Key West - Best. State. Ever.: A Florida Man Defends His Homeland - Dave Barry

Best. State. Ever.: A Florida Man Defends His Homeland - Dave Barry (2016)

Key West

It’s a lovely bright-blue-sky Wednesday morning in March, and I’m driving on the most spectacular road in Florida, Route 1, the famed Overseas Highway, which hops from key to key for 113 miles. To my left is the Atlantic Ocean; to my right is the Gulf of Mexico. Also to my right is my friend George Pallas, who will be my wingman on this expedition to Key West, the end of the road, the most flamboyant, decadent, debauched and pungent place in Florida.

Key West is Florida’s Florida—the place way down at the bottom where the weirdest of the weird end up; the place where the abnormal is normal. Down there, it feels like there’s one bar for every three residents, although the actual ratio is probably more like one to four. Key West is the home of Fantasy Fest, a Halloween-week event that could also be called People Walking Around Stark Naked Except for Body Paint. On any given night, Key West’s main party drag, lower Duval Street, makes Bourbon Street look like Sesame Street. It has a distinct scent—warm and sticky ocean air mixed with stale beer, Harley exhaust and cigar fumes, accented with a whiff of vomit, a dash of urine and maybe some other fluids. If it’s possible to catch an STD just from breathing, lower Duval Street is where it would happen.

In short, it is a fun town. And George is the perfect companion for an evening there, because he’s a fun guy and a criminal defense lawyer. Also he knows and loves Key West. He owns a bunch of properties there, and he’ll use any excuse to visit. When I asked him if he’d be up for a guys’ night out on Duval Street, he was all for it. For the record, neither his wife nor mine was thrilled.

We arrive at George’s house in the early afternoon. Realizing that we will be visiting many bars in the hours ahead, we decide to prepare, physically and mentally, by drinking some cold refreshing beers. George then gets out a couple of bicycles. He has defended many DUI cases and is a big fan of using bikes for transportation. He has customized his bike with high motorcycle-style “ape hanger” handlebars and a small sound system blaring music. You may think this sounds silly, a grown man riding around on such a bike, but I guarantee you would not say this to George in person. He is a large bald man, and although he’s a thoughtful, intelligent person and skilled attorney, he looks like a guy who comes around to your house and persuades you to pay your gambling debt by hitting you on the head with your own femur.

The bike George gives me to ride is far less manly; in fact, it is a lady’s bike. But I’m fine with it, because (a) I’m with George, and (b) this is exactly the kind of thing about which nobody in Key West gives a shit.

With reggae pulsing out of George’s bike speakers, we set off pedaling down Duval Street, which is starting to get lively, tourists drifting in and out of the bars and stores selling T-shirts that it’s hard to imagine any tourist actually wearing back home (I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS?). At the end of the street, we stop at a food truck and have lunch in the form of excellent fish tacos washed down with cold refreshing beers. Thus fortified, we start making our way back up Duval, bar by bar.

Our first stop is the Hog’s Breath Saloon, which is filled with middle-aged tourists drinking beer and listening to a guitar-playing singer who sounds like Jimmy Buffett. These guys are everywhere in Key West, which apparently has a law, rigidly enforced, that says you cannot operate a bar without a guy in shorts and a T-shirt who sounds like Jimmy Buffett singing next to a tip jar. As you wander Duval you hear Buffett-like voices coming from everywhere, singing “Margaritaville,” “American Pie,” “Piano Man” and other songs that middle-aged beer-drinking tourists like. You do not hear a lot of rap music on Duval.

From the Hog’s Breath Saloon we go to Captain Tony’s Saloon, named for the late Tony Tarracino, a legendary Key West character. At various times, Captain Tony was—according to him, anyway—a bootlegger, a gambler, a shrimp boat captain and a gunrunner who worked with the CIA in a plot to overthrow Castro. He was married four times and had fourteen children. Along the way, he became a saloonkeeper; he sold the bar long before he died in 2008, but it still bears his name, and his pictures are all over the walls.

The highlight of Captain Tony’s life—again, according to him—was in 1989 when, after multiple tries, he got elected mayor of Key West. He won by thirty-two votes and served one two-year term. As it happened, I interviewed him while he was mayor, for a story I was writing for The Miami Herald.

The story involved large colonies of monkeys that were being bred for medical research on two uninhabited mangrove-fringed islands about twenty-five miles from Key West. By 1990, when I wrote about them, the monkey islands had become controversial. Environmentalists were upset about what the monkeys were doing to the mangroves, and animal-rights activists were upset about what researchers were doing to the monkeys. The anti-monkey forces also raised the issue of what would happen if the monkeys—maybe by riding driftwood during a storm—somehow escaped from the islands and got loose in the Keys. As one of the Monroe County commissioners put it at the time, “If you have a hurricane, you’re going to blow those monkeys all over the Keys.”

For my story, I talked the research people into giving me a tour of the monkey islands, which was fascinating. If you want to see high-tension drama, watch 2,200 screeching, teeth-baring monkeys work out exactly who is going to get how much of the daily allotment of Purina Monkey Chow. It is a process that makes the U.S. Congress look like a calm and thoughtful deliberative body.

I did most of my research for the monkey story in Key West. Among other things, I rented a monkey costume and wore it around to various tourist sites in an effort to determine what impact the presence of monkeys would have on Key West. The answer was: Basically, zero impact. In a town where it is not uncommon to see people walking around naked, nobody’s going to get excited about a guy in a monkey suit.

By far the highlight of my research was my interview with Mayor Tarracino. I thought I had an appointment, but when I went to City Hall, there was no one around the mayor’s office and the mayor’s door was closed. Just when I was about to knock, the door opened and there was Tony. His office was dark and he was blinking like a man who just woke up.

“Hey!” he said, turning on the lights and inviting me into his office.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m Dave Barry, with The Miami Herald, and …”

“Hell yes!” said the mayor. “I know! Dick Barry! Sure!”

“Dave Barry,” I said.

“Dave Barry!” he said. “Sure! What the fuck can I do for you?”

So I asked him about the monkey menace, and here, as best as I was able to write it down, was his response, which came out in what sounded like one long sentence:

“Way, way back, Tennessee Williams and I were very close friends. Very close. He was going to Russia, and he asked me to take care of his two monkeys, which were named Creature and Lioness, only because Tennessee was gay, Creature was the female and Lioness was the male. I was supposed to have them for six months, but I had them for years. We kept them in a cage in the bar. They were lovers, but he could never bang her—I guess you can’t put this in the newspaper, but I’ll tell you anyway—he could never bang her unless I got her excited. I’d make these noises like this (the mayor makes monkey noises) and she’d go crazy. She loved it. So one day, Creature, which is the female, died, and Lioness, it was so pathetic, just wouldn’t let go of her for days, but we finally got her out of there and buried her, it was a nice ceremony, and Tennessee really felt bad. But we had Lioness for many years. He loved marijuana. That monkey was always high. But one day we came in and he was just lying on his shelf there, and we knew it was all over. Am I talking too fast? And so we buried him, it was beautiful, with a little cross. Tennessee called up—I can’t tell you how close he was to them, they always knew when he walked in—and I said, ‘Tennessee, he didn’t suffer.’ But talking about monkeys, they’re the most human things in the world, once you get to know them. I’d LOVE to have monkeys in Key West. Key West is an outdoor insane asylum anyway. We just never put up the walls.”

That remains my favorite journalism interview of my entire career. Now more than ever, this nation needs men like Captain Tony in leadership roles.

George and I enjoy some cold refreshing beers at Captain Tony’s while listening to the entertainment, which consists—prepare to be surprised—of a guitar-playing singer who sounds like Jimmy Buffett. He is singing “American Pie” and the tourists are singing right along.

From Captain Tony’s, George and I head across Duval to Sloppy Joe’s, which is one of the biggest and most popular bars in Key West. There’s a big tourist crowd on hand, drinking beer and listening to the entertainment, which consists of—and this may be the secret to Sloppy Joe’s success—two guitar-playing guys who sound like Jimmy Buffett.

We listen for a few minutes, then leave. We pause outside the Lazy Gecko bar, where beer-drinking tourists are listening to the sounds of a barbershop quartet.

No, seriously, they’re listening to a guitar player who sounds like Jimmy Buffett. We decide to head back across Duval. George opens the door to the Red Garter Saloon and goes in, with me following. It does not occur to me—remember, we have been consuming beers—to wonder why this particular bar, unlike the others, has its door closed.

It’s darker inside the Red Garter, as there are no windows. Immediately I notice three unusual things:

1. Although there is music playing, it does not sound like Jimmy Buffett.

2. There are naked women in here.

3. THERE ARE WOMEN IN HERE WHO ARE NAKED.

It turns out that George, as my local guide, has decided my Key West research expedition needs to include at least one strip club. The Red Garter is one of a half-dozen such clubs in the city.

In case you’re wondering how the local political establishment feels about a strip club operating in the middle of the main tourist area, here’s a fact you may find helpful: The owner of the Red Garter is Mick Rossi, who is a Key West city commissioner. Rossi also owns a bar next to the Red Garter called Rick’s, where, in 2014, Rossi got into a fight with a tourist over a barstool.

According to the Miami Herald account of the fight, the tourist asked a woman at the bar if he could take the stool next to her so an older man in the tourist’s party could sit on it. According to the tourist, the woman—who turned out to be Rossi’s wife—said it was OK. But when the tourist started to move the stool, a gray-haired man—who turned out to be Rossi—started yelling at him and shoving him. The tourist shoved the man back, and next thing he knew he was on the floor, being held down by a Rick’s employee and another man, who turned out to be the manager of the waste management company contracted by the city to handle Key West’s garbage. According to the police report, Rossi stated that there was “no way anyone was going to take his wife’s stool.”

You have to admire a man who defends his wife’s stool.

In the end, everybody decided it was just a misunderstanding and no charges were pressed. My point is, the Key West political establishment is not the kind of political establishment to get its thong in a knot over a strip club.

But getting back to the naked women:

I’m uncomfortable in the Red Garter. I don’t frequent strip clubs.

Now, you’re probably saying: “Suuure you don’t! Also, you never inhaled!”

No, I definitely inhaled. There was a stretch in the sixties, roughly 1966 through 1969, when I never exhaled. But on those extremely rare occasions when I have found myself, always for solid journalism reasons, in strip clubs, I have been very uncomfortable. So here in the Red Garter I’m trying to look cool, or at least keep my lower jaw from touching my kneecaps, but I am nervous. George starts walking through the club, and, not wanting to be left alone, I follow. We pass a very fit naked woman on a stage, leaning over and talking with a man. She looks up and sees George. She smiles brightly and waves. He waves back.

“Who’s that?” I ask George.

“My tenant,” says George. “She’s a nice kid.”

The woman resumes talking with the man and we resume walking, toward what George says is the rear exit of the Red Garter. Suddenly our path is blocked by a woman. She is not naked, but she is wearing a very revealing outfit, which reveals that any given one of her breasts would be visible from the International Space Station. She informs us that we can’t get out by the back way.

“But you could have a nice lap dance back there,” she says.

George and I—both of whom are, for the record, happily married to beautiful sexy women who may very well read this book—politely decline and turn back around. As we pass George’s tenant, she again smiles and waves, the friendly way you might wave at a neighbor you see in the supermarket, except, as I believe I have noted, she is naked.

We exit the Red Garter into the afternoon glare and cross back over Duval to a bar called Irish Kevin’s, where we drink cold refreshing Irish beers and listen for a while to the guitar player, who is not Irish and who, in fact, sounds like Jimmy Buffett. From there we proceed to the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon, which, at the moment, has no musical entertainment but does have a signature drink called the Smokin’ Woo Woo. We decide to stick with beer.

We then proceed up Duval to the Bull and Whistle, which has bars on the first and second floors. George informs me that we’re going to a third bar, on the rooftop, called the Garden of Eden. This time I know what we’re getting into: The Garden of Eden, as the sign outside clearly states, is a clothing-optional bar.

We climb the stairs, and just before the door to the rooftop we encounter a less-inviting sign informing us, among other things, that we cannot use our cell phones or have sex on the premises, and that if we try to capture or send images, the Garden of Eden reserves the right to destroy our devices.

We open the door and enter and instantly my eyeballs are struck with great violence by the sight of two people who are extremely naked, but not in a good way. These are two men in their fifties or sixties, lying on lounge chairs positioned so that they face the bar entrance. These are not fit individuals. These are two saggy old exhibitionists, and they are lying with their legs spread apart. I will not go into detail about the vista they are presenting except to say that if you were to capture this image, the Garden of Eden would not have to destroy your device because it would spontaneously explode.

Averting my eyes, I head for the bar, where a group of men are clustered around a topless, tattooed middle-aged woman. She appears to be with one of the men—he has his arm around her shoulders—but she’s chatting jovially with the others. They are discussing her tattoos, which are conveniently located in her bosom region, so they’re basically just sitting around ogling her, which of course is why she’s there.

I purchase two cold refreshing beers. George makes the observation—we’ve all made it—that so often the people who want you to see them naked are not the people that you want to see naked. We decide to move down one flight of stairs and finish our beers in the bar directly below, which is not clothing-optional. We sit on the balcony overlooking Duval, watching the passing parade. A herd of Harley riders the size of full-grown manatees rumbles past, tailpipes blatting.

A few seats down from us on the balcony is a guy drinking a cocktail. After a couple of minutes, a middle-aged couple—the man in shorts and a T-shirt; the woman in a sundress—sits down next to him. The woman asks the cocktail-drinking man if he will take their picture. He says sure, and she hands him a phone. The couple faces the man, which means they are also facing George and me. The woman is sitting on a stool and the man is standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. They are both smiling for the photo. As the cocktail-drinking man holds up the phone to take the picture, the woman opens her legs wide. I have an excellent view, and can state for a fact that the woman is not wearing any underwear, nor is she a big believer in intimate personal grooming.

The man takes the photo. The couple thanks him and leaves.

“Did you see that?” I ask George.

“See what?” he says. He missed it. I ask the cocktail-drinking man if he saw it. He says he didn’t; he was concentrating on pressing the right part of the camera screen. So I’m the only one who saw it. But I definitely saw it. I wonder if this was a spur-of-the-moment decision by the woman, inspired by Key West, or something the couple does everywhere, to create a special photo souvenir. (“And here we are at the Grand Canyon!”)

George and I finish our beers and retrieve our bicycles, which, miraculously, we are still able to ride. We pedal to the Green Parrot Bar (“A Sunny Place for Shady People”). We’re off Duval now; the crowd is more local, and, at the moment, there is no Buffett-like singer. We enjoy a couple of cold refreshing beers and pedal onward to the 801 Bourbon Bar, which has a cabaret show upstairs in the evening but is pretty quiet at the moment. We order a couple of cold refreshing beers. George asks the bartender about the show; the bartender gives him a postcard with more information and photos of the dancers.

“They’re gorgeous,” says George.

“They’re all guys,” says the bartender.

“I know,” says George. “Amazing.”

I assume it goes without saying that Key West has a major drag scene.

We get back onto our bicycles and pedal onward. This time our destination is not a bar: It is the old Key West fire station, which is now a fire-department museum. We’re here to pay homage to a near-mythical Key West figure, a man who ranks right up there in island lore with Captain Tony. I refer to the city’s legendary former fire chief, Bum Farto.

Yes: Bum Farto.

Joseph “Bum” Farto was born in Key West on July 3, 1919.37 He was named fire chief in 1964. He wore rose-tinted glasses and his license plate said EL JEFE. In the 1970s, when there was a lot of drug-dealing going on in Key West, Bum got involved, sometimes selling drugs from the fire station. He was arrested in 1975, as part of an investigation called Operation Conch, and in 1976 he was convicted of selling marijuana and cocaine. The mayor at the time, Charles “Sonny” McCoy, said: “This is a very sad day for Key West. It was disappointing to hear these things were actually being done on city property.”

(That quote reminds me of Captain Renault’s line in Casablanca: “I am shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here!”)

Three days after his conviction, Bum told his wife he had a meeting in Miami. Then he disappeared. For good. He has not been seen since. For a while, T-shirts that said WHERE IS BUM FARTO? were hot sellers in Key West, but those are scarce now. There’s one on display in the firehouse museum, along with Bum’s desk and some of his possessions. So the spirit of Bum lives on.

George and I spend a few minutes at the firehouse, burping reflectively, then pedal on back to George’s house. We change into warmer clothing—the sun’s going down—and prepare ourselves for the evening ahead with some cold refreshing beer.

We set out again, heading back to Duval. We stop briefly outside the Aqua Nightclub, where George takes my picture with one of the drag performers, who is outside drumming up business and who could play offensive tackle for the Kansas City Chiefs.

We pedal back to lower Duval. We eat at a Thai restaurant that has a sign asking us to please not feed the chickens. There are wild chickens roaming everywhere in Key West; you hear roosters crowing all the time. Some people find the chickens charming, others think they’re a noisy nuisance, even a health menace. The attitude of the chickens is Hey, we’re here. What are you gonna do about it? The answer, this being Key West, is: Nothing.

We leave the restaurant and pause outside Sloppy Joe’s, where two guys who sound like Jimmy Buffett—they could be the same two as before, or different ones, there is no way to tell—are leading the tourist crowd in a sing-along. The crowd’s part of the song is to yell “FUCK YOU!” The crowd yells this happily.

From there, we head back over to the Hog’s Breath, where the entertainment is now a guitar-playing guy and a woman singer who sounds nothing at all like Jimmy Buffett. I am tempted to summon the authorities, but I’m pretty sure that Key West has no authorities.

We proceed to Durty Harry’s, a bar that’s part of the entertainment complex owned by the city commissioner who got into a fight with a tourist while defending his wife’s stool. Spring Break is under way and the complex is packed with college students. We pay a $5 cover charge and go inside. We drink a couple of cold refreshing beers and listen to the musical entertainment, which is a rock band, the Durtbags, who also sound nothing like Jimmy Buffett. We are the oldest people in there by at least 150 years.

After a while we return to our bikes and pedal over once again to the Green Parrot, which is also packed. The musical entertainment is Cold Hard Cash, a Johnny Cash tribute band. We have now gone to three non-Buffett bars in a row. It’s as if the whole world is spinning out of control.

We have what will turn out to be our final cold refreshing beers of the night, then get back on our bikes and wobble home, passing carousing clots of tourists, transvestites, Harley dudes, college students, etc. Also the occasional chicken. It has been a long day, but, at the same time, it has been spectacularly unproductive. A perfect Key West day. I am asleep within seconds.

I awaken the next morning to the sound of roosters crowing and tiny men using jackhammers to break out from inside my skull. George and I need to get back to Miami; we have obligations, and we need to arrange for liver transplants. But before we leave Key West, in the interest of journalism balance, I want to interview one of George’s tenants. No, not the woman from the Red Garter. You wish. This tenant is Ed Krane and he’s running for mayor.

Krane publishes an online arts and entertainment newsletter called The Blast, which is rich with information about Key West’s many cultural goings-on. Despite the impression you may have gotten from this chapter, Key West is not just people getting drunk and/or naked. There’s also a vibrant cultural scene—art galleries, literary events, music, dance, theater and more—although these things are generally overlooked by uncultured lowlifes such as I.

Ed Krane is a big promoter of the cultural scene, which is partly why he’s running for mayor. Our interview takes place on a patio behind George’s house. Krane, a trim, boyish man of sixty-three, is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says ED KRANE FOR MAYOR.

Krane is originally from New York. He’s had a number of careers, including selling computers and managing hotels. He also managed nightclubs, and in the eighties was special-events director at the Palladium, the nightclub owned by Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager. He moved to Florida in the nineties and has lived in the Keys for over a decade. He has two opponents for the mayor job: the incumbent, Craig Cates, who’s a retired powerboat racer and auto-parts store owner, and Randy Becker, who’s a Unitarian Universalist minister.

Krane hands me a campaign flyer listing “some of my platforms.” These include:

Insure that Key West is known for more than our great night life and partying; with major focus on insuring promotion of the arts.

Clean up areas including Duval Street.

I ask him if cleaning up Duval wouldn’t hurt the Key West economy, seeing as how the businesses there employ bartenders, waiters, cooks and literally thousands of singers who sound like Jimmy Buffett.

“I don’t mean clean it up emotionally,” says Krane. “I mean clean it up physically. It’s disgusting.” He proposes, among other things, to “spruce it up with plants and flowers.” He says he still wants fun-seekers to come to Duval, but “we also need to market to people who appreciate the arts. We need both. Key West should be known for its cultural history.”

I wish him well with his campaign, but I am doubtful. I think the main result of putting plants and flowers on Duval would be that people would see them as a handy place to urinate. For most visitors, Key West is a party town. That’s its heritage. I don’t think it will change much. And, to be honest, I don’t want it to.

It’s another nice day, so I put the convertible top down for the drive back to Miami on the Overseas Highway. En route, George gets an email on his phone from a friend, sending him a link to a Miami Herald story about an incident that took place in Key West last night, while we were cruising around. George reads me the story, which begins:

“‘A retired Massachusetts lawyer vowed to make a citizen’s arrest on Wednesday against a Key West stripper when she would not have sex with him or return money he paid her, according to police.’”

This happened at a club called Living Dolls. The police report says that the lawyer became “enraged” when an officer refused to help him get his money back. He told the officer he’d return later to make a citizen’s arrest, then finally “stormed off with an unsatisfied attitude.”

It occurs to me that this incident will probably be viewed as another one of those only-in-Florida stories—Retired Lawyer Wants to Make Citizen’s Arrest on Stripper—that cause the rest of America to ask, “What is WRONG with you people down there?” But as I noted way back in the Introduction to this book, a lot of those stories—like this one—involve people who came here from somewhere else. They keep coming and coming, because it’s warm, because it’s wild, because it’s weird, because whatever. People keep coming to Florida, and things keep happening here.

And I love it.

That’s what I’m thinking as George and I motor toward Miami, with the sun glinting off the water on both sides. I love this crazy state. I loved it before, but now, having traveled around researching this book, I love it even more.

If you’ve never been down here, you should check it out sometime. Plan to stay a while, because there’s more—much more—to see than just what’s in this book. Get in a car and drive around. See the sights and view the vistas, the water, the sky. Watch the critters, and the people. Taste the flavors, smell the aromas, listen to the sounds, feel the vibes. Maybe have a few cold refreshing beers.

Take your time. It’s a big place.

And if you can’t figure out how to leave: Welcome home.

1. Some historians believe it comes from the Shawnee expression “ho’o-sa’ars,” or “people who cannot explain their nickname.”

2. Mr. Ice avoided grand theft charges by agreeing to pay a fine and do community service. He said it was all a “misunderstanding,” and I, for one, believe him. Who among us has never mistakenly taken a pool heater? Many’s the time I have emptied my pockets and said, “Where the heck did THAT come from?”

3. It’s also the state where two men attempted to transport a live shark on Miami’s downtown People Mover during rush hour, but I covered that in another book.

4. I totally made this fact up, but I bet it’s true.

5. Assuming she is married. To a man. Which, of course, she does not have to be.

6. As opposed to the penis of the adult female elk.

7. “That spider is the size of a catcher’s mitt.”

8. To clarify: The settlers had the hoes. The alligators had machetes.

9. Probably laced with grapefruit juice.

10. Fact: In Cape Canaveral, coconuts fall up.

11. We are using “sleepy” in the sense of “not too bright.”

12. This fact is actually true.

13. Pronounced “Conchs.”

14. One of his tunes is titled “Everybody Fucks.”

15. Ha.

16. One such cocaine bag came down in the city of Homestead, where—this really happened—it interrupted a Citizens Crime Watch meeting being addressed by the chief of police. Another bag dropped from the same plane hit a church.

17. Really.

18 Yes, I have manatee experience.

19. I bet you forgot about the sponges.

20 It is the Route 19 of occupations.

21 John, Chapter 19, Verse 29: Now there was set a vessel full of vinegar: and they filled a sponge with vinegar, and put it upon hyssop, and put it to his mouth.

22. I am not making any of these sponges up.

23. According to Spongeorama Man, a loofa is not a sponge. It is a vegetable.

24 I’m afraid of lobsters.

25. The Wildwood exit is five miles past the Okahumpka Service Plaza. Really.

26. Yes, I am a white person.

27. The Federal Duck.

28. A mutant form of tennis played on a smaller court, popular with seniors.

29. If you don’t know it, stop reading this and go listen to that song right now.

30. One piece = .7 miles.

31. This is where, in 1987, backed by three other professional newspaper journalists, I performed “The Tupperware Blues” in front of a thousand Tupperware distributors. You missed it.

32. I am kidding, of course. Only if they come back a second time should we kill them.

33. No, I am not being sarcastic.

34. So to speak.

35. Yes, that was me, and I sincerely apologize, now that the Statute of Limitations has expired.

36. Thank you, David Grutman. If I ever own a hot nightclub, you are welcome as my guest anytime.

37. July 3 is also my birthday. Coincidence? I think not.