It is occasionally noted that Florida has replaced California as the legitimate home of the nation’s nuts, but what is left unmentioned is that Floridians, unlike Californians, embrace the title—sort of the way England cherishes its eccentrics, though they are generally a more lovable group.
Journalists in the Sunshine State are unquestionably the most passionate about the oddballs in their midst, which isn’t surprising, since they have the most to gain from them. When I arrived in 1989 to work at the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, all the reporters raved about what “a great news state” this was. (The enthusiasm was somewhat lost on me, since my job as travel editor regularly took me away from the wackiness.) But their assessment of our pistol-shaped peninsula has not only stood up over the ensuing quarter-century, it has, if anything, become more accurate. In the first month of this year, we saw the fatal shooting, near Tampa, of a man who was texting during a movie, as well as the closing of a Miami Beach strip club because one of the dancers had only recently become a teenager. The name of the club—profanely or appropriately—was Madonna.
These things could happen anywhere, but their prevalence in Florida helps solidify an image of the state as a place where such aberrations not only occur with some frequency, but flourish and grow in our steamy, transient climate. Granted, it’s often a self-proclaimed image: A few days after Justin Bieber was arrested in Miami Beach for drag racing under the influence, a column appeared in the Miami Herald with the headline “Bieber’s follies an ‘only in Miami’ act.”
Some things are quintessentially Miami. This is a city that no longer has its King Orange Jamboree Parade, but every year puts on the King Mango Strut, an event that was created as a sendup of the first. Early in January, the Herald reported that a champion French bulldog had been stolen from a Miami home on New Year’s Eve. This seemed to be your standard canine kidnapping story, until, in the second paragraph, the name of the dog was revealed to be “El Che.” And some things are quintessentially Florida. Recently, I went to one of the beachfront hotels in my hometown, Fort Lauderdale, to watch the Friday evening mermaid show (visible through windows in the bar that look into the pool). Afterwards, I talked to a woman, a former underwater performer at Weeki Wachee, who assured me that tailed aquatic activities are the next big thing, as more and more people are discovering their inner “mermaidness.” Something tells me that not many of them reside in Nebraska.
Mermaids don’t appear in Fringe Florida, which is a shame, as they are more indigenous than some of the groups that do—notably, bikers, fetishists, swingers, and ufologists. I doubt that Gulf Breeze, in the Panhandle, has anything on Roswell. Similarly, bikers—even female ones, who are the focus here—are more of a national than a local phenomenon. In the introduction, Lynn Waddell explains her methodology:
Each subculture described in this book is distinct in some significant way from its cousins in other states. The lifestyles either originated in Florida or dwarf ones elsewhere in size or prominence. For instance, San Francisco and Boston are hotspots for fetishists who dress up like horses, but Florida is home to the International Pony Play Championships.
Makes a Floridian proud.
Waddell is a native of Alabama, but has lived in Florida for a number of years and worked for an alternative paper in the Tampa Bay area, a job that introduced her to some of the wonders covered here. A fair number of the book’s subjects—strippers, mudders, nudists—also make their homes in central Florida. And though those of us who live in the southern part of the state (which is the least “Southern” part of the state) tend to assume that we have a monopoly on subtropical outrageousness, seeing our region as the adult (XXX) counterpart to the kiddie parks to the north, Fringe Florida demonstrates that there is more than enough deviant behavior to go around, from Pensacola to Miami. In fact, the one place outside the geographic range of the book—Key West—is one of Florida’s, if not America’s, most idiosyncratic towns.