As Volusia and Flagler County residents continue the arduous process of digging out following the vicious onslaught of Hurricane Matthew, many in our community have differing opinions on whether the annual bacchanalia of Biketoberfest should be cancelled, or welcomed.

The answer is – you’re both right.

I agree with those who argue that adding 100,000 motorcycles to this witch’s brew of downed power lines, rotting debris piles, sporadic electricity, twisted signs and awnings, and large sections of roadway that are still in ruins.

As the Daytona Beach News-Journal’s Eileen Zaffiro-Kean so insightfully pointed out, “Biketoberfest is all about two-wheeled fun on the roads, and some intersections still don’t have functioning lights.”

Not to mention the privations of friends and family who have been displaced, or those living primitively without power, hot showers, or the ability to refrigerate food or prepare meals – especially the elderly and infirm.

Earlier this week, in the immediate aftermath of the storm, I saw a pack of early-bird bikers from Ontario rolling two abreast on A-1-A, slowing down to sight-see, as several out-of-state utility crews trailed behind them in a valiant attempt to restore power to weary residents.

My blood boiled – not at the bikers, they planned a vacation and here they are.  I get it.

I was angry at the abject stupidity of the Daytona Beach Area Convention & Visitors Bureau who failed to see the wisdom in cancelling or postponing an event that requires massive and intensive government resources from east Volusia municipalities and the sheriff’s office – police, fire, EMS, code enforcement, traffic control, permitting, etc., etc. – while our citizens are still in shock; still reeling and cleaning-up from the devastating effects of a Category 3 storm.

It’s almost heartless.  Even cruel.

Putting the wants and desires of those who stand to benefit financially from this annual event ahead of the humanitarian needs and personal convenience of struggling residents is beyond shocking – but it best epitomizes how we do things here on the “Fun Coast.”

But then I consider the other side of the argument.

For years we have allowed our elected and appointed officials – at the direction and urging of their uber-wealthy handlers – to cobble together a fragile, one-dimensional economy based almost completely on the uncertainty and instability of various “special events.”

It’s bikes, beer, and automobile racing.

I understand when that is all you have going for you – the difference between feeding your family or not – it’s important to take advantage of these limited opportunities when you can.

As I’ve said before, our county government has become a plutocracy – ruled exclusively by oligarchs – who know that any form of economic progress or expansion will diminish their influence and span of control.

They know the masses can only be controlled if you keep them hungry.

That’s equally heartless.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record – our area needs deep and comprehensive revitalization with an emphasis on rebuilding our broken tourism industry, stabilizing our governance and leadership, and initiating massive reform of our almost criminal corporate welfare scheme.

In the aftermath of Hurricane Matthew, many areas of Volusia County stand at the crossroad of opportunity and transformation.

The third leg of that stool is strategic vision.

In short, now is the time to foster an environment that will attract outside investment and create diverse opportunities – not just those that benefit the well-connected few.

Whether or not our elected officials have the foresight and strength of character to seize the moment without a laser focus on lining their pockets, and those of their friends, remains to be seen.

In my view, now is the time to begin building a local economy that isn’t completely reliant on biker rallies, service jobs, and the largess of a few Machiavellian millionaires with personal profit motives.

 

 

 

“I remain just one thing, and one thing only, and that is a clown.  It places me on a far higher plane than any politician.”

–Charlie Chaplin

By any measure, we are living in strange times.

News reports from around the nation continue to document the bizarre phenomenon of people dressing in creepy clown maquillage and loitering ominously in residential areas, wooded lots and urban downtown’s, generally making folks uneasy and scaring the bejesus out of small children.

(Given the times they are growing up in, I really didn’t think there was anything that could frighten kids anymore. . .)

In true American fashion, now legitimate clowns are taking it squarely on their big red noses as business tapers off on the children’s birthday party circuit.

As the “Killer Clown” hysteria continues to build, some professional Klumpys and Bozos have taken to staging “Clown Lives Matter” marches in major metropolitan areas.

Who thought we would ever see Ringling Brothers/Barnum and Bailey join the professional victim set?

Could riots be next?  Wild bands of rainbow-haired, harlequin-wearing circus performers piling out of clown cars, en masse, blocking traffic by juggling cigar boxes in intersections and throwing buckets of confetti at stone faced, armor-clad police officers?

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the concept of a performer covering one’s true identity and pretending to be something you’re not – I’ve done it for years.

After all, over-the-top carnival spectacles and the ludicrous pageantry of the circus is alive and well in the halls of governments all over Volusia County.

But let’s face it – when it comes to creepy clowns masquerading as public officials, the City of DeBary takes the pie squarely in the face.

Last week, as we collectively prepared for the approach of Hurricane Matthew, I caught a blurb in the Daytona Beach News-Journal reporting yet another attempt by the Fraudulent Four to kick DeBary’s duly elected Mayor Clint Johnson while he’s down.

In a scene that could only be acted out by the krazy klown troop at DeBary City Hall, the remaining members of the city council – you know, those who haven’t yet been cannibalized by the others over petty political disagreements and personality clashes – voted to allow the ethically crippled Interim City Manager Ron McLemore to march down to the State Attorney’s Office and file criminal charges against Mayor Johnson if he fails to turnover certain records that the council wants to get their hands on.

That’s the same State Attorney’s Office that is actively investigating the actions of former City Manager Dan Parrott, certain city staffers, and the Fraudulent Four on potential public records violations.

It’s part of the city’s continuing nutso strategy – no doubt dreamt-up by their dirty-handed accomplice and city attorney Kurt Ardaman – of “admit nothing, deny everything, make counter-accusations.”

Unfortunately, as history has proven time-and-again, that dubious plan only works for a little while.

Look, it is time for DeBary officials to come to the sobering realization that D.B. Cooper got away with it because he acted alone.  No collusion lasts beyond the first round of interrogations.

Trust me.

(Just for the record – I’m not a criminal defense lawyer, but I suspect it is time to start cooperating with investigators.  Better to be identified as an unindicted co-conspirator than go down with the rest of the rabble.  Right, Lita?)

In Clint Johnson’s inimitable style, when pressed for the records, he responded with an invoice to the City of DeBary demanding over $3,000.00 in reimbursement for “extensive use of information technology and a great deal of clerical or supervisory time.”

Tit for Tat.

Just like when the city’s sniveling public records manager, Eric Frankton, submitted an outlandish bill for some $17,000.00 in response to attorney Doug Daniel’s request for records in Mayor Johnson’s defense.

So, in true DeBary form, the council hired yet another Fishback Dominick attorney, Lance King, to send Mr. Daniels a blowhard opinion that Johnson’s obviously facetious demand for payment is different than a request for public records where fees are statutorily authorized.

You might remember that Lance King is the same law partner of Kurt Ardaman who carted off $4,280.00 in taxpayer dollars in the lead-up to Mayor Johnson’s ridiculous “forfeiture hearing.”

Anyone care to guess what Counselor King made on this latest make-work, cut-and-paste project?

I don’t make this stuff up folks.

(Isn’t there an alarm that sounds at the Florida Bar whenever a small community is being actively raped by a series of predatory Winter Park law firms?  If not, maybe they should get one budgeted for the good of what remains of the legal profession’s reputation.)

As usual, Mr. Daniels was forced to point out the patently obvious to council members, and their cash-bloated legal representatives, when he advised that the city assessing costs to Mayor Johnson’s requests when he was an elected official is just as wrong as Johnson charging for records.

“Clint was making the point that it was wrong,” Daniels said.

No kidding.

As I’ve said before, the Office of the State Attorney does some of their best work at the nexus of politics and criminal conduct.  They have the unique ability to sort the wheat from the chaff.

I have no doubt State Attorney R. J. Larizza and his smart staff will see Mr. McLemore skulking into the office from a mile away.  They have seen it all before, and are not easily fooled.

In his best Emmett Kelly’s “Weary Willie” act, Council Member Rick Dwyer said, “We just want to bring closure,” regarding this raging shit-storm that has haunted this besieged community like a golem for months.

From the painfully obvious column: Mr. Dwyer and his fellow tragic figures on the DeBary City Council are living in some weird parallel universe where no one is held accountable for their actions – a cirque de l’absurde – where the deranged and openly exposed illusionists still desperately want you to believe their act is real.

The fact is, the Big Top is about to come down in DeBary.  And when the make-up is removed and the manure swept away, the good citizens of DeBary will be left with the realization that, in the end, this very expensive and elaborately staged farce really was on them after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For those of us who live in Florida, impending weather disasters cause extreme stress as we anxiously go through our own mental checklists.

Is my home protected?  Are family members vulnerable to harm, and what can I do to mitigate the threats?   Have we prepared for what comes next?

Am I up to the test?

During the approach of major Hurricane Matthew – at one point a Category 4 monster with the potential for catastrophic destruction and extreme loss of life – I had a conversation with a fellow retired law enforcement colleague who noted that this was the day we had trained for our entire lives.

He was right.

For as long as I can remember I have been involved in public safety.

As a young boy I joined the Police Explorer’s, a wonderful values-based program that imparts the important traditions of the police service – honor, integrity and dedication – to impressionable young people.  It also allows an all-important personal interaction between law enforcement officers and kids in the community as they teach basic skills such as traffic stops, crime scene investigation, criminal law, and emergency first aid measures.

I suppose this program was the genesis of a career that would last over 33 years now.

At 19 years old, I enlisted in the United States Army Reserve and completed basic training and Military Police School at Fort McClellan, Alabama – the beautifully set, but controversial former home of the Army’s chemical warfare school – and current home to what is believed to be one of the largest concentration of environmental contamination in the country.

In my view, the United States Army’s Military Police School provides the finest basic law enforcement training in the world.  Those who graduate from this physically and mentally demanding course leave with a variety of skills, but the one thing they can do better than anyone else is traffic direction and control.

Countless hours are devoted to imparting the art, skill and logistics of moving large volumes of vehicular traffic by hand.  An MP buck private with a brass whistle and a pair of white cotton gloves can take over any intersection in the world and move traffic more effectively and efficiently than any computerized signaling system known to man.

At age 22, I was sponsored to attend Basic Law Enforcement Recruit Training at Daytona Beach Community College and subsequently hired as a sworn officer by the Holly Hill Police Department.

As my career progressed, I was promoted through the ranks to positions of increasing responsibility and I have hundreds of interesting “war stories” and funny anecdotes that get taller and more fabulous with each telling.

With each assignment, I realized that beyond protecting and serving a community, the real work of a law enforcement agency is crisis management.  We show up on the worst day of your life and try, in some small way, to make things better.

That’s an extremely tall task – and because most of the ‘problem solving’ arrows in our quiver consist of taking someone to jail – we’re often misunderstood, if not openly maligned.

In August 1992, I was deployed to South Florida under state mutual aid agreements in support of recovery efforts in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Andrew.  I led a group of five officers assigned to the Liberty City area of Northwest Dade County.

It was during this important work that I first became interested in the command and control strategies of emergency management operations – a fascinating and highly dynamic function that combines a variety of skills across the public safety spectrum.

In 1996, I was accepted to the prestigious Federal Bureau of Investigation’s National Academy at Quantico, Virginia.  The National Academy prides itself on admitting only the top one-half of one percent of law enforcement officers internationally by nomination.

How I was accepted to this elite program can only be explained as a clerical error – regardless, it remains a mystery.

The National Academy allowed me to work and train with colleagues from around the world on issues of great importance.  The closer we became, the clearer it was that police officers the world over face essentially the same basic issues. (Through a foreign colleague, I also learned that the enhanced interrogation techniques used on suspected kidnappers in the Philippines are very different than those we employ in the United States. . .)

Later in my career I was fortunate to attend the Department of Homeland Security/FEMA National Emergency Training Center at Emmetsburg, Maryland.  An extraordinary campus located near beautiful Catoctin Mountain and the Presidential Retreat at Camp David.

This incredibly advanced training environment provides first responders, emergency managers, elected officials and tribal governments the opportunity to learn and exercise state-of-the-art disaster management and response techniques.

I continued to study the emergency management discipline and ultimately earned the FEMA Advanced Career Development Certificate through the Emergency Management Institute.

Studying techniques in a controlled environment is one thing – putting them to practical use is something else.

I had the opportunity to respond to a variety of natural disasters over the years, including the 1998 Florida Fire Storms; then responsibility for commanding law enforcement operations during the 2004 Atlantic Hurricane Season, which resulted in three Presidential disaster declarations in two months.

I also had the great honor of serving as Chairman of the Volusia/Flagler Police Chief’s Associations Standardized Emergency Management Protocol Committee for multi-jurisdictional incident command.

During the City of Holly Hill’s response to unprecedented flooding in May 2009 – a disaster that resulted in yet another Presidential disaster declaration – I was assigned as Incident Commander with additional responsibility for logistical planning and operational support for a regional FEMA Disaster Recovery Center.

Later, I was appointed as Chief of Police and also served as the City’s Emergency Management Coordinator with responsibility for the development and maintenance of response, contingency, and continuity of operations plans and the strategic command and control of emergency response and recovery operations.

Based upon this training and operational experience, I became eligible for the Florida Professional Emergency Manager designation through the Florida Emergency Preparedness Association – a title that requires compilation of an exhaustive peer-reviewed training and operational portfolio.

The point of this weird resume review is to show you that the City of Holly Hill spent a ton of time and money to provide me with a solid base of knowledge to best serve the citizens of my community during mass threats to their safety.

I never forgot that – and I never will.

Although I retired as Chief of Police in the spring of 2014, I was very honored to remain active with the agency as a Reserve Police Officer, a sworn position that requires I maintain the same training and certifications as all full-time personnel.

So, when a Category 4 buzz saw was barreling down on the community that provided me with literally everything I have, or ever will have, I knew where I would be for the duration of the storm.

I wanted desperately for everyone to be safe.  I wanted the community to survive what could have been a devastating blow to life and property – and most of all, I wanted to know that the team I left behind when I retired was up to the task of serving and protecting during the worst-of-the-worst.

During the response to Hurricane Matthew, I was honored to serve in the field providing operational support and law enforcement services before, during, and immediately after the storm.

I learned a lot about myself – mostly that I’m not a young officer anymore, in more ways than one.

But the most important thing I learned is that when they were tested to the maximum – the very imminent threat of a major Category 3 hurricane less than 100 miles away – the administration and staff of the City of Holly Hill performed with incredible dedication and perseverance to provide second-to-none emergency response and recovery operations.

Anytime you relinquish control of something you care deeply about, you have a lingering worry that perhaps the “new” person in charge won’t pay as much attention as you did.

Those fears were immediately and forever purged from my mind when I observed the incredible leadership and stability under pressure demonstrated by Holly Hill Police Chief Stephen Aldrich, Deputy Chief Jeffrey Miller, Lieutenant Chris Yates, and Fire Chief James Bland.

They conducted themselves as true professionals and provided outstanding command and control of emergency operations during dangerous and difficult conditions.

Most important, the courageous first responders of the Holly Hill Police and Fire Department put themselves in harm’s way, staying out in the elements responding to calls for service far beyond what was safe.  They are incredibly inspiring and remain my personal heroes.

In addition, the unsung crews of the Public Works Department were at their very best, and quite literally prevented catastrophe on several occasions under the expert guidance of Director Mark Juliano.

I also want to mention the extraordinary leadership of City Manager Joe Forte – a former fire chief who so adroitly handled the comprehensive management of both city government and emergency operations with such incredible precision and professionalism.

To say that I am proud of Mr. Forte’s contributions to the community is an understatement, and I am so blessed to call him my friend.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that somewhere during 32-sleepless hours of working with these professionals among the howling wind, destruction and torrential rain, I was finally able to mentally pass the baton – to stop worrying – and come to the realization that the young men and women I left in charge when I retired are more capable, adept and mentally equipped than I ever was.

These fine men and women more than passed the ultimate test – and they have earned my enduring respect and admiration.

I cannot tell you how proud I am of these incredible professionals.

God bless all first responders, and those who serve in the center of the maelstrom every day to ensure that others may live.

 

Photo Credit: The Daytona Beach News-Journal

 

Here in coastal northeast Florida, we face the potentially devastating effects of Hurricane Matthew beginning as early as tomorrow evening.  Rushing your personal hurricane preparedness measures to conclusion is extremely important.

During my professional career, I received the Florida Professional Emergency Manager designation and have served as incident commander for response and recovery operations during three hurricanes and unprecedented flooding in eastern Volusia County.

As much as I harp on the foibles of government – emergency management is something our local, county and state officials do extremely well.  Please stay tuned to local media outlets for official information regarding potential evacuations and other lifesaving preparedness measures.

Remember – it is never too early to evacuate if you live on the barrier island or in flood prone areas.  In fact, leaving before evacuation orders are issued can help you avoid heavy traffic congestion and long delays.

Please remember the Five P’s of Evacuation:

People/Pets:

Consider the needs of each member of your family – especially young children and persons with special needs.  Pets are family too – make sure your furry friends evacuate safely with you.  Many shelters accept pets – please remember shot records, leashes, pet food and bowls.    

Prescriptions:  

Prescriptions, with dosages; medicines; medical equipment; batteries or power cords; eyeglasses; and hearing aids.   

Papers:

Important papers and documents (including hard copies and/or electronic copies saved on external hard drives or thumb drives.)

Personal Needs:

Personal needs – such as clothes, food, water, first-aid kits, cash, phones and electronics chargers – and items for people with disabilities, children, older adults and those with limited English proficiency.  Pet food and bowls.        

Priceless Items:

Priceless items, including a few pictures, irreplaceable mementos, and extremely valuable items.

When you return:

Only return home when authorities say that it is safe to do so.

If your home sustained structural damage – do not enter – and avoid entering any structure that is surrounded by flood water.

Never touch downed electrical lines or damaged equipment or appliances until you are certain that utilities have been shut off.

Never use lanterns, torches, open flame or matches to examine damaged buildings – always use flashlights and keep extra batteries available.

Carbon monoxide kills. Use a generator or other gasoline-powered machine ONLY outdoors and away from windows so fumes do not get inside. The same goes for camping stoves. Fumes from charcoal are also deadly; cook with charcoal ONLY outdoors.

Avoid wading in floodwater, which may be contaminated with oil, gasoline, or raw sewage.

Watch for dangerous debris (e.g., broken glass, metal fragments), dead animals, or venomous snakes in floodwaters.

Before walking through debris, check for hidden dangers.

Underground or downed power lines may electrically charge the water.

Care for yourself and each other:

Look for signs of depression or anxiety related to this experience, such as feeling physically and mentally drained; having difficulty making decisions or staying focused; becoming easily frustrated on a more frequent basis; feeling tired, sad, numb, lonely, or worried; or experiencing changes in appetite or sleep patterns. After the storm, seek help from local mental health providers if you detect these signs in yourself or others.

Most of all, remain calm and help yourself, your family, and your neighbors prepare for this potentially catastrophic weather event.

If you live on the coast – or in an area prone to flooding – consider evacuating now.

Getting to a shelter just a few miles inland can make a big difference.

Remember – we will get through this together.

God Bless.

 

 

 

 

“Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants; electric light the most efficient policeman.”

Justice Louis Brandeis

As a recovering government employee, I read and interpret things differently than others.

I suppose it’s much like an illusionist watching a magic show – when you know the mechanics of the tricks and understand how the practitioner manipulates reality for a desired outcome – it becomes an exercise in judging the performance, rather than being mystified by the magician’s sleight of hand.

As regular readers of this forum know, I have very little regard for elected and appointed public officials, or parasitic political insiders, who intentionally manipulate our sacred system of governance for their own self-interests.

Please understand, I’m not talking about honest mistakes.

Government has far too many moving parts to get it right every time.  God knows I made my fair share of errors and omissions – episodes that still make me cringe when I think about them.  But I always tried to keep my good call/bad call ratio at about 60-40 – and I was blessed with a very forgiving community who knew my heart was pure and in the right place.

The civil service is a hard dollar, even on a good day.

You take near constant criticism from carping boors like me, and everybody has a hard opinion on how you could have done things better, cheaper, more efficiently.  The fact is, most public servants – and even some elected officials – are extremely hardworking, dedicated and very smart people who carry out their duties with a pure commitment to values-based service.

Unfortunately, on occasion, the stars align in some weird celestial improbability and you find yourself in a dark time and place where nothing makes sense.  Up is down.  Down is up.  White is Black – and it seems like you’re watching a never ending game of “Can you top this?”

Of course, I’m talking about the Debacle in Debary – an avaricious shit-storm of controversy, human greed and base treachery set in a quaint riverside community in West Volusia.

The fetid stench of this horrific mess has left even hardened political observers queasy and off their feed.

In August, four members of the current city council completed the circuit wired months earlier by the misogynistic power-monger and personally disgraced former city manager Dan Parrott, when they voted unanimously to oust duly elected Mayor Clint Johnson.

You know the story.  The ceremonial elected head of the community had very strong opinions on the myriad issues facing the City of DeBary – and to say he was outspoken is an understatement.

He frequently took to social media to vent his frustrations, air his thoughts and foster a useful dialog with his constituency.

The Mayor’s openness, limpidity, and personal commitment to the highest ideals of participatory governance flew in the face of a city administration that was actively attempting to hide the fact that they were engaged in a sleazy deal to develop 102-acres of sensitive conservation lands as part of a much larger transit-oriented development adjacent to the SunRail depot.

If they were successful, the right people stood to make a lot of money.

The city’s utter lack of transparency in that now exposed disaster has resulted in an active criminal investigation by the Office of the State Attorney and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement – complaints to the United States Attorney for the Middle District of Florida – and suspicions of abject quid pro quo corruption by the powerful chairman of the St. Johns River Water Management District’s governing board, the secret influence of mysterious developers, and the possible complicity of certain city staff members continue to swirl.

I’m not going to rehash it.  It hurts my head, and besides, the circumstances of that screw-job are well established.

If you’ve been in a medically induced coma for the past several months, please come up to speed with the outstanding investigative reporting of the Daytona Beach News-Journal’s intrepid Dinah Voyes-Pulver – and you can find my goofy opinions on the topic here at Barker’s View.

Suffice it to say that things came to a head for Mayor Johnson when Dan Parrott and the depraved city attorney, Kurt Ardaman, cobbled together a list of self-described “charter violations” which, after many fits and starts, they prosecuted in a ridiculously orchestrated kangaroo court comprised of a hired-gun outside attorney (who did his best to keep his supper down) and the four remaining elected officials sitting in the supercilious role of judge, jury, executioner – and hypocritical co-conspirators.

At the end of the day, four ostensibly smart people openly voted to amputate the people’s duly elected mayor on the flimsy evidence of a few tweets and the warped “testimony” of the city’s pitiful records manager, Eric Frankton, and the congenitally corrupt TOD “marketing director,” Roger Van Auker.

It was the most bizarre tribunal ever witnessed in the annals of quasi-judicial shams – and the word “DeBary” will soon be adopted by Henry Campbell Black’s law dictionary as the unabridged legal definition of hypocrisy.

Now, this utterly farcical council has directed interim City Manager Ron McLemore (who is rapidly burrowing himself into this controversy like the sycophantic little Guinea worm he is) to contact the State Attorney regarding possible criminal charges against Mayor Johnson for his refusal to release records staffers and council members are seeking.

My God.  These people have completely lost the capacity for shame.  How much more of the taxpayer’s money are they willing to piss away to personally persecute and humiliate Clint Johnson?

Perverse.

But the worm is beginning to turn.

Last week Mayor Johnson’s attorney, the bright and aggressive Volusia County councilman Doug Daniels, filed an elegantly constructed Petition for Writ of Certiorari in Circuit Court seeking judicial review and reversal of this low-rent travesty.

In summary, Mr. Daniels rightly holds that:

“DeBary interpreted its charter prohibitions so broadly as to include speech routinely required of elected officials, speech necessary to make policy and hold the city staff accountable.  It violated Johnson’s right to free speech under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution and his rights to due process and equal protection under the Fourteenth Amendment.  Perhaps worse, it made it yet more difficult for DeBary citizens to hold its troubled city government accountable.”

Just reading this restored my faith in the system.  My mood has taken a drastic turn for the better.

It won’t be long now before an actual jurist has the opportunity to get their mind – and the law – around this rotten turd and reverse the damage to the extent possible.

These jabbering fools on the city council are about to learn that the whole dynamic of the game changes when the Piñata hits back.

The sad reality is that, when all is said and done, the citizens of DeBary will be left holding a crippling – and totally avoidable – bill for massive legal fees, as their treacherous city attorney lines his pockets, and those of his friends at select law firms on the tree lined streets of old Winter Park.

If anyone thinks this is over – hide and watch.

As Robert Burton said, “He who goes to the law takes a wolf by the ears” – a sage proverb the powers-that-be in DeBary are about to learn firsthand.

If nothing else, perhaps the good people of DeBary can forever use this catastrophe as the ne plus ultra example of how a criminally bent city manager, a few greed-crazed staff members, and a compromised and complicit council can change the soul of a once proud and progressive community forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My grandfather was a wise old sage.

He was born in “Bloody Harlan” County, Kentucky, at a dark place called Cranks Creek, near the confluence of Martin’s Fork to be exact, not long after the turn of the last century.

His grandfather, George Washington “Wash” Smith, was forced to move the family across the Cumberland into Lee County, Virginia, following a bitter feud with the Cawood clan – a deadly quarrel that began as a festering dispute over local partisan politics related to the infamous Turner-Howard Feud.

The Smiths were Republicans – the Cawoods, Democrats.  And they were all crazy.

It all started when a long removed uncle of mine, Noble Smith, shot and killed his 22-year old brother-in-law, Charlie Cawood, in a general store where whiskey was sold and drunk over a plank counter.

It seems Charlie Cawood, a man with a bad disposition who hated the GOP, was drinking heavily when he reached down, grabbed his young son, and stood him up on the bar.  He made the boy dance like a rooster – flapping his arms and stomping about – then encouraged the child openly denounce the Republican Party.

Everyone laughed.  Except my Uncle Noble.

Words were exchanged and Noble ordered Charlie to leave the bar and not return.  Local historians say that, although Charlie left, he returned a few minutes later having armed himself.

That’s when my uncle picked up his 1873 Winchester and killed ol’ Charlie in the doorway.

Noble didn’t say a word – just raised his rifle and fired – then collected his orphaned nephew and went home.

Due, in part, to the politics of the day, Noble was acquitted of murder following a trial at London, Kentucky.   The newspaper reported the following:

 “When we went to press last week the case of Noble Smith for the murder of Charlie Cawood, in Harlan County, was on trial. Nine speeches were made in the case for the Commonwealth and five for the defense. Friday the Jury came in with a verdict of acquittal, and Smith was discharged from custody.”

Unfortunately, the outcome didn’t help and the bad blood thickened.  Ultimately, Uncle Noble took his family and moved west to Washington State where they prospered in logging and timber.

The rest of the Smith kinfolk moved deep into Lee County where they established a farm and homestead in the White Shoals area of the Powell River Valley near present day Rose Hill.

The family farm was located on bottomland at the end of a very rough wagon trail, not a road really, constructed primarily of smooth grey flat river rocks.  The rutted path wound through the woods past the entrance to a system of karsts and caverns which were used to hide troops and cattle during the Civil War.

By design, the land they settled was so inaccessible, so hidden away, that if it had not been for the advent of the Tennessee Valley Authority, I’m not sure my people would have ever been found.  I’m convinced that World Wars could have been fought, depressions and recessions could come and go, and my great grandparents would never have known until they brought their burley tobacco to market and overheard the news from other farmers.

I have a small, well-worn leather pouch that belonged to my great grandfather, Creed Smith.

Inside is a silver, quarter-sized dried fish scale – perhaps a good luck piece – a few coins, and a paper ledger. The old man and his mule would plow neighboring fields and he would record the cash transactions in the journal.

He always charged more for the mule than for himself.

Eventually, my grandparents packed up their young daughter and hauled her out of an old wooden cabin in the Virginia backwoods for jobs building the great hydroelectric dams at Norris and Fontana.

When my grandmother got tired of traveling with the TVA, they ultimately settled in Kingsport, Tennessee, where I was born and spent a great deal of time in the company of my grandfather.

Both of my maternal grandparents had a unique way with the language, and I learned a lot about life from their humorous homespun euphemisms.  They were from a different time and place and it showed.

In fact, when my grandmother – who was one of the funniest women I have ever known – would write a letter, she used the old English “ye” rather than “you” in her correspondence.  She never quite learned to pronounce the word “pizza” – and always answered the telephone with a drawn out, “Aw-right?”

When I would try and good-naturedly correct her, she would say, “Honey, hush.”

My “Granny” talked constantly, told funny stories with a flourish, and found humor in just about every situation.  In the late afternoon, we would often sit in a long wooden swing on her front porch while she shelled peas or stringed beans, giggling and talking as her arthritic fingers worked her “mess of beans.”

I can honestly say, I haven’t laughed quite as hard at anything since she passed – a wonderful spirit.

On the other hand, my grandfather was a very quiet man, although with a great sense of humor, who taught me valuable lessons with his old-timey mannerisms, ways and sayings.

For instance, he would always give me his spare change which I carried around in a little hand-me-down squeeze purse he gave me.  Whenever I would build up a nest egg, granddaddy would carry me downtown to a small newsstand on Broad Street where I would buy a “poke full” of candy – a box of popcorn that erupted all golden, hissing and popping, from an ancient, oily machine that filled the entire street with that wonderful salty/buttery aroma – and a short bottle of cold “Co-cola” for far less than a dollar.

The wonderful singer-songwriter Nanci Griffith once described the smell of a Woolworth store like, “popcorn and chewing gum rubbed around on the bottom of a leather-soled shoe.”

That’s what Wallace News smelled like.

While I thumbed through the magazines and perused the candy rack, my granddad would sometimes play the machines at the back of the store.  Later in life I realized that those “pinball” machines were probably more than just a time-and-dime waster.

On occasion, when I was really flush, I would pick out an additional comic book or two – maybe drop a nickel in the slot and take another ride on “Champion” the buckskin mechanical pony (with a real leather saddle) that went up-and-down and back-and-forth on the sidewalk just outside.

My grandfather would look down at me and warn, in that thick southwestern Virginia drawl, “Son, you’re going through your money like shit through a goose.”

Naturally, when I got back to the house I would burst through the back screen door and repeat my new found aphorism to my grandmother.  In turn, she would act shocked and admonish that I, “Ought not talk ugly,” threatening that if I did she would have to “cut me a switch.”

She never did – and it was always obvious from his mischievous smile that my grandfather was secretly proud of the fact that he had added to my growing vocabulary in such a meaningful way.

I was thinking about my salty primary education the other day while reading the Daytona Beach News-Journal’s coverage of the Volusia County Council “making good” on their promise to give the International Speedway Corporation a down payment of $12 million in public funds on a total commitment of some $20 million for the One Daytona complex.

That’s $5 million cash – we’re going to borrow the rest.

The more I read, the angrier I got – and the good Lord knows my grandmother would not have been happy with the “ugly talk” that filled the room.

Our own county chair – and forth stooge – Jason Davis, was quoted as saying, “You go by today and tomorrow it’s changed.”

Yep.  That’s the way those government-funded construction projects seem to go, Jason.

See, Auntie Lesa tells you how much of our money she needs, then those guys with the big Tonka trucks build things that benefit her family.

Now, put your cowboy hat on and let’s go get ice cream.

Tragic.

In other news, last month the County Council agreed unanimously to continue its $250,000 membership with Team Volusia, and signed off on budgets totaling some $13.4 million for the county’s three – count’em – tourism advertising agencies.

Did I mention the $1.5 million we handed to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University?

We’re told it’s to bailout struggling startups who find themselves short on cash at the university’s new “research park” – which is, apparently, another name for a place where folks gamble on their unproven ideas with your money.

Also, County Manager Jim Dinneen recommended approving the sale of public property valued at $800,000 to ERAU for the obscene half-price of $400,000.

Just gave it away to their friends at the Harvard of the Sky.

Oh, don’t let me forget, county officials are all set to vote on their proposed $849 million budget – that’s right, EIGHT-HUNDRED-FORTY-NINE-MILLION DOLLARS – which, naturally, includes a tax increase.

Not to mention the Volusia County School Board who just adopted an $852 million operating budget.  Like board member Linda Cuthbert said, “That’s a lot of money!”

Thanks for your insight and elucidation, Linda.

(Does someone help these people with their communications – or do they just blurt out the painfully obvious like victims of delayed echolalia or a child learning to talk?)

Not to fear, County Manager Jim Dinneen has a “plan” – it’s called Little Jimmy’s “Go to Zero by 2018.”

I’m not sure if Dinneen means he wants zero debt by 2018 – or he plans to spend every last dollar until all accounts hit zero?

“It’s about cost control because we can get out of shape really quick and really fast,” Dinneen told the News-Journal’s editorial board.  “It has to do with fiscal discipline.”

(Sorry.  I just snorted coffee through my nose and threw-up in my mouth a little.)

Let’s talk more about “Go to Zero” later, shall we?

After reading of Mr. Dinneen and our elected officials weird idea of “fiscal discipline,” I was once again reminded of my grandfather’s prescient warning – we truly are going through money like shit through a goose – and I don’t think that poor, diarrheal bird’s bowels are going to tighten up anytime soon.

 

 

 

 

 

“Government is instituted for the common good; for the protection, safety, prosperity, and happiness of the people; and not for profit, honor, or private interest of any one man, family, or class of men…”

 John Adams, 1776

As a casual observer of regional politics and governance, what I enjoy most is determining how seemingly disconnected people, events, and issues come together to form the whole.

Deciphering the interesting personal and professional relationships of the players – and the money.

In many ways it’s like working an intricate jigsaw puzzle, except you keep the jagged pieces floating around in your head, then use those random parts to solve a three-dimensional brainteaser.

Initially, you may have more theories and speculation than hard answers, then, suddenly, another fragment will come into play and the whole dynamic changes.

It’s like Hercule Poirot contemplating a whodunit.  Except, I’m not as smart as Inspector Poirot – I still have to ask myself the difficult questions. . .

By any measure, Mortenza “Mori” Hosseini has mastered the art of controlling his environment.

In fact, one might say that Mr. Hosseini is the Political Picasso of this time and place – the King of the Realm – someone who casts a very wide (and some say, dark) shadow over national, state and local affairs.

For many years, residents of Volusia County have quietly accepted the fact that we are governed not by a representative democracy in Deland, but rather a “Benevolent Dictatorship,” ruled by the big three plutocrats – Mr. Hosseini, Hyatt Brown and the France family.

We have watched as they bought and sold our elected officials like chattel, stood by as our elections were artificially manipulated by the infusion of unnaturally large sums of cash, and quietly worried as Mr. Hosseini used his vast wealth to purchase increasingly greater political influence; ultimately becoming the most powerful person in the State of Florida.

If you have political ambitions in Volusia County, wish to serve in elective office, or on a governing or advisory board in this state – even receive appointment to a judgeship – you will be required to prostrate yourself before the High Panjandrum of Political Power and ask for, well, his permission.

You see, unless you are anointed, your chances of participating in our “democratic” system of governance in any meaningful way is slim to none.

Mr. Hosseini is president and CEO of ICI Homes, one of the largest residential home builders in the United States.  An incredibly successful developer with diverse business interests.

In addition, he is an alumnus of Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, where he currently serves as the powerful chairman of the university’s Board of Trustees.

In April, a dozen current and former members of ERAU’s Student Government Association issued an open letter – accompanied by a petition containing some 1,500 signatures – questioning the motives behind Chairman Hosseini’s altruism, his “outsize influence,” and the “cronyism and conflicts of interest” engaged in by some sitting members of the board.

In summarizing their very real concerns, the former SGA members wrote:

“The board should not be the personal playground of those seeking buildings named after them.  Nor should it be a vehicle for trustees simply along for the ride, padding their bios with a board seat.  It should be an honor and a privilege that comes with great responsibility – and accountability.”

Understand, this took some chutzpah – the students and faculty have been nothing short of courageous.  After all, you don’t strike out at the king without damn good reason.

During this internal brouhaha, we also learned that between 2010 and 2012, ERAU paid more than $1.5 million to Hosseini-owned companies in lease payments for office space, utility costs, and aircraft charter services, “at fair value in the ordinary course of business.”

Indeed.

I guess the ERAU alumni were right – perhaps Mori’s motives weren’t so philanthropic after all.

Last week, in an insightful article by the Daytona Beach News-Journal entitled, “ERAU presidential search draws faculty fire,” we learn that Mr. Hosseini’s reign is again being openly challenged for the second time in five months.

Now, professors and staff faculty members are showing their displeasure over the board’s heavy-handed process for selecting the university’s next president.  In fact, the faculty senate recently took the board to the woodshed – issuing an unprecedented vote of no confidence – the most powerful statement of disapproval available to faculty members.

We now have alumni, the student body and the faculty calling for a change in leadership and direction – talk about a crossroads moment with max pucker-factor for all involved.

Most colleges and universities use a system known as “shared governance” where faculty, administrators and the board work collaboratively and share in the decision-making process.  At ERAU, Mori operates by the only method he knows – he stacks the deck with board members so the outcome of the presidential search becomes a foregone conclusion.

Now, here’s where things get interesting – at least for me:

In early August, Mr. Hosseini and interim university president Karen Holbrook, came before the Volusia County Council and asked for (read: Ordered) $1.5 million in public funds, ostensibly to be used to assist companies using ERAU’s new research park who need additional startup funds.

According to the News-Journal’s report, “In addition to the $1.5 million requested from the county, ERAU board chairman Mori Hosseini and interim president Karen Holbrook asked to buy county-owned land located at the southeast corner of the intersection of Clyde Morris Boulevard and Bellevue Avenue. The land is valued at $800,000, but school officials offered half, or $400,000. The school district uses part of that land now and County Manager Jim Dinneen anticipates, if approved, it taking a few years before the sale is finalized.”

Little Jimmy Dinneen.  That dirty scumbag lies to us even when the truth would serve him better.

It seems Dinneen’s “a few years” turned into little more than one-month when an item recommending approval of the sale of the county-owned “B-1 Barn” property at Clyde Morris and Bellevue to ERAU suddenly appeared on the Volusia County Council’s September 22, 2016 agenda.

The recommended sale price: $400,000 – just what Boss Hosseini ordered.

Of course, the half-price, bargain basement sale of public property to a private concern (whose former president was making well over a million dollars annually) was unanimously approved by the county council.

Now, I’m just speculating here – not making accusations, mind you – just asking a question:

Didn’t we learn in April that Mori Hosseini took somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.5 million dollars out of Embry-Riddle in the form of “office space, utilities and aircraft charter services” associated with university operations?

And isn’t that the exact amount – among other financial concessions – Mori asked for and received from Volusia County, ostensibly for incentives related to the ERAU research park?

So, when the music stops, the only one left without a chair is us – the taxpaying citizens of Volusia County.

Everyone is whole – except us?

Am I missing something?

Is it possible that this perverted Three-Card-Monte scam has become so prevalent and so lucrative that they don’t even try to hide it from us anymore?

As I’ve said before, the students and faculty of ERAU have something important to say, and in my view, they deserve to be heard.  They are living in a microcosm of what the rest of us deal with everyday.  The difference being, we pay for it in exorbitant fees and taxes – while the students fund it with their outrageous tuition.

I have a feeling this won’t end well – at least for those courageous faculty members and students who had the guts to point out the obvious.

And it won’t end well for the rest of us either.

So long as we continue to elect candidates who are bought and openly controlled by uber-wealthy political insiders, we will get what we deserve.

 

 

They say the more things change, the more they stay the same.

For instance, historians tell us that during a scorching week way back in July 64 A.D., a huge fire ravaged Rome.  Some 70 percent of the city was gutted and over half the population was left homeless.

It was, by all accounts, a disaster of epic proportion.

Depending upon who you believe, Nero, the fifth Emperor of Rome – who’s reign was marked by lavish personal luxuries and tyrannical, self-centered, rule – either started the fire for his own sinister motives, or he was the hero who quickly organized fire control measures and humanitarian relief efforts to assist the thousands whose homes and businesses were destroyed.

Regardless, as with most of Roman history, this episode didn’t end well for Emperor Nero.

He became so unpopular and distrusted that a few years later he was declared an enemy of the state and committed suicide by thrusting a dagger through his own throat.

Because I have been psychologically programmed through near constant negative reinforcement, I instinctively distrust most politicians.  As a result, I tend to believe the popular fable that has Nero arrogantly entertaining himself by playing a fiddle (a “lyre” to be historically correct) while the conflagration consumed the city.

Yet, old Nero lives on in infamy – his entire time in power remembered for one colossal screw-up.

In fact, the tale has become so popular that the phrase “fiddling while Rome burns” has come to exemplify politicians who focus on trivial matters while neglecting significantly more serious threats.

Sound familiar?

I was reminded of this allegory last week while reading the Daytona Beach News-Journal’s interesting article, “Mushroom Motorhomes?  Volusia chair pushes to loosen law against plugging in RVs.”   

In short, our own Mad Hatter, Volusia County Council Chairman Jason Davis, recently proposed that the full council make changes to the current ordinance prohibiting owners of recreational vehicles from connecting to water, sewer, or electricity – or generally using the vehicle for residential purposes – except in a designated RV park.

Why?

Well, because one improbable interpretation of the ordinance might adversely affect Mr. Davis.

Oh, and his brother.

Everyone – and I mean everyone – realizes that the intent of the ordinance is to prohibit your neighbor’s Uncle Eddie from parking his mint green 1972 Condor II in the driveway, dumping the “shitter” in the storm drain, and generally establishing homestead.

Besides, it’s a non-issue.  According to the News-Journal, at best, code enforcement fields about 20 complaints a year countywide – all for people living in motorhomes outside designated parks.

My point is – who gives a damn?

I write, ad nauseum, about the cancerous blight and dysfunction that threatens the vitality and progress of our core economic drivers; I bitch incessantly about critical issues, such as homelessness, crime, environmental debacles and unchecked spending, problems that are virtually ignored – or simply kicked down the road while the corrosive effects are allowed to fester – openly and publicly – for everyone to see and feel.

All while we wait for our elected officials to act.  To do something.  Anything.

We wait, dumbstruck, while ostensibly bright people look to the sky, waiting breathlessly for the next great silver bullet – that one real estate developer that will lead us out of this troubled place like a great visionary Pharaoh of Progress.

We wait, as our public infrastructure is left to crumble.

We wait, as our water supply dwindles, and more recharge areas are destroyed by development.

We wait, as our beach is pushed further and further out of reach – physically and financially – with exorbitant entrance fees for families and visitors in vehicles.

We wait, as our disastrous county manager, Jim Dinneen, lectures that we can no longer afford transportation infrastructure while he openly carts $300,000 in taxpayer dollars out of the county coffers each year in obscene compensation for his dedicated service to a few political insiders and influence peddlers.

We wait, while our county council literally gives away tens of millions in public funds to private special interests, as homeless people are physically pushed onto a vacant lot with two water spigots and a portable toilet.

We wait, while Mr. Davis has the audacity to waste precious time and resources modifying an RV ordinance so he and his brother can periodically vent their musty play toys. . .

I could go on – but I won’t.

Like me, you live it every day – I’m preaching to the choir.

After all, this isn’t the first time Mr. Davis has gone off the reservation.

Anyone remember his fateful trip to Washington for what the rest of the council thought was a simple request for transportation funds?

Instead, out-of-the-blue, he went to the Capitol and concocted his own kooky plan to have SunRail make a sharp right turn north of DeBary, then follow State Road 472 and across I-4 – where another station would be constructed – then along I-4 to the Volusia County Fairgrounds – where yet another station would be built – then northeast, across I-95, finally terminating at a third station at the Daytona Beach International Airport?

Hell, at the end of the day, he can’t even get a few miles of track to connect the City of Deland.

How about his ridiculous request that the full council vote to support his strange get-rich-quick scheme du jour which would have him and a friend clean-up the Mosquito Lagoon with something he called, “Reef Balls”?

Oh, there was that time he submitted “suggestions” to the Charter Review Committee which would not only permit the county chair to submit tie-breaking votes in private – but would also provide Mr. Davis with a 67% percent pay raise, bringing his annual salary to some $85,000.00.

Remember?  Anyone?

Well, I do.

One might think that in the waning moments of his ill-fated reign, Mr. Davis might at least attempt to leave things slightly better than he found them – to make some effort in the public interest.

You know, the whole “legacy” thing?

Something other than being forever remembered as a double-crossing, ineffectual cartoon character in a goofy bush hat and ill-fitting suit who presided over perhaps the most embarrassing chapter in Volusia County history.

Please don’t think for one minute that the heir apparent, Ed Kelley, is any better.

He’s worse – by a long shot.

If you don’t believe that Ed Kelley will use the full might and treasure of government to serve his own interests – and those of his friends – look no further than his rule in the City of Ormond Beach.

The difference is – Jason Davis is congenitally stupid.

Ed Kelley is something else altogether.

He’s a mean-spirited perennial politician who is wholly bought and paid for by the same wealthy insiders that have controlled this county like a private fiefdom for years.

Stupidity you can educate – unchecked ambition and political aggression is something completely different.

Be aware of that when making your own Sophie’s Choice this November.

How does Chairman Davis’ effort to change the RV ordinance benefit you and I?

It doesn’t.

What it does is underscore the fact that the County of Volusia continues to treat it’s constituents like mushrooms:

They keep us in the dark and feed us bullshit.

 

Photo Credit: The Daytona Beach News-Journal

 

 

Government, in its purest form, provides for and protects the welfare of its electorate – not the self-interests of its practitioners.

An institution where representatives are elected to high office by their fellow citizens to exercise legitimate authority and provide effective leadership in furtherance of the community’s collective needs.

Quality government is marked by oversight, accountability, collaboration, an institutional respect for the rules, and efficient stewardship of its resources.  It ensures that political and economic goals are based upon consensus – which requires that all views be heard and weighed equally during the decision making process.

Most of all, good government requires strict adherence to the basic doctrines and democratic principles that form the very foundation of our Constitutional Republic.

In recent weeks I have been criticized by a few unfortunate residents of the City of DeBary for speaking out on the myriad problems facing the community – a small minority who still believe that a good old fashioned coup d’etat is still the best means of manipulating political change.

“Don’t listen to him!  He doesn’t live here!”

Your right, I don’t.

But when did living in the city limits of DeBary become a prerequisite for having an opinion on the ghastly form of governance the elected and appointed officials have foisted on the people there?

I’ve never lived in Mogadishu, but I understand the macro effect of how what happens in Somalia can have a direct impact our lives and livelihoods here in the United States.

Public corruption, transparency, respect for the rule of law and basic accountability to those who are affected by the actions of the elected body directly relate to the stability of the community, the region, and beyond.

I equate DeBary and the other municipalities in Volusia County to a group of people sitting quietly in a restaurant while one guest at the table acts out inappropriately, screaming and fighting like a recalcitrant child, throwing food, pocketing silverware and generally being sloppy.

It’s beyond embarrassing because it paints the entire dinner party in an unfavorable light.

On a good day, the DeBary city council operates like some weird third world junta – relying almost exclusively on a poorly constructed and extremely malleable “city charter” that is interpreted as the group of four sees fit by what passes for a “city attorney.”

If you don’t like what the duly elected Mayor has to say – or the manner or means by which he said it – just conjure up some dubious “charter violations” – lend legitimacy by hiring yet another attorney to prosecute a bizarre “forfeiture hearing” – then launch the people’s choice into the political stratosphere like a Saturn 5.

Damn the Florida statutes governing the recall of elected officials.

Damn the basic constitutional protections of free speech and governance of the people, by the people, and for the people.

In DeBary – four misguided council members and a greed-crazed lawyer control everything.  The “charter” is all they recognize.

For all these reasons and more, I was not the least bit surprised when I read in the Daytona Beach News-Journal that the City of DeBary and their preternaturally stupid former city manager, Dan Parrott, was being sued in federal court yet again.

This time by the former City Clerk, Stacy Tebo.

According to her suit, which was filed last week, Tebo was summarily demoted and then fired after she dared to complain of gender discrimination against female municipal employees.

This lawsuit comes on the heels of a similar federal discrimination action filed by former Assistant City Manager Kassandra Blissett.

In March 2015, both Tebo and Blissett filed gender bias complaints with the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission alleging that Parrott implemented a compensation plan that gave the city’s male employees a 12.54% pay raise, while female employees received a 2.13% increase.

Of course, Parrott has denied the claim, telling anyone who will listen that he was merely following a “consultant’s study” that showed male maintenance workers were underpaid – while female administrative employees were not.

How convenient.  How disproportionate, but convenient.

If nothing else, this ugly exercise has exposed the extent to which the use of “consultants” has contributed to the breakdown in our representative form of government.

Elected and appointed officials at all levels of government routinely employ these overpaid pseudo-experts – usually has-been’s with pliable opinions – who serve as the middleman on every decision from employee pay to massive transit oriented developments.

Why?

Because these whiz-bang “authorities” on all things government come with their own asbestos suits – tailor-made to fade the political heat when things go sideways.  Period.

You see, they haven’t been elected or appointed to anything.

Now, I don’t want to paint the entire industry as racketeering charlatans.  Hell, I have close friends who bill themselves as consultants and do a great job of facilitating progress in their respective fields of expertise.  But I suspect even they are vaguely amused at how easy it is to wring green dollars out of the public teat.

Look, how long do you think it would take for the average human resources director to research a regional compensation and benefits analysis and present an accurate in-house report to the decision makers?

You can do a reasonable job just by reviewing readily available open source information or even through a brief phone call to local personnel directors.

Trust me, I know.  I’ve produced highly touted governmental “studies” before lunch, doing little more than cut-and-paste.

But hardened mercenaries like Dan Parrott – administrators who have survived internecine political wars and have the scars to prove it – know the first rule of government service: CYA – Cover Your Ass.

So, they take the cowardly – but extremely safe – route of hiring an outside consultant to “look at the issue.”  Doesn’t really matter what it is – and after all – it’s not their money.

Unfortunately, most of these highly paid “advisers” know which side their bread is buttered on from the moment the contract is awarded – and their initial discussions with the city manager generally tells them all they need to know about the preferred tone, tenor and “direction” that their final recommendations should take.

Let’s face it, in a crowded field, most consultancies understand that independent thinkers are rarely asked back.  They serve, by-and-large, as a rubber stamp – a guy from out-of-town with a briefcase – and they play an incredibly useful purpose to risk-adverse government officials.

Interestingly, I just read where the City of DeBary has hired yet another Winter Park-based consulting firm – Associated Consulting International – ostensibly to tell the city council what types of businesses should be placed around the SunRail depot.

That’s right – $18,000.00 in taxpayer funds to tell us what the city’s highly paid Transient Oriented Development Marketing Director, Roger “Low Profile” Van Auker, should – at the very least – already know.

I mean, Parrott hired him for his institutional knowledge and incredible expertise, right?

Right.

Now, you might remember that in 2015, the DeBary City Council appropriated in excess of $75,000.00 in public funds for an extensive market-based Transit Oriented Development Master Plan which was researched and completed by the mega-planning consultant, Littlejohn.

As I recall, one of the key elements of this incredibly expensive report – which Interim Mayor Lita Handy-Peters now pathetically refers to as the “pretty picture book” – was a market analysis which spelled out in very specific terms the types of businesses one would want in the TOD:

“Demand from residential development within the TOD Core area for neighborhood-oriented retail will attract convenience stores in a village center setting. When a critical mass of development is reached, community-oriented retail will materialize, such as a drug store, grocery, dry cleaners, barber shop, fast casual restaurants, and a bank. Office developments are unlikely to occur in the TOD areas due to the station’s undeveloped, rural setting and distance away from major employment and retail centers. Small-scale office space catering to real estate offices, banks, outpatient and dentist clinics, and other supporting services are more appropriate to establish in the TOD Core area.”

 Now they want to spend an additional $18,000.00?

To tell them what?  The difference between a Domino’s and a Papa Johns?

According the West Volusia Beacon, DeBary’s own Secret Squirrel, Roger Van Auker, is already drumming up some type of business or another in the TOD – even without the all-important ACi study in hand:

 “There is some activity in that TOD right now, but it is confidential right now,” Van Auker continued. “Things are happening, but they cannot be announced right now.”

 So, Rog – you need the eighteen grand feasibility study or you don’t?

I’m soooo confused. . .

I guess it just makes sense that when the chips are down, Dan Parrott instinctively falls behind the shield of yet another consultant’s report.

Dan can hide – but what this treacherous asshole can’t do is dodge his stupid and wholly inappropriate remarks about female employees in the workplace.

“Women don’t think clearly because they are too emotional.”

Speaking of DeBary City Hall, “There’s too much estrogen here.”

Mindboggling, really.

Don’t misunderstand – I knew Dan Parrott was a bungling, wholly incompetent little shitheel – I just didn’t realize what a misogynistic tyrant he was.  In fact, some of his more blatant missteps have caused smart people to question his very mental stability.  There really is no other rational explanation – other than greed, I suppose – the oldest motivator in the human experience.

I’m just spit-balling here, but what do you suppose the chances are that an ill-humored Schweinhund like Dan Parrott – a simpering bully who would demean the service and contribution of women in the workforce, then fire them out-of-hand when they dared to complain about it – would cobble together a few bogus charges against an elected mayor who was asking all the wrong questions?

Am I the only one who could imagine something like that happening?

I hope when these ladies are through with Dan in federal court that he walks like a eunuch the rest of his life.

To those few ostriches who still believe everything’s hunky-dory down in River City, the evidence is beginning to back-up like I-4 at rush-hour – and the putrid stench of political corruption and mean-spirited power mongering is getting too vile and pervasive to ignore.

Note to DeBary residents from the patently obvious file:

A few of your elected and appointed officials are positioning your community for a Grade A Prime screwing by their real estate development friends – while fattening up every law firm and consultancy in Winter Park in the process.  And as long as they can interpret your charter and land development codes any way they damn well want, there’s nothing you can do about it.

Trust me.  You don’t have to live in DeBary to see that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” 

Lao Tzu

When taking a trip – even across town – I find it’s always better to be a traveler than a tourist.

There’s something about driving through new places – or even your own hometown – with a leniency of purpose that slows things down, lets you absorb the surroundings with all your senses and truly experience the essence of a place.

That’s not possible scurrying about on a tourist’s itinerary.  You can’t plan for it; you have to let it happen.

Florida’s Big Bend Scenic Highway takes you east from Apalachicola, over the causeway traversing East Bay, and into the small town of Eastpoint.  While crossing the bridge, we began to notice an increasing number of fluttering objects filling the air, small bodies darting and swooping wildly in the breeze.

We had unexpectedly encountered the early fall migration of the regal Monarch butterfly.

Each fall, thousands of Monarch’s begin their 3,000-mile flight from the United States to winter habitats in Mexico.  The area between St. Marks and Apalachicola is rich with swamp milkweed – apparently the only food source the butterflies will take during their long trip south.

The butterflies become increasingly more prevalent as we drive over the four-mile bridge to St. George Island on Highway 300, the only land-based connection between the mainland of Florida and the natural beauty of this incredible barrier island.

Once you arrive on-island, the first thing you notice is the St. George Lighthouse, complete with its small, weathered keeper’s house, positioned in a picturesque setting that welcomes you to the white dunes and soft sands of St. George.

The current lighthouse is the forth iteration of the structure, which was rebuilt after the original crumbled into the Gulf of Mexico due to the effects of constant beach erosion and a whipping by Hurricane Opal in 1995.

Like most lighthouses, St. George’s has a rich history – that’s part of why I’ve always been fascinated by them.  During the Civil War, the light was extinguished so as not to assist Union naval vessels during their blockade of the bay – and the light’s third order Fresnel lens was taken down and placed in the old oil house for safekeeping.

In 1992, Hurricane Andrew carried away a large section of beach around Cape St. George and the Coast Guard deactivated the light as an active navigational beacon two-years later.

In 2004, the St. George Lighthouse Association, in cooperation with Florida’s Department of Environmental Protection, salvaged bricks and other parts of the lighthouse from the water and opened the beautifully restored lighthouse to the public in 2008.

Today, the site houses a small museum and boutique gift shop in the keeper’s house.

If the beach is your idea of a vacation paradise, then St. George Island should be on your bucket list.

Some 28-miles long and one-mile across at its widest point, the island has a smattering of small beach-themed stores and restaurants (I’m happy to report that no chain stores were evident).

In addition, the island is home to the Dr. Julian G. Bruce State Park offering primitive camping, hiking trails and a variety of “eco-tourism.”

One thing I noticed was the abundance of native dune vegetation, seagrasses and goldenrod, all growing naturally among the flood-stilted vacation rentals that are very prevalent along the island’s southern coast.

Nothing moves fast on St. George Island – including time.

Turning north onto the causeway headed back to the mainland we encountered a group of happy children all bunched together at a porch rail, passing the early afternoon waving wildly and laughing at passing motorists.

As we honked the horn and waved back, the kids screamed in delight, and I thought how that simple surprise so appropriately accented the open and friendly feel of St. George Island.

Continuing east on 98, we encounter the southern edge of Tate’s Hell State Forest, a uniquely named 200,000-acre monument to what happens when man attempts to manipulate nature for his own reward.

In the 1960’s, the ecology of the forest was substantially altered to dry the land for the production of timber and turpentine.  The unintended consequence was massive amounts of freshwater runoff containing phosphorus and nitrogen laden fertilizer into Apalachicola Bay – home to the sensitive oyster beds and abundant fisheries that have sustained the residents of this area since the Creek Indians called it home.

In an effort to protect the Bay’s natural resources, in 1994 the State of Florida began purchasing the majority of the property with Conservation and Recreation Lands (CARL) program funds and continues to acquire additional land for restoration.

At the mouth of the scenic Carrabelle River we come to the small town of, well, Carrabelle.

As we pass a cool little public beach, complete with concrete cabanas, picnic facilities and restrooms, I happen to notice one of those “historical markers” that seem to pop up out of nowhere.

Fearing we may have inadvertently missed the World’s Second Largest Ball of Twine, we turned around and drove back to take a quick look just to satisfy our curiosity, and I’m glad we did.

Interestingly, during World War II the area around Carrabelle was the location of Camp Gordon Johnston – an amphibious training base where the heroes of the U.S. Army’s 4^th Infantry Division practiced for the D-Day invasion of Normandy.

Although the barracks and training facilities are gone, the waters and beachfront between Carrabelle and nearby Dog Island stand as a scenic monument to the brave soldiers of the 4^th Infantry Division who spearheaded the landing on the bloody shores of Utah Beach.

After their successful landing, the men of the Ivy Division fought through the hedgerows of the Cotentin Peninsula on their way to taking the critically important port of Cherbourg, France.

I never knew this place existed.

Continuing to the easternmost part of Franklin County we turn onto the narrow access road leading out to Alligator Point.  This unique ecosystem is dotted with fresh and brackish ponds, slash pine flatwoods, sea oats and stands of cattails and other marsh grasses.

Driving through these pristine wetlands we begin to notice the first real impacts of Hurricane Hermine.

The shoulder of the two-lane roadway was littered with piles of decaying sea-grasses, and we saw the effects of saltwater intrusion on the abundant freshwater plants and succulents due to Hermine’s strong storm surge.

Apparently, the salinity of Alligator Harbor nearly mirrors that of the Gulf of Mexico, and the area is quickly becoming home to a vibrant clam harvest.  As we drive along commercial farming operations are evident in the shallow estuary between the sand spit and the mainland.

Turning west onto Alligator Point we get our first view of Hermine’s damage up close.

Along the coast road, wind-whipped water has completely eroded and undermined the asphalt, leaving large slabs of broken concrete and detached road surface scattered chock-a-block on the shoreline rendering the area completely impassible.

You can tell that it’s a hardy bunch out here, and I have no doubt they will quickly rebuild and restore the infrastructure.  In the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Hermine, a resident of Alligator Point was quoted in the Panama City News-Herald as saying, “We have running water and beer.  We’ll survive.”

My kind of people.

Leaving Alligator Point, we took time to explore Bald Point State Park which encompasses over 4,000 unspoiled acres of upland pine scrub and oak thickets at the confluence of the Ochlocknee and Apalachee Bays.

The park is popular with bird watchers as bald eagles and other raptors call the area home.

Now moving northeast along the Coastal Highway, we pass southeast of Sopchoppy through the tiny unincorporated villages of Panacea and Medart, across the dark waters of the Wakulla River, then right onto Lighthouse Road toward St. Marks.

Originally known as San Marcos de Apalache, the town was founded by the Spanish in the 17^th century and is now home to just 272 people – a ton of boat slips – and two really cool bars.

Pulling into what passes for downtown, essentially where the road plays out, you have a choice of the Cooter Stew Bar and Grill or the aptly named Riverside Café.

At first blush, Cooter Stew’s “Cold Beer – Good Food” is extremely popular with the middle age biker crowd who cruise along the scenic byways of Wakulla County – most of whom can be seen wearing leathers and sporting their various colors, having beers, and passing a really good time at several wrought iron tables outside the establishment’s small porte-cochere.

Instead, we opt for the Riverside Café – a massive Seminole-style, palm-thatched “chickee” expertly constructed of cypress logs and intricately woven fronds.

Given the fact that the restaurant is located directly on the St. Marks River, and Hermine damage was evident all around with docks pushed onshore, wooden walkways uprooted, and boats sitting askew in the weeds – it was clear that this natural construction method weathered the storm better than any other structure on the river.

We stretched our legs and ambled inside the cavernous tiki bar, through the security check announcing that all patrons are subject to search (which told me things can get pretty hot on a Saturday night in St. Marks), and took a seat at one of two bars.

The friendly 20-something bartender was busy mixing a long line of tall, aqua-colored rum concoctions served in quart Mason jars, and directing good-natured jabs at the manager, who later told us it was a family operated business where arguing with your siblings is just one perk of working there.

We quickly downed a couple of cold beers and Marlboro’s – which was just what the doctor ordered following our morning’s travels.

For those who don’t know, my traveling companion and I have been best friends for 50-years now – and that’s a unique achievement given the transient nature of the Halifax area.  We grew-up together, joined the Army together on the old “buddy system,” and served in law enforcement in neighboring departments until our respective retirements.

Through the years and miles, we’ve become family.

Unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for us to “fall off the wagon” at the most inopportune times, and more than once we’ve had to be rescued by our wives after leaving for a quick trip and ending up double-shitfaced at some obscure bar miles from our intended destination.

The stories are legendary.

It was clear we were rapidly slipping past the point-of-no-return when we contemplated shots of George Dickel whiskey as a natural complement to another round of beers.

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and we begrudgingly ended our party before it really got started – leaving St. Marks in the same slightly disheveled, but infinitely welcoming condition that we found it.

 

Next – Part III:  Exploring Steinhatchee via the Fish Creek Road, then on toward home.