivans Island? Utah?

“There he goes again, still uttering.”

“Some people just don’t know when to shut up! Anyone bring their mace?”

“Sorry, Mr. Mayor. We heard there was alcohol involved so we just brought our tazers.”

“Tag him!”

“AUUUGGHHHHH!!!!”

“Nooo!!! “Dad? Dad? Hang in there, Dad. It’ll be alright. We’ll just go somewhere else for our first beer together . Like downtown Charleston. Or Mount Pleasant! Or Sullivan’s Island, Dad! What do ya’ say Dad? What d’ya say?”

“Now…now I am crying, son.”

There Was This Crazy Dream Once.

There Was This Crazy Dream Once.

[ NOTE: This is a piece that I was ready to submit to our local island fish-wrap in response to our friendly neighborhood city council who at the time was considering passing a ridiculous "noise ordinance" that would've made Folly Beach as quiet as a doves fart. It was never submitted however, because, thank goodness our communal representatives at the time, came to their senses and instead, compromised and passed a very acceptable policy for all concerned. Considering that they are at it again, I thought it only appropriate to resurrect this piece one more time.]

(December 31, 2008, Any bar Folly Beach, USA)

“3……2…..1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”

Hugs are exchanged, couples kiss, and tossed confetti fills the air as party horns rein in the New Year as the old one exits stage left.  The familiar opening to “Aude Lang Syne” increases as voice after joyous voice joins in unison. Laughter and greetings of “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” rise above the music, an emerging sense of new beginning’s  is felt throughout the festive establishment.

The sounds of toasting glasses and the popping of corks is suddenly interrupted when windows shatter loudly as diaper wearing ninja monkeys come crashing through them landing on their feet and pulling crescent shaped swords from the sheaths on their backs.  Other ninja monkeys come repelling downward from the ceiling, others crawling up from the beneath the floor boards and one hastily shuffling out of the bathroom pulling up on his diaper, a small strip of toilet paper trailing on his heel. Still, more sword wielding monkeys appear from an abrupt burst of smoke as the double doors to the bar slowly swing open and from it, emerging from the breaking mist with whip-cracking ninja monkeys clearing a path for him, is the familiar and terrifying sight of the notorious heavy breathing masked figure universally recognized as Darth Vader. Party attendees freeze in fear as their widened eyes follow the caped villain as he stops directly in front of me and hands me a note. I read it aloud:

“The Folly Beach City Council hereby warns you and your friends to stop hollering, laughing and singing as you are in violation of the recently passed noise ordinance 36-08. We are at least 50 feet from your gathering and can hear you. Remember, just because you live on Folly doesn’t mean you have to be folly, so cut it out already!”

Before the contents of the note could be absorbed, however, a startling, unexpected bolt of lightning strikes between Darth and myself and rising from yet another bursting smoke screen is the hideous, repulsive figure of Melinda; my tall, thin, knuckle-dragging, braces-wearing, second cousin from my childhood who would repeatedly beat me up for my lunch money.

“Melinda?! What the hell are you doing in my dream?” I asked her.

“Shut up and read this loser…” she orders, slapping yet another note against my chest “… or I’ll kick your sorry...” was all she managed to get out as she was promptly interrupted in mid-sentence by a flying round-house kick from my girlfriend, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Cover and Victoria’s Secret model Marisa Miller. Melinda is sent soaring over the bar and crashing into a wall of various colored liquor bottles. “Why thank you, sweetie.” I uttered to my bathing suit beauty. She winks and smiles, slipping her arm into mine.  I smile back then look down and read the note thrust upon me by my now half-conscious second cousin:

“Hey dog bait! Guess who just uttered his way to a $500 fine and no less than 30 days in jail? You just don’t get it, do you skank spanker? Ordinance 36-08 also makes it illegal to even “utter” in public. You uttered. I heard you! Have a Happy New Year in jail, you moron!!”

Diaper clothed monkeys walk around the stunned crowd collecting party blowers and snapping them in half.  “But it’s freakin’ New Year’s Eve!” I bellow, enunciating my point with a thunderous slap on the bar. “Oh boy. Oh boy. Now he’s mad.  Now he’s mad. Oh boy.” A cowering Darth Vader mumbles over and over, fumbling and twisting his hands while looking nervously down at his shuffling feet.

“Wait a second.  Rain Man is Darth Vader?” my friend Kyle asks.

“Yes. Why, yes he is.” I reply.

 “Dude, you dream weird.” Kyle adds, not uttering.

(A FLASH OF LIGHT AND FAST FORWARD ONE HOUR LATER)

With our hands fastened behind our backs and shackles around our ankles, all party attendees are led out in single file from the bar and into a Folly Beach Department of Public Safety paddy wagon. Ninja Monkeys stand alongside, as we amble up a metal ramp that leads into the back of the truck. They crack their whips, snapping orders. “Shut up! SILENCE! No UTTERING, damn you!”  Crack!

With my mouth taped shut to prevent any further outbursts or uttering’s of protest, I weakly make my way up the ramp when, to my left, I notice a small, huddled group of seven. They stand next to the truck watching as everyone continues to file in. They’re arms folded in authority, wearing only slippers, bathrobes with the City of Folly Beach emblem on the lapels and guacamole green facial masks. As the thick, steel doors clang shut, I peer out the barred windows of the truck and notice the tallest of the group as he reaches up and grabs an extended pull-chord hanging from the lamp-post above. His squinting, beady eyes find my drooping brows. The trucks engine begins to rev up as a devilish grin appears beneath his moustache and as the truck begins to slowly pull away, the tall, hair-lipped mayor-wanta-be yanks downward on the chord with a strong sudden jerk and every street light, neon light and even the light from the stars and moon above are instantaneously extinguished.  

As the cattle truck filled with dejected citizens rumbles away, the eldest in the pack of joy kills speaks;

  

“Thank goodness! Can we go back to bed now? I got quac dripping here!”

“Yes…” the tall one orders “…Let us all return to our slumber now.”

With his malicious moustache covered smile breaking through the guacamole mask, the tall one can be heard patronizing to the tune of “Turn off the lights, the party’s over…” as he and the six others sleep-walk their way back to their chambers in city hall.

Call me Hawaiian, One More Time.

Hi. My name is Joel. And I’m an alcoholic. No, I’m kidding. I am not really an alcoholic, though I do play one in real life. Again, I kid. Not really an alcoholic. Or at least I don’t think I am. I don’t know. Apparently, beer kills the memory cells, so I can never remember whether or not I really have a drinking problem, but, you know what I’m definitely not? Hawaiian. So, please, for the love of all that is good and green on this rotating planet of ours, quit freaking asking me!  I’ve been living here in Folly Beach for about ten years now. And every single day of those ten years it’s been; “Are you Hawaiian? Are You Samoan? Are you a well fed Filipino?” And every single time I have to reply: “No, I’m not. No I’m not. Damnit Mom! I’m not Hawaiian!” Just a few nights ago, as I was crossing the street, some woman I never met in my life stopped me in the middle of the intersection and was just about to ask me: “Hey! Are you…” But, I never let her finish. Knowing what she was about to ask, I just turned around and took off running. I ran and I ran because that’s what you’re suppose to do after you’ve just pushed someone into oncoming traffic. I know, I know and I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry that it was only a Miata that ran over her bony ass and not a convoy of tourist buses from Ohio.

But c’mon! After ten years you’d think people on this island would have gotten that memo by now. Of course, in all fairness I can see how people in this part of the country aren’t use to seeing too many of my “kind” around. Exactly what is my kind, you might ask. Well, some people have kindly referred to me as an “Hispanic Hippie” which simply means that, yes! I will steal your hubcaps but then, turn around and have them recycled. And yes! I will reside in a small one bedroom studio apartment with 15-20 people in it, however, those fifteen to twenty people would mostly consist of musicians, surfers and food and beverage workers who don’t believe in working “for da’ man” and are getting tired of being drug tested every two to three weeks. I can also see how some people find it difficult to relate to me as coming from the southwest region of our country regardless of my strong Hispanic/Native American linage. For instance, my dislike for spicy foods, I don’t speak Spanish and I actually have both a valid drivers license AND full-coverage auto insurance. I prefer a good Irish stout over Mexican beer, I think bouncing cars are stupid and my favorite “Desperate Housewife” was actually the red-head and not the Latina one.

Another thing that throws people off about me is that I come from a small Hispanic family; just me and my Mom. And… my three brothers. See? Small.  I mean, even after you throw in my five sisters, by Hispanic Family standards That’s still a small family. And I gotta tell ya’….that was more than enough! Are you kidding me? A single mom and nine kids?!  Yeah. I’d say so. Hey! I have an idea! Let’s have fun with MATH, shall we? Let’s see…..One single Mom plus four boys plus five girls  equals what? That’s right! Ten! Ten people all crammed into a three bedroom apartment in the projects of East Austin with only ONE BATHROOM (okay! In all honesty, there were two, but one was ALWAYS broken!)!! Allow me to elaborate for you, if I may, the genuine experience of having to live with nine other people and only one functioning….bathroom.

Remember that sinking-boat-movie? They hit the iceberg and the ship sinks with Leonardo Dicrapio and that chubby English chick? And, yes. Yes, I know the name of the freaking movie; it’s just that I HATE this fucking movie so damn much, that I refuse to acknowledge it by its real name, SO, to me...it will always be referred to as the sinking-boat-movie-with-Leonardo Decrapio-and-that-chubby-English-chick.  So! Remember when everyone was fighting and killing themselves to get to the lifeboats? Remember the mayhem and chaos that went on? People shooting each other? Men, pushing women and children outta the way? Every person for themselves trying to get to the lifeboats?…yeah well, that was our place every single day about thirty minutes after every meal.  We’d all be laying there on the floor, or propped up against each other like a bunch of Mexican red-necks, watching TV, our guts busting, filled with baloney sandwiches and grape Kool-Aid because, let’s face it; breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And then… it would happen;   like the soft cry of an injured, baby gazelle setting off a pack of, crazed hungry hyena’s... someone….would fart. And the Running of the Poopers would commence!  “Get the HELL out of my way! F#ck you b#tch I’m getting in the bathroom first! No! You’re not, I am!!Screw YOU!!”  We’re kicking the crap out of each other, grabbing and tossing each other away from the bathroom door.  Biting each other, yelling. Hair-pulling, teeth gnashing, groin-kicking …climbing all over each other just to get to that flippin’ bathroom first! Screams! Tears! Complete freakin' bedlam! Meanwhile, inside the bathroom, with the door locked behind her, sitting on her porcelain throne like one of those rich old ladies who did make it to the lifeboat… is my worn out mother.  Sitting there; yelling at us from inside: "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THE DOOR! CAN'T A WOMAN SIT DOWN FOR TWO @$#$#!! MINUTES WITHOUT YOU PEOPLE BOTHERING HER!!" 

Do you really think there’s any family from Hawaii that ever had to go through such a traumatic experience? They’re from Hawaii for crying out loud. Paradise! It can’t be paradise if you got families dismembering loved ones just to get to the bathroom first. For f*cks sake! Let’s think about this! When you check into a hotel room, do you really think all those short people pushing cleaning carts around are all Hawaiian? Of course they are because that’s exactly what Hawaii is known for; pineapples, surfing and world-class housekeepers. When driving by a construction sight, is that ukulele music you hear blaring from the boom-box? Of course not! It’s a freakin’ Spanish station, man! More oompah-oompah music than Oktoberfest in Berlin. I don’t even think they have Spanish stations in Hawaii! Work with me people!! NOT HAWAIIAN, here!!

Please, tell your friends. Email your friends. Facebook the sh*t! Write it on the chalk board oustside of Bert’s Market and write it all over the sands of Folly Beach:   JOEL FLORES = NOT SAMOAN!!

Gracias and Aloha!

Happy Valentines Day? Let Me Count The Nays.

Valentines Day. The most romantic day on the calendar is once again upon us. 
The holiday so named after a saint who was beheaded by an emperor who forbid marriages in his kingdom. Married soldiers made bad soldiers, so claimed the emperor. So, one night after several games of wine-pong, the emperor, Claudius, stood up, burped and while scratching his royal buttocks, proclaimed all future marriages illegal and punishable by law. 
Now, the bishop of this particular kingdom, one Bishop Valentine, thought the idea and the emperor to be two croutons short of a Caesars salad and decided to marry people regardless. Putting II and II together, the emperor seized the bishop and quickly had him imprisoned for marrying people behind his back. Even while imprisoned, however, the bishop, a true believer in the affairs of the heart and to really tick the emperor off, continued to marry people even from his jailhouse. Catching a whiff of something not right, the emperor realized there was only one way to stop Bishop Valentine from performing illegal marriages; legalize pot! When that didn’t work “Screw it!” the emperor ordered, “Off with his head!” Thus, the legend and the martyrdom of Saint Bishop Valentine and the day he literally lost his head for love, Valentine’s Day, were created.

Now many centuries later, how have we come to commemorate the decapitation of an innocent man-of-the-cloth? The offering of a dozen roses? A box of chocolates? The exchanging of greeting cards?  Oh, yes. Lots and lots of greeting cards. More than any other day; save Christmas. Romantic dinners? The toasting of wine glasses filled with your favorite Merlot? Ah yes. Traditional customs all.

 I too, have customs that I partake in every year to commemorate St. Valentines Day. The first of these traditions I created to correlate the pain and agony of having to spend another pretentious Valentine’s Day alone to that of the beheading experienced by the holiday’s namesake. As I’ve done every year since my freshman year in high school, my St. Valentines Day ritual begins with the indulging of a candlelit dinner consisting of Gummy Bears and Guinness Extra Stout. First, I pick a gummy bear from the bag. Then, reaching for my pint of stout, I yell “Off with his head!” then I bite the head off the gummy bear, pop the headless candy into my mouth and chase it down with the cascading pint. 
After having gone thru the entire case of beer or the entire bag of gummy bears, which ever empties first, it’s off for an evening of walking along the beach and reflecting on the oh so many, varied and original ways I have frequently been declined by the opposite sex. Ways, mind you that as I reminisce, have left me more impressed than depressed by their diversity and creativity alone.

Judging by a history of responses, I’ve come to accept the fact that women, when asked for a date by yours truly, associate that experience with having to watch a made-for-TV movie on the Lifetime Network. They laugh, they cry and at the end, they’re left palming their chest in a state of slight stupefaction asking “You’re joking, right?” When they realize there’s no commercial break or remote control to change the channel, just me standing there waiting for an answer, they quickly recover with the ever popular and quite resourceful, “Oh, I’m sorry I’m, uh, kind of seeing someone right now.”

“Ahh, that’s okay.” I reply “I’m kind’a seeing someone too.” Hey! A therapist counts as a ‘someone’!

Then, there was that one rejection that was delivered with the bluntness of a lead pipe. “You would make the perfect boyfriend! I’m just not physically attracted to you. Will you take the trash out for me?” I even replaced the bag for her, still, no Valentines date.

Once asked by a friend what it was I look for in a woman I thought about it for a second then, in jest, said “I don’t know. A pulse?”  She offered a hug, looked up and sympathetically said, “Look, I have to be really honest with you; you may want to lower your standards.” Yeah. I’m pretty sure she was joking.

Only after announcing loud enough so that anyone within a three mile radius could hear that it was strictly on a platonic basis, a woman finally did accept my Valentine Day invitation to dinner. During the course of the dinner I offered her a very sincere compliment by telling her that she had a striking resemblance to actress Natalie Portman. She smiled, and responded by saying that I too bared a strong similarity to a popular celebrity. “Really? Who?” I asked. “Shrek!” she answered.
Check, please!

Another woman accepted my invitation for a Valentine’s dinner date, as well.  Yes, of course, she would love to go out, she smiled, and then turned around and told me she would be right back while she retrieved her day planner so we could choose an evening. That was a year ago. Haven’t heard from or seen her since. I heard she relocated to the Netherlands that same afternoon. I’m not sure. Still. How hard would it have been to call and say, “Hey, yeah, I found my day planner and looking at it I think I can squeeze you in sometime between the day pigs fly and when-all-hell-freezes-over.”

Of the many rejections I’ve reflected upon with nostalgic wit, the one’s I simply had zero tolerance for and found very little humor in were the ones that included this one very horrible, vile and dreadful word. The one word that I encourage every, and all women every where, to strike immediately from their social vocabularies and reserve it only when discussing pickles, tea or a Tim Duncan bank shot. The word: Sweet.

I’m no Nostradamus. I am not a prophet. I cannot see what tomorrow holds. However, I do know this; that if I am ever declined again with a statement that begins with, includes or is completed with the word “sweet” i.e..how “sweet” I am for asking, while being looked at like I’m a 10 year old who just offered his teacher a piece of crap, construction paper Valentine, then I’m pretty sure I will immediately breakout into a serious bout of Tourette’s Syndrome and show just how bloody sweet I can be! I’d rather she just drive a stake through my chest, set me on fire and invite her girlfriends over for a marshmallow roast while they sit around and laugh as she begins with “Oh my god! You won’t believe who asked me out today...”
That I can handle. The word “sweet” when it pertaining to me? Yeah. Just shoot me now.

Of course, all things being fair, I too have had to disappoint a woman or two by declining their request for my company. But pulling my arm back from an over-aggressive Korean hooker grabbing at your sleeve as you quickly walk by in search of a noodle house in downtown Seoul, shouldn’t really count. Neither does being woken up by one too many annoying stripper at your buddy’s bachelor party.

“Wanna lap dance?”

“Noooo. Leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”  Snore.

“SECURITY!”

No. I guess those occasions really don’t count.

Yet despite being rejected more time’s than there are calories in a box of chocolate, I continue to convince myself that being a good-hearted, hardworking fellow will allow me to stay in Cupid’s good graces and within the crosshairs of his bow. I like to believe that one Valentine’s Day I will prevail in the ways of dating. For, yea, though I have been rejected, refused and returned-to-sender in all the many ways one man can possibly be rebuffed. And yea, though I have been played more often than the South Carolina Education Lottery, I believe there is a woman out there, who will one day agree to a place and time we can meet for a friendly formal rendezvous, and she will actually show up. Even if the place is the cafeteria of a women’s detention center and the time is fifteen minutes before visiting hours are over. And when she’s released two months early for good behavior, we will celebrate with the most romantic of evenings. An evening honoring the man who lost his head so that Hallmark could see its greeting card sales quadruple for the month of February many decades, nay, several centuries later. With incense and candles burning, we will pour ourselves a pint. She and I will then commence to biting the heads off a bag full of gummy bears and chase the colorful, chewable delicacies with some dark stout and discuss how pretentiousness and artificial holidays such as Christmas, Valentine’s Day and even Easter have become. And our evening, just like every other evening thereafter, will end with the washing of pint glasses, reruns of “Family Guy” and mad, freaky, detention center fooling around.
 Happy Headless Gummy Bear and Guinness Drinking Day to all and to all a good-night!!

NOTE:  This was something I wrote for our local fish-wrap here on Folly Beach back on Valentine's Day, 2011. I have since been on more dates than I have been rejected but continue to partake in the consumption of Gummy Bears and Guinness never-the-less.

For Memorial Day.

Johnny Moore

“Hot Banana Cocoa.”

The first time I encountered Johnny Moore, he was standing outside of Bert’s Market wearing basketball shorts that reached down to the middle of his calves. He had on knee-high black socks that reached up damn near to his thighs and a pair of dirty white running sneakers. He adorned himself with a brown, oversized Gatsby cap, an oversized baby-blue North Carolina Tar Heels basketball jersey worn over a dirty white t-shirt. He was standing near the entrance doors. He stood about 5’6”. Frail and lanky, his hair was a tussled salt and pepper gray and he always featured an unshaven stubble across his face. He lacked a good number of teeth and usually gummed what he ate. His blue eyes constantly squinting, if not blinking non-stop, behind a pair of thin framed glasses. It was 4 o’clock in the morning and most of Folly Beach was asleep. In fact, the only sound heard as I continued to sweep the parking lot in front of the store, as part of my 3^rd shift ritual, was the music coming from inside the store and the violent cursing and spitting coming from Johnny Moore as he stood there pacing, gesturing and arguing with himself just outside the entry door to Bert’s. He obviously forgot to take his medication again.

 Johnny Moore was a Folly Beach staple. Most remember him as being a strange character. Some even considered him to be a nuisance. Perhaps a thief. A possible drug addict and a borrower of money never to be repaid. He was frequently seen riding around the streets of our community on his beach cruiser dangerously dodging in and out of the Center Street traffic as if they it was his personal bike park and everyone should oblige to his maneuverings.  

But what most people didn’t know about Johnny, or simply didn’t’ care to learn about him was that he served his country. While the country was in turmoil and going thru one of its most violent era’s, while it debated and protested our involvement in a skirmish a country and a continent away, Johnny Moore, straight out of high school and moved only by his over-whelming sense of duty and immense pride for his country, volunteered to take up arms for her cause. He wasn’t sure what the cause was. He wasn’t sure why we were there in the first place. He just knew his country was in turmoil of some sort and he answered her call and while he didn’t have to make the ultimate sacrifice for his country and while doing what he thought was his patriotic duty didn’t cost him his life, it did cost Johnny Moore 'The Life'. The life many of us lead and cherish. The Life many of us take for granted on a daily basis. The Life Johnny Moore would never know because when he was done settlling his obligations to his country after putting his life's aspirations and pursuits on hold and to the side so he could do so, his country, when done with his service’s, returned Johnny back to his community but with only half of his mental capacity intact, dependent on prescription drugs and poor resources or assistance to help him regain the life he once had and one day hoped to lead again.

            While most people would shun Johnny or ask him to move on whenever he showed up, working the graveyard shift at a 24 hour beachside convenient store could get quite boring and slow so rather than chase him away, whenever Johnny would suddenly show up at all hours of the morning, I would tradewith Johnny. In return for all the free coffee he could consume as well as a free pastry which I would purchase for him, he would share with me one of his stories from his time in Vietnam. Though I introduced myself to him more times than I care to recount, as Joel, Johnny Moore, through our entire acquaintance, continued to refer to me as No-ell. One morning, as I found myself restacking the cigarettes, Johnny Moore entered, excited; “Noel! Noel! Guess what? I invented Hot Banana Cocoa! I invented Hot Banana Cocoa!” Intrigued, I turned, pointed to the coffee dispenser indicating to Johnny to help himself. Then, setting the last pack of cigarettes into its slot, I got comfortable on the stool behind the counter, took a sip from my bottled water, looked at over at my excited friend and asked him “Johnny. What in the hell are you talking about?” Stirring his cup of coffee, Johnny looked up smiling and began to speak.

 

Johnny set his coffee down to the side. Then, with his hands clasped and shoulders positioned forward, Johnny rested his elbows on the counter and began his anecdote regarding his brilliant discovery of hot banana cocoa.

“I thought of it when I was in Vietnam.” he explained.  “Ya’ see I was on patrol with my corporal, Hambone. We called him that cause he was from North Carolina and the boy loved him some ham hocks. Well, we was taking a break and we was tired and hungry so we stopped to drink us some water and take a bite from our C-rations.  I got me some frank and beans and I hate frank and beans so I opened the can and dumped ‘em out.  Then, I dug me a little hole in the ground and I burned me some C4 in it. Just a little bit cuz C4 burns real, real hot and a lil’ bit will burn hotter than hell. So, I makes me my hot cocoa from my C-rations and I pour it into my canteen cup. So, I’s sittin’ there in the middle of the banana grove with Hambone just stirrin’ my hot cocoa waitin’ for it to cool down when Hambone and me…we hear us a noise. Like, leaves movin’. So we look at each other and we picks up our rifles real, real slow like.”

Johnny Moore is no longer standing just a couple of feet from the counter of an empty 24-hour beachside convenience store. He is now in the late 1960’s in the dank, dark jungles of Vietnam gesturing to, what would seem to anyone else, a freezer filled with pints of ice cream but to Johnny Moore, however, and now myself as I find myself surprisingly ensnared by the passion of his delivery, a stand up freezer no longer exists. Instead there are two squads of Vietcong, hiking down a slope headed our way.

“We get’s up real slow like and we can see ‘em now. About 30-40 yards away from us. Two flanks coming right towards us. So, Hambone goes to the right and I go to the left and they getting real close now. And we ain’t tryin’ to be no hero’s. We just hopin’ they pass us right on by without seeing either one of us when all a sudden I hear me a loud... SNAP! I look to the Viet Cong and they stop like they statues. They freeze. Then I look over to Hambone and put my finger up to my mouth to tell ‘em to “Be quiet, man!” But when I look over to Hambone, he’s already lookin’ over ta’ me. And all I see is the white of his eyes. And he’s looking right at me. Now, I’d already seen two soldiers die in my arms by that time and they both had this...uh, look...in they eyes like they was surprised to be dyin’.  They eyes was wide open but they mouths was kind’a smilin’. Like it wasn’t for real what was happenin’ to them. When I heard that branch snap and Iooked over to Hambone, he had that look except it was so dark, I couldn’t tell to see if he was smilin’. But, I knew he was. He looked at me and then he slowly turned his head, just starin’ straight ahead till BOOM!!! A big explosion blew his head clean off.  And then they was two more big explosions. Boom. BOOM!! And all I could make out was the shadow of his body with no head folding forward, then backward and then on the third explosion he just went all over the place. And that’s all I seen cause after that third explosion, I got blown away too. Waaay back. It threw me so far back I ended up in the middle of some deep bush buried undah’ some big ol’ leaves and fallen trees and other shit that it took me about a half hour the next morning,  just to dig myself out. I tried to walk but I was so dizzy I was stumblin’ and trippin’ over everything. I couldn’t find my rifle or anything. There was a goddamn ringing in my ear that wouldn’t stop and my body still felt like, real numb all over. Smoke was still hanging all over the place from the explosion the night ba’foe and I started to remember what happen. I dragged myself back to where me and Hambone had stopped the night ba’foe and that’s when I figured it out. Hambone done set off a boobie trap. The Viet Cong they would set up these trip wires, ya’ see, about ankle high off the ground. It was like fishin’ wire so they was kinda’ hard to spot. So, then, they would run the wire along the ground and up along a tree about eye-ball high and they would attach the wire to the rings of three grenades one about three inches above the other. When the wire on the ground got tripped it would pull on the wire all the way up along the tree and pull off the rings of the grenades making them live. Hambone done tripped the wire.

After I realized what had happened, I began to wonder how come nuttin’ didn’t happen to me. I mean, I got blown away too! Them grenades blew up in front o’ me too and they didn’t do nuttin’ to me. I looked down at my chest right, cause I had this vest right? This homemade vest I made myself out of M-60 machine gun shells. I sewed them into my vest and it covered me everywhere from my chest down to my crotch area. I looked down and all I seen was pieces…lots and lots of pieces of shrapnel all over my vest. I had foe’ grenades on my vest and they had shrapnel coming out of them, too! I don’t know why they didn’t explode. They should’a exploded! Foe’ grenades covered in nothin’ but shrapnel but not a one exploded.  If I didn’t have that vest on I would’a ended up just like Hambone. Man, Noel, I was so happy I made that vest I was huggin’ it and rubbin’ it I was so happy. So, I start comin’ to, and not so dizzy and so I start lookin’ all over myself to make sure I ain’t cut or nuthin’. I’m still feelin’ kind’a numb so I’s  look over here to my left and I couldn’t see my arm and I start screamin’ “My arm! My arm! Oh shit where’s my arm?!” and I start reaching over spinnin’ in a circle trying to feel foe’ my arm like a damn dog chasin’ his tail and I’s yellin’ “Where’s my goddamn arm?!” and I’s just getting ready to start crying like a little baby when I see that my sleeve done got caught on my ammunition belt towards the backside of my waist and that’s why I couldn’t see my arm. So, I unhook my sleeve and I look around. It’s morning, the sun’s up and they flies everywhere. They’s birds cawin’ and busted trees and big banana leaves everywhere. I start walkin’ around lookin’ for my rifle when I stop, I look down and I start laughin’. You know why I’m laughin’ Noel? Cause them explosions that killed Hambone knocked a whole mess a banana’s from the trees and right there in front o’me, on the ground, is my canteen cup filled with hot cocoa just the way I left it the night before.  And right there in the middle of my cup of cocoa is a banana stickin’ out of it and that’s when it hit me Noel; Hot banana cocoa!”

NOTE: For the record, this blogger has tried Hot Banana Cocoa and I must say; the man was on to something. But, then of course, I also engage in drinking pints of Guinness after dropping a shot-glass of tequila into it.
One summer afternoon, Johnny Moore was seen having one of his bouts with himself, once again, neglecting to take his medications. Frightened tourists called the police who in turn, put Johnny into the back of one of their vehicles and drove him somewhere off  of Folly Beach, never to be seen on the island again.
The last time I saw Johnny Moore, I was stuck in traffic on Folly Road in James Island and there, about four horn-blowing cars in front of me, was Johnny Moore zig-zagging on his bike in and out between idle vehicles, turning back and laughing as he continued to move on, while we sat there waiting for the light to turn green.