Panama City Giraffe sticks out its neck

PANAMA CITY — Sometimes a giraffe in the hand is better than a Patridge in a pear tree. Follow me, here.

It may be that I’ve just had a few too many encounters with prima donnas in recent weeks, the public figures who want to control their images to such an extent that they have handlers for their handlers. It’s one thing to protect yourself from paparazzi, but these folks feel the need to protect themselves from media representatives they invite to cover their public appearance. In two cases recently, I was told not to shoot images of the TV “stars” even though a few hundred spring breakers were doing so.

Does that make sense to you?

As I tried to explain it to one of the handlers: I was there, on private property, at their invitation. I would of course play by their rules — if I played their game. Which meant, in the end, choosing not to play.

Thank goodness all bigwigs don’t operate that way. Take, for instance, the latest local to gain some notoriety and a public following: “PCG” (for “Panama City Giraffe”). Let’s just say it is unafraid to stick out its neck in public, unlike the elusive and now legendary “Cove Pig.”

Created by a local artist who asked not to be named — and who noted she was learning to let go and let whatever happens happen — the translucent (and gender non-specific) PCG is made of 50-percent recycled materials and is not for sale.

It has been spotted all over the area, photographed mingling with the locals and participating in events. It even lists “having my photo taken” among its interests on its Facebook page. It plans to continue visiting local sites and making friends along the way.

“I am Mobile Public Art,” PCG said when reached via a Facebook message this week. “I live in a city that does not actively encourage or support public art, so I am quietly traveling the town and bringing the experience of art directly to the people. I will travel with anyone and only ask that they photograph me and my location.”

You may have seen PCG watching belly dancers at a CityArts Cooperative event or trying to sing karaoke at Boatyard. It has been photographed riding a tandem bicycle, playing basketball and getting kisses and pats on the head.

“My goal is to travel to every well known and obscure location with as many different people as I can,” PCG said. “I also hang out on the street — as Street Art — free to experience whatever happens to me.”

PCG recently visited WKGC 90.7 FM’s “Art Talk” show with Bay Arts Alliance’s Jennifer Jones, but was too nervous to talk on the air: “Although seemingly transparent, the giraffe refuses to comment,” Jones noted.

PCG also attended the opening of “The Nerd” at Kaleidoscope Theatre in Lynn Haven, where it was seen getting goodies at the concession stand (Mentos is its favorite) and visiting the actors in the dressing room. It tried on costume pieces and makeup. It sampled the wine, but needed someone to hold the glass for it (no hands, you see).

“It’s very cool,” said local author Michael Lister, who has taken PCG out for a night on the town. “People can take it on an adventure, take pics, and post on its very own Facebook page.”

Put simply, “Giraffes make people smile,” PCG said. Some people could learn a lot from a plastic giraffe.

Peace.

Spring Break's Beauty and the Beast

PANAMA CITY BEACH — One was young, fresh of face and light of locks. The other is eligible for AARP, darker, rougher, rounder in different places and — let’s be honest — raunchier.

One is just entering the prime of her life, recently voted the Sexiest Woman Alive by Esquire readers. The other is on the far side of his prime and probably best known for all the on-camera sex he’s had.

Both were in town last week to promote products to the Spring Break crowd.

I spent a couple of minutes last Thursday in the company of Katrina Bowden, a 23-year-old who has appeared in movies (“American Reunion”) and TV shows (“30 Rock”). As the cover model for Maxim magazine’s February issue, she was on the beach to represent the magazine and promo the new Nintendo Wii game “Just Dance 3.”

Bowden judged dance-offs on a beachside stage in the afternoon sun behind Boardwalk Beach Resort and later at Hammerhead Fred’s foam party. She also spent time under a small cabana with a group of professional “Just Dance” dancers practicing the game’s moves. (See the full article here.)

Her handlers jealously guarded her time, allowing her to speak for only a few minutes and putting the kibosh on any video of the interview. (I tend to use the video function on my camera to record interviews these days; the handlers were nice enough to allow me to point the camera away from Bowden but hold it near enough that her voice was picked up.)

She seemed very sweet.

After the story appeared, I was asked to remove from the online version of the story a reference to the film “Tucker and Dale vs. Evil,” in which she played the female lead. I enjoyed that movie, and she said it was fun to make. But that wasn’t her reason for being here, apparently, and has been relegated to her imdb.com entry.

>>Here is video from the day, despite her handlers' best efforts.<<

I spent a much longer time talking with former adult film star Ron Jeremy the next day under a tent in sprinkling rain. The 59-year-old was in town to promote a new rum label that bears his name and likeness, Ron de Jeremy rum. (He had no handlers and no stipulations about video, but after the run-in with Bowden’s folks, I went prepared with a notepad and pen.)

(See the full article here.)

Over a two-day stay, Jeremy spent hours in beach locations including Kwiker Liquor, Ms. Newby’s, Pineapple Willy’s and Coyote Ugly, signing bottles, posters, books, DVDs and body parts for fans. He took the time with each one to pose for photos, listen to their stories and share jokes. He played his harmonica (and that’s not a euphemism).

He seemed to enjoy meeting all these strangers, and he laughed a lot. Nothing was off-limits for the interview.

>>Here is video from the day.<<

Say what you like about beauty vs. the beast: Our Facebook post about Bowden got nine likes and one comment over the weekend; the one about Jeremy got 13 likes and 11 comments. Bowden’s story was picked up by newspapers and websites around the world, and the short video of her dancing received more than 13,600 plays in the first four days.

It’s a tale as old as time

Peace.


This is my column, more or less, that appeared in today's paper and online at this link.

Spring is breaking out all over

That noise you hear is springtime breaking out all over as March arrives like a lion.

On Monday, I joined a reporter and photographer at Rock’It Lanes to interview Spring Break early risers who had walked from their condos and hotel rooms to get a free breakfast. Georgia Baptist Disaster Relief volunteers cooked pancakes while Christian college students with “Beach Reach” staffed the buffet line and worked the tables.

A “Macarena” video played on the projection screen in the background as we interviewed visitors and volunteers. A few gave us wary looks; after all, just who were these older guys walking through the venue with cameras? Creep much?

For the record, we did not eat pancakes — but only because the line was so long.

The dull roar of Monday morning built to a scream on Tuesday afternoon, when Panama City Beach hosted a Guinness Book of World Records official, gathered thousands of onlookers on the sand and registered 450 young women to walk a mile in their two-piece beachwear. They passed the time before the walk by dancing the “Dougie.”

I asked News Herald writer Pat Kelly, who covered the event, if being in that crowd had made him feel old or young. He said, basically, that either one is a state of mind and he never feels old unless he lets himself. I figured that’s an enlightened state of being, right there.

I wasn’t on the beach that day. Instead, as the parade moved from Harpoon Harry’s to the pier and back again, I was a few miles away at the Panama City Beach Library. A couple dozen men and women with a few more decades (and considerably more clothing) on them than the paraders were gathered to hear about changes to the newspaper industry since the beginning of the Internet Age.

Here, the sound of spring was shushed for library patrons. Even so, the session was not so much about swapping “back in my day” stories as you might think. “Right Here, Right Now” played on a video we watched, and the group questioned me about everything from delivery systems to filtering the massive amount of information we have to absorb today.

Having reviewed my entire career (mentally, if not aloud) during the course of that talk, I stopped by Zen Garden for a moment of peace. The chief sound effect was of a water fountain in the backyard pond and breeze through the trees.

Once again centered, I talked briefly to Tony Johnson at Mr. Surf’s about the upcoming Skim Jam, then spoke with a public relations woman about a former adult film star who is coming to the beach this week to use Spring Break crowds to spread the word about his new rum label.

These are strange days, indeed, and the question occurs to me — I wonder what ides sound like? Check back here on the 15th; maybe, a little older and wiser, we’ll have the answer.

Peace.
(This is my column for March 8.)

Art show supports water of life

Matty, Heather & Paulette

PANAMA CITY — The parking lot was full and the lobby was crowded last Friday evening at Northstar Church, where literally hundreds of people gathered for the fourth annual Art Show and Sale.

“Art speaks in a language all its own,” said a post at the Northstar website promoting the event. “It has the power to provoke, inspire, and give hope. It is a powerful force that rules the Internet, the airwaves, and demands the square footage of thousands of museums and private galleries. Art is important to us as individuals and to our culture, and we believe it should be celebrated.”

Art was celebrated last week in the form of paintings, mixed media, photographs and drawings created by many of the area’s better-known talents — including Jennifer Bonaventura, Heather Clements, Matty Jankowski, Heather Parker and Paulette Perlman — as well as many lesser-known names and student artists. The show included 314 pieces; 47 pieces sold for a total of $2,566.

Of the sales, 90 percent of the money went directly to the artists, while 10 percent was kept to support the church’s mission to Kiu, a village in Kenya.

“We have an ongoing relationship with the village of Kiu,” said Lee Baker, arts pastor at the church. “A couple of years ago, we built the bore pump there, then installed solar panels to power the pump. This year, they’re installing tanks on top of a hill — every year, it gets bigger.”

Kayla & Nick

According to information provided by Northstar, the community of Kiu is a market town divided by a major east-west rail line. Buying and selling of produce is the major economy, with basket and rope weaving also contributing. The village has eight churches, one school and a small medical clinic located at the center of the community on the five-acre grounds of the African Inland Church. The clinic serves people from Kiu and neighboring villages.

“The village is big,” Baker said. “We couldn’t walk across it easily, because of terrain and how extensive it was.”

Access to water is a major issue in the community and people often walk hours to fetch their daily water. The water project was started in 2010 and is nearing completion. With access to clean water on the horizon, the leadership council is shifting their focus to the significant educational challenges that exist in the community.

Meanwhile, church members plan to return later this year to lend a hand.

“We will be working in the community of Kiu with projects that can range from the construction of a water project or school, digging ditches, laying water pipe, building stone walls and putting up fences,” the church website says. “Whatever it may be, we will be working directly with the Kenyan people and the relationships with them are more important than the project.”

Peace.

(This is my Undercurrents column for this week.)

Four Years

A lot can happen.

In four years, an economy can collapse and begin to recover. Presidents (and other officials) can change with the terms. Infants become toddlers become little people. Olympics return. February gets an extra day.

Pain fades. Memory becomes ever more treasured.

Today marks four years since we were awakened on a sunny Saturday morning by a phone call from the Florida Highway Patrol. Debra answered the phone. The man asked us to come over to Donna Williams' home. She had asked him to call us when he arrived to inform her that her daughter had been killed in a car accident overnight.

(I have sat here for several minutes, now, trying to decide what more there is to say about that morning that hasn't been said before. I believe there are volumes still to write. Moments that stretched like millenia. But I don't think I can approach those moments here, now.)

Here are other entries about Marisa on this blog (minus those somehow lost in the three-year gap of missing entries from Jan. 2006 to Jan. 2009). And here is her final entry on her Myspace, the story of her best friend and how she loved him and why. (And the extra Mom and Dad and Sister he brought into her life. ... And I'm crying right now.)

And following is a column I wrote in the days immediately after her death, originally published March 2, 2008:

All that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect, and in her eyes

Let me tell you about this girl I know.
I can’t recall how we met. I do remember my son, then a junior at Bay High, saying that Marisa was helping him with his math, and I said, “Who?” and he said something like, “She’s a drama kid.” But it seems no mere chance that the time our troubled lives began to get on track and start making sense coincided with her appearance.

Few anecdotes here, though. I’d need a warehouse of ink and paper to tell each story, and still they wouldn’t explain the complexity and (paradoxical) simplicity of her heart, mind and spirit. In fact, I don’t doubt that whenever I write from now on, some part of me will be writing about Marisa.
So descriptions instead, the briefest sketch to fit the page, though I wonder how one may capture a dream with words.

Beautiful in every way. Lightning wit. A smile that makes the world stop spinning. Rain boots and scarves. Silly accents. Accomplished hugger. Radiant. Made of pure love.
Sneaks across the lawn and crouches by the door (or just outside the front windows) and then calls on her cell phone to ask if she can visit. Says she’d have crawled back across the yard to her car if she’d been told no.

Forgives. Trusts. Leaves messages just to say “I love you” or “I’m coming to kidnap your child” or “I’m with the squirrel police and I have a warrant to search your house.” Rescues stray dogs and turtles in the street. Befriends strangers. Always asks questions, when her shining eyes tell you that she already has the answers to any mystery you could ever imagine.

Likes Bradbury and Vonnegut. Boondock Saints. Lucero. Johnny Depp. Power tools. Apple juice in Mason jars. Red Twizzlers. Miyazaki. Crayons. Puppies and kittens. Leg warmers, striped stockings and toe socks. Barrettes. Taking photos. Playgrounds in the middle of the night. Couch pile-ons. Naps.

Thoughtful. Bold. Gentle. Funky. Mischievous. Tolerant. Sweet. Acerbic. Delightful. Strong. Giving. Spontaneous. Willing. Capable. Funny. Real. Creative. Soft. Driven. Precocious. Perky. Deep. Courageous.

Hogs the shrimp at parties. Teaches friends to levitate. Wears an apron and flour “war paint” when she bakes cookies. Rules movie nights punctuated by Reefer Madness or Rocky Horror sing-alongs.

Secretly leaves gel hearts on your car. Quotes Moulin Rouge on her bathroom mirror: “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

Artist. Actress. Model. Techie.
Explorer. Instigator. Peacemaker. Dreamer.
Daughter. Sister. Auntie. Friend.

And so suddenly she exits the stage, her scenes unfinished, lines unspoken — and though we know beyond any doubt that she is one of God’s shining lights, she always has been and always will, that she watches us struggle and loves us from afar, still we ache at an emptiness only she can fill, the sense only she can bring to the world.

We hold our children close and gather in numbers to share our pitiful strength, and we watch for her in the stars and on the breeze, and listen for her in the sound of music and laughter of children, and find her in the widest skies and on the cool blue waves that sparkle like her eyes, full of answers and mystery.

Peace.

Books Alive 2012 photo post

So Books Alive was last weekend. And you are there:

Robert Leleux and his mother, Jessica

Leleux, Melissa Conroy, and me

Leleux, Conroy at After School Program

Leleux, Olivia Byrd, Michael Morris, Kathie Bennett

Ruth Corley, Lori Carver, Pat Sabiston

Lynne Hinton and Debra Simmons

Frank Walker gets a Bday cake from Jackie Papke

Leleux session Saturday a.m.

Jeff Shaara session

Morris session

Find out more here:
Books Alive
Robert Leleux
Melissa Conroy
Lynne Hinton
Michael Morris
Olivia (deBelle Byrd) Cooley
Jeff Shaara
Kathie Bennett

>See more photos at my Facebook page<

>Read my blog this week about the visiting authors, "Secret Stories of the Soul"<

Author carries family storytelling to new level

Michael at 2008 Books Alive.

PANAMA CITY — Some people are born to be storytellers. They may work in the fields or run a store or paint houses for a living, but when they speak, they spin tales.

Michael Morris is such a storyteller. Born and raised in Perry, where he claims he was a “C student at best,” he had the good fortune to be encouraged by a teacher to become a writer. (Some of us who thought we could be writers had teachers who encouraged us to seek treatment instead. But enough about me.)

Michael said he never took the idea seriously — writers didn’t come from places like Perry, he thought — so he pursued a career in public affairs, later working as a state senator’s aide and then a pharmaceutical salesman. But the stories wouldn’t go away until he found their shapes and described them in print. He says he “became a writer” at 31.

Michael now lives in Birmingham, Ala. He’s the author of the novels “A Place Called Wiregrass” and “Slow Way Home,” as well as an authorized novella based on the Grammy nominated song, “Live Like You Were Dying.” His short stories have appeared in the anthologies “Stories From The Blue Moon Cafe II” and “Not Safe, But Good II.” (Learn more at MichaelMorrisBooks.com.)

He has made the trip to Panama City for Books Alive and other workshops several times in the past few years, visiting local schools, speaking to writers’ groups and otherwise finding time to encourage fledgling writers.

We met in 2008 at a gathering of the Books Alive authors and volunteers. Barbara Clemons introduced us. She said he was someone I would want to know, and as usual, she was right.

“It’s always great to be with my friends in Panama City,” Michael said in a recent Facebook exchange when I asked him about this weekend’s visit for Books Alive, where he will once again be a featured presenter. “I feel like I probably have more friends in Panama City now than I have in Birmingham.”

Michael has a new novel due in September, “Man in the Blue Moon,” which he has been working on for a few years now. I first heard him discuss it during a National Novel Writing Month workshop at Florida State University Panama City in 2009.

“It’s set in Apalachicola during 1918, and Panama City has a cameo in the novel too,” he said this week. “The story is based on a story my grandfather (who was raised in Wewa) used to tell.”

When Michael’s grandfather was 10, he said, a man was shipped in a crate via steamboat down the Apalachicola River to his family’s store in Apalach. The man was allegedly on the run for killing his wife and her lover. The man claimed he was innocent and that his in-laws were hunting him down for vengeance.

“My grandfather was one of the greatest storytellers I’ve ever known,” Michael said. “Through the years, I had him retell the story many times, to sort out fact from fiction. The bare bones of the story never changed. He died last year at 101 — the same year I found a publisher for the novel. He died knowing that I had completed it.”

His story lives on through the storyteller, and really, that’s all any of us can hope for.

Peace.
(This is my Undercurrents column for Feb. 9, 2012.)