The Island Hopper: Humanity on Parade

In the distance can be heard the appreciative roar of a standing-room-only crowd.

It's not the recent Lynyrd Skynyrd concert, or even Monday night bingo. No, I'm talking about my self-created Goodland Walking Tour 2003: "Humanity on Parade."

Granted the unusual pleasure of my weekend-laboring boyfriend's company this past Sunday, I decided: Where better to celebrate this magical, romantic day of togetherness than in Goodland?

Chris and I started our marathon day at Stan's Idle Hour, where the above-mentioned crowd could be heard laughing as far back as we had to park, thanks to Stan's seemingly endless litany of jokes.

I reviewed Stan's last season, recording my very first experience with the unusual Sunday-afternoon bacchanalia. So I was prepared for Queen Mary, a Stan's regular, who was dressed like a cross between Heidi and Captain Hook. And as usual, she was presenting her own personal performance art on the dance floor and stage.

I was prepared for the workmanlike house band to play such tunes as the" Buzzard Lope" and "Yankee Dollar," that love song to snowbirds, in which visitors line up at the edge of the stage to give Stan a buck apiece as he announces their hometown.

Chris, my poor Chris, was not. He stood faithfully by my side, but he looked somewhat shell-shocked by the whole spectacle -- and this from a man who used to work in Matlacha.

He was bemused by the man on the dance floor who looked exactly like a garden gnome (I swear it), and the two ladies who engaged in a sumo-type dance/war using their, shall we say, "upper regions." And we were pleased to see local band legend Bob Snyder take the stage for a delightful sax cameo on a few songs.

But we were both put off when Stan bemoaned his inability to use "the N word," as he puts it, in a racial joke, and when he made gay jokes using other offensive terminology. The crowd eats Stan's act up; but at that point, Chris and I decided it was time to move on.

We headed over to Chuckles Chickee Bar, that little hideaway at the Mar-Good Marina. At the rustic outdoor bar under a thatched roof, we watched guitarist Mike Martin turn out impressive sound with his rough, pleasantly scratchy voice, his instrument, and a modest little laptop music machine.

BAR JOKE OF THE WEEK

A middle-aged woman had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital, where she had a near-death experience. She asked God, "Is my time up?" "No!" he replied. "You have another 40 years to live." When she recovered, the woman decided to stay in the hospital and have a facelift, liposuction and a tummy tuck. She even bleached her hair blond again, figuring that, if she had that many years left to live, she might as well make the most of them. After she was released from the hospital, she was crossing the street on her way home, and she was hit and killed by an ambulance. When she arrived in front of God, she complained: "I thought you said I had another 40 years! Why didn't you pull me out of the path of the ambulance?" God replied: "I didn't recognize you." -- Ray Bozicnik, the Little Bar in Goodland

But Martin uses his appropriately, letting it simply fill in the sound he generates on tunes by Steppenwolf, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, the Grateful Dead, and the Band. Later on, his range expands to include Sister Hazel, Sugar Ray, and even the Monkees and Neil Diamond. A regular pop and rock virtuoso, this.

This was the best entertainment we'd seen thus far, so Chris and I relaxed with Martin, Chuckles owner Bryant behind the bar, and Bryant's resident parrot next to the stage, which the owner disciplines with a blast from a handy water rifle when the squawking becomes too loud.

Chuckles is my kind of place: clearly a locals hangout filled with regulars, with a friendly, laid-back vibe and not much in the way of pretension. There's food available outside -- as long as you like hot dogs or pizza -- and plenty of beer. Peanuts can be had at the end of the bar, and their shells decorate the floor. A winsome bluetick hound wanders freely, looking for love along with the rest of the crowd.

We hated to leave, but the tour had to continue, so on we went to the nearby Little Bar, whose murky depths rendered us blind when we first walked in from the gorgeous day.

By day, the Little Bar is a whole different proposition than by night. It's still welcoming and intimate, still clearly for a certain "in-crowd," but the demographic has changed: They're mellower, older, more likely to sit and chat with bartender Pat than simply grab a drink and party on.

Chris and I couldn't resist having grouper balls, just so we could say we had grouper balls, and we made a meal of the crunchy little flavorful things. (Despite the moniker, they are not taken directly from any specific portion of the fish's anatomy, for those who are concerned.)

We spent a pleasant hour or so talking with Pat. Chris was fascinated by the magnetic pouring system the bar uses, apparently a throwback to earlier days of bartending glory.

Then, reluctantly, we got in our car and headed back to our everyday lives, tired and weathered -- yet our with horizons a little wider than they had been before.

If you make the grand tour, or just a quick exploratory trip to Goodland, stop into the Little Bar and say hi to daytime bartender Pat Hutchinson. The efficient, agreeable lady has been behind the Little Bar's expansive wooden bar for the last seven of the bar's 25 years of existence, but you'll only see her there when the sun is shining. No, she's not a vampire, but "It's a whole different crowd at night," she says with a knowing smile. By day there's more elbow room at the unusually jam-packed bar, and you can sit a spell, sample the menu -- from which Pat is happy to make recommendations, spot-on in our case -- and partake of liquid refreshment while you exchange pleasantries with the affable longtime libation slinger.

Where do hear the very best jokes?

Why at your favorite drinking establishment, of course.

Bartenders and servers always seem to know a new riddle, limerick or quip.

We're willing to bet those jokes are funny even when you're sober.

So we're asking local bartenders, bar managers and owners, waiters and waitresses -- even bouncers -- to share their favorite bar jokes with the Islander. (Keep 'em reasonably clean, please!)

We'll print one or two jokes every week. You can e-mail us at mail@marcoeagle.com ; or fax your joke to 213-5391. Make sure you include your name and the name of the bar or restaurant where you work.