I am a fan of the television show Dexter.

Can’t help it. There’s something about a serial killer who goes after serial killers that just piques my morbid sense of justice.

But that’s not where I’m headed with this.

On the show, the Dexter character always talks about his dark passenger, which is the alter ego of his serial killer self, as opposed to the public self that is a blood spatter analyst for the Miami Metro Police Department.

It’s irony wrapped in a conundrum and it just makes me smile.

But anyway, it’s the dark passenger bit that brings this column to light this week.

You see, I have picked up my own dark passenger.

Now, lest the local gendarmes begin to scour my activities for clues to unsolved murders, let me explain.

Last week, after a late night at work, I climbed into the Jeep to head home. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, it happens on a regular basis.

As I shifted into reverse, I felt something hit the top of my foot. That’s also not unusual because our new five-year-old is constantly leaving inadvertent booby traps all over the Jeep, and if he doesn’t, I do.

I just kicked the foot and whatever it was became no longer there. Problem solved.

The following morning, I climbed back into the Jeep to head back to work, and seconds after I sat down, something hit me in the back of the leg.

It’s natural reaction to kick, and the kick dislodged whatever it was. Problem solved.

Later that day, I had to hit the road, and as I hit the seat in the Jeep, something hit the back of my leg again.

This time, I used my hand to swat at whatever it was thinking I would just scoop it up and toss it into the back seat to solve the problem for good.

The only problem was that what I was swatting at moved.

It moved from the back of my leg to the front of my leg and then was gone.

This, reasoned I, was something a little out of the ordinary.

I took a moment and scoured the floor under my feet. The floor was empty. I started the Jeep and motored on.

The following day, I got in to head to work and something hit the top of my foot again. By that time, I was starting to get a little paranoid. I found no loose wires. I found no stray bundle ties. I found no stray plastic bags blowing in the mild breeze caused by the air conditioning unit. I found nothing that could account for the strange feeling of something hitting the top of my foot.

Again, later that day, I had to hit the road. I climbed in, and whatever had been bugging me, hit the front of my leg again.

That time, I didn’t move at all. I just bent forward and looked down.

There, perched on my ankle, was a dark-skinned gecko.

I reached down with my hand to try and corral the feisty critter. He got away. He hit the floor and scrambled under my foot. I put my foot to the floor. I didn’t hear any tiny bones snapping or see any ooze from under my sandal.

On closer inspection, I could see a dark tail scampering under the seat.

I got out and peered under the seat. His color was such that he perfectly matched the black of the seat. I couldn’t spot him.

I motored off.

The next time I felt him hit my leg, I tried to swing the leg out the door with him attached. He was too quick for me and jumped back onto the floor.

I spent an hour trying to figure out where the little critter was hiding. I reasoned that since he hit my leg or foot after I sat down, he must be hiding on the front of the seat or under the dashboard.

I trained a flashlight on both those locations before I sat down in the seat again. I found nothing.

This guy was good.

He left me alone until Tuesday morning when he again jumped on the back of my leg in the middle of the day. I put both hands to work trying to corral his scrawny butt. He scampered away from every attempt.

I’m really glad no one I knew was watching the show, because I’m sure that I looked like a raving lunatic lunging after this lizard, barely able to bend over far enough to hit the floor, and swatting at everything that moved.

I’m sure that he’s living off the debris that our five-year-old leaves in the vehicle, in locations that just make me scratch my head as to how it got there, and until that easily obtained food source is gone, I suspect he’ll stay with me.

And that source will remain as long as the five-year-old is riding in the Jeep. I don’t know where kids come up with all the snack material they leave lying in my Jeep, but this lizard had found a smorgasbord.

So Wednesday I began to plan ways to rid myself of my own personal dark passenger.

I thought of just chasing his scrawny butt until I caught him, but I’m sure he has more energy and hidey holes than I can overcome or find.

I thought of just leaving the door open, but I figured that would just be an invitation for him to invite his buddies in for a feast.

And then it hit me. A vacuum cleaner. If I stop at a car wash, or a convenience store, I can use the vacuum to roust out my dark passenger.

I can use the suction power of the vacuum to probe into hidey holes my hands won’t penetrate, and I can catch the critter.

So I am preparing for my assault on my dark passenger. I’m flexing my wrists to loosen them up for the coming onslaught. I’m honing my senses to detect even the slightest movement of the dark body against the dark upholstery.

And after all of this, the damn thing will probably vacate the premises between now and then, leaving me doing naught but sucking air.

Just because there is only a Republican Presidential primary going on doesn’t mean voters other than registered Republicans won’t have business at the polls, either early or on Jan. 31.

The biggest item on the ballot for everyone that day is the Monroe County Schools half-mil tax diversion referendum.

More than a decade ago, the state Legislature authorized school districts to levy up to 1.5 mils in property taxes for capital improvements. The local district, with a level student population, decided only to go for a one mil levy. In districts such as Monroe, however, where property values are higher than normal, that levy quickly outstripped the district’s need for an infusion of capital dollars.

The district has been on a robust capital improvement program, building a new high school in Key West, new middle and high schools in Marathon and a new elementary school in Key West.

In 2004, with schools funding dropping precipitously at the state and federal levels, the Legislature gave the schools permission to divert one-half of their capital tax levy to operations, where in most cases the need was much greater.

Voters approved that diversion handily in 2004 under then-Superintendent John Padgett, and handily re-authorized the diversion again in 2008 under then-Superintendent Randy Acevedo.

Four years later, the school district is again asking voters for permission to divert a half-mil of the capital levy to operations. That question will be on the ballot for every registered voter.

Monroe County Schools had an operating budget of $94 million three years ago, with a student population approximately the same as it is today. The expected budget for next year is $80 million.

And that includes the $9 million that is raised by the tax diversion. Without voter approval of the diversion, the district will have to craft a budget that is estimated to be about $14 million below current levels.

And that’s a monumental task probably not able to be accomplished without a stiff increase in property taxes.

Voting for the referendum, allowing the tax diversion, will not affect local property tax bills. The district has the authorization to levy a one-mil capital rate. If the referendum is defeated the half-mil that is diverted to operations now will simply revert to capital.

But the district doesn’t need the money in capital accounts. The district needs the money in its operating account. And we should agree with that.

Many people will remember the financial scandals of the school district that resulted in the losses of nearly $1 million through various thefts, management blunders and lack of solid oversight. And while some vestiges of that culture still remain, the current school board has done an admirable job of righting a listing ship and getting set up for the future.

Moving forward with the loss of $9 million dollars will halt progress in its tracks.

Cuts that deep will have to come from the classroom, and our kids don’t deserve to lose any more because adults deem them unworthy of our dollars.

There are minor adjustments here and there the district can make using capital money, and through that might cut a few jobs. But classroom size is locked in by state statute. A certain number of students equates to the need for a certain number of teachers and a certain number of ancillary personnel to bus students, and a certain number of ancillary personnel to feed students, and a certain number of ancillary personnel to keep a clean and maintained physical structure, and a certain number of ancillary personnel to provide oversight, and, and, and you get the picture…

If we allow anti-tax zeal to stand in the way of doing what is right by our children, we will have only ourselves to blame when the next generation costs us more standing in the world than this generation already has.

The district deserves a chance to complete the job of righting the listing ship.

The kids deserve our support.

If you’re a registered voter, hit the polls and vote yes on the school referendum.

I know that I promised I wouldn’t make fun of crazy drivers for a few months, but that is a resolution I’m going to have to be forced to break because, well because I’ve just been handed so much easy fodder in the last two weeks.

It’s kind of like passing up a bet that the rock falling from the top of the building will hit the ground. You just have to take someone up on it.

Three weeks ago, wait. If it happened prior to the time I made the resolution, it doesn’t really count does it?

Anyway.

Every Thursday we drive to the Miami area to pick up our newspapers and bring them back to the Keys, delivering as we go from Marathon to Key West. It makes for a long day, made even longer when the behind-the-wheel crazies are out in full force.

That week, we ran across, and almost into, two separate crazies, one in Marathon and one in Big Pine.

One of the reasons we use the Jeep for pick up and delivery is because it has such a great turning radius. We have done this for so long that we rarely have to stop. We swing into a parking lot, make the turn, whip the bags of papers out the window and continue on out the parking lot without ever stopping.

Unless, of course, our path is blocked in some fashion.

As it was that day.

We have two deliveries in the shopping center in Marathon that houses Winn-Dixie and Kmart. Because we also deliver to Marathon High School, we always enter from the Kmart side of the parking lot, turn right and drop the bags, then go out at McDonalds. It’s completely unobtrusive on our part. We’re in with the flow of traffic and back out again before we even have to stop.

We made the last drop and prepared to exit the parking lot.

But it wasn’t to be that easy.

As we approached the exit lane, an older gentleman in a large sedan was trying to enter the parking lot. I have a strong feeling that he either didn’t know where he was going, or perhaps couldn’t remember how to get there.

The exit lanes are two wide, as are the entrance lanes on the other side of the median. We were in the right hand lane because we always turn right, going up one side then down the other on US 1.

We had just passed the front door at McDonalds, just 30 yards or so from the exit, when this elderly gentleman gunned the motor and entered the parking lot. On the exit side, the side we were on, and in the same lane we were in.

He had overshot his entrance lane by about 40 feet.

That didn’t bother him although it did bother me.

I had to slam on the brakes to avoid a head-on collision that would have really ruined my day. He was completely unaffected.

He wanted to go right, but he couldn’t get his car to cross the median, must have been too high or something, so he just remained in the wrong lane—mine—until he cleared the median and was able to turn right.

I didn’t even have the heart to fly him a single-digit salute and just pulled out and went on about my business.

On Big Pine, we have a box at a local gas station. That one requires us to stop to fill the box, which we did.

The entrance and exit lanes are clearly marked from the road. The only way to mess it up is to both not know where you’re going and not be able to read. One or the other affliction wouldn’t get you to the wrong side to enter the parking lot. You’d have to suffer from both.

By the time we reach that location we’ve dropped nearly 1,000 pounds of newspapers in various locations so the Jeep actually stops close to normal time. Good thing.

As we circled the parking lot and prepared to head back out onto US 1, we were again in the farthest right lane so we could turn right. Folks turning left are on the nearer left side of the double exit lane.

But the air pump is just off the farthest right lane. This small SUV, no match for the Jeep in a confrontation at that slow speed, with Massachusetts plates, chose that exact moment to need—really need—the shortest route to the air pump from US 1.

That route put him right across my bow from left to right, completely blocking both exit lanes until he had cleared them at some 30 miles per hour.

True, it wasn’t a great length of time to be inconvenienced, but it was long enough that I had to lock up the brakes. Only when Massachusetts heard my tires squealing in an attempt to stop did he even bother to look up and see me bearing down on him.

He actually smiled and waved his hand, like I would as a thank you gesture when someone lets me out into season traffic on Big Pine while trying to turn left.

I wasn’t in the mood to be magnanimous.

He got the single-digit salute in all its glory.

And he looked as though he didn’t know why. That quizzical expression was one for the ages.

If he had been four and I had just caught him trying to stick a fork into an electrical socket I would have expected that same look.

I tried. I really did try.

I pointed at the big EXIT ONLY sign he had just run right through, then made the sweeping left-to-right gesture that indicated what stupid trick he had pulled.

But as I pulled out into traffic, still flying the salute, that look never left his face.

And rest assured that statement doesn’t make sense to local officials either.

At issue is a court-approved lawsuit settlement between FEMA, USFWS and environmental groups that has been in the courts for more than 20 years. The groups sued USFWS claiming it was abdicating its responsibility to protect endangered species under the federal Endangered Species Act by allowing FEMA to continue to subsidize flood insurance in sensitive habitat areas.

A federal judge agreed with that claim, and between the three, without any input from Monroe County, a settlement agreement was born and accepted by the judge that somehow made Monroe County responsible for the service’s job of managing development so as not to impact the habitat for endangered species.

And if we don’t, FEMA will toss us out of the National Flood Insurance Program, risking tens of thousands of mortgages that must carry flood insurance because they’re backed by a federal acronym somewhere down the line.

And rest assured that statement doesn’t make any sense to local officials either.

FEMA, with the aide of FWS, has backed Monroe County into a corner from which it cannot withdraw.

The county can in no way afford to be the tip of the spear in enforcing the Endangered Species Act, either from a budgetary view or a liability view. FWS gets billions in federal dollars yearly to enforce the provisions of the ESA. Monroe County gets the occasional grant to buy some property.

If the county is forced to deny development permits in the future, a near certainty under the rules FWS would have us implement, the takings cases filed by private property owners—and probably won—would add tens of millions to local taxpayers’ burdens yearly.

Thus, in a corner from which FEMA has left no retreat, Monroe County officials have decided to dig in their figurative heels and take the battle to the courts from whence it came.

And they really have no choice.

FEMA officials have already said they will not help Monroe County pay for defense costs against takings cases caused by these new rules, nor will they offer up any budget dollars to implement and maintain the program. That sentiment has been dittoed by FWS.

Unless Monroe Country is willing to take all the responsibility for enforcing the federal endangered species act, with none of the authority to regulate more than a dozen possible development partners, it has little option but to head to the courts.

There has been no federal legislation giving FEMA the authority to toss Monroe County out of the National Flood Insurance Program unless they acquiesce to the demands. There has been no federal legislation authorizing FWS to abdicate their enforcement job under the ESA to a local entity.

There has been no federal or state legislation usurping Monroe County’s rights as an independent governmental agency to conduct land use and planning under its own guidelines. There has been no federal legislation allowing bureaucrats to write new regulations without federal legislation.

And without that, Monroe County has no choice but to take the fight to court.

Legal arguments aside, fairness to the local taxpayer is at the heart of the issue. The endangered species that call Monroe County home are a national treasure, one that this county has acted as steward for in sometimes exemplary fashion for many years.

That stewardship hasn’t come without a cost, and it doesn’t appear as though the future of that stewardship will come without some cost.

If a national treasure is to be protected, it falls on the national treasury to bear some of that burden.

But with the unbending attitude of the FEMA and FWS employees associated with the dilemma we now face, county leaders have but one choice.

And that choice, with resounding support from us and others like us, is to spend what we must to avoid doing a job for which we don’t get paid, to force those charged with that job to actually do it, and to get local taxpayers off the hook for the tens of millions in potential liability.

This is a battle that can only be fought in the courts.

Let’s get to it.

Since I so brilliantly limited myself to what I’m allowed to make fun of in certain time frames last week, this week I must search wide to find some subject, any subject, upon which I can opine.

But there is one subject I did not declare taboo for any length of time, thus I will have to broach that subject.

And that is cell phones.

Actually, what we used to call cell phones are now mostly miniature computers with an established internet connection that allow us to keep in touch virtually unimpeded by location, weather or circumstance.

For instance, while we’re driving down the road, we can search for and download the movie of our choice to our phone, and actually play the darn thing while behind the wheel.

This could make for some very interesting stories to insurance companies when the inevitable vehicle crashes occur.

“Well you see, I was watching this horror flick and it built to a crescendo, then this five-legged blob jumped out of the closet and scared me. I dropped the phone and not wanting to miss the climax of the scene I bent down to retrieve it, took my eyes off the road….”

“And that’s how I hit the stop sign.”

Or, “I was watching this 3D movie on my phone and the hero tossed a spear at the screen. It was so real I ducked….”

“And that’s why I drove into the side of that building.”

While tooling down the highway, one can search for and download a myriad of video games that can be played on the phone….while driving….while listening to the radio…while carrying on a conversation on the blue-tooth attached to the ear.

I know many people who are quite adept at multi-tasking, the new age buzzword for doing several things at the same time, but I think that’s a bit much for anyone.

Again, great fodder for stories to insurance companies.

“I have this habit of talking with my hands, and a great song was playing so I was chair dancing, too, and I was playing wizards and warriors on my phone, I had to jump left to avoid the spear, which required my other hand, which was already busy talking with me….”

“And that’s how I ran over that fire hydrant.”

Or, “I was playing road race (whatever) on my phone and you have to twist the phone to steer, so since I drive better with both hands I put them on the phone…..”

“And that’s how I crossed the center line and smashed that van head on.”

There are also certain phones and certain apps that will allow you to carry on a visual conversation with someone across the Ethernet by using the phone’s built-in camera as a video generator.

Of course, if you’re traveling with a group of people, all of whom will undoubtedly want to be part of the conversation at some point, and you must consistently point the camera in the proper direction…

“I was taking to Sarah, and Sarah wanted to talk to Jon so I pointed the phone in the back seat, then Sarah wanted to talk to Marie, so I pointed the phone at the passenger seat, then Sarah wanted to talk to Jon and I at the same time, he scooted up behind my head so the camera could catch us both…”

“And that’s why Jon’s body was found 15 feet in front of the car via escape through the front windshield when I slammed into that tree because the phone was blocking my vision.”

Then we have the very real issue of people who insist on texting while driving. Texting is something designed to be done on phones with one hand if necessary. While driving would seem to make one-handed use necessary. But there are those who don’t think one hand is fast enough, thus they use both to get the message out faster.

“You see I was texting with Beth when she asked a question that required a long answer, so I typed with both hands….”

“And that’s why Beth was trapped in the back seat of my car by the truck that sideswiped us at the intersection where I ran the red light.”

Phones are meant for voice communication between two people.

Sticking to that general rule is probably a good idea for all of us.

And that is a slap in the face to Florida homeowners.

The mandatory mediation policy was hailed as a consumer-friendly breakthrough in 2007 when the housing bubble began to burst and lenders began filing foreclosure actions on tens of thousands of people who had bought homes during the boom of the early 2000s only to have some “creatively” structured loans not pan out.

The reasons for the foreclosures were many: Balloon payment loans when the appraised value of the house didn’t justify borrowing against it to cover the balloon; adjustable rate mortgages that skyrocketed well beyond the average fixed-rate loan; people buying more home than they could really afford banking on an increasing value to carry them through; predatory lenders setting people up to fail by approving more home than they knew the buyer could afford; and in some cases simple fraud by lenders.

The mandatory mediation program was designed to aid in getting the cases out of the courts if possible by allowing the lenders and buyers to meet and try to work out some arrangements to bring the loans current or modify the terms, or for the buyer to just allow the foreclosure to go forward requiring little more from the judge after the mediation of rubber stamping the agreement.

And in some cases, the mediation allowed homeowners who had been improperly foreclosed upon to straighten out the legal tangles with the lender and remain in their homes.

It had been hoped in judicial circles that the forced mediations might encourage lenders to work out agreements to keep the homeowner in the home and keep the unit off the market at a time when foreclosures were flooding inventory all over the state.

But in most cases, the judges discovered that the lenders weren’t at all interested in making any concessions. They manifested that disinterest in several ways. Lenders would ask for continuances, forcing folks to miss work for no reason, drag out the process for months, or years, before handing homeowners a bill for tens of thousands, or just wait out the beleaguered homeowner with vastly more resources.

So instead of getting cases off the judicial docket, the same ones kept returning month after month or year after year as lenders would agree to modifications then fail to follow through, or file more paperwork forcing homeowners to start the process all over again.

Facing severe funding cuts from the state level, judges began forcing mediated settlements, usually to the benefit of the lender.

One of the reasons given by the state judiciary for doing away with the program was that lenders had no financial incentive to work on mediated settlements, thus continued forward with strict foreclosures.

We don’t believe that most of the foreclosures filed against Florida homeowners were tainted in some fashion.

What we do believe is that the forced mediation process kept lenders honest if they had made mistakes with the accounts.

By forcing mediation, beleaguered homeowners actually got to talk to a lender representative who wasn’t in the collections department in an effort to iron out what might simply be minor issues that ballooned into a foreclosure due to lack of communication.

And if that process helped 20 percent of the homeowners facing foreclosure to be able to retain their homes and resolve problems, the program was successful.

Of course, lenders didn’t like the program because there was no financial incentive to work out distressed mortgages and it cost them money in attorney fees and representatives to attend the mediation sessions.

But the program worked for homeowners.

The state judiciary says that local jurisdictions can work out their own mediation process if they wish, but with constant budget cuts and increasing demands on dockets, the chances of that happening are slim.

So what was heralded as a consumer-friendly program has gone down to lack of support by elected leaders and recalcitrance by lenders to adhere to the spirit of the program.

Sounds like a continuation of the banks-rule-all scenario we have seen in the last five years.

And again, the only ones who will pay are those who might otherwise have had a chance to retain their homes.

Wasn’t yesterday Independence Day?

At least that’s the way it feels. And now they tell me that Sunday is January 1, 2012.

Here comes a new year and I still haven’t caught up to the old one.

I haven’t even had time to think about a new set of New Year’s resolutions. Usually I try to make resolutions that I know I can keep, you know the type that don’t require you to do anything different than you already do to be successful at year’s end and give you a sense of accomplishment.

But there hasn’t been time to think of what I can do successfully. There hasn’t even been time to think of the things I know I can’t accomplish.

So here’s a stab at some resolutions that maybe, just maybe, I can keep in the coming year.

I resolve not to write any funny stories about stupid political candidates for at least a week.

That means I won’t be able to make fun of Newt Gingrich for promising to jail judges who don’t agree with him, in clear violation of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

That means I won’t be able to make fun of Michelle Bachmann for promising not to give abortion pills to eight-year-olds.

I won’t even be able to make fun of Rick Perry for not knowing that he governs the state with the lowest per capita income in the country.

Well, at least for a week.

I resolve not to make fun of bizarre driving behavior for at least a month.

That means I can’t tell the story of the two old men in Marathon last week that entered parking lots on the wrong side of the road, nearly running over a small child and smashing me head on—twice.

Well, for at least a month.

I resolve not to write anything about iguanas plotting the takeover of mankind for at least two months.

That means I can’t tell the story of the army of reptiles amassing at the eastern curve of Big Pine, scouting passing cars to determine the right time to dash into the road and crash the unsuspecting motorists, lowering the human vehicle population one car at a time.

Well, for at least two months.

I resolve not to make fun of the way I keep my desk for the entire year.

Of course, this just gives me carte blanche to make my desk as messy as I want it to be for an entire 12 months and not have to answer to anyone.

I resolve not to tell funny stories about the chickens that seem to be growing in population numbers around the shopping center for at least a week.

That means I can’t tell the story of the family of chicks that chased off the elderly lady from her car because someone walked by and tossed a donut on the ground.

Well, for at least a week.

And I resolve not to make fun of folks launching boats at the local ramp for at least three months.

That means I can’t tell the story of the small boat that kept floating off the trailer because the person trying to recover it kept backing the trailer too far down into the water and couldn’t get it to sit on the rails.

Well, for at least three months.

So now that I’ve resolved not to make fun of most of my favorite targets for portions of the next year, I’ll have to actually put on the thinking cap and come up with some of my lesser known targets in the early going.

And that probably won’t really be that hard.

After all, there are lots of easy targets out there, not just these.

And if all else fails, there’s always me.

Happy New Year.

Unfortunately, what we are witnessing is the fabric of a once-great nation being torn asunder by a partisanship we haven’t seen before in our history.

With the increasing popularity of the internet, and the lack of any limits on decorum, truth and compassion, nearly all online conversations these days break down into a series of name-calling, foul-mouthed opinions and one-upsmanship. The days of civil, rational, thoughtful debate are behind us.

While this holds particularly true in political circles, we see it in other walks of life as well.

Nationally, we have two major political parties dealing from ideology instead of common sense and rational thought. Daily, games are being played by our elected leadership that they seem to think are fun, but usually only serve to further mire the majority of our country in an economic status unheard of 30 years ago.

Legislation these days is all about legislating morality rather than tackling the real problems that are dragging us down into apathy.

We, and many like us, don’t believe that legislating morality is the cause number one that our elected leadership should be concerning itself with.

We have a national debt that will eventually cripple our economy. We have so many children living in poverty that we are in danger of rivaling the third world for squalor. We have all but turned our backs on the senior citizens who were at the forefront of making us the great country and society we were, but sadly can no longer claim to be.

On a state level, clean air and water have taken a back seat to the almighty dollar as the state Legislature brings forward multiple attempts to allow corporations to run amuck at the expense of the quality of life for those who call this great state home.

Once great strides were made to keep our air and water clean enough to provide sustenance for our population. But as those strides bit into the profit margin, bought-and-paid-for politicians seek to backpedal to the days when toxins freely cascaded into our water supply and pollutants made our air nearly unfit to breathe.

To finance ever-more-extravagant breaks for businesses, our state leaders are proposing cutting off the health-care lifeline for the poorest and most vulnerable among us. Funding to care for unwanted and abused children continues to decline, putting more at risk another vulnerable segment of our population.

We have descended from a country in the mid-1900s where everyone pulled together to make us great, to a country today where the only progress that’s made is progress to further the agenda of special interests, usually moneyed special interests.

Locally, we have issues where compassionate, rational, researched debate has gone by the wayside, to be replaced by the ‘it-is-because-I-say-it-is’ pontificators.

So in this new year, we would like to watch our country, our state, and our county, return to a more reasoned age. We don’t advocate stepping back technology or regressing on social advances, or ignoring science moving forward.

What we want is a world where the most vulnerable among us aren’t shoved aside as being unworthy, or trampled as so many ants in the way of “progress.” We want a world where the wisdom and experience of our senior citizens is respected and listened to. We want a world where education is urged and rewarded instead of ridiculed and reviled.

We want to see a return to a world where the first sentence is “We may not agree, but we can find a middle ground that is good for all.”

We want to leave the world where the first sentence is, “You are a stupid liar who knows nothing about anything.”

We want to see our leaders focus on policies and programs that resurrect the most vulnerable among us who are where they are through no fault of their own.

We want a world where our leaders understand that good air and clean water are infinitely more important to the planet and its inhabitants than an increasingly profitable and diverse portfolio.

In short, we want a world returned to rule by compassion, understanding and empathy instead of rudeness, atrocity and viciousness.

That is our hope for this world in 2012.

I have finally found a legitimate excuse to carry this thing on my side called a SmartPhone.

Just today, I found an application on the internet that allows me to track the movements of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve through the phone. (For those interested it’s supposed to be in the app store for any operating system, to learn more  www.noradsanta.org)

Now I will know exactly when the fat guy in the red suit is getting ready to descend onto my neighborhood and I can meet him with a new coconut launcher I’ve been working on.

You see, Santa is a great legend. He’s also a parent’s worst nightmare.

He brings gifts to young kids that require an engineering degree to put together so they can play with said item for 10 minutes and then use the box to build a fort.

The clothes only fit for a few weeks because the kids grow out of them. The toys become a recent memory because of aforementioned boxes.

The gift cards are simply dropped in the floor never to be seen again because what kid wants a piece of plastic that doesn’t do anything.

So, to prevent me working all day on Christmas to put together things Santa Claus drops under the tree, I’m going to use my newly fashioned coconut launcher to drive that little fat guy in the red suit out of the neighborhood before he can do any real damage.

The launcher is fashioned from long bungee cords, a large soup bowl and is mounted to a tall coconut tree. (Ease of reload.)

When the jolly little fat guy in the red suit gets close, I intend to fire off a volley of Florida Keys coconuts at his sleigh and drive him to another neighborhood.

I know this won’t be an easy task, because not only will I be fighting tradition, but I’ll also be taking on the magic of Santa Claus, and the hopes and dreams of little kids everywhere.

I can remember when I was little and Christmas got close. My Dad would constantly tease my sister and me, and much later my little brother, that he was going to start a fire in the fireplace and cook the little fat guy in the red suit when he came down the chimney.

Every Christmas Eve before we were forced to go to bed, Dad would light a rip-roaring fire in the fireplace, just as he promised.

But the magical old elf found a way around the obstruction every year.

Sometimes with a little help from yours truly.

When everyone else was asleep, or otherwise engaged, I would sneak downstairs and put out the fire making it easy for Santa to use his normal chimney route to get to us and leave our gifts.

Later, Dad put a glass façade on the fireplace and every Christmas Eve he would lock the façade after he started the fire to make sure the fat little guy in the red suit would get trapped and torched.

I would sneak out deep in the wee ours of the morning and unlock the front door. Can’t deny entrance to old St. Nick.

But now I discover, after raising way too many kids over the years and doing it again with our five-year-old grandson who we adopted last year, that a visit from the jolly old fat man in the red suit just means more work for me.

Not this year.

I bought myself an early Christmas present of an elongated branch saw so I could cut coconuts out of the tree and stockpile them for the sling. I bought the tough, rubber bungee cords so there is less chance of breakage. The soup bowl is plastic. No breakage.

I have been practicing by firing test coconuts across the street into the empty lot. My aim is improving.

But I think the kid knows what I’m up to.

He has taken to bringing me a beer every night right before he goes to bed. He knows they make me sleepy. I think he’s making sure I drift into la-la-land before I can take any potshots at St. Nick on his yearly rounds Saturday night.

He’s just protecting his turf. I understand that. But I am resolute.

Wait.

What’s this?

I pull into the driveway and someone has taken all my coconuts and locked them in the trailer.

I don’t have a key.

Up on the porch Holly is looking down, grinning. Beside her is an impish five-year-old wearing a Santa hat.

Foiled again.

Merry Christmas one and all.

Recently, the new state Department of Economic Opportunity, which now houses the state Department of Community Affairs and has become the land-use watchdog, said it could support an additional 100 transient unit licenses in Marathon because the city has been doing so well in its quest to provide central wastewater.

And in the same breath, it is requiring as part of Monroe County’s yearly work plan that new hurricane evacuation clearance time models be run to make sure the county can get all of its people out in under 24 hours.

The work plan is a process whereby Monroe County and its municipalities complete certain tasks in an eventual march to ending the nearly three-decade designation as an area of critical state concern.

Completing wastewater is one of those tasks. Keeping hurricane evacuation clearance times under 24 hours is one of those tasks. Controlling growth to maintain near-shore water quality and evacuation clearance times is one of those tasks.

And over all of those tasks is an eventual state requirement to establish a build-out horizon for the county, or a point at which development must stop in order for people to get out of the way before a major storm crashes ashore.

About 10 years ago, both county and state officials realized that Monroe County was already well past the ability to clear its residents in under 24 hours should a major storm come crashing ashore. The inability to meet that goal would have meant the loss of all future building permits.

Thus was born the phased evacuation plan whereby the county orders tourists out 48 hours prior to the onset of gale-force winds, mobile home dwellers and those in low-lying areas 36 hours in advance and permanent residents 24 hours before the winds made travelling nigh impossible.

And by changing the words in the rule to permanent residents instead of all residents, voila, the 24-hour mandate was achieved.

The number of building permits county governments can hand out in any year is governed by the mandate not to exceed the 24-hour clearance time from the island chain to safety on the mainland.

So here the state says an additional 100 transient permits in Marathon is OK because those folks will be leaving 48 hours prior to danger anyway.

But the state officials forget that it was only a few years ago, when a previous county commission tried every trick known to developers to drastically increase the number of building permits that state overseers said, “No way. You must count everyone for that quick-forming storm that only gives 48-hours notice.”

The potential for a quickly forming major storm that doesn’t give us 48 hours to clear out is always out there. That potential hasn’t gone away just because it hasn’t happened in many years. Or the major storm that makes a peculiar turn and bears down on us when we thought it was going to veer away.

Just because the threat to near-shore water quality is diminished by the advent of central wastewater systems doesn’t mean the threat to life has diminished from that aberrant storm.

Neither the state nor county officials have yet decided on a final clearance time model run scenario. Neither have they yet decided on a build-out horizon that could potentially exceed the 24-hour mandate.

Yet here we are handing out extra building permits because a paper shuffle, not a real-world experience, says there isn’t any danger because we’re going to tell the storm what it’s going to do.

And it’s going to wait on us to carry through our phased evacuation scenario and get everyone out of harm’s way before the storm blows ashore.

Yeah right.