Haven’t been to the fair yet. I plan on hitting it Monday afternoon after the Governor’s luncheon which is a must event. I love the Governor’s luncheon. It reminds me of a similar event further down the midway at the poultry tent. There’s something about meandering about looking at the various breeds of chickens, all preening and strutting around, that reminds me of this other gathering of movers and shakers.

It’s also a good excuse to try whatever new deep-fried goodie that is the specialty of the year on the midway. The best thing is you can go up to the counter with absolutely no guilt and order a deep-fried chocolate bar or whatever, without asking the guy what he put into it.
I was sitting over at a Starbucks on Bay to Bay last week staring at the cup. They like to put inspirational messages on the cups. At the bottom it noted that the cup was made with “10 percent post-consumer recycled fiber.’’
You know, that’s more than I want to know and I doubt I’ll have to deal with any such information at the deep-fried food booth.

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Sixty-three years after his death, a photo taken minutes after the death of Ernie Pyle surfaced and was printed in newspapers and online this week. It was a striking picture of Pyle, stretched out on the ground shortly after he was killed by Japanese machine gun fire on the island of Ie Shima, April 18, 1945.
I was a fan of Pyle’s reporting and writing before I even got into this business.
After I read the story I went back and dug up one of his books, “Brave men’ I bring out once in awhile. Pyle made himself one of the guys during World War II, moving with and listening to the troops as they lumbered across Europe.
You can read his passages and understand more of what it was like in that war than anything I’ve seen or read about what is happening in Iraq or Afghanistan.
All of the technology - the emails, the video cameras - can’t replace someone who takes the time to listen and understand what is happening.
Listen to some of his words: “I sat in the darkness on the forward deck helping half a dozen sailors eat a can of stolen pineapple. Some of the men of the group were hardened and mature. Others were almost children. They all talked seriously and their gravity was touching. The older ones tried to raionalize how the law of averages made it unlikely that our ship out of all the hundreds involved would be hit...Younger ones spoke but little. They talked to me of their plans and hopes for going to college or getting married after the war, always winding up with the phrase, ‘ If I get out of this fracas alive.’
“As we sat there on the hard deck - squatting like Indians in a circle around our pineapple can - it all struck me as somehow pathetic. Even the dizziest among us knew...’’
And it goes on and you cannot stop reading. Pyle became one with an entire generation. That picture reminded me of what our profession is supposed to be about but all too often depends on technology instead of the human touch. 

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Saturday was one of those days the chamber people would have you believe Florida is always like. They tend to skip over the dog days of August or notice that those same dog days hang on forever into November.
But this was one of those mornings that screamed to hit the road, open the sun roof and head for the beaches. I’d seen an ad for a “Floridana’ show over in Gulfport, where there would be booths selling Florida memorbilia and that a few Florida Highwaymen would be making an appearance.
You know who the Highway me are. Originally they were a group of balck artists who made their living seliing paintings from road side stands mostly along the Florida east coast. For twenty books tourists could have one of their Florida landscapes to take back and hang over the fireplace.
Now the Highwaymen are hot. We’ve been trying to buy one of their paintings for about a year now. Usually we go over to Benedettos, an auction house in Pinellas County, where the Tuesday night auctions usually include two or three Highwaymen paintings.
I convinced the Frau to let me go as high as three hundred bucks the first time, until they opened the bidding for the first painting at $800 and it eventually sold for two thousand bucks.
Anyhow I figured that maybe in person the Highwaymen might not be so inclined at highway robbery and give me a deal.
Gulfport has always been on the funky, artisian side of St. Pete, although we noticed that the prices in the shops and restaurants could be Hye Park or higher.
The old Casino was the perfect venue for an event like this. I’m not sure why it is people who have grown up around here have this craving for kitsch. I’m not sure if it takes us back to a simpler time or whether we just have lousy taste.
Most of the vendors were wearing Hawaiian shirts and selling stuff that appeared to have been recovered from the Sunken Gardens gift shop. Nostalgia was rampant and I found myself fondling an old Howard Johnson’s placemat with Florida attractions on it.
There were three or four Highway on hand and after some perusing I saw the painting I wanted. It was a typical beach scene, with a few towering palms and the Gulf washing over a white sandy beach.
The artist, I think his name was Jacobs, was standing there.
“How much is this one?’’ I asked him and he smiled at my good taste and said he could let it go for forty-five.
“That’s a bargain price,’’ I said about the same time he realized how cheap I might be and he added he meant $4,500. “It comes with the frame,’’ he added.
I thanked him and went back over to see if I could swing a deal on the Howard Johnson’s placemat.

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With Steve Otto

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