Tallahassee’s Local Badass

Tallahassee’s bar and club scene is ever changing. Names and locations come and go seemingly as often as the students that frequent them. Just in the last year, for example, clubs such as Chubby’s and Skyline opened, adding to the wide array of establishments. For the last five decades, there has been one constant in the scene, however, no matter what bar or club comes or goes. His name is Carlton Williams and he is a local Tallahassee legend.

Contrary to any rumors of him “crawling out from under a beer stein,” Williams was born fifty-five years ago right here in Tallahassee.

“I was born on Orange Ave.,” Williams said. “I was impatient. It’s a good thing my grandmother was a nurse.”

During his youth in Tallahassee, Williams saw the integration of Rickard’s High School and later partied at the same places as Jim Morrison, who would later become famous as head of the 60’s rock band The Doors.

“As a human being he [Morrison] didn’t need to exist,” Williams said. “His poetry was good. I liked some of his music. But at a party he always had to be the center of attention and he always Bogarted.”

Afterwards Williams joined the US Army. His Army career was cut short after his training when he was told he was “too crazy” to stay in.

“It didn’t make no sense to me because that was 1967 and I was just a body count basically,” Williams said.

After his time in the military was abruptly over, Williams used his Army training to become a bounty hunter.

“I was working at the Piggly Wiggly and split out of there. I figured I’d go and have a good time,” he said. “[Bounty hunting] was different then then it is now. You didn’t have to be certified.”

Although bounty hunting didn’t pay very much- a lot of the money went to paying informants- it gave Williams a rush. For over 25 years, he strapped on his familiar military utility vest, body armor, mask and hood and hunted down people who skipped bail.

“I was doing it off and on,” Williams said. “When you do something like that, you get to where you think you can break the law. You have to know when to walk away.”

In the meanwhile, Williams worked in construction, carpentry, laid vinyl, and sold handmade leather goods. In 1970, he met Judy, his future wife. They married in 1971 and have been together since.

“I told her I was going to marry her and she said ‘no way’,” Williams said.

The couple claims to have been the first merchants to sell their goods in the FSU Student Union.

“We were just some old hippies,” he said. “We would just throw a blanket down and sell our stuff there. Now they charge an arm and a leg.”

Still Williams bounty hunted, rounding up a vast collection of bail jumpers.

“Me and my boss would just sit in the neighborhoods and watch for these people,” he said. “There was one guy- mean old guy, strong as an ox- he wore me around for like three or four months. We finally got him. I waited at the backend of the guy’s house when I could hear my boss beating on that man’s house. I could see the guy running out. My boss pulled his car right in his way and grabbed him, sticking his gun in his stomach. I came out the passenger side and pulled out my gun and pointed it up against his skull. We put the handcuffs on him and gave him to a deputy. It was exciting. I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night.”

After bounty hunting, Williams went on to do security at the Cow Haus. There he said he saw a situation there where bouncers weren’t acting as well as he thought they should. He worked there for several years, “cleaning up the place.”

Recently, Williams has been stricken with several health conditions. He has suffered a stroke, had a major heart attack, and just weeks ago, his doctors thought he might have cancer.

“The night of my heart attack, I kept saying ‘Something ain’t right. Something ain’t right,’” Williams said. “The doctor told me I might have had several smaller heart attacks when I worked at the Cow Haus but I whenever felt tightness I would just jump in the mosh pit and get the blood flowing.”

The heart attack made him eventually leave the security job at the Cow Haus and resume selling homemade leather goods at the flea market.

“I would sell leather bikini tops to the college girls in exchange for a picture them wearing it- that was the deal,” he said.

Currently, because there “isn’t much work for someone who has had their chest opened up,” Williams works overnight security at car lots.

Throughout it all, Carlton Williams continues to do what he does best- visit the bar scene. Whether it be a bar on the Strip or Club Jade on Tuesday night “Goth Night,” Williams feels at home.

“I’ve been in bars so long, even if I didn’t smoke, I would probably still be sick,” he said. “It [a bar] is the only building I can be in and be comfortable.”

Epilogue: A quick Google search doesn’t find much for a follow-up on Carlton Williams, although I think he may have created a twitter account. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been updated since September 2009.

Let me know what you think. For someone who never made a movie and found this movie recorded on an VHS tape, I think it turned out quite good.

Thanks for checking it out. Part 4 coming soon.

You are probably wondering why it is a silent film. Well, there was an audio soundtrack, but youtube didn’t think my authorization to use Metallica and Led Zeppelin songs was official. It probably didn’t help that I signed it “Lead Zeppelin”.

Anyway, stay tuned, Part 3 is coming soon!

C3PO and R2D2 on smoking:

Meanwhile, in the Mos Eisley Cantina, Muftak has a little too much to drink and a Duros helps him find a way home:

Pee Wee says “Don’t do crack”.

Freddy Krueger’s rebuttal:

What can I say? I grew up weird.

(According to urban dictionary.com, the word kaboobies means: “so magnificent and grand that the word boobs is an understatement. they are round and beautiful. also highly bouncey. when exposed you hear all the angels sing. they are sure to make all who witness this lovely sight, shed a tear”. The spelling isn’t the greatest, but the meaning is definitely clear.)

Besides those key life moments, my Dad has also supplied me with quite a bit of fatherly advice and wisdom. I’ll admit, that’s probably typical of most dads, but as you can see by the aforementioned high points, I like to think my Dad is a bit unique. Not only has he imparted on me such important mantras as

• Lying only makes things worse.
• Practice situational awareness.
• Republicans take money out of your right pocket and Democrats take money out of your left.
• Drive as fast as you want as long you don’t endanger the safety of others (Ten speeding tickets later, I’m kinda re-thinking this one, Dad.)

but he has also taught me valuable lessons through a series of stories, anecdotes, and situations. A few years ago, I wrote about one of these stories – a fable about the bat of G.H. “Babe” Ruth – but there are many more.  I guess I could say life with my Dad has been like living in a religious text, albeit without the angels, demons, saints, sinners, calamities, and deities.

The first story I remember my Dad telling me was about how his childhood was permanently scarred by a disgusting oral medication. According to my Dad, when he was a wee lad he had the not-so-uncommon habit of chewing on inedible objects. Unfortunately for my Dad however, this common habit caused an uncommon oral infection which could only be cured by the most awful tasting purple paste known to man – and little kids (possibly Gentian violet?). To this day, I have no idea how true this story actually is, but do know my absolute fear of the purple medicine meant my parents never had to worry about me developing the bad habit of gnawing on pen caps, pencils, toothpicks, twigs, and other assorted inedibles.

Another story I remember well involves my Dad, salami, and Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher Juan Marichal. Like most kids growing up in New York  City way back in the mid-20th Century, my Dad was frequently treated to a day at the ballpark. During one of these trips, probably in either 1962 or ’63, my Dad and several of his friends went to the Polo Grounds to see the hometown New York Mets take on the San Francisco Giants, who left New York several years earlier.

According to my Dad, at some point during the game, he and his friends were leaning over the upper deck railing over looking the Giants bullpen, which was in fair territory in the oddly shaped stadium. Then, kids being kids, and for whatever reason, my Dad decided to toss a piece of salami over the rail and into the Giants bullpen. Down the salami floated, until landing unexpectedly on the foot of the future Hall of Fame hurler. Needless to say, by the time Marichal looked up to identify the culprit, my Dad and his friends had scattered. After hearing that story, and seeing the Ron Artest melee in Detroit a few years ago, I’ve never had the ambition to toss food or any other object on to a field during a game*. I fear the players and the repercussions far too much.

(I have to make the distinction of “during a game” versus “after a game”. After FSU defeated the University of Florida in 2001, I was among the thousands of fans who threw oranges on to the field to celebrate FSU’s entrance into the Orange Bowl and the National Championship Game. But that’s comparing salami to oranges – totally different.)

The third story my Dad told me that may or may not be true involves a man I mentioned briefly in the Babe Ruth bat post, the “inventor of the bungee cord”, Arthur J. Bungee. Although he never went to Yale or Harvard, my Dad is a smart guy. He watches Jeopardy almost every night, reads the newspaper from front to back, and supposedly spent time as a kid reading encyclopedias. So when I asked him who invented the bungee cord, and he answered “Arthur J. Bungee, during World War II, in order to preserve rubber for the war effort”, I had to believe him. He even elaborated on the tale by telling me Arthur J. was a U.S. Navy sailor who used his new invention to help slow down planes as they landed on the aircraft carriers. Seemed logical enough for me.

The final lesson that my Dad taught me in my formative years was to stick it to The Man for as long as possible. Especially if you think The Man is screwing you over. Way back in the early 1980s, when New York City was upgrading their extensive subway system, the powers that be in NY City public transportation decided to raise the tolls across the bridges to pay for the underground subway construction. As my Dad didn’t ride the subway, he didn’t think it was very fair that above-ground travelers had to pay for the transportation benefit of below-ground travelers. So he decided to stand up to The Man and not pay the added fee.

Being that my Dad worked nights, and there weren’t many people on the roads when he was traveling from our house on Long Island to his job closer to New York City, he concocted a plan to hand toll booth attendants handfuls of pennies and nickels and then, while the attendant was busy counting the change, he would casually pull through the toll. Legend has it, my Dad grew quite good at this technique. So good, as a matter of fact, that he not only caught the eye of the authorities, but also the news media. Soon his popularity became a double-edged sword.

On one hand, the attention meant my Dad was featured in a write-up in New York Newsday and people were rallying to his cause, including my elementary school librarian, who told me to tell my Dad to keep up the good work. On the other hand, the attention meant the cops knew exactly who my Dad was. Knowing all my Dad’s information, it wasn’t long until the henchmen of The Man started calling the house and scaring my Mom, who not only had me to worry about, but was also pregnant with my brother. So needless to say, with his family in mind, and after fighting for as long as he could, my Dad gave in to The Man and paid the hated toll.

As you can see, my Dad has taught me a lot of things, from the meaning of kaboobies to when and how to fight the system. I definitely wouldn’t be the man I am today without lessons from my Dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

“Who’s the father of the baby?”

“Call me now.”

Everyone who watches late night TV knows the hysterics of Miss Cleo, the pseudo-Jamaican fortuneteller.  Few people realize Tallahassee has its own psychic friend, Sister Faye.  Sister Fay owns and operates her own psychic consultation service located on 1729 Mahan Drive.  She has been in the business for 48 years.

On Monday, I called Sister Fay to make an appointment for an interview.  I was greeted across the line by nothing but a meek hello.  I asked if the number was indeed Sister Fay’s and the voice assured me it was.  I then explained to the voice my interviewing intention and asked when I may conduct the interview.  3 pm Tuesday, the voice said.

That evening I wrote approximately 20 questions to ask Sister Fay.  These questions ranged from the practical (What is the difference between a palm, crystal, or psychic reading?) to the idealistic (What are your dreams for the world?).  I also included questions of a random nature, such as her thoughts on September 11^th and her thoughts on the upcoming Seminole football season.

Tuesday arrived and I drove to Sister Fay’s.  When I got there, I joined a group of four other people waiting to see the psychic reader.  I was a bit early so I sat quietly and waited my turn.  At approximately 3:30, the office door opened and a small voice beckoned me to enter.  I sat down before an elderly woman who had a very puzzled look on her face.

Trouble raised its ugly head as I discussed my interviewing intentions with Sister Fay.  She opposed the idea of my interview, claiming it was not she who I had talked to on the phone the day earlier.  When I asked who it might have been, Sister Fay responded, “My ten year old granddaughter answers my phone sometimes.  It must have been her.”  I guess her psychic abilities couldn’t tell I knew the difference between the voice of an old woman and a ten-year-old girl.

Knowing I could not argue with her, I asked when a better time would be.  She told me 5 pm.

Again I drove to Sister Fay’s, this time at 5:00 as she had directed.  I stood outside patiently, 5:05, 5:10, 5:15.  At 5:20, Sister Fay finally opened the door to her office.  She ordered me to enter her office and sit in the seat directly in front of her.

“I can tell you everything you want to know,” she promised.  “Just put 25 dollars in your hand and tell me if you believe in God.”  When I said yes, she pulled out the tarot cards and started to give me a reading.  I went through with it because I figured it would add to the interview process.

Sister Fay’s reading was nothing short of a complete fraud.  She opened by asking me my age.  After I answered 24, she told me about her youth and how her older sister would not let her tag along.  She then asked me if I had the same problem when I was growing up.  I told her I didn’t have any older brothers or sisters so I couldn’t relate.

She then started to flip over the tarot cards.  On the 3^rd card she told me I had been a lonely little boy during my youth and I always wished I had brothers or sisters.  This was a lie.  I did have two younger brothers and was never lonely growing up.

By about the 15^th card she told me I needed to curtail my money spending habit.  I had spent too much on material things in my life and I needed to learn how to save money.  This too was a lie.  If anything, I am the exact opposite.  I saved quite a bit of money while I was in the Army in order to pay for college and only in the last year have I started to buy good clothes, etc for work and other needed occasions.

Sister Fay attempted to help out my love life as well.  According to the cards, I recently broke up with a commanding, over-bearing girl who was no good for me.  Sister Fay reassured me breaking up with her was the right thing to do.  This was one hundred percent fabricated.

She continued on with her story of my life.  Apparently, I have had leg and lower back problems.  This was nothing to worry about, she advised me.  I also needed to communicate more with my father.  It was all the typical psychic rhetoric.

When she finished with the cards, she told me to look at my list of questions and asked if any were not answered.  Of course none of them were answered, but I did not let her know that.  I told her it was amazing that she knew what was on the list.  “The cards always knew the right answers,” she concluded.

Like that the reading was over.  She had told me nothing about my personal life and answered none of my questions.  I left thinking the interview was a complete failure and I was out 25 bucks.  But looking back, I did get a first hand experience with the Tallahassee Miss Cleo, a fraud by the name of Sister Fay.

Topic: For the first time in my life, I knew what fear really meant.

Outline: A baseball story about a rookie who, in his first ever professional at bat, is hitting against the fastest throwing pitcher in the league.

There I was, straight out of high school and into the big leagues. If that wasn’t enough to be terrified about, Joe Wood was pitching. “Smokey” was his nickname because he threw so fast.

So I walked to the plate, trembling in fear. I was terrified. First pitch, POP! “Strike One” yelled the ump. I was so scared, I had goose bumps. Second pitch, BOOM! The ball hit the glove hard. Petrified, I took a breath to calm down. No help. Third pitch, I took a mighty swing and “STRIKE THREE!”. I was out.

So in honor of Hammer, today’s post title is a paraphrase of the “U Can’t Touch This” lyric: “I’ve been around the world/ from London to the Bay/ It’s Hammer, Go Hammer, MC Hammer, Yo Hammer/ oh, the rest can go and play/ U can’t touch this”.

And the following are links you can’t touch. Unless of course you have an iPad, then touching them is highly recommended.

- Did you know May 17th to 23rd was National Hemp Week? If I knew that I would have bought a hemp necklace from a local hippie. Maybe even watched a little Cheech and Chong.

- Speaking of altered states of being, here is an essay on the powers of African mysticism and their possible effect on African World Cup teams. However long, it is definitely worth the read. Here is a sample:

Nearly all the supporters in the streets of Ouagadougou have absolute faith in the effects of black magic on football in Africa. Abdoul Kader, who sells loincloths, sees black magic not as the devil’s art, but as a form of medicine. He confirms that everyone in Africa uses it. “It’s like that even when there’s a friendly match between market stall holders. You weaken the opponent so that you can win.”
But the authorities deny there is any question of that.

- Also on the subject of soccer, the Congolese Soccer Team was expelled from Rwanda after a near riot broke out after a controversial call. One player may or may not have “disappeared” before being able to leave the country.

- Keeping it international, check out this post on a new Mongolian rock band called Jonon. At least I think this is the Mongolian version of rock.

Here is a YouTube clip:

- Bringing it way back to the US, the guys over at The Starting Five interviewed Ernie Johnson of TNT Sports. Johnson has been one of the best to do it for a long time and he shares some his experiences and knowledge in this great interview.

- Going even more local, check out this hilarious exchange between a Tampa-area librarian and local blogger/writer Clark Brooks. Clark doesn’t take to kindly to being told he has a stolen library card.

(Note about the Tampa-area libraries: they aren’t really user friendly. At least the satellite one by my apartment isn’t. Maybe in the main library they have more knowledgeable attendants, but the little old lady behind the counter in the one I visited looked lost behind a computer. She might know books, but information management and library science seemed way out of her league.)

- Finally, last but definitely not least, on Thursday, June 3rd, the University of Chicago will be screening Space Jam, starring Bugs Bunny and Michael Jordan. Although automatically of interest to the Chicago faithful due to the acting debut of Jordan, the screening has gained national interest on Deadspin.com due to the fact that it will also feature commentary by a professor who believes Space Jam has similarities to ancient Mayan texts.

If you think that’s weird, stay tuned for my upcoming 1,000 word treatise on Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner. It will knock your socks off.

It seems athletes of today are bigger, stronger, and one might even say better, than those who played professional sports years ago.  If this is true, then why do today’s fans not share a love for their favorite sports team as deep as fans of the past?  Perhaps the answer is that those involved in the business of professional sports have caused today’s fans to become angered and disgruntled.

One of the reasons of this anger is the high cost of attendance to sporting events.  Many fans cannot afford to spend a lot of money for tickets.  If the fans do purchase tickets, they know they will be paying outrageous concession prices.  For example, a soda could cost the fan between $1.50 and $3.00, a hot dog $1.75, and a team yearbook $5.00.  If the fan decides to bring his or her family, the cost could easily surpass $100.  As a result, fewer fans attend professional sports contests.

Even the athletes who play the sports have a profound effect on sports fans.  Professional athletes have always earned more money than ordinary citizens.  In the 1920-1930s professional baseball players made about ten times more money than the common citizen.  In the 1990s that number has increased to about fifty to a hundred times more.  This has caused resentment, even jealousy, towards the athletes.  Fans believe players should perform up to the value in which they are being paid.  When players do not perform up to expectations, they are mercilessly booed and jeered.

Many professional athletes’ attitudes have caused a wave of negativity from fans.  Many athletes are seen as distant and arrogant.  This idea stems from the fact that more and more athletes are turning down the title of  “role model”.  There have also been incidents in which professional athletes have belittled sports fans.  The arrogant attitudes and irresponsibility by professional sports athletes has definitely marred fans’ attitudes towards sports in general.

The owners of professional sports teams have also done their share to anger the common fan.  Many owners of today differ from the owners of the past because today’s owners seem to be concerned only with profit.  Owners of yesteryear concerned themselves with the welfare of the team.  It seems the owners of the past cared more about a winning team than turning a profit.  Today’s owners will do almost anything to earn more of a profit, including relocating a team to another city.  For example, in the National Football League, recent movements have included the Los Angeles Rams to St. Louis, Missouri, and the Cleveland Browns to Baltimore, Maryland.  These actions by the owners have caused many fans to disband their loyalty to sports franchises.

The media also has had a large effect on the disgruntled fan.  Today’s media is more intrusive into athletes’ lives than the media of the past.  The sports fan can easily find out which athlete has abuse problems, family problems, legal conflicts, etc.  This was not the case in the past.  In the old days, the media ignored athletes’ personal lives and instead opted to write about statistics and/or records.  This change in the media has swayed many fans’ views about professional sports athletes.

The result of the aforementioned factors is that less sports fans are truly fanatical about their favorite sports team.  The fan lives with the fear that his or her favorite team’s owner may move the team to another city, trade off the team’s best player, or even increase ticket prices to a level in which the fan can no longer afford to attend.  These fans can only hope for a better tomorrow in the world of sports,  a tomorrow that is more like the past.