By Peter Fischetti
It looks like a record year for Panama City Beach tourism. If you read somewhere that a survey of visitors who were asked why they come here every year insist it’s because the city allows flossing in public, would you believe that? Or if I told you we moved to the beach because there’s so little traffic in the summer, would you say, “Me too”?
Of course not! It’s absurd to even consider the veracity of those ridiculous statements, and whoever writes such nonsense should be forced to place a double red flag in front of his house to discourage neighbors from getting too close to a dangerous person.
Over the years, I’ve written hundreds of columns for newspapers and magazines, and only seven of them have met the standards adopted by Journalists for Occasional Honesty (I just made up that name). The rest of the columns?
Well, when I was living in Southern California, I wrote about a gate-guarded community of rich folks whose HOA insisted they fill their swimming pools with bottled water. And forget about planting seeds. New plants needed to be at least 15 gallons. Readers were incensed!
I wrote a column about my 1985 Fiat Spyder, a beautiful but temperamental Italian sports car that used olive oil instead of Pennzoil. The clock worked only when the motor was running, and the radio played only Pavarotti. Readers thought I was dumb to keep it and suggested a Corolla.
I wrote about getting old and hearing regularly from AARP, which was selling a version of Lo-Jack for when you can’t find your teeth. And I got brochures from retirement communities, in one in Arizona called The Last Resort “for spending your declining years.” Readers thought I was making fun of old people.
When the pandemic surfaced, I wrote about the early-morning hours when Publix limited shopping to senior citizens. The aisles were one-way, and at the end of each aisle, I wrote, stood a retired crossing guard holding a stop sign and a whistle to direct us old people where to turn. Oh, and there’s the story about an architect who lost his license for designing a single-story home with a laundry chute.
And given my surname, I had to write a column about the Mafia, specifically the notorious Sal Minnella, who found a novel way to knock off enemies. He invited all of them to the grand opening of his restaurant, feeding them Pork Tartare. Few survived. Readers suggested I enter the witness protection program.
That’s the way I write and, unfortunately, the way I often communicate verbally. Way back during my basic training days at Fort Jackson, I was in a platoon with a fellow from the backwoods of Kentucky. He was impressed that I was from New York City, and asked about how difficult driving a car in the city must be. I explained that only one million drivers licenses were allowed, and so you had to wait till someone died to get one. And the way to get one was to attend the deceased’s funeral and cozy up to the surviving family. “Tell them you’re an old friend and maybe they’ll give you his spot,” I suggested. The guy believed me.
And so did some bowlers on the beach who read my article last month about curling and that it had become so popular that Rock’it Lanes was replacing its alleys with curling sheets. The manager called my editor to complain that some bowlers were quite upset about the prospect and had no interest in joining a curling league.
So I apologize. Bowling will continue on the beach. And for better or worse, so will the silliness generated on my iMac. With what is going on here and halfway across the world, let’s leave a little room for silliness. And maybe have Sal Minella open a restaurant in the Kremlin.
Peter Fischetti is a retired journalist from Southern California, which he hopes you won’t hold against him.
