The more things change, the more they stay the same

Living in Pensacola, Florida is a very exhilarating experience. The beaches, surfing, fishing, boating (and yes, eating) are beyond compare. But one thing that I had to get used to was the ever changing attractions; be it restaurants, clubs, even the regular business infrastructure. Yes, the ever present storms during hurricane season can contribute to the change, such as finding your favorite watering hole blown two miles inland. And there is the economy. But one thing that I had to get used to was that Pensacola, being a military city, is a very transient area. Always changing. From neighborhoods to shopping districts, this area is in a constant sea of change. As an Aspergian, it is extremely frustrating. We love our routine. And nothing frustrates me more than to go out to eat at my favorite place, only to find out that it has shut down (curse you Firehouse Subs!). Or even worse, to go to a restaurant that served seafood bordering on ambrosia, only to find out that the menu has changed to a kind of Tex-Mex/French/Italian/Asian kind of place (believe me, I've seen worse).

That was one thing that I rarely had to face as a New Englander in Greenfield, Massachusetts. Nothing ever changed. We bought our pizzas at the same place (Village Pizza, still there thank God), we shopped for clothes at the same place (Wilson's, still there since the mid 1800s), we partied at the same bars, joined the same clubs, it was a life of peaceful continuity. And I loved it. I tell folks about life in Greenfield, and they can't even imagine that such a place exists. Growing up there was a real Norman Rockwell kind of Life (if Norman went to the weekend dinners at the Elks).

So imagine my horror to find out that my favorite hometown restaurant "Bills" shut it's doors. This place had been in business for seven decades, offering some of the best comfort food beyond belief. It's big claim to fame was it's lobster pie, which brought tears to your eyes, it was soooo good. In fact it did receive national recognition in Ford Times magazine (does anyone even know if that monthly is still in existence?). It was the kind of place where the waitresses started out of high school, and generally could work there through retirement. How many of these places still exist? We had company parties there, celebrated birthdays, had wakes, it was a home away from home. And finding out that it had closed caused my heart to skip a beat.

So, it was with some apprehension that I found out that some local business people bought the place and re-opened it as Greenfield Grille. I know from past experience that new restaurants have a very risky time for the first few years (remember "The Station"?, yours truly was a cook there). And with the iffy economy that we are presently living with (I doubt that Boston even knows that Greenfield exists), this could have been a potential problem.

Until the other night. I got a Tweet (yes, I'm a Tweeter, I admit it) that the Grille got a huge shipment of Butter & Sugar corn (I don't care where you are from, this corn is a gift from the Gods) from one of the local farms, and gave it out free with every meal. Now I know to someone that routinely eats at any of the 5-star epicurean chow halls around this country, this might not seem like a big deal. But to a New Englander, and especially someone from Franklin County, this is something that is just done. Any longtime establishment would do it without even thinking. Just a little something to thank your longtime customers, a little local goodwill. And it made my heart soar. Because it showed me that the kind folks at The Greenfield Grille are in it for the long run. And that this place will be there when I bring folks to the area 25 years from now. So if you are ever traveling up I-91 in the Pioneer Valley and your gut starts rumbling, there is a nice un-pretentious place on Federal Street in Greenfield (a little joke, an ounce of pretentious is worth a pound of manure) that will welcome you with open arms, serve you a great meal and offer some down home New England hospitality. Just like it's always been done. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Life's a beach!

Although I grew up in Western Massachusetts (where the spring air is refreshed with the ever present aroma of lilacs and cow dookie, I mean, it is farm country), we did manage to make our annual pilgrimages to the shores of the Atlantic. Whether it was Cape Cod, Hampton Beach, or Ogunquit, it usually meant several things. One, we ate. A lot. Clams, haddock, halibut, the ever present lobster, you name it, we scoffed it down. Two, we spent money on genuine New England beach souvenirs made in Taiwan or China. And third, we hit the beach. This also meant two more things. One, we would usually get sunburned. This of course was painful, although, as a young boy it did create it's own amusement when you would start peeling. The challenge, as a kid, was to see how large a piece of yourself you could remove without causing blood loss, and to hopefully cause the other kid with the sensitive stomach to expel whatever he or she had eaten in the last two to three meals. The second thing was to jump into the Atlantic, and see how fast you would turn blue. The Cape wasn't too bad, as we spent most of our time in Nantucket Sound. Although it was cold, you could usually get used to it. Ogunquit, Maine however, was notorious for turning you so cold so fast that peeing ice cubes was an inevitable byproduct of the daily beach excursion. But hey, we were young and stupid. And after spending 50 weeks out of the year surrounded by farm animals, getting to the shore was a rare and glorious way to relax, hear our parents complain about the prices of everything that we desperately had to have or our lives would end, and to yes, overeat and cause ourselves various injuries on the beach.

And then I moved to Florida. Now, in Pensacola many of the same thing happen. You can of course, get horribly sunburned. This is made worse by the wonderful snow white sand that we are blessed with; since sun reflects off of white, it will of course aim for anything that is remotely darker. That means yours truly. In Massachusetts, we actually used to put baby oil on to increase the possibility that we could get a reasonable tan. If you do that in Florida, you are guaranteed to deep fry to a color quite darker than the fish that you'll be eating later that night. And your skin will look like it has the same breading. So sunscreen is a must. And you will also buy some wonderful Genuine Florida souvenirs. Made in Taiwan or China. And you will eat. A lot. Crabs, shrimp, red snapper (crap, now I'm hungry), it is all available for the feasting. But there is one major and wonderful difference between the Great White North, and the Emerald Coast. The water. The glorious clear emerald green water. It is warm. You can dive into it and unless you hit some tourist on the way in, you will enter nirvana. And you can do it anytime over 8-9 months, instead of the 8-9 hours we have for warm weather up North. This creates some new and beautiful ways to torture your friends and family up North ("What? it's 38 up there? Wow, that's too bad. What am I doing? Drying off from surfing, and about to work on my tan. BWAHAHAHA!!!"). I so cherish this area. Why I waited until I had a middle-aged body to come here, I'll never know. But I can't worry about that now. There are shrimp to eat, waves to body surf (yes, I know some folks use boards, I like to get creative) and squeaky fine, white sand beaches to get apeelingly (yes, I purposely spelled it that way) sunburned on.

So, if you'll excuse me, the car is loaded with beach stuff, I got my trusty Gulf Island beach pass, and the shore awaits. As for you folks up north, you have my sympathies. And, just one more thing to say......BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!

If you don't like the weather.............

As a dyed in the wool New Englander, I got used to many things growing up. Apple picking in the fall, Maple syrup in the spring (yes, there is real syrup out there, and no, it is nothing like that insidious Log Cabin crap. If by chance you actually like the store bought stuff, there is no hope for you) and the realization that Massachusetts politicians know of only the Massachusetts east of I-495. Personally, I think that they are scared they'll fall off the edge of the earth should they actually attempt to make the trek to Greenfield. We are also used to roads that will shake the fillings out of our teeth, and the exhaust systems off of our cars. Then there is the road salt, a substance applied to the roads in winter to hopefully give us the traction we will need in order to survive driving during that season, but also has the ability to dissolve most vehicles into grease stained piles of iron oxide in what seems like a matter of moments.

Then there is the weather. We do have warm weather at times (really, we do) usually for the month of July, and a few other days during the year when Mother Nature slips up and takes pity on us. Otherwise, we have our four seasons; winter, recovering from winter, momentarily forgetting winter, and getting ready for winter. I must admit that making it through a New England winter does give you a sense of accomplishment, a feeling that you can do anything.
Even successfully appropriating money from Boston. I never though too much about it; living through sub-zero temps, bouncing cars off of snow drifts, and dressing in so many layers that a bad fart could actually back up and blow the wax out of your ears (And when you live in a state where baked beans are the national dish, believe me, it is a real danger). It was just a part of life, and when everyone was going through the same situations, it was really nothing special.

But it did give me many stories to tell (or embellish) when I moved to Florida. And I figured that adding a little 'panache' to a memory of a New England winter wouldn't hurt. Besides, having someone find out the truth wasn't a problem. I mean really, a Floridian traveling to New England? Not happening baby. I have seen grown people here start blubbering when the temperature falls below 60. Down here the seasons are ever so slightly different. They are summer, recovering from summer, momentarily forgetting summer, and getting ready for summer. Don't get me wrong, I love warm weather. And measuring warm weather in months instead of hours was a new and wonderful time for me. But my God, the humidity! I mean really! Moisture laden air so thick that you have to run your windshield wipers? Sweating so bad, that buying deodorant in drums and checking yourself for Spanish moss is a part of life? Heat so intense that cooling off involves getting out of the pool, not getting into it? Air that you can lean on?

And then there are the hurricanes. Now in Massachusetts, we had storms. Blizzards, the occasional Nor'easter, thunderstorms, maybe a rare twister now and then. But storms that can lift houses? Shave roads off of the top soil? Send boats on long cruises inland? In New England, you could count the number of hurricanes on the IQ points of a State Senator. Down here, very different. And I made the mistake of coming down here during the worst hurricane season of all, 2004-2005. When a record was set for the most number of hurricanes to hit the state in a given year. And when one particularly bad one called Ivan passed right over us, hitting Perdido Key dead on.

When I started this blog, I said that I wanted to being forth the humor in discovering all of the differences between the north and the south. Now, how you may ask, can humor be found in something that can cause so much destruction and tragedy? Well, like any dark time in life, you can find humor if you try hard enough. May be our way to cope with a bad situation, maybe we're just demented. But it abounded in the days after the storm. When you are waiting in lines for gas, food, ice, tarps for roofs, when you are comparing damage with your neighbors, when the whole street turns into one big BBQ because all of the freezers are dead and the food will go bad otherwise, you need to cope. There are two ways to do so, cry or laugh.Which would you rather do? Me too. And boy did we have fun. Neighbors who normally never said hi, are now family. If folks found ice, MREs, or gas, they tried to bring back as much as possible in order to share with the neighborhood. We spent the days helping each other out with repairs, we spent the nights drinking warm Budweiser and telling jokes under skies so laden with stars that it seemed as if they would start falling because there was no more room.

It made me realize that there was one less difference between us. No matter the situation, whether you are from New England, Florida, or any other part of this crazy blue/green orb that we live on, a sense of humor is ingrained in each of us. Maybe some learned to use it better than others, but it is there. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all laugh ourselves sick, tell jokes that will cause folks to expel whatever they're drinking through their noses, and roll on the ground in convulsions? Better than some things out there now. And that's why I'm here. To help you realize the gift that you have, that is in all of us. The ability to find everything that is funny in and on this earth.It's a big mission. But I think that we are all up to it. Now find your old whoopee cushion, your joy buzzer, your dribble glass, and go find some unsuspecting human. And laugh.

When is a grinder not a grinder?

One thing that I love about life on the Gulf Coast is the food. Growing up in New England, we love to eat. A lot. Hence my rapidly expanding waistline. And the seafood is beyond reproach, lobster from Maine, quahogs from Rhode Island, scallops and clams from my beloved Massachusetts, Dang now I'm drooling. (A little New England joke "How about a little 'night on the town' just for the halibut? Not tonight, I have a haddock') But the one food source that always got me by was the grinder. A delightful foot-long thing of beauty that had all of the basic food groups in one delicious roll. With your beverage of choice on the side (Sam Adams is God) and maybe a side of hand-cut fries, or some onion rings, it provided all of the basic nutrients that a growing New Englander needed to survive life in the state of high taxes and no influence west of I-495.

So imagine my surprise when I moved to the Sunshine State and went looking for a grinder. Of course there is Subways, the Mickey D's of foot long sandwiches. But what about a real Grinder, served by evil-tempered Europeans on wax paper and eaten at a table that hadn't been cleaned since JFK was a Senator? No dice baby. When I started asking folks where I could get a good grinder, a few wanted to call the cops. Apparently, what I grew up on is called a Po'Boy down here. Similar yes, but not the same. Here I am, a transplanted New Englander (I don't call myself a Yankee, as a Red Sox fan we have to hate someone too) trying to adjust to life in a new region that really doesn't care how things are done up north. But I need my comfort food! Well, never let it be said that this 4-eyed devil can't adjust when times are hard.

Well, I have discovered Utopia in a bun. A fried shrimp Po'Boy. A bun, stuffed with lettuce, seasoned fried shrimp, onions, peppers, your choice of cocktail sauce, tartar sauce or mayo, and CAPE COD POTATO CHIPS! Yes, there is a God! With my favorite beverage on the side, sitting on a deck overlooking the emerald green waters of the Gulf. In April. After swimming. When there is still snow in the hills of Western Mass, and the sap is running (not the latest politician to be charged with anything, Maple trees. Gotta have our syrup). Yes, I have discovered that, even though I can't run down to Village Pizza (how many places will remember what you like when you haven't been up there in years?), I can still find joy in the simple things in life. Good food, great scenery, and wonderful people. Now, if I can only show folks how to make decent baked beans. I mean really. If I'm going to toot, I want it to mean something.

Why am I here?

OK, this is new to me. Reading blogs is a blast, writing one and opening your innermost thoughts to all is something else. And as an Aspergian and a New Englander adjusting to life on the Florida Gulf Coast, I am riding on one hell of a roller coaster. So, if I ramble, stray off course, etc, rejoice in my eccentricity. I am a rabid Monty Python fan, love antique and classic cars, do not suffer fools gladly, and hate Fox Channel. I repeat, I hate Fox Channel. There, you now pretty much know the basics of me, in future postings, you will learn the rest. I love being a New Englander, I cherish the history of our region, and the people within. But dang, Pensacola is a blast! I love the Gulf Coast, it's history, and yes, the people within. The warmth of it's people and the good old Southern hospitality is unmatched anywhere in the world.

But, anywhere you go in our beautiful country, cultural differences flourish. Some can be frustrating at first, but most are totally enjoyable. My goal is to bring these differences to light. I will never be insulting, that's not a part of me. But I do have a warped sense of humor. So before you get offended at anything I may write, realize that it is all tongue in cheek. As I said, my sense of humor is sharp, but I will never hurt anyone intentionally. I merely want to show the world my southern home, in all it's beauty, culture, people, and yes, it's humor. Pensacola, Florida is a beautiful place. It was first discovered in 1559 (take that St. Augustine) and has a a pretty incredible history. We are the home of the Blue Angels, the US Navy aerobatic squadron, and in fact are the cradle of Naval aviation. Our waters are emerald green, our sands are snow white and are so fine that they squeak when you walk on them. The seafood is beyond belief, the people are the kindest that you would ever meet, and the culture is an eclectic mix of Hispanic, Asian, Cajun, French, Caribbean, yes we got it all.

But we also have our humor. And honing my skills on Monty Python, Firesign Theatre, Eddie Izzard and many others over the past, I seek out anything that is remotely funny with a vengeance. And I have found a lot here that is really really funny. So I hope that in future writings, I will be able to bring to light all that is wonderful, beautiful, and yes, funny about the Florida Panhandle (ours is bigger than Texas, nyah nyah) and it's citizens. So stay tuned folks, and pull your pant legs up. The crap is about to rise.