Everyone knows the old idiom, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Or, in my case, 1,200 words.  I get insufferably wordy.

According to Wikipedia, the phrase refers to the notion that a complex idea can be conveyed with just a single still image – or that an image conveys its meaning or essence more effectively than a lengthy written description.

Last week, I read an interesting article in the Daytona Beach News-Journal by Eileen Zaffiro-Kean – with an accompanying editorial by the great raconteur, Mark Lane – reporting the demise of amusement rides from the Daytona Beach Boardwalk for the first time in some 80-years.

Both pieces were enlightening – and spurred my interest in learning more.

I couldn’t tell you the last time I visited the Boardwalk – but it had a Ferris wheel when I did.

In November, I wrote a post entitled, “The Thrill is Gone,” which discussed a decades-old lawsuit that has hampered any substantive change on the Boardwalk, and lamented the loss of a place that made so many great memories when I was a kid:

“Greedy investors, strategic bankruptcies, family monopolies, unscrupulous developers – to include convicted grifter, Bill Geary, of Ocean Walk Shoppes fame who is finishing a stint in federal prison – promises of pie-in-the-sky panacea hotels and tony shopping areas, a stubborn inability to reasonably negotiate with the best interests of the community in mind, government overreach and interference, insider maneuvering, piss-poor planning, no leadership, etc., etc.”

“Whether we want to admit it or not, what we are collectively hearing over the roar of the surf is the sad death knell of one of America’s great tourist destinations.” 

Last week, a very smart friend and I decided to take in the sights and sounds of the boardwalk and see for ourselves exactly what the demise of these amusements portend for our core tourist draw.

After navigating the two left turns required to get onto Ocean Avenue from A-1-A, I drove slowly north toward the southern façade of the Daytona Hilton, past the 20-foot diving girl who has graced the old Stamie’s Swimwear Shop for at least a half-century, waiting for grey-bearded men with backpacks to cross the street.

To the left was a paid parking lot entirely littered with a collage of handmade signs warning potential customers what they cannot do – “No Reentry,” “No Cards Accepted,” “No U-Turns,” “No RV’s, Semi’s or Trailers,” “Cash Only,” “$10.”

The sign that caught my eye – the one which serves as a fitting metaphor for the sordid bait-and-switch scheme that is Daytona’s tourist trade – was a hand-scrawled: “Have $ Ready.”

Indeed.

I found a public parking space and fed the meter just outside the entrance to the Joyland Amusement Center – an arcade that hasn’t seen any significant renovation in decades.  Walking through the dimly lit passageway and down the stairwell is like entering a weird time machine, where the sounds and smells evoke memories of a time long ago.

Frankly, I was glad to see that the live dancing chicken had been removed.  When I was a kid, for a dime, a tired rooster trapped in a small painted case would dance and peck out a tune on a little piano until the music stopped and a feed pellet rewarded his performance.

One gets the distinct feeling that Joyland is either a once Grand Dame now indignity waiting to die by the sea, or – it is what it is – a long-neglected coin-operated business holding on by its fingernails until the lawyers stop their money-grubbing arguments, appeals and motions –  or the “next big thing” hits the strand.

As we exited onto the wide colonnade of the Boardwalk, I was struck by the fresh sea breeze and the initial impression of just how physically deserted it all felt.  Except for a few ambulatory homeless – and a smattering of young families eating pizza and corn dogs alfresco – the strand was vacant.  Dead.

On a glorious spring afternoon.

Walking south, we took in the expanse of what had been the Boardwalk Amusement Center – where once a great Ferris wheel stood, Go-Kart’s zoomed, and various whirligigs, roller coasters, bumper cars and kiddie rides brought a true sense of fun and excitement.

Now, the place looks like a wasteland – a twisted mess of steel girders, rusting ride cars, dilapidated ticket booths emblazoned with a tax levy notice, and an eerie go-kart track that looks like it was abandoned in place.

Because it was.

A place that once brought so much joy and excitement to vacationing families and locals alike – now quietly rotting into a trash strewn lot.

At the risk of sounding hyper-dramatic, I was moved by what I saw.

A mix of sadness and anger, accompanied by the nagging question – “How could this be allowed to happen?”

 I took a few pictures to document the state of things.  Then, we moved along.

As we reached the Mardi Gras Fun Center – an aging arcade very similar in feel to the Joyland – I noticed two 20-somethings fist-bumping a guy perched on a bar stool near the front entrance.

Having spent the better part of my law enforcement career investigating drug trafficking, I got the distinct feeling from the snippets of conversation I overheard that something was up.

As we walked to the south terminus of the boardwalk then east near Zeno’s Sweet Shop, the pair fell in close behind us – one jabbering into a cellphone as we stepped over urine stains and what appeared to be a bloody miasma of dried vomitus on the sidewalk.

Gripping the handgun in my front pocket, I overheard the gist of the conversation two-steps behind us.

The pair were working the logistics of a street-level, parking lot drug hand-off.

My friend looked at me with a trace of fear in her eyes and we stepped away toward Ocean Avenue and the safety of our parked car.  As we passed the sign pollution of the private parking lot, I quickly snapped a few more photographs of the trash, broken fencing, and twisted steel that greets visitors.

When we reached our vehicle, I was angry.

On Friday – rather than post my usual ramblings about life and politics in the Halifax area – I simply posted the pictures I took – a silent exhibition of the cancerous results of the cycle of greed, blight and utter dilapidation that is slowly killing the beachside.

How tragic.

In a few weeks, some 20,000 Shriner’s will arrive.

They are coming at the invitation of the City of Daytona Beach and the County of Volusia.

They have a right to expect the beauty and splendor portrayed in a slick Danica Patrick ad – and the upscale experience they were sold by the Halifax Area Advertising Authority, the Chamber of Commerce, and the bevy of tourism hucksters who continue to lure unsuspecting visitors to an area that is neither ready to receive them – nor equipped to entertain them.

Just Have $ Ready – and screw your convention/vacation experience on what was once the World’s Most Famous Beach.

We know you won’t be back – and nobody who scrounges a fast buck cares.

In my view, this represents the epitome of an unconscionable bait-and-switch ruse – and our elected officials deserve the fall-out that will inevitably ensue.       

Look, I have a sound 10^th grade education – my final two-years of high school are a blur of beer and bad decisions.  But I feel like I have a pretty good grasp of the Volusia County School District’s sophomore curriculum circa 1975.

I don’t presume to have the intelligence, insight or intellectual creativity that comes with a college education – and I never enjoyed the stamp of professional competence that a degree naturally, and universally, implies.

During my law enforcement service, I was a Mustang.  I came up through the ranks, basically riding on a smile and a shoeshine, and ultimately took command of the agency that hired me as a 22-year old uneducated nitwit.

Truth be told, I often felt inferior to my peers who earned the requisite academic title prior to promotion.

Although I had amassed an impressive portfolio of in-service training and practical experience, because I never felt equal, I often kept my suggestions to myself and rarely engaged in policy matters or other discussions I felt were “above my pay-grade.”

Then, in 1990, I applied for acceptance to the prestigious FBI National Academy at Quantico, Virginia.

At that time, I was a patrol sergeant in a small department – and no one in the history of the agency before me had ever applied.  Everyone thought that a small agency like ours could never compete for a spot with “major city” departments.

After all, less than one-half of one-percent of officers around the globe are invited to participate in the world’s premiere law enforcement leadership training program.

Six years later, while serving as a supervisor in the detective division, I received a letter from the FBI’s Jacksonville Field Office requesting a meeting to discuss my potential acceptance to the 187^th Session.

I was overjoyed – so full of pride and gratitude!  And I think my chief and co-workers were as elated as I was.

It proved, in some small way, that we measured up.  All of us.

After an extensive federal background clearance, physical examinations, interviews, and the difficult loss of the 40-pounds required to meet the stringent height/weight standards – on September 29, 1996, I joined the best-of-the-best in Quantico.

During the next three-months, I lived in a cramped dormitory room with a Sheriff’s Captain from Rutherford County, Tennessee.  We shared a common bathroom with an agent from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and a police lieutenant from Texas.

Across the hallway was a police chief from a suburb of Chicago, and his roommate, the head of the federal kidnapping task force for the Philippine National Police.

The first friends I made were a weapons trafficking expert from the Republic of Macedonia and an elected sheriff from Minnesota.

During this wonderful experience, I had the opportunity to discuss modern policing issues in an environment that encouraged open and honest discussion.

We studied controversial legal decisions, discussed civil rights legislation and consent decrees, and learned from international students how the rule of law and investigative techniques differ in other cultures and countries.

To avoid the subliminal intimidation that can come with the use of rank and titles in quasi-military organizations, everyone was addressed by their first name – and over beers in the evening a sergeant from a 30-person department in the deep south might learn that his new friend is the head of a major international police counterintelligence agency – or the chief of a department with over 7,000 employees and a $1.5 billion-dollar budget.

We were friends, equals and colleagues – and while we didn’t always agree – we learned from each other – and about each other – and our unique life experiences.

The FBI National Academy was the closest thing to “higher education” I will ever experience.  And it gave me confidence, proved my contribution potential, and taught the importance of honest dialog in understanding the views, intellectual perspectives and values of dissimilar people and societies.

While I may not have an advanced degree, I do understand the importance of exposing oneself to diverse social opinions and political positions as a means of rounding out an informed point-of-view.

Perhaps this explains why I felt so disappointed by the backlash to Bethune-Cookman University President Edison Jackson’s important decision to invite U. S. Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos to speak at the universities spring commencement exercises.

I was under the impression that a college campus was the last bastion of free speech, a place for freedom of thought and the civil debate of competing ideas?

When did that change in this country?

Given the number of speakers who are being “disinvited” or outrighted banned from colleges and universities around the nation, it is increasingly clear that the right to free speech and open expression – and a well-rounded education – only exists for some.

Now, the Florida conference of the NAACP is calling for Dr. Jackson’s removal.

How incredibly sad.  And shortsighted.

Imagine an entire generation of our nation’s future leaders who lack the basic skills to successfully resolve interpersonal and situational conflict because college administrators feared that developing those aptitudes might offend the students delicate sense of self-esteem?

I don’t believe that every speaking engagement requires a time for open rebuttal and angry refutation.  Sometimes it’s merely an opportunity to simply listen, contemplate the message, then either accept the information into your knowledge base – or dismiss the views out-of-hand.

Your choice – but only if you are given the opportunity.

And sometimes a boring speech is simply something one must endure as a ceremonial formality of accepting your sheepskin.

In my view, B-CU students deserve the opportunity to hear and ponder the thoughts of influential decision-makers, academics, contrarians, politicians, activists and others with diverse views on the issues of the day – even those they don’t necessarily agree with.

Especially when the speaker holds a cabinet-level position in a new administration – and the purse strings for institutions of higher learning, including historically black colleges.

Without listening to competing ideas, how else does one learn the fine art of discussing and settling political and social differences in a civil and constructive way?

How else does one learn to collaborate, research, develop solutions and work shoulder-to-shoulder with others in a diverse professional environment?

I applaud Dr. Jackson’s decision to invite U. S. Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos as the 2017 spring commencement speaker.

As Dr. Jackson said, “Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune, our venerable founder, did all that she could during the nascent stages of this institution to equip her students with the necessary skills to navigate the precarious waters of fundamental disagreement.”

In my view, Dr. Jackson has demonstrated incredible courage in remaining true to Dr. Bethune’s legacy.

Throughout our history, fundamental change in public policy and the evolution of creative social solutions, germinates in grassroots advocacy and the right of citizens to petition their government for redress of grievances.

From the momentous events of the civil rights movement – to relatively insignificant local issues – positive change always begins life as a few pissed-off people joining together in someone’s living room, church social hall or a public space to discuss their collective fury over a social injustice or the town council’s inactivity and neglect of an important issue.

Hell, the very foundation of our nation was born of revolt and revolution.

In 2017, rage is still the motivating factor for significant political change.

Don’t believe me?

Attend your Congressman’s next town hall meeting – or attempt to take-in a political speech on any college campus in the nation – and I think you’ll come around.  Angry shouts, provocative taunts and violent “protests” involving mask-wearing vandals are the new norm in America.

Add to that global external forces that want to annihilate us and crush our way of life, and you find we really are living in historically interesting times.

Don’t get me wrong – agitation and challenging the status quo is a good thing, especially in an environment where our elected officials, at all levels of government, are mere handmaidens of a shadowy oligarchy.

Given the current obstreperous nature of dissent in the United States, it is refreshing to see local advocates engaging in positive demonstrations and openly voicing their views on the pressing issues of the day.

For instance, in my view, Florida’s premier beach advocacy group, Sons of the Beach, has demonstrated the leadership, consistency and perseverance necessary to protect and maintain our heritage of beach driving and access for Volusia County residents.

This was never more obvious than last week’s revelation that a bill working its way through the state legislature contained language that could have been disastrous for our tourist-based economy, and our way of life, by weakening customary use doctrines resulting in the potential privatization of our beaches.

To my mind, the fact that this controversial measure passed unanimously in the House tends to expose the depth of special interest influence in Tallahassee.  And the strategic silence and inaction by County Manager Jim Dinneen and the Volusia County Council perfectly telegraphs their true intentions on beach access issues.

During the initial confusion, Sons of the Beach provided a clear explanation of the potential problems with the legislation, and offered sound encouragement to stand firm and never quit trying.

In my view, that is the epitome of community advocacy and demonstrates the strength of citizen activism when the forces of power and greed are howling at the door.

In addition, Sons of the Beach have used the court system as it was intended – to provide an impartial arbiter of the facts who can apply the law to civil disagreements, to ensure citizen input in the process – and to hold our government officials accountable.

Unfortunately, over time, our elected officials have legislatively stacked the deck to the point that taxpayers – you know, the ones who pay the bills – have no standing in important issues affecting their lives and livelihoods, especially as it relates to beach policy.

I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of hearing County Attorney Dan Eckert crow about the “ultimate power” of the county council over us impecunious peons in all matters beach-related.

In my view, Dan’s near-constant focus on using the courts to protect the supremacy of a self-serving “system” – over the will of the people – speaks volumes about the Dinneen administrations true loyalties.

Trust me.  This vantage point on the maneuverings of county government would not be possible without the incredible efforts of Sons of the Beach.

I was also very impressed by those intrepid members of the South Atlantic Neighborhood Association who took the message to the masses last weekend to protest the cycle of blight in Daytona’s core beachside.

It is truly heartening to see grassroots organizations like SANA take such a proud public stand against dilapidation, squatters, slum lords, trash, debris and years of government neglect.

Residents have had enough.  And it’s beginning to show.

These public demonstrations and curbside protests bring the frustrations of residents to the forefront – and put elected officials on notice that their constituents are “Mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore.”

In my view, thoughtful public awareness campaigns like SANA’s are critical to bringing positive and lasting change.  In fact, last week the Daytona Beach City Commission – in response to recent newspaper coverage and citizen outcry – began the process of reviewing and strengthening outdated ordinances and bolstering code enforcement procedures – measures that could spark the resurrection of the beachside.

Regular readers of this forum know that I have little, if any, faith in the near-constant drone of our elected and appointed officials telling us all how great we have it here on the Fun Coast.  In that theme, on Friday, cheerleaders for Volusia County “economic development” agencies touted their progress during a meeting at Daytona “International” Airport.

We’re told that tourism is on the rise, unemployment is at historic lows, and area new car and truck sales rose to new heights – along with new home starts – and real estate brokers are apparently lighting cigars with hundred-dollar-bills.

We were also led to believe that a report by the Milken Institute lists the “Deltona-Daytona Beach-Ormond Beach” metro area as the most improved local economy in the United States.

Interesting.  (I wonder if anyone from the institute visited the Fun Coast – or just relied on the artificial injection of millions of dollars in “economic incentives” from local governments to private interests as a measurement of progress?)

You remember the Milken Institute, right?

The California-based think tank founded by Michael “The Junk Bond King” Milken – formerly of Drexel Burnham Lambert – who went to federal prison and paid hundreds-of-millions in fines and restitution for securities fraud and financial crimes against investors?

He’s a convicted racketeer whose unchecked greed set the pace for other thieves in the bad old days.  Now, he’s reinvented himself – both in business and philanthropy.

Mr. Milken is the reason we still look down our noses at all bankers.  Even their family members keep them at arm’s length and know the only truly safe investment is in a shoe box under the bed. . .

I also took notice of Ms. Jane Glover’s excellent Community Voices piece in Sunday’s Daytona Beach News-Journal, calling for increased county oversight and regulation of blighted rental properties in Ormond-by-the-Sea.

Perhaps we are beginning to see a renaissance here on the Fun Coast.

The signs are encouraging, anyway.

Not because those who stand to profit tell us so – but because citizens are beginning to throw off the traces of apathy and political oppression to rail and kick against the blight, dilapidation and corruption that have hampered substantive growth and real economic development for decades.

Just don’t expect government to take this challenge to the status quo quietly.

In my view, the rebirth of our community begins with grassroots organizations forcing the important process of changing the foul image of the Halifax area and improving the quality of life for everyone – even if it takes waving posters on the curb and publicly humiliating every elected official in Volusia County.

So, take a minute to drop a note of encouragement to these resolute citizens and organizations – maybe even provide some financial support to keep them in the fight, if possible – and let them know how much we appreciate their hard work on our behalf.

Thanks for reading.  And have a great week, kids.

Photo Credit: The Daytona Beach News-Journal

The next time you’re out-and-about in the Halifax area, use your imagination.

Yesterday, I needed to run a few errands.

A lovely young couple that have been family friends for many years are tying the knot in a casual ceremony befitting the couples happy, laid-back style this Saturday, so, I thought it appropriate to up-date my tired wardrobe for the occasion with a trip to what remains of the Volusia Mall.

If you and I should ever meet on the street, chances are I’ll be clad in worn khaki cargo shorts, a weathered fishing shirt, with some run-down Sperry Top-Siders on bare feet.

After many years of wearing a uniform to work, I’m not one to give up on a “look” just because it gets monotonous.

A quick trip to “The Mall” earned me a fresh pair of Nantucket red shorts and a great linen shirt, perfect for a spring garden party.  I confirmed my color-combination with the friendly 30-something clerk sporting the fashionably shaped beard and well-greased man-bun, who assured me I was on target coordination wise.

Then, I endured the crucible of check-out. . .

Anyone else notice that the simple act of paying for retail items has become akin to taking out a complex second mortgage?

After shoving your credit/debit card in the chip reader, you are forced to make at least five important decisions in quick succession – followed by the physical inputs required to confirm your choice and authorize the purchase – the next-to-last of which is whether you wish a paper or email receipt – or both.

I suspect it’s just another way for retailers to collect marketing information – but it makes the point-of-sale experience an excruciatingly dreadful chore.

And, God-forbid, you have anyone over the age of 55 in line ahead.

Like me, they always seem to approach the small electronic box like they’ve just been asked to program the reentry sequence for a Space X rocket.  If you’re lucky, the clerk will show annoyed mercy and reach over the counter to press the correct buttons for you – as you stand there, slack jawed, staring at the box – arms raised in a pugilistic stance – looking for all the world like a victim of early on-set senility.

What became of those wonderfully simplistic days of swiping a debit card – or the futuristic, Epcot-style technologically driven advances we were promised, like “People Movers” – or a friggin’ toaster that doesn’t burn your G-D bagel every morning.  Yeah.  Like that.

Don’t get me started.

Whenever possible, I like to use the services of locally owned companies – you know, keep a dollar circulating in town – and my dry cleaner of many, many years is Acme Cleaners (conveniently located just behind Krystal at Mason Avenue and US-1) – an enterprise owned by a wonderful family who do their level-best to make sure you are completely satisfied.

As I left the mall, I decided to make my way east on Mason Avenue and drop my new purchase off at Acme on the way home.

Errands.  A typical day-to-day life experience we all share.

To make things interesting, I decided to imagine myself as a first-time visitor to the Halifax area and take-in the crosstown drive with a fresh set of eyes.  (I do that a lot.  I’m like a demented Walter Mitty, always visualizing myself in some weird fantasy.  Don’t judge.)

After all, I’m always moaning the blues about the deplorable condition of our long-neglected beachside – so I thought it time to consider aesthetics on the mainland as well.

Try it sometime.

Envision that you’ve dutifully scrimped and saved all year and your family is finally vacationing in the “Daytona Beach Resort Area” portrayed in a slick online ad by Danica Patrick.

After trying in vain to find that beautiful swimming pool Danica was luxuriating by – and having been accosted by homeless panhandlers on the Boardwalk for the umpteenth time, taken in all the attractions Main Street offers tourists, and caught the morning smell of stale urine wafting on the sea breeze near the Band Shell – you have decided to make a day-trip from your beachside hotel to Tanger Outlets or points south – Bass Pro, DIS, etc. – via Mason Avenue (or East ISB, for that matter).

Invariably, the drive will take you past the ubiquitous vacant strip centers, numerous establishments who have opted to simply spray-paint the name and service they provide on the front of the building (after all, who needs sign regulations when a rattle-can gets the point across, eh?), boarded-up chain restaurants, and overgrown lots strewn with trash and debris (for a great example, try the parcel on the southeast corner of White Street and Mason Avenue).

Last weekend, I was speaking with a young friend of mine who grew up in the Halifax area, but recently moved to Seattle to make a life – a classic example of the ‘brain drain’ of young entrepreneurs, professionals and creative-types who have fled Volusia County for better opportunities elsewhere.

She mentioned that after having been away, she took a drive to ‘downtown’ Beach Street and instinctively described the mid-afternoon scene as “closed” – a less-than-inviting feel that stood in stark contrast to the vibrant, “open-for-business” vibe she was used to in her new neighborhood in the urban Northwest.

Frankly, it was depressing.

Especially after years of hearing the near-constant promises of “more, jobs, more investment, more activity” of the CEO Business Alliance and other cheerleaders for the status quo whenever they are looking for the next “tax incentive” or cash giveaway from government.

Look, this isn’t an indictment of the City of Daytona Beach’s Code Enforcement Division.

In my view, this understaffed and under-resourced group are like the proverbial Dutch Boy holding his finger in the leaky dike, attempting to save his imperiled town by standing firm against the elements until the town elders finally take notice and make the necessary repairs.

Trust me.  I’ve lived the frustration of being responsible for alleviating code violations in a ‘one-hand tied behind your back’ political environment of “complaint-driven” efforts that can allow visible violations to fester for months and years – far beyond the point where reasonable abatement measures are possible.

It allows animosity to build – on both sides of the issue – and it becomes incredibly difficult for enforcement personnel to play catch-up, because, like time and tides, blight doesn’t wait.

It’s worse when unscrupulous politicians and the upper-echelon of government attempt to use the code enforcement system to punish political foes.

Ultimately, the only ones who win are the slumlords and irresponsible property owners who squeeze maximum profit through lack of maintenance and upkeep.

In my view, the cycle of blight speaks to the importance of an elected body with the strategic vision and strength of character to create an environment favorable to attracting quality business and industry, especially in a tourist-driven economy.

So, get outside of your comfort zone – rather than just stare at the bumper in front of you – and take a careful look at our collective experience with fresh eyes the next time errands take you across town.

(And use your damn turn signal, people!)

Imagine the possibilities – despite the empty bait-and-switch assurances of the powers-that-be who constantly crow about how wonderful we all have it, and then drive home to the sanity and security of their gated communities.

After you take it all in, demand accountability from those we elect and appoint to protect our interests here on the beleaguered Fun Coast.

As time passes, it is increasingly evident that my mind is less limber and the more “set in my ways” I become.

There are few wild ups-and-downs now – I’ve risen to my last occasion, responded to my last emergency – no more tense stand-offs or life-altering decisions – and, despite my best efforts, it appears the rocking chair has finally caught up to me.

Life is more predictable now.

When I speak with friends who are still out there, making it happen in business and government, I realize, on the third anniversary of my retirement, how little I have in common with them anymore.

I don’t have much to add to the conversation, beyond commiserating about the common experience of weather, taxes, and the rising cost of life – and I have no relevance in current affairs.

Look, I’m not complaining – I’m the luckiest man in the world – and I never take for granted that I was fortunate to earn a pension that most of my peers will never enjoy.

I worked in a high-stress/high-risk occupation for over three decades.

It doesn’t matter where you serve in law enforcement – big cities or rural expanses – the job remains essentially the same, and the toll it exacts on your mind and body pays difficult dividends later in life – so I don’t feel guilty in the least when my monthly check arrives.

Increasingly, many people I know labor with the thought that they may never be financially capable of full retirement – a disturbing sign of our times that I fear speaks more to the breakdown of what was once called the “American Dream” than their individual success or failure.

I try to salve over their disappointment with a joke that retirement is great – for about six-weeks.

Which is true.  More or less.

Most days I read, reflect and write – often from the vantage point of my porch with the lubrication of good whiskey.  You can do that when your only responsibility is your own amusement.

The result are these brooding opinions on the news of the day.

I realize my views hold no more weight that anyone else’s, and I determined a long time ago that nothing I write will fundamentally change the way “things are.”

But, as I’ve said before, Barker’s View provides a very important outlet for my delusions and frustrations – and the fact that so many of you take time out of your busy day to read my screeds, and thoughtfully consider the opinions presented, is incredibly humbling – and heartening.

I am in your debt for indulging me.

Regular readers of these essays on life and politics in the Halifax area have, most probably, come to the logical conclusion that I am likely clinically insane – and it’s clear that I long ago abandoned the vanity of caring what “Very Important People” think of me.

In short, I’m pissed.  And if you’re reading this – I suspect you are too.

The fact is, those “uber-wealthy” power brokers I crow about – who manipulate Volusia County government like demented children screwing around with a Tinker Toy set – don’t pay my mortgage, they don’t cover my sizable grocery bill – and they don’t control my thoughts.

I am inspired by the number of people who reach out to me with words of encouragement – readers who don’t necessarily agree with everything I write – but who understand the importance of an alternative opinion in a political environment controlled by a few influential insiders who stand to gain from the ‘wheeler-dealer’ exploitation of the democratic process.

Obviously, I’m not a journalist – and I’m often taken to task on social media for the vulgarity of my writing, the liberal use of expletives and invectives, and my often lose grip on the “facts” (if there is such a thing in 2017 Volusia County).

This is purely an opinion blog – no more, no less – and should never be mistaken for fact-based reporting.

However, most people I know understand the significance of money – especially as it relates to their personal finances and our artificial economy – and they are thirsty for information on how their hard-earned tax dollars are spent – and why.

They need truths, and they are beginning to demand transparency.

We must rely on our local press for “hard news” – not goofy opinion bloggers like me – and we trust them to investigate the issues and speak truth to power on matters of regional importance.

Clearly, the Daytona Beach News-Journal is awakening to the fact that their readership is curious about the machinations of their government, and the influence of a small clique of “rich and powerful” string-pullers, which has resulted in the obscene waste of hundreds of millions in redevelopment dollars, giveaways, “incentives,” and the spoils of abject greed – and their relationship to the never-ending cycle of blight and dilapidation in Daytona Beach.

In my view, the News-Journal, through its recent investigative journalism, may well have found a way to remain relevant and regain its significance in our long-suffering community.

I believe the recent series exposing the challenges of our beachside, “Tarnished Jewel” – and Sunday’s very informative piece by Eileen Zaffiro-Kean, “Vacant Vision,” which superbly detailed the astonishing lack of fiscal responsibility in the City’s purchase of property with CRA funds at prices far above appraised value – are invaluable.

As one real estate professional put it, these deals have been “colossally awful,” and they deserve to be exposed for what they are.

Look, I can scream about the complete lack of strategic vision, and rage, ad nauseum, about the unequal playing field and misdirection of tax dollars that has hampered legitimate economic development in Volusia County for years.

And no one in a position to shape change gives a damn.

They just get mad at me – not the shit-storm of inefficiency, mismanagement and corruption I keep pointing out like a bad Lassie episode.  Timmy has fallen in the well alright, and if somebody doesn’t do something soon – I’m afraid he, and the rest of us rubes, are doomed to life in a deep, dark hole.

However, when our newspaper of record takes these important issues to task, and reports the facts and figures to an interested circulation that have been kept in the dark, lied to, and subjugated by politicians and appointed officials who repeatedly tell them one thing – then act another way – it lends credence to their latent suspicions and generates interest in finding lasting solutions to the myriad problems here on the Fun Coast.

Like rats running from the light – sunshine truly is the best disinfectant.

In an environment where a cabal of extremely wealthy individuals control most aspects of our lives and livelihoods – the power of an independent local press – staffed by journalists who are free of the yoke of political and financial pressure, with the professional courage to fight suppression and present the unvarnished truth – can finally, and fundamentally, change this bastardized oligarchy and restore promise, confidence and hope to Volusia County.

In fact, I think it is the only thing that can.

Many thanks to Editor Pat Rice and the intrepid writers and staff of the Daytona Beach News-Journal for your recent reportage on the collective challenges we face – and for your courage to confront the status quo in the face of powerful opposition to change.

Keep up the good work.

I recently read a report that concluded 1 in 5 adults “aren’t confident” that they possess the skills to boil an egg or change a light bulb.

Last year, I saw an interesting survey that claimed a segment of the population believes the moon is made of green cheese – and members of the Flat Earth Society give credence to the writings of author Samuel Rowbotham, and promote the notion that we live on a flat plane – not a spherical globe.

And, here on the Fun Coast there is a small, but influential, group who are firmly convinced – despite all empirical evidence to the contrary – that removing cars from our beach, and using our areas unique heritage as a bargaining chip with speculative developers, will result in a mythical panacea project that will stimulate our economy and cure years of neglect in our core tourist area.

Look, it’s not a lack of intelligence – I know folks with a Ph.D behind their name who lack the common sense to pour piss out of a boot – and I have seen stratospherically successful automobile dealers, home builders and billionaire insurance brokers who continue to meddle in state and local government affairs – even when the calamitous effects of their lack of strategic vision line the streets of our beachside and main entrance corridors.

In our democratic system of governance, We, The People, elect our neighbors – the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker – to represent our best interests, set public policy, and serve as good stewards of our communal tax dollars.

In many locations, a city or county manager is given the authority and responsibility to administrate the day-to-day operations of government – and enact the elected bodies policies and guidance.

When done properly, the council/manager form of government serves to remove political pressure from operations, and ensures a symbiotic relationship with constituents – a system where the governed have a voice in the process – and collective input into the amenities, lifestyle, look and feel of their community.

Although a largely emblematic gesture, in some areas the government’s organizational chart lists “Citizens” at the pinnacle of the hierarchy to remind those we elect to positions of great power who they work for.

Not in Volusia County.  Not even symbolically.

Here, we have devolved into a weird oligarchy – a system where power resides in the hands of a small group of extremely wealthy individuals whose control spreads to every aspect of our lives and livelihoods.

Over time, a tainted scheme has emerged that puts incredible weight on the flow of public money to private interests – with a clear return on investment for those elite insiders with a chip in the game.

How did this happen?

These insiders took control of our system of governance the old-fashioned way – they bought it.

During the conversion, most of us took little notice – we stood idle while the powers-that-be infused massive campaign contributions into the election cycle, then used the small-minded politicians they purchased to grant themselves massive tax breaks, incentives, infrastructure improvements, cash infusions and basically used the public coffers as their private piggy bank.

We stayed out of it, because – for the most part – they left us and our basic public amenities alone.

They even threw us a bone occasionally.

Most of us worked the seasonal jobs and filled the occupations available to us in Volusia’s depressed, service-oriented economy – cops, firemen, nurses, hospitality support, retail, etc. – for far less than those same trades paid in South Florida and elsewhere.

And we watched while a few manipulated government to control their own environment and amassed staggering wealth in an area that was not conducive for entrepreneurial success.  Hell, even nationally recognized chain restaurants have a life expectancy of about eighteen-months in the Halifax area.

The trade-off was a casual lifestyle where, even when money was tight, you could drive your family down to the sea and spend a fun and inexpensive day cruising and playing in the sand.

After neglecting and destroying the “World’s Most Famous Beach,” arguably one of the most recognizable economic engines in the world, through avaricious stupidity – the net result was some $120 million in redevelopment funds squandered over 30-years and a festering shithole to show for it.

Then they came for our beach.

With rampant blight and dilapidation everywhere you look on the beachside – it is their last bargaining chip.

As increasingly large swaths of the Halifax area crumble into a hell-broth of decrepitude – the elite members of the “Rich and Powerful” continue to gorge at the public trough while ignoring the obvious.

They know if they keep the sheeple hungry, oppressed and paying the bills – they can control us, and repeatedly implement their demonstrably failed vision.

They bank on our collective apathy.

Let’s face it – Atlantic Avenue is littered with the dry bones of developers, management companies, and “investment” consortiums who were vigorously backed by our elected officials and their wealthy overseers as the “Next big thing.”

Then, when these speculators invariably landed on the ash heap of crippling greed and mismanagement, then fled town – our power brokers simply refused to accept the fact that their grand ideas, new “friends” and “business partners” were colossal frauds and failures.

Even though our elected officials and their wealthy handlers continue to square-up and get kicked in the crotch – time, after time, after time – they never seem to grasp the universally accepted truth that insanity is doing the same thing, over-and-over, while expecting a different result.

I don’t get it.  Ostensibly brilliant business people who are firmly convinced that a garish theme hotel will fundamentally alter the axis of the earth and shower us bumpkins with prosperity?

And all it costs us – you know, the folks who pay the bills – is direct access to our most precious natural resource.  Schlepping our children and beach gear across four-lanes of A-1-A so a few denizens of resort hotels can enjoy the amenity of a private beach?

All so the right people can. . .  Oh, fuck it.  I sound like a broken record.

Folks, this is the same county government that is strapping our school system with massive debt, throwing millions of our hard-earned tax dollars at ravenous special interests, selling off our publicly owned lands for pennies on the dollar, and purchasing “parking lots” and other parcels for hundreds of thousands over their appraised value.

The same troop of finger-puppets who stay in a constant state of open combat with the very municipalities where the majority of their constituents live.

In my view, this grotesque lack of vision – a bastardized view of economic growth based upon a government perspective molded by the behind-the-scenes maneuvers of those who stand to benefit most – will perpetuate even greater stagnation, squandering of public resources, and the waste of precious time.

At the end of the day, this isn’t about a Hard Rock hotel – it’s about our future economic viability and a lifestyle that brought most of us here in the first place.

If this essay sounds redundant, it is.

But to remain silent is to acquiesce – and I refuse to do that.

I hope you won’t either.