Champagne Ruined

Without any justification, I'm a champagne snob. An ex-girlfriend introduced me to the wonders of French bubbly, a moment I shall never forget. It was non-vintage Moët et Chandon that first sip, just like the bottle in the picture. Oh, the nose; WOW, the bubbles; and OMG the taste. I'm sure Taylor, our local wine guruette, would use more technically appropriate language, but there is nothing else that compares to champagne from Champagne.

Which is why it pains me so to see this mixing of the best of France, and the best of Florida. Sacré bleu! Whatever where they thinking? The young couple were just that weekend engaged, and I was driving them to their celebratory dinner at Euphemia Haye.

Bravo, congratulations, good for you and all that. But why did they have to ruin the champagne with a Pepsi product?

It's enough to make me want a martini.

Beach Butt Bingo

With the limo trade as dead as a dodo, I have time to spend frivolously at the beach. It's a balance - my tan improves, my bank balance declines. That's the Zen of Chauffeurdom. I hope business will pick up sometime soon, because if not, I will have to look for something more.

However, in the dying weeks of summer before the start of Season, a few lazy days on Florida's best sand won't hurt too much. Fingers crossed.

A few months ago, I noticed the above sign at my favorite local swimming spot. The City erected them adjacent to carpark paths to the beach, with receptacles for cigarette trash attached to the poles. Hooray! Few things piss me off more than lying down on my towel only to find myself in an ash heap of butts left by some inconsiderate asshole.

Now I'm not averse to people smoking should they choose to. But lazy douchebags who have neither consideration for their fellow beach-goer nor the law truly cheese me off. How difficult is it to collect the product of your habit, stick it in your sunbag, and cart that shit off the beach?

Apparently it's beyond a lot of them. Just this morning, after a few laps between the buoys, I was relaxing on Lido Beach. Groups of Girl Scouts were all over, picking up (with gloved hands) butts and other beach detritus to "...keep the world clean". So it's come to this: children now volunteer as garbage collectors to do the work of indolent, selfish adults.

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Butts are not bio-degradable.

Alzheimers

If he asked me ten times, he asked me forty. Sir, we're in Florida, and I'm driving you to your condo. The old guy whose ride didn't work out ended up with me, to our mutual discomfort. He thought he was in Connecticut, having just left Florida, but I was definitely in Florida. And I had the humidity to prove it.

Because times are slow in the limo game, being on call 24/7 is now a part of the gig. It's somewhat like begging; take what you can get, and always have your hat out. We're better dressed than most beggars, and we brush our teeth, but we're basically in the same game. If you feed at the bottom, be prepared for shit to fall on you from above.

That was how I ended up with this poor disoriented man. The trained folks who normally look after befuddled oldsters couldn't turn up, so minimum wage dozy me had to look after this man who should never, ever be left alone. The Boss is unable to say no, and I'm obliged to say yes. That's how modern business works.

Fortunately, the ride was short, and I had the son's far-away number. I called him five times in twenty minutes attempting to allay the old guy's concerns about where I was taking him, who would be there to meet him, and where are we again?

Each time, my guy said "That was Frank. He's my brother".

In reality, that was Robert. He's his son.

Get used to it. The dumbest generation in history, the baby boomers, is coming to a town near you. Decades of drugs, booze, therapy and self-indulgence are gonna land smack bang in your lap.

At least I'm getting $7.21 per hour. How much will they pay you?

Grouper Ranch

Prostitution is prohibited in Florida, not that you'd know. Driving into town along the main road from the north, the choice of short-term dates is extensive. You can have short girls, tall girls, white girls, black girls, old girls, young girls and girls who might not necessarily be girls.

Most of the action happens after sundown, but there are a suspiciously large number of ladies waiting at bus-stops during the day. I guess sexual urge is time independent. It might be my imagination, but there appear to be more ladies plying their trade lately. Presumably, tough times lead to tough decisions, with sometimes equally tough consequences.

Limousine customers ask me to find them hookers from time to time. I'm not averse to helping them out, but it's not that simple. We can't just cruise up and down pro-row in a thirty-foot long limousine all night, sidewalk shopping. In police parlance that's called cruising and my name becomes John.

What I should to is some research ahead of time, talk to some of the women, take phone numbers, check out what individual girls look like, what they charge and so on. Innocently seeking out a handful of professional contacts makes sense, but what if the cops are mounting a sting that day? If I'm booked, will they believe me that I'm negotiating for my own future customers? And will the charge then escalate from simple procuring to trafficking, or living on immoral proceeds?

I know! I should contact ACORN. Apparently they offer all kinds of advice in this area, and it's taxpayer funded. Excellent.

This keeps getting better. Community organizing takes on an entirely new flavour.

And look, a prostitution sting just days after I wrote this.

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Nocturnality

For a really big night out, locals lust after the big smoke: Tampa. Channelside, Hyde Park, the International Plaza and Ybor City all beckon from just an hour up the road. I forgot the Seminole Hard Rock Casino in that mix, rather a large oversight.

For a limousine company, this could be a gold mine. All these places cater for party-people, and have lots of variety within their precincts. Any one of them can be a great night out destination for a bunch of people, but they're too far away to drive and party. Ergo, limousine. Eight or fifteen people in a stretch can have a ball.

From our point of view, they're pretty good gigs. Although some folks have ideas about visiting two or three, the usual outcome is that they spend all night at one. Sometimes it's fun driving around, checking out different areas. Staying on the move, loading and unloading everyone reduces the boredom factor, but exponentially increases the mess factor.

Sidebar: Every ingress requires a new round of drinks, with the accompanying spillage and glass usage. As well, more street soil is introduced to the limousine's interior, which, of course, I have to clean out at the end of the night. A good night for me means as few ins-and-outs as possible, plastic cups instead of glasses and no visits to the beach. Sugar sand is a bitch in black carpet. End sidebar.

The downside of Tampa nights is the late finish. Limousines alter customers' sense of time, often leading them to stay until closing. Which is fine. But by the time the bars call last drinks at 2:00 am, close the doors at 2:30 am, my people find me and load up by 2:45 am, on the interstate at 3:00 am, drop the last person home at 5:00 am, I gas up and get to the office by 5:45 am, then spend an hour cleaning - well, it's a pretty long night.

Birds fly south for winter

Swallows fly back to Capistrano. Salmon swim upstream to the mountains. Snowbirds leave the Midwest to flee to Florida. The rhythms of nature reassure us that everything remains the same, that the cycle of life continues. As humans I think we look for such guideposts, markers of time's arrow, end-points for epochs, starting-points for others.

So you can imagine my happiness when I saw a convoy of Michigan-plated recreational vehicles punting their way south on Saturday. Early September feels too soon, but memory being an untrustworthy mammal, I disregarded it. Maybe this will be a big season, with everyone and her great-aunt visiting Florida. Perhaps Michigan's 15% unemployment rate (some workers' paradise, that one) won't affect the annual migration south, and gobs of people will come on down.

Optimism is running through my arteries you see, for no good reason other than I spotted a couple of banged up Winnebagos trundling along I-75. Snowbirds have relatives, and relatives need transport to and from airports. Work for me. When relatives get together, they go out for dinner, and sometimes rent a limo. Work for me. And winter means celebration, which means drinking which means no self-driving. Work for me.

Snowbirds themselves don't spend that much money. It's what they portend about their associates that's making me happy. It's a sign. They're back. I might survive.