Planning and Zoning

There is an empty four-acre lot across the street from my house. When I bought the house, a dozen years ago, the lot contained a native hammock. That isn't something you lie around in during the summer, swinging yourself with one foot and reading trashy novels while drinking lemonade, it is a stand of flora native to the region. To be specific, there were saw palmettos, mahogany, rose apples, sea grapes, wild hibiscus, wild oaks, shrimp plants, pines, a resident owl, and lots of lush underbrush.

Two years later, the asshole who owned the property and wanted to sell it, decided it would have more "curb appeal" if he cut everything down to show the size of the lot. I woke one morning to the sound of bulldozers. Then I called DERM (Department of Resource Management) and reported the razing of specimen size native plants. They fined the guy, and he planted two feeble little oaks which he never watered, and which promptly died.

Then the native grasses started to grow and I had a whole new list of grassland birds to add to my lifelist. If you ignored the fact that there was now highway noise and dust, it wasn't so bad. A plant nursery-man bought the property and filed for a land use variance to put a commercial palm farm/nursery on the four acres. I grew up on the Treasure Coast of Florida in the days when the primary industry was flower farming, so this struck me as a magnificent deal for the neighborhood. Green stuff! Plants! Free oxygen! Cooler temperatures to counteract the urban heat phenomenon.

Boy, was I wrong. My neighbors told me so in no uncertain terms. That would be commerce in a residential area. The next thing you know, "THEY" will put in a gas station and a 7-11. "THEY" will take over our neighborhood. Bad Lynne. Bad, bad Lynne. I went down to the county commission meeting to stand up for the nursery anyway. My own county commissioner told me that if I wanted to live in an agricultural area, there were places in Dade County where that could still happen. They are called the Redlands, and she invited me to get the hell out of her district and move there.
(This may have been because I put my name and face on the campaign material of the person she unseated, but I'm sure that political payback/retribution was the last thing on this fine public servant's mind.) As you may guess, the petition to change the zoning was denied.

The owner planted trees on his four acres, and didn't sell from the lot, and so I was happy and my neighbors were less whiny. Then, since he wasn't making money on the deal, that owner decided to sell.

Next up, a zoning request to change from E-1 (one acre estate homes, and p.s., most of the houses in the 'hood are only on half acres) to who knows what, with the intention of putting up a three-story, 800-student, K-8 charter school. This time, I sided with the neighbors. We immediately organized a homeowners' association and I was made president, I suspect if only because I knew about Robert's Rules of Order and had once, when I was young, been president of the local Young Democrats. I suspect further, that it was because I was the only person who could be conned into taking the job. We put together a grass-roots campaign against, with lawyers and traffic studies and the like, and through the grace of the School Board, which didn't grant the charter, dodged that particular bullet. Still had the palms.

This year, we have a new property owner and a new proposal: townhouses. Twenty units, sized two- to three-thousand square feet and selling at about $200 a square foot. The size and cost of these units is way above what is average for the neighborhood. The builder has promised to bring in the city sewer lines (most of us are still on septic tanks). He has promised to replace our above-ground utilities with underground cables. He is landscaping and writing covenants with the existing home owners.

Do my neighbors want this? Of course not. These Luddites want to keep their septic tanks. (Hey! I got an idea, let's dig a big pit in the back yard and pour our raw sewage into it!) Do they want city water? No, they want to keep using their wells (free water), you know, the ones that are dug in the back yards. Look, water has been filtered for eternity by the dirt and rock that make up the Earth's crust, and if that water was good enough for the Neanderthals, it's good enough for us.

I had to step aside as president of the homeowners' because I didn't think it politic to call my constituents blithering idiots who can't tell which way the wind is blowing even when it's blowing across a freaking stock yard with a wind sock. The county is not going to let land lie fallow when they can get a juicy tax roll out of it, and half-mill townhouses are to tax rolls what fat, sweaty tourists are to mosquitoes. Stay tuned for more as we follow the adventures of "Suburban Development Follies."

More Than Multi-Tasking

If you're doing more than 2 or 3 things at once, does that make it poly-tasking? I'm: scanning in slides for work, talking on the phone with a friend to coordinate plans for next week, making a blog entry, and in another window, ordering groceries on-line.... my brain hurts.
Based on yesterday's shenanigans here in Miami, I have an idea for a new reality show. See, the "wet foot, dry foot" immigration policy for Cubans makes it very, very important to NOT let the Coast Guard pick you up and bring you to shore. Therefore we get days like yesterday, where a bunch of people jump off a leaky boat a couple of miles from shore and the Coast Guard has to watch them swim/walk/float to shore, where they are declared "dry foot' and get to stay in America.

So here's my idea: "Who Wants to Be an American Citizen?" and there could be teams of refugees who have to do things like build rafts and swim to shore through shark-infested waters, only to find out that they now have to fill out paperwork. There could be the sponsorship derby to see who can get a citizen sponsor first, and there could be, like an "Are You Hot" segment to see if any of the contestants have what it takes to be a nanny, yard man or maid. The cool part of the show is that it would be open to all immigrants, not just Cubans. This would give the Haitians a fair shake, since currently, even if they DO get to shore, they are still held at Krome Detention Center until we get enough to fill a charter flight back to Port Au Prince, and then they get to go home to poverty, disease and political persecution. And a very weak lobby in the US, which is why the Haitians have no "wet foot, dry foot" equivalent.

What do you think, would Fox pick this up or should I try to sell it to Univision?

My Hot Weekend

Two funerals. Need I say more.

In Like Flint

Great movie. High camp. High concept: women are being brain washed into women's lib by the hidden tape recorded messages in their hair dryers. Happy Face cosmetics or something like that. Of course, Flint's women (they are always in multiples) are immune to the messages because he's such a hottie.

Here's my theory based upon observation: the world is being brain washed by the secret, hidden taped messages inside our cell phones. I don't know what the message is, maybe "George Bush is good. George Bush is right. George Bush was elected president. Iraqis flew the planes into the World Trade Towers." Maybe the reason I don't believe any of that is because I rarely have my cell phone attached to my head. And the reason that Dubya's approval rating has gone up is because everyone else on this freaking planet DOES have a cell phone attached to their head and they NEVER SHUT UP.

Is there no place left where there can be peace and quiet? I don't want to listen to your insipid conversations, in any language. I understand enough Spanish to know that those conversations are no more interesting than the ones I'm unwillingly privy to in English. I don't want to hear the music you are playing on your personal music system, be it i-pod, rio, mp3 player or old-fashioned walkman. Turn it down, not up so loud everyone else can hear through your earphones.

I don't want to listen to your car stereos, either. I don't want to hear you, and I probably don't want to know you. And you know what? You probably wouldn't like me either. I have way too refined a sense of propriety.

Bite me.

Only the Good Die Young

I seem to remember that this was a snotty English poet's way of dissing the religious of his era, implying that the virtuous suffered from a particular type of sexual dysfunction. Popular usage, however, refers to an early or untimely death. Right-o.

I am so angry and so saddened by the news I received last night, that my friend Joy was found dead of no apparent cause. She who had finally begun to live as her name implied. And then that got me thinking about all my other friends who are no longer with us. I'm not yet 50 years old and I have more dead friends than living ones. There aren't enough fingers and toes to count them all. Anger and sadness.
Scotty, Richard, Rick, John, Nick, Ken, Shel: AIDS. Sharon, Gary, Carol, Jeannie: Cancer. Sherri: survived cancer, died of a brain embolism. Leapin': helicopter crash in Bahrain. Chip, Joy, Bob: causes unknown. Jay: suicide. Bill: pneumonia.

Anger, pain, and sadness. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

"I got your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke,
when you asked how I was doing, was that some kind of joke.
Yes, these people that you mention, I know them they're quite lame.
I had to rearrange their faces, and give them all another name.
Right now I don't read too good, don't send me no more letters, no,
not unless you mail them from Desolation Row."

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