To HeadBlade or Not to HeadBlade or What Would John Wayne Do?

That is the question. Growing up with the Duke as a role model, that's always been the question. Whenever in doubt, I finger my elastic dayglo bracelet with the inscription: What Would John Wayne Do? The answer has never let me down. From bar room fights to dealing with the Indians (that Nokosee can be quite a handful now that he's teamed up with that crazy park ranger's daughter), I've either come up on top or walked away bruised and injured but with head held high knowing I approached the situation bravely. Now, as I enter my twilight years my family's genetic code has finally caught up with me: I'm losing my hair.

One of my greatest fears growing up was that I'd end up looking like one of those less than heroic poor slobs who are always running the dry goods store instead of the guys with the low slung holsters (and a full head of hair) who aren't afraid of whipping out their guns and pulling the trigger. You know the kind of loser I'm talking about, the ones who are bald on the top with vestigial hair growth around the ears and back of the head.

Living in trendy SoBe where looking good and young is embraced with a passion, young guys going bald have opted not to go the route of my hero. Instead of wearing a toupee, or undergoing hair transplants, or slapping chemical concoctions on top of their fading domes, they're choosing another route: they're shaving everything off the top. In fact, it's getting to the point that nearly every man you see around here (and an occasional woman) looks like Yul Brenner's love child. A lot of these dudes are pumped up to the max and I gotta suspect maybe their hair loss has something to do with steroids. But, in any event, it's nearly impossible not to trip over one of them while walking around town because they're so goddamn plentiful.

And then one day while shopping for razor blades at Publix, something caught my eye. There, hanging on a hook in its blister packaging was the... HeadBlade. Being a sucker for gizmos, I had to check it out. The HeadBlade is the crotch rocket of razors because it, well, looks like one. It has two wheels, a flashy paint job, and a cool "headlight." I had to pause and look around.

"I can't have anyone seeing me looking at this. They'd know I'm thinking about...shaving my head! How vainglorious. What would John Wayne Do?" I asked myself.

"He'd buy a toupee," I responded.

"Hell, I tried that and no matter how much you pay for one and no matter how many times you lie to yourself that it looks natural, it doesn't. They always look fake."

But the "coolness" of the product kept calling me back.

"How clever," I thought. "Hell, it might actually work."

So, with another furtive look around, I tossed it into my shopping cart. When it came time to check out, I pretended I didn't see it when the cashier picked it up and looked at me. I felt like a kid trying to buy condoms for the first time.

When I got home I gave it a try and was surprised that it actually worked (most of the clever gadgets I've bought over the years have always let me down). I soon found myself making engine sounds as the little HeadBlade roared across my somewhat bumpy noggin.

And then I discovered what I always suspected: I'm really from another planet.

I put on the brakes and came to a screeching halt. There, once hidden by hair and just above the nape of my neck was the distinct skin pattern of space aliens from the planet Tencton. Yes, I'm really a Tenctonite. You remember them don't you, they made a TV series about them. Called it "Alien Nation."

"I can't let anyone see me like that!"

What to do? I can't go out half-shaved. So I decided to even it up a bit. By the time I was done I looked like Travis Bickle's old man. Trouble is I could hear the Duke doing DeNiro.

"You talking to me, pilgrim?"

The Miami FreeQuarium

Me and the boys of MVB were sitting around talking and sipping mojitos, is our wont at the end of the day, when the lively conversation inevitably turned to the county commission's poster child for boorish behavior and environmental indifference. When Natacha Seijas recently beat back the citizen led attempt to have her removed from office, I wondered half seriously if perhaps our community might be jinxed. I was surprised by the response by our staff resident renegade on the run, Nokosee Osceola (first introduced here with his hot girlfriend).

NOKOSEE: You got that right.
VERTICUS: What do you mean?
NOKOSEE: My shaman, E.F. Hialeah says--

At this point, I was surprised to see the staff lean forward in anticipation. I sensed I had been missing out on something and made a mental note to attend more of the daily mojito sessions.

NOKOSEE: Free the fish.
VERTICUS: "Free the fish"?
NOKOSEE: Free the fish.

I must have been missing something. I looked around for help. The guys were nodding their heads in sage agreement.

VERTICUS: Okay, Nokosee, what the hell are you talking about?
NOKOSEE: Until you free the fish, this place will never be happy hunting grounds.
VERTICUS: "Happy hunting grounds"?
NOKOSEE: Si.

I sighed and tried to remember that Nokosee is the product of a Cuban mother and a Miccosukee/Seminole father who met at Hialeah High School and that getting a straight answer, an answer that I might understand without an interpreter, would require patience, something I'm not famous for. So I exhaled slowly once more through my mouth and waited, smiling hopefully that the young hunk sitting in front of me in a loincloth sipping the last drops of his mojito would be more forthcoming.

NOKOSEE: It's wrong to imprison the fish. Like all living things, we are born to be free.

I looked around at the guys.

VERTICUS: Does anyone know what the fvck he's talking about?

Eyes rolled, shoulders shrugged, but no one had a clue.

NOKOSEE: The big fish in the Seaquarium, you dumbkoff! Do I have to spell it out for you?

Nokosee's outburst caught us all by surprise. Although rumor had it that he had been groomed by his mysterious ex-Green Beret Nam dad to be the first of the "New Seminole" to take back south Florida, we hadn't seen any of that probable streak of genetic madness until now. I proceeded cautiously.

VERTICUS: You talkin' about Lolita the killer whale?
NOKOSEE: You got it, kemasabe. As long as she's kept in captivity, this land will be cursed.
VERTICUS: "Cursed"?
NOKOSEE: Big winds, bad people, and insurance rates skyrocketing right out the top of your chickee.

I was afraid to say anything and tried to conceal my astonishment that anyone today would believe in such nonsense when I guess Nokosee caught my left eyebrow rising slowly across what I thought was my best poker face.

NOKOSEE: You don't think the land and its people are cursed, do you?

A trembling smile broke across my face and I shrugged helplessly.

NOKOSEE: Did you know that California hasn't had an earthquake since they freed Willy?

I looked around for help. The guys turned away. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but I'm cursed too.

VERTICUS: Just mudslides and fires.

Nokosee jumped up and threw his cocktail glass down on MVB's terraza floor. It exploded in deadly shards. One stuck in Nokosee's calf and blood began to pump out but he never flinched or lost a beat.

NOKOSEE: That's for their other sins to mother earth!

With that, he set his bare foot on my desk, yanked the glass splinter from his leg and threw it at the Hooters calendar on the wall behind me. The glass shard stuck squarely in the middle of today's date. I swallowed deeply and turned to see him leaving a trail of blood across the floor and out the door. The resounding sound of the door slamming shut had us all jumping in unison.

As we paused to collect our breath and to wait for our collective heart beats to drop, it became clear to us after a much needed mojito refill, that the half-naked Seminole might be onto something. Especially after our resident archaeologist Bobby Bermudez, champion of the controversial notion that the Miami Circle is really a giant pre-Columbian "Smiley Face," suggested that history is full of cursed people and lands and despite intense scientific scrutiny, many have not been disproven. So, after another round from the mojito pitcher, we all agreed that freeing Lolita was worth the effort. By the end of the work day we approved the following course of action:

1. Work to free Lolita.
2. Propose a joint venture between the county and the Seaquarium to reinvent the old rusting hulk by turning it into the biggest and best fish-friendly aquarium in the world. No more performing mammals of any size-- except for the divers who will clean the tanks.
3. Call the new tourist attraction FreeQuarium.
   

Over the following days following our communal hangover, we discovered more reasons to lift the curse. For example, we should work to remove the trained animal shows because of the methods employed. You can learn more about why we have taken this stance here and here.

Pepe "Two Poop"

Miami Dade County Commissioner Jose "Pepe" Diaz wants to eliminate curb side recycling and rose to the "Top O' the Heap" at Club Poop when he referred to the county's recycling efforts as "spending millions and millions on a feel-good."

Whoe, now those are fighting words, right up there with "let them eat cake." It's amazing how out of touch Diaz is with the masses, it's as if he missed the whole recycling movement of the 70's and today's rush to "Save the Planet." With guys like him running governments, global warming really is just around the corner.

MVB turned to Nokosee Osceola, our staff renegade Miccosukee and advocate of returning south Florida to its rightful owners, the Miccosukees, to get his reaction. "We have a name for people like that," he said as he gazed out over the Miccosukee Gaming Resort and Country Club's parking lot through the undulating mirage of the Everglades in the distance. "It's Chitfobraeens."

"Chitfobraeens?" we asked.

"Loosely translated, his Indian name is 'Pepe Two Poop'."

"'Pepe Two Poop'?"

"Si. Because he's joined Commissioners Seijas and Souto as the only commisioners to have earned two Poopy Head hats in Club Poop."

"'Si'?"

"My mother is Cuban. She met my dad at Hialeah High."

"Is that blood on your knife?"

"Si."

"Anyone we know?"

"No, Kemasabe."

"What's with the loincloth?"

"For keeping knife clean. And picking up chicks."

"'Picking up chicks'?"

"It's a chick magnet. You should see me work the room at Prive."

"He's kidding," the young woman standing next to him said. "He's never been in a nightclub in his life."

"And you're...?"

"His girlfriend."

"Your name?"

"I can't tell you. I'm on the run with the renegade."

"'On the run'? What'd you do now, Nokosee?"

"Nothing. I'm being framed by developers."

At that point, sirens were heard in the distance and the two excused themselves by hopping on the back of their Indian and racing away in a slip-sliding trail of smoke and burned rubber across the parking lot.