Back in the Long Ago — farther back than I care to remember most of the time — I spent a few years hanging out with some semi-reputable folks at a small airport in South Florida. One of the more colorful parties was another guy named Bill. He and I were drawn together by a shared love of airplanes, flying in general, drinking, the bars of Ft. Lauderdale and their stewardess habitués.
Bill, in addition to being a charming guy and inveterate manipulator of facts — hell, let’s just say it: he’d lie when it would have been easier to tell the truth — was a dreamer. He was always looking for the next rainbow or, lacking that, the next scam. I could write a small novel about his misbegotten escapades and may someday, but this is about the time Bill decided to corner the market on iguana tails. Continue reading