Some two hundred years ago on a day meant for history books, Americans declared that they had had enough of the indignities — taxation without representation and such — heaped upon them by their British overloads. That declaration said they were ending their association with the empire, seceding. Of course, in this case the British didn’t go along with the plan; it would take years of a nasty war for independence to become a fait accompli.
April 23, 1982, deja vu all over again: Residents of the skinny archipelago curving off the southern coast of Florida — Key Largo, Key West and all the baby keys — declared that they had had enough of the indignities heaped upon them by their American overlords. Their declaration said they were ending their association with Florida and the United States. For good measure, they declared war on the United States.
The tensions had been simmering for some time. The Florida Keys had always been something of an outlier. After all, they’re closer to Havana than Tallahassee or Washington. And they got no respect from the mainland. The last straw came when the U.S. Border Patrol set up a blockade on the only highway to and from the mainland, forcing Keys residents to go through customs to reach the mainland. Key West Mayor Dennis Wardlow said that if they were to be treated like foreigners, they might just as well be foreigners. The Conch Republic was born. With that he fired the first shot in the war for independence by attacking a naval officer with a piece of stale bread.
The war didn’t last long. Less than a minute actually. Wardlow surrendered, and the Keys immediately filed for foreign aid. But the spirit of the Conch Republic remains in the hearts and minds of Key residents and the many visitors who flock to the annual Independence Day celebration.
A Virtual Visit to Key West (a Sneaky Segue)
This was Key West – noisy, funky and alive with an in-your-face reality, a grittiness in the last light of dusk, that stripped away the cardboard memories of morning and the Magic Kingdom. Mallory Square, looking out on the Gulf of Mexico, was tamer now than before the cruise ships came to call yet still a Felliniesque carnival. Sidewalk entrepreneurs who had staked out their few feet of retail space wherever they could find it hawked popcorn, soda, beer, artwork, trinkets and T-shirts. Acrobats, jugglers, ventriloquists and even a knife swallower soared, twirled, threw voices into unlikely objects and chewed on cutlery. Rugged and ragged individualists, they were bonded only by the one tool of all their trades, the holy collection plate – be it hat, cup, tambourine or cardboard box – lying patiently on the ground, awaiting a pious offering – the price of admission and gratuity wrapped into one monetary hip, hip, Hallelujah, coin or preferably paper, denomination optional. (Voodoo Love Song)
Don’t Try This at Home
According to the National Rifle Association, guns don’t kill people, people kill people. On the other hand, if you were to make a fist with your index finger pointing at your intended victim, and shout Bang, bang, you’re dead, chances are the only injury inflicted would be to your pride as you endured the derisive laughter all around you.
On yet another hand, take the case of William Lawlis Pace. Nine-year-old Billy was accidently shot in the head by his older brother. Pace died on April 23, 2012. In his sleep. At a California nursing home – 94 and a half years after the incident. The bullet was still in his head.
Doctors in Texas where the shooting took place left the .22 caliber bullet in his head because – well, because that’s what they do in Texas.
In 2006, Pace was crowned the Guinness world record holder in the category of “unwanted cranial ammunition acquisition.” A proud moment indeed, and Wayne LaPierre did not attend the ceremony.
Thank God, the Second Amendment still protects a citizen’s right to walk around for 94 years with a bullet in his head.
Wretched Richard's Almanac 