Carl Hiaasen - Kick Ass - Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

More to the point, why would anyone want to sell their lovely GDC home anyway? The whole idea is to move to Florida and spend eternity in paradise, assuming the roads eventually get paved.

Instead of whining about it, I say we applaud GDC for goosing up its prices and discouraging resales. Florida needs citizens who stay put, not buy-and-sell vagabonds who disturb the stability of a carefully planned community.

Even more important—and forgive us for getting a little misty-eyed—is preserving Florida's glorious tradition of hawking itself as shamelessly and profitably as is humanly possible. If someone sells you swampland, it's because someone sold swampland to their fathers, and perhaps even to their grandfathers before that.

Maybe it's in our blood, or maybe it's just something in the water, but it is part of our heritage. Thank heavens it's still alive.

A University of Florida historian reports that, contrary to American folklore, the first Thanksgiving did not take place in 1621 after the Pilgrims' arrival at Plymouth Rock.

Rather, the original feast supposedly was held 56 years earlier at St. Augustine when Spanish explorer Pedro Menendez de Aviles invited the Timucua Indians to dinner. The prayerful gathering was called to celebrate the Spaniards' safe landing on the Florida coast.

If true, this revisionist account of the holiday raises important historical questions. Why did tradition embrace the New England Thanksgiving instead of the original Florida Thanksgiving? What really happened on that autumn evening in 1565 when the Spaniards and the Timucua broke bread? Did something go terribly wrong to spoil the occasion? Perhaps it all went sour on the day after the big cookout, when ...

"Chief, you look awful—what's the matter?"

"It's those damn garbanzo beans. I should never have let Pedro talk me into a second helping."

"Speaking of Pedro, he and his men were up at the crack of dawn this morning. They chopped down many of our finest trees, and now they seem to be building something on our beach."

"I wondered who was causing all that racket. What are they making, another one of those ugly forts?"

"Not exactly, Chief. Pedro calls it a high-rise."

"I don't understand—what is that word, 'high-rise'? How would we say it in Timucuan?"

"Literally, it means Tall Box Full of Noisy Strangers."

"But why would Pedro put such an unnatural thing on such a beautiful shore!"

"He says he had a spiritual vision, Chief. He says that thousands upon thousands more settlers will soon be coming to Florida, and they will all need a place to sleep and eat and give thanks."

"What's he got against good old-fashioned thatched huts?"

"Pedro says the new settlers will want something fancier than palmetto. He says they'll be willing to pay major trinkets and beads to live in a high place with a good view of the ocean."

"This high-rise—exactly how high will it be?"

"Higher than the tallest pines, Chief. Higher than the eagles soar."

"Ha! I think our friend Pedro had a little too much grape last night."

"He seems quite sober, Chief. And his men are swift carpenters. I don't mind telling you, the rest of the tribe is very concerned."

"I, too, am worried—and surprised. They seemed like such nice fellows, these explorers. Much friendlier than the French. I can't believe they'd want to build a giant box on our beach and fill it with noisy strangers. What're we going to do?"

"Well, Chief, we could always eat them. Like we did with those Huguenots."

"Yeah, and we all had the trots for a month afterward, remember? Let's try to think of a different way to discourage Pedro."

"We could pass some tough coastal zoning ordinances."

"Naw, that'll never work. Pedro's lawyers would find a loophole somewhere."

"Chief, wait, I've got an idea! You know those funny little mushrooms that grow down by the creek? The ones that make the armadillos bark like coyotes?"

"Yes, the magic mushrooms."

"Well, suppose we invited Pedro and his crew back to dinner tonight. This time it would be our treat, a second thanksgiving."

"Hmmmm. A garden salad would be lovely for starters. Coonti roots, garnished with mushrooms."

"Yes, a bounty of mushrooms, Chief. And, later, cream of mushroom soup. Then, for the main course, wild buzzard stuffed with mushrooms."

"That should do the trick."

"After such a meal, Pedro and his men will totally forget about building anything on our peaceful beach. No more conquering, no more pillaging. All they'll want to do is run with the rabbits and fly with the hawks."

"Which reminds me, you'd better lock up the livestock."

"Good thinking, Chief. These men have been at sea for a long, long time."

This is a terrible time for mall freaks.

First, Branden's announced it was closing. Not only was this bad news for Branden's employees, but also for several South Florida malls which had counted on the big department store as their "anchor" to bring in customers.

Four—The Promenade, Town & Country, Colonial Palms and The Fountains in Broward—are suddenly stuck with about a jillion square feet of retail space, of which there is already a gross surplus.

In South Miami, the long-troubled Bakery Centre was clobbered by the abrupt closing of the Bodyworks spa and adjoining Sports Rock Cafe. Certainly it was an interesting idea while it lasted: Presumably you were supposed to pig out on the cafe side, then burn off the fat at the gym. Only in America, and only in a mall, could such a concept be born.

The shutdown of Bodyworks was the final blow to the Bakery Centre, which has announced that it's converting from retail to office space. Meanwhile developer owner Martin Margulies and the bank that loaned him the dough are suing and countersuing each other over why the loans aren't being repaid.

A new fire station that Margulies had promised to build in exchange for the mall approval is still just a sketch on paper. Gee, what a surprise.

The Bakery Centre fiasco is not a unique story. All over South Florida, shopping malls are in trouble for the simple reason that there are too many of them. A recent study showed a glut of 2£ million square feet of shopping space in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties. Vacancy is high, tenant turnover is high, foreclosure is high.

Still they build more and more of these megaturkeys—a mystery, unless you understand the symbiosis of greed. Developers usually don't lose a dime on dead malls—they get their money from the banks. The ones who really take it on the chin are the small, independent shop owners trying to make the rent in an air-conditioned ghost town.

Yet zoning boards lustily endorse mall after mall, seemingly oblivious of the fact that many of these projects have no prayer of financial success.

A perfect example: A few years ago, an economic study done in Broward reported that there was so much empty retail space that it couldn't all be filled until well into the 21st century.

Officials conveniently chose to ignore the experts, and continued to rubber-stamp every shopping mall that came up on the drawing board. Their groveling allegiance to developers is best manifested along a two-mile segment of University Drive in Plantation, where there are now no less than five malls and shopping centers.

If the Russians ever decide to bomb us, this particular stretch of suburban claptrap is where they'll start. The aerial resemblance to a munitions dump is uncanny.

Any idiot could have predicted that not all these malls could make money—any idiot except the ones who approved them; the elected ones.