Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

If three's a crowd, what is 5 million? September 13, 1985

Something dismal to contemplate next time you're stuck in highway traffic:

This week the National Planning Association predicted that Florida will have 5.7 million more residents by the year 2000 than it had in 1980.The Census Bureau forecasts 7.7 million, though this is considered high. And the University of Florida's Bureau of Economic and Business Research conservatively puts the growth at 5 million.

Which is still equivalent to absorbing the entire population of Missouri. Or, put another way, if the number of new people invading Florida during the next 15 years formed their own state, it would be more populous than 38 other states.

Incredibly, there are those walking among us who think this is wonderful news, and who are busily restructuring their banks, mapping new condominium clusters and dreaming up bigger and better trailer parks.

Meanwhile, growing numbers of dispirited Floridians wonder where it will all end, and worry about already-frayed quality of life.

"You're talking about a 50 percent increase in a 20-year period. In terms of numbers of bodies, it's a tremendous increase," says Stanley K. Smith of the University of Florida.

Among the fastest growing counties are Palm Beach, Lee, Collier, St. Lucie and Martin. Broward is still growing, though not nearly as fast as before, while Dade County is stagnant, its new arrivals nearly matched by those packing up and heading north.

As expected, most newcomers hail from places that are either cold, crowded, dirty or economically depressed. By the turn of the century, they will have enlarged our numbers to 14.7 million.

As John D. MacDonald has observed, almost everyone who moves down here wants to slam the door behind him. This might be selfish, but it's also understandable: It doesn't take a disciple of Thoreau to notice the loveliness of Florida wane in direct proportion to humanity.

"At some point," Smith says, "it's possible that the quality of life will become so unattractive that no one will want to move here. That'll solve your growth problems. But that's like cutting off your arm to save the whole body."

This year the Legislature passed a "growth management" law, supposedly to impose order on the state's tumultuous development.

Frankly, the notion of "orderly growth" is about as tangible as the tooth fairy. Growth that is orderly would break a century-old tradition of lust, greed and wantonness. Already three Florida counties (Palm Beach, Broward and Dade) hold more human beings (3.5 million) than the states of Mississippi or Colorado or Oregon or Oklahoma, to name a few.

No governor in our history has voiced as much concern for the trampling of Florida as Bob Graham, but I doubt that even he has the clout to put on the brakes. He is considered bold for endorsing "growth management," but he'd be laughed off his lectern for suggesting a growth cap.

So we're stuck with this stampede.

Developers along the Palm Beach and Treasure Coasts can salivate at the good fortune coming their way, but those living there might ponder the lesson of boomed-out Dade County.

Dade has stopped growing because it is perceived as crowded, volatile, crime-ridden and racially tense. It is seen less as a community than a newly urbanized war zone; a place with too many people, too many problems and too few opportunities.

Broward, fast bloating, will be the next to bottom out. In a few years Palm Beach County will probably follow.

By the time it all goes sour, when even Disney and sunny beaches can't trick people into coming, the big-money boys will have made their killing and hustled elsewhere along the Sun Belt.

Leaving everyone else to stew in traffic, and try to remember why they moved here in the first place.

Highway opens one of last frontiers to overgrowth July 16, 1986

The Romans managed to build 53,000 miles of road without once celebrating the achievement by dressing up in frog costumes.

Things have changed since 312 B.C. The roads are better, but the PR is worse.

Thursday brings another official opening of the Sawgrass Expressway in West Broward County. This opening—marked by the imposition of a $1.50 toll—should not be confused with two previous official openings, at which great political merriment and self-congratulation occurred.

The highlight of these seemingly endless festivities has been the introduction of Cecil B. Sawgrass, a grown man dressed like a frog. Cecil B. Sawgrass is the expressway's official mascot. If you live in Broward, you got postcards in the mail with Cecil's green likeness inviting you to try the new expressway. "Hop to it!" Cecil implored. And, sure enough, if you drive the Sawgrass you'll see dozens of Cecil's little frog cousins squashed dead on the fresh asphalt.

The Romans had too much class to invent animal mascots for their roads. Of course, they never had to sell a $200 million bond issue either. These days, we are told, highways must be promoted like breakfast cereal, imprinted on the public consciousness. This is especially true when the highway doesn't really go anywhere that the public wants to go.

The Sawgrass Expressway is a 23-mile incision that runs near the Broward-Palm Beach boundary, then jogs south along the westernmost fringe of civilization. It runs parallel to the dikes that contain the submerged Everglades conservation areas, vital South Florida watersheds. Someday the Sawgrass will link with I-595.

There's not much to see on the highway now, and that's the beauty of it. There are cattle grazing in open fields, hawks circling in the sky, and bass hitting in the canals (at least the canals that weren't grossly over-dredged by road contractors). Across the dike are breathtaking waves of sawgrass and virgin wetlands.

It won't stay this way long, which explains all the celebrating. The sound of bulldozers is the sound of money.

Don't think for a minute that this road was built in 15 months because thousands of commuters were begging for it (try to get a pothole plugged that fast). And don't think it was built to ease the deadly chaos of I-95, because it runs nowhere near the interstate.

The Sawgrass was built for one reason only: to open the last frontiers of Broward County for rapid development. The value of sodden rural property tends to appreciate when somebody graciously runs an expressway to it. It's like Christmas in July.

It's just progress, right? If you like truck routes, it's progress.

Twenty-five years ago Dade County planners exulted in the opening of what was then called the Palmetto Bypass. The highway's purported mission was to carry motorists on a western loop around Miami's congested central core. Within months of its inaugural, the sparse Palmetto had attracted a bottling plant, three industrial parks, a machine shop, a metal shop, and a tractor plant. The rest is traffic history.

Today, if you were choosing the most unsightly, treacherous and truck-heavy highway in America, the Palmetto would be in the running for grand prize. It's a mess.

Well, guess what's already happening along the perimeters of the Sawgrass Expressway? Coral Ridge Properties just gobbled up 610 acres. Gulfstream Land is planning 29,000 residential units. Stiles Development Corp. is promising 6 million square feet of office and industrial space—as much as all downtown Fort Lauderdale.

The hype is that the Sawgrass was built to alleviate future traffic. The opposite is true. The plan is for more, not less. The plan is a new western front ripe for mailing and townhousing.

The plan is to scour every last available acre.

Funny how nobody wants to come right out and say it. Instead they send a frog to do a buzzard's job.

Buying a piece of Florida? See it like a native February 16, 1987

Forgive a little boosterism, but I'm getting sick and tired of people casting aspersions on the land-sales business here in the Sunshine State. Geez, some customers want everything their way.

Last Friday's front-page story about the mammoth General Development Corporation was the last straw. To summarize, over the past three years GDC has received more than 400 complaints from dissatisfied land and home buyers, many of whom say they didn't get what they paid for.

Well, PARDON US FOR LIVING, OK? I mean, this is Florida. There's a certain, uh, image to uphold.

As you know, GDC is one of these megacompanies that gobbles up tracts of real estate and turns them into "planned communities" that are all named Port Something-or-other, but aren't really ports at all.

Flying over a planned community, you marvel at how the miracle of geometry allows so many houses to be squished onto so many side-by-side lots. This stylish platting technique is modeled after the marine barracks at Camp Lejeune.

Such developments have attracted thousands of new residents to Florida, most of whom would never dream of griping. They're just mighty glad to be here.

As a convenience for out-of-state customers, GDC's mannerly and low-key sales force is scattered throughout the country. What happens is that you go into the land-sales office and a very nice man or woman helps you pick out a lot—thus saving you the hassle of flying all the way down here, renting a car, buying a map and trying to locate the darn thing yourself—and the bugs! Forget it.

You'd think buyers would be grateful for this service, right? Wrong. Some crybabies have had the gall to complain that the land they ended up with wasn't the land they meant to buy. Some lots turned out to be worth only a fraction of the purchase price, and one customer said a canal near his lot turned out to be a "swamp."

Talk about picky. Hey, pal, ever heard of a canoe?

Customers who buy GDC land site-unseen are offered a company-paid trip to visit their new property. By taking the trip, however, they waive their option to cancel the sales contract. Some might say this policy is unfair and defeats the whole purpose of the trip, but look at the other side. Think of how many freezing snowbirds would try to weasel a free vacation to Florida this way!

Then there's the recurring problem with property appraisals. It seems that when residents try to sell their GDC lots or homes, the appraisals sometimes come up just a tad short of what was originally paid. One couple purchased a house for $65,000 in 1984; just a year later, an independent appraiser valued the place at $40,500. Another woman bought a house at Port Malabar for $67,000, and eight months later it was appraised at $43,000.

I'm sure there are excellent reasons for these minor discrepancies. So much can happen to a new house in eight months or a year—the paint can fade, the dog can mess up the carpets, the sprinklers can turn the sidewalks orange. Fifty bucks here and there, and before you know it, you've got $24,000 worth of serious depreciation.

More to the point, why would anyone want to sell their lovely GDC home anyway? The whole idea is to move to Florida and spend eternity in paradise, assuming the roads eventually get paved.

Instead of whining about it, I say we applaud GDC for goosing up its prices and discouraging resales. Florida needs citizens who stay put, not buy-and-sell vagabonds who disturb the stability of a carefully planned community.

Even more important—and forgive us for getting a little misty-eyed—is preserving Florida's glorious tradition of hawking itself as shamelessly and profitably as is humanly possible. If someone sells you swampland, it's because someone sold swampland to their fathers, and perhaps even to their grandfathers before that.

Maybe it's in our blood, or maybe it's just something in the water, but it is part of our heritage. Thank heavens it's still alive.

Maybe first Thanksgiving soured early November 24, 1989

A University of Florida historian reports that, contrary to American folklore, the first Thanksgiving did not take place in 1621 after the Pilgrims' arrival at Plymouth Rock.

Rather, the original feast supposedly was held 56 years earlier at St. Augustine when Spanish explorer Pedro Menendez de Aviles invited the Timucua Indians to dinner. The prayerful gathering was called to celebrate the Spaniards' safe landing on the Florida coast.

If true, this revisionist account of the holiday raises important historical questions. Why did tradition embrace the New England Thanksgiving instead of the original Florida Thanksgiving? What really happened on that autumn evening in 1565 when the Spaniards and the Timucua broke bread? Did something go terribly wrong to spoil the occasion? Perhaps it all went sour on the day after the big cookout, when ...

"Chief, you look awful—what's the matter?"

"It's those damn garbanzo beans. I should never have let Pedro talk me into a second helping."

"Speaking of Pedro, he and his men were up at the crack of dawn this morning. They chopped down many of our finest trees, and now they seem to be building something on our beach."

"I wondered who was causing all that racket. What are they making, another one of those ugly forts?"

"Not exactly, Chief. Pedro calls it a high-rise."

"I don't understand—what is that word, 'high-rise'? How would we say it in Timucuan?"

"Literally, it means Tall Box Full of Noisy Strangers."

"But why would Pedro put such an unnatural thing on such a beautiful shore!"

"He says he had a spiritual vision, Chief. He says that thousands upon thousands more settlers will soon be coming to Florida, and they will all need a place to sleep and eat and give thanks."

"What's he got against good old-fashioned thatched huts?"

"Pedro says the new settlers will want something fancier than palmetto. He says they'll be willing to pay major trinkets and beads to live in a high place with a good view of the ocean."

"This high-rise—exactly how high will it be?"

"Higher than the tallest pines, Chief. Higher than the eagles soar."

"Ha! I think our friend Pedro had a little too much grape last night."

"He seems quite sober, Chief. And his men are swift carpenters. I don't mind telling you, the rest of the tribe is very concerned."

"I, too, am worried—and surprised. They seemed like such nice fellows, these explorers. Much friendlier than the French. I can't believe they'd want to build a giant box on our beach and fill it with noisy strangers. What're we going to do?"

"Well, Chief, we could always eat them. Like we did with those Huguenots."

"Yeah, and we all had the trots for a month afterward, remember? Let's try to think of a different way to discourage Pedro."

"We could pass some tough coastal zoning ordinances."

"Naw, that'll never work. Pedro's lawyers would find a loophole somewhere."

"Chief, wait, I've got an idea! You know those funny little mushrooms that grow down by the creek? The ones that make the armadillos bark like coyotes?"

"Yes, the magic mushrooms."

"Well, suppose we invited Pedro and his crew back to dinner tonight. This time it would be our treat, a second thanksgiving."

"Hmmmm. A garden salad would be lovely for starters. Coonti roots, garnished with mushrooms."

"Yes, a bounty of mushrooms, Chief. And, later, cream of mushroom soup. Then, for the main course, wild buzzard stuffed with mushrooms."

"That should do the trick."

"After such a meal, Pedro and his men will totally forget about building anything on our peaceful beach. No more conquering, no more pillaging. All they'll want to do is run with the rabbits and fly with the hawks."

"Which reminds me, you'd better lock up the livestock."

"Good thinking, Chief. These men have been at sea for a long, long time."

Retail flops fail to stop mall frenzy February 8, 1989

This is a terrible time for mall freaks.

First, Branden's announced it was closing. Not only was this bad news for Branden's employees, but also for several South Florida malls which had counted on the big department store as their "anchor" to bring in customers.

Four—The Promenade, Town & Country, Colonial Palms and The Fountains in Broward—are suddenly stuck with about a jillion square feet of retail space, of which there is already a gross surplus.

In South Miami, the long-troubled Bakery Centre was clobbered by the abrupt closing of the Bodyworks spa and adjoining Sports Rock Cafe. Certainly it was an interesting idea while it lasted: Presumably you were supposed to pig out on the cafe side, then burn off the fat at the gym. Only in America, and only in a mall, could such a concept be born.

The shutdown of Bodyworks was the final blow to the Bakery Centre, which has announced that it's converting from retail to office space. Meanwhile developer owner Martin Margulies and the bank that loaned him the dough are suing and countersuing each other over why the loans aren't being repaid.

A new fire station that Margulies had promised to build in exchange for the mall approval is still just a sketch on paper. Gee, what a surprise.

The Bakery Centre fiasco is not a unique story. All over South Florida, shopping malls are in trouble for the simple reason that there are too many of them. A recent study showed a glut of 2£ million square feet of shopping space in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties. Vacancy is high, tenant turnover is high, foreclosure is high.

Still they build more and more of these megaturkeys—a mystery, unless you understand the symbiosis of greed. Developers usually don't lose a dime on dead malls—they get their money from the banks. The ones who really take it on the chin are the small, independent shop owners trying to make the rent in an air-conditioned ghost town.

Yet zoning boards lustily endorse mall after mall, seemingly oblivious of the fact that many of these projects have no prayer of financial success.

A perfect example: A few years ago, an economic study done in Broward reported that there was so much empty retail space that it couldn't all be filled until well into the 21st century.

Officials conveniently chose to ignore the experts, and continued to rubber-stamp every shopping mall that came up on the drawing board. Their groveling allegiance to developers is best manifested along a two-mile segment of University Drive in Plantation, where there are now no less than five malls and shopping centers.

If the Russians ever decide to bomb us, this particular stretch of suburban claptrap is where they'll start. The aerial resemblance to a munitions dump is uncanny.

Any idiot could have predicted that not all these malls could make money—any idiot except the ones who approved them; the elected ones.

Here's one idea you won't hear from government planners: Don't build any more shopping malls until the ones we've got are at least 90 percent occupied—and the stores are actually making a profit.

There's a radical notion. No one suggests such a thing because it means saying no to fat-cat developers and their lawyers. Saying no to a mall is like saying no to growth, and saying no to growth is like spitting on the flag.

Why, what would we do without another multiplex cinema—a dozen theaters, each no bigger than a tollbooth! Where else but a mall could we buy our apricot bagels? Where else could our daughters get their ears pierced?

And, most of all, what would we do with all that open space if there were no more shopping malls? Oh, I suppose you could plant some trees, put in a playground or maybe a ballpark for the kids.

But what neighborhood would ever go for something so dull when it could have its very own J. C. Penney and Wicker World and Orange Julius and parking lots as far as the eye can see.

We're talking quality of life.

A message to outsiders: Florida's full January 5, 1990

The latest census figures show that the 1980s was a decade of astounding migration to the South and the West. Florida continues to draw new residents like a dead marlin draws flies. Between the 1980 census and July 1, 1989, the state's population grew from 9.7 million people to an estimated 12.7 million people—an increase of 31 percent.

Anyone who says this is good news needs to have his head examined. It's a disaster in the making, an avalanche of humanity with which our state has no prayer of coping. As it is, we don't have enough roads, schools, police, water, affordable housing or health care. We apparently don't even have enough electricity to operate our toasters during a cold snap.

Yet still they come to Florida, in hopeful hordes, at a rate of about 900 a day. What accounts for this lemming-like behavior? More to the point, what accounts for our welcoming them so cheerily?

To hear some civic boosters talk, we should all be proud that so many folks are dying to be our new neighbors. It's as if we've all pitched in to make this a little slice of paradise, with lots to offer.

Hogwash. We had nothing to do with it. People move to Florida for the same reasons they've always moved to Florida: to get warm and stay warm. No matter how crowded or crime-ridden this state becomes, it'll always look better than a dying factory town on the shore of Lake Erie in the dead of winter.

Florida is where folks come when things get unbearable back home. It's been that way ever since they invented air-conditioning and bug spray.

Only three states grew faster in the 1980s: Arizona, Alaska and Nevada. None is in any immediate danger of becoming urbanized; Arizona's entire population is no more than that of Dade, Broward and Monroe counties together.

It's more reasonable to compare what's happening in Florida with the trend in other populous states. In the 19805 we absorbed more new residents than New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio or Texas. Only California (which has considerably more space) took in more people than we did.

Every year Florida's population grows by about 320,000—that's an entire city larger than Tampa. Every single year.

This must stop if the place is to be saved. Stanching the flood will require higher taxes, tougher laws and a few courageous politicians who aren't afraid to say enough is enough. Try to find just one.

Not that the cataclysm has been ignored. The 1980s was the decade in which state legislators embraced the term "growth management" and passed important laws to try to improve local planning. Not a week goes by that some university scholars or blue-ribbon panel aren't conducting a symposium on growth and all its implications—social, economic and environmental.

Some of the brightest people in Florida are hot on the case. The problem is, the faucet is still running.

And too many people are getting rich off the migration to admit that it's a peril. The money that fuels political campaigns tends to come from people who prosper from rampant growth and development. They cannot conceive of a place where these things would be controlled or, God forbid, halted.

Ironically, many who are suggesting such remedies were once migrants themselves. They see Florida becoming a place very much like the one they fled, and they'd like to prevent that from happening.

So now you want to slam the door? reply the guys in the suits; now that you've got your piece of paradise, you want to lock out the others, is that it?

Exactly. Because the alternative is to be overrun, choked and bankrupted; to destroy the very natural beauty that attracted all these people in the first place; to let the hordes keep coming until there's nowhere to put them—and then let our children and grandchildren worry about what to do next.

Damn right we should slam the door, or at least put a shoulder to it.

Gas-tax veto wisely brakes development May 9, 1990

Lots of people are lambasting Gov. Martinez for vetoing the proposed four-cent gasoline tax, which would have provided several hundred million dollars for road projects.

The critics say the governor's veto was irresponsible. They say it will hurt the economy by obstructing "growth management."

Translation: Without new roads, it's harder for developers to get new projects approved. It's no mystery why the most vocal supporters of the gas tax were road contractors, builders and chambers of commerce.

Maybe the governor didn't believe Floridians wanted the tax, or maybe he truly felt the money would be spent "unwisely and inappropriately." Either way, the veto was the right thing to do.

In what dream world do the gas-tax proponents dwell? It must be a fairy-tale place, where all construction contracts are awarded wisely, where the work is completed within budget, without scandal and always on time.

Where is this magical land? It's not Florida, that's for sure.

The Department of Transportation has suffered through some inglorious budget screwups. In 1988, $700 million in projects had to be canceled or scaled down. Last year the department came up $116 million short for purchasing rights-of-way. The Martinez administration deserves blame for chaotic mismanagement, but at least the governor this year had the sense not to give DOT more money to lose.

It's bad enough that most projects cost millions over budget, and drag months and even years past deadline. The worst part is: By the time these roads get finished, they are already obsolete.

For example, we've been dourly forewarned that the interminable widening of I-95 will be hopelessly inadequate, and that shortly after the highway's completion motorists will again find themselves mired in truck traffic. Wonderful.

Sure, many roads already are perilously congested. And yes, some of the bridges are falling down. Is more money the answer? Not if it goes for highway projects designed to fuel more growth—because growth is the root of the problem.

Florida has too many people in too many cars, and the numbers swell by nearly 900 a day. Until we do something drastic to reverse this trend, there's no hope of having a modern, efficient road system. Government is incapable of keeping pace with such an insane migration.

Some of the projects in the doomed transportation bill undoubtedly would have improved transit, cut down on auto pollution and saved lives. Few would argue the need to widen bloody U.S. 27 in Palm Beach County.

However, prudent taxpayers might question other big-ticket items that would have received funds from the gas tax. For example, would the city of Fort Lauderdale really grind to a halt if A1A were not rebuilt to accommodate commercial development along the beach? This seems an odd priority, considering the plight of less glamorous neighborhoods where people can't even get a simple pothole patched.

Another dubious item was the state's plan to purchase the Sawgrass Expressway, which (like Metrorail) is now being called successful because it's losing fewer millions of dollars than it once did.

Having paid for the Sawgrass once (and for the criminal prosecutions that followed), Broward residents would have been forced to pay again with the gas tax, this time joined by other drivers. That's not progress, it's larceny.

If the Martinez veto ultimately means less road construction for a while, that's not so bad. The worst traffic jams in Florida are caused by road projects that never seem to end.

All of us love to drive on fast-moving, freshly paved freeways, but they don't stay that way very long. They fill up, slow down and clog. The gas tax would have accelerated, not halted, this phenomenon.

Besides, there is something to be said for sitting bumper-to-bumper and contemplating the mess we've made of this state. The real problem isn't roads, and most people know it.

Finally, a leader admits growth is choking state September 4, 1991

Last week, Lt. Gov. Buddy MacKay uttered one of the most stunning comments ever to exit the lips of a Florida politician.

"In the past," he said, "we've had a policy of trying to stimulate growth. We measured our success by the numbers of people who moved into the state. We can no longer continue to do that."

What refreshing blasphemy! Finally, somebody in elected office has the guts to admit that Florida is drowning in its own humanity.

Every crisis facing the state—water, pollution, crime, health care, traffic, and budget—is the result of too many people, too few resources and gutless leader ship. The quality of life is deteriorating in direct correlation with population growth, but until lately you could find only a handful of Florida politicians willing to come out and say so.

More was always better. To challenge that philosophy was to jeopardize hefty campaign contributions from banks, builders and utilities. Unthinkable! That's why officeholders always talk about "managing" growth instead of stopping it.

With the state government practically broke, the Chiles administration is promoting the theme of "growing smarter." Translation: Help! What do we do now!

The statistics are chilling. Each day, more than 900 people stampede to Florida, and that's not counting illegal aliens. Think of it as adding two entire cities the size of Hialeah every year.

Every day, more than 300 acres of green space are paved for shopping malls and subdivisions. Planners say that keeping up with such expansion requires two new miles of road, two new classrooms, two new prison beds, two new cops and two new schoolteachers hired each day.

In other words, there's no way to keep pace. Nine hundred newcomers a day is insane and ultimately suicidal. Stopping the flow will take imagination and a radical change in the way we promote the state.

Pro-growthers say Florida's got plenty of space to grow—just look out the window when you're on an airplane! And it's true, you can actually see some empty green patches in the center of the state. Unfortunately, that's not where most new residents want to go.

Until now, people who've migrated here were foolishly allowed to settle any place they wanted. Not surprisingly, the coastal cities were overrun—first Jacksonville, Miami and Fort Lauderdale, now Boca Raton, Tampa and Fort Myers. A big mess. Glorified human ant farms.

One smart way for the Chiles administration to modify Florida's metastatic growth is to channel it—by decree—toward more thinly populated areas. Absolutely nobody else should be permitted to settle in Miami until North Florida fills up. It's only fair.

Consider that the density of Pinellas County (anchored by St. Petersburg) is about 3,055 people per square mile, the worst in the state. Broward is second with about i ,026 people per square mile, and Dade is third at 958 per square mile. No wonder the homicide rate is so high.

Now think of Liberty County. Tucked snugly in the Panhandle and bordered by the misty Apalachicola River, Liberty County has the lowest density in Florida—about six people for every square mile. Paradise!

Or Lafayette County, kissed by the quiet Suwannee—and only 10 human beings per mile of riverside. Or spring-fed Gilchrist County, which grows some of the world's juiciest watermelons, and does it with only 22 people per square mile.

Why do they deserve all the peace and quiet? It's time for rural Florida to carry an honest share of growth's burden. Think of it as a redistribution of wealth.

Starting tomorrow, Liberty County should take at least 100 of Florida's 900 daily new arrivals. Sprinkle the remainder in Lafayette, Gilchrist, Wakulla, Calhoun, DeSoto and so on.

Give those folks a taste of what we're experiencing down here, and you won't hear any fuzzy debates about "growth management." They'll vote to close the borders.

Guns-for-all law one way to end congestion May 20, 1993

Rep. Al Lawson sparked a small uproar last week by proposing that every household in Florida should be required to have a gun, and that every Floridian should be trained to shoot.

The man seemed dead serious. He talked of introducing a guns-for-all law during the upcoming special session on, fittingly, prisons. "I don't see any option for the people but for them to bear arms," he said. "Every house would have a gun."

Obviously Lawson isn't from South Florida (he's from Tallahassee), but it's still hard to understand how an elected official could be so grossly uninformed about the demographics of crime. Miami has armed itself to the teeth, but only occasionally does a citizen manage to shoot a criminal. Usually it's a spouse, child, neighbor or pal who gets wasted, in moments of anger, drunkenness or stupidity.

My hunch is that Lawson knew the homicide stats very well, and that we underestimated him. Nobody could be daffy enough to believe that saturating rough neighborhoods with more guns will reduce crime. I think Lawson's true aim was to reduce population, a worthy goal.

Florida's got too many people, yet continues to grow at an insane pace. Virtually every major social crisis stems from overcrowding—crime, pollution, gridlock, failing schools, you name it. The state's going broke trying to provide for its 13 million residents, and the thousands more who arrive permanently each week.

Nothing seems to scare them off, either. Not the publicity about drugs and street violence. Not the specter of another killer hurricane. Not even the fact that Madonna and Mickey Rourke both live down here. People keep coming anyway.

Most politicians are resigned to the notion that Florida will grow until it bursts at the seams, and nothing can be done. Lawson is different. He's come up with a surefire way to thin the herd. Putting a gun in every home would be radical, but effective.

Now embroiled in controversy, Lawson is backing off. An aide insists that the lawmaker was misunderstood: He doesn't really think everybody must have a gun, especially if they don't want to.

Lawson shouldn't give up so quickly. A guns-for-all law could be promoted politically as helping the average Joe fight back, where the cops and the courts have failed. Among crime-weary citizens, the plan would strike a patriotic chord. A chicken in every pot, a Clock in every nightstand!

Conservatives from both parties would rally to Lawson's side. The NRA would canonize him. He'd get invited on Rush Limbaugh. The Legislature, cowed by Lawson's newfound celebrity, would probably ignore the pleas of police organizations and pass the law.

The results would be instantaneous. With a gun in every house, the murder rate would skyrocket, eventually offsetting the influx of new residents. Lawson's firearms-training program would pay dividends, too, as Floridians would be shooting each other with unprecedented accuracy.

The bloodbath would make headlines worldwide, putting a minor dent in our tourist trade. However, that would be balanced by sunny economic news: Funeral homes, casket makers and florists would enjoy a sales boom.

Undoubtedly, Lawson's gun policy would make Florida a much less congested place. Traffic would improve dramatically, as would highway etiquette. Those long lines at the post office would be a thing of the past. And it would get much easier to find good seats at the Marlins games.

For years, the Legislature has unsuccessfully tried to cope with Florida's population explosion. Why not let Al Lawson take a shot at growth management?

Overcrowding solution: Pay folks to leave September 5, 1994

The nations of the world are meeting in Cairo to tackle the crisis of global overpopulation. Here in Florida the problem isn't the birth rate, it's the arrival rate.

No matter how crowded and crime-ridden the place gets, people keep coming. That's because most of them are leaving places that are equally crowded and crime-ridden, but without the sunshine and beaches.

Currently Florida's population is growing at a net rate of about 753 persons per day, which is manifestly insane. These aren't rafters or boat people, but American migrants in U-hauls and station wagons and minivans.

Most of them will end up working the popcorn machines at Wayne's World, or in some other low-paying, service-sector job. But still they come.

Each year Florida gets enough new residents to fill a city more populous than Tampa. Not even sky-high homicide rates put a dent in the problem. The challenge is to offset the unending influx of arrivals by aggressively encouraging others to move out.

One way of spurring departures is to scare the pants off people, but that's the job of the media, not government. Besides, residents of Florida aren't nearly as intimidated by crime as are tourists.

A juicier incentive (and a time-honored ritual in Tallahassee) is to give money away. Lawmakers do it routinely for special interests—this time they could do for the good of the whole state:

Pay people to move out.

Why not? When a plane is overbooked, the airline offers free tickets to anyone willing to give up a seat. Works like a charm.

Imagine Florida as a humongous jumbo jet, packed with 13 million restless passengers. Plenty of families would deplane if we made the right offer—say $10,000 cash. Call it a buyout, residential severance or a "relocation bonus."

Here's how it might work: After moving elsewhere, mail a copy of your Florida driver's license to Tallahassee, along with proof that you've bought or rented a place in another state. Presto—Florida cuts you a nice fat check.

If 275,000 folks were persuaded to depart annually (to match the 275,000-plus new arrivals), the payout would total $2.7 billion.That's expensive, but in the long run it's a tax saver.

Think of the future expressways, airports, transit systems, hospitals, schools, jails and landfills that won't need to be built if Florida's population levels off. Think of the resurgence of tourist dollars, once we get a handle on growth-related social problems.

Politicians won't admit Florida is overpopulated. To do so would offend too many campaign contributors—developers, bankers, real-estate firms—who make their fortunes drawing new settlers here in the largest possible numbers.

More is better, growth is good! In no region is the credo more religiously followed than South Florida, which has become so urbanized and perilous that tourists stay away by the millions, and longtime residents bail out in droves.

The rest of the state faces the same gloomy fate, if drastic measures aren't taken soon.

Clean high-tech industries aren't attracted to places with runaway crime, bursting schools and a steadily declining quality of life. Corporate recruiters already have a devil of time selling Florida to young executives with families.

Depopulation is the only answer—not kicking people out; rather, presenting them with a generous opportunity to leave.

Ideally, we'd combine the relocation bonus with a stiff entry cap: Nobody gets across the Georgia border until somebody else leaves.

We'd "wait-list" newcomers, just like the airlines do.

More crime, traffic jams? Bring'em on! February 4, 1996

Weird but true: In Jacksonville, an extravaganza called "Millionth Mania" was recently held to "celebrate" the area's one millionth new resident.

As if this were a good thing, something to be desired.

South Floridians can only shake their heads in puzzlement. We stopped celebrating about three million newcomers ago. Today, ascending population in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach are curtly noted and often received with quiet dismay.

In Jacksonville, they shot off fireworks on the river, while Barbara Eden and Frankie Valli entertained. But not everyone was jumping for joy.

Mike Webster, a native Miamian, fled to North Florida in 1980. Now 39, the Jacksonville yacht broker is a founding member of a small but feisty cell of objectors called the Florida League Against "Progress."

FLAP has no dues, no officers, no membership rolls and no meetings. What it does have is a blunt and plainly articulated position:

That growth for growth's sake is reckless, and that all Floridians are paying the price in a declining quality of life: crime, traffic gridlock, overcrowded schools, more taxes.

Years ago, FLAP gained modest attention by distributing delightfully seditious bumper stickers that said: LEAVING FLORIDA? TAKE A FRIEND!

Understandably, Webster was chagrined when his adopted hometown began to boast about swelling to one million residents. It was the same greed-head mentality that had turned South Florida into a parking lot.

So fervid was Jacksonville's yearning to reach its "magnificent milestone" that the city fudged the numbers. Duval County, which defines metropolitan Jacksonville, has only about 700,000 people. Therefore, promoters of "Millionth Mania" were compelled to include in their arithmetic the combined censuses of Duval, Baker, Nassau, Clay and St. Johns counties.

Technically, it was "northeastern Florida" that two weeks ago welcomed its one millionth resident. Mike Webster says he was no less alarmed.

He banged out an irreverent press release that was pretty much ignored by the region's mainstream media. That's too bad, because in it he enunciated what many frustrated Floridians are feeling.

"For places like Jacksonville," Webster wrote, "the question of growth is not one of right or wrong, but rather of addiction. We have worshipped the lord of growth. We have multiplied, now we must become fruitful."

Webster is no New Age granola-head. A self-described conservative Democrat, he was until recently a loyal member of the NRA. He doesn't worry about endangered panthers so much as farmers, river men and others whose futures are jeopardized by overdevelopment.

"Much of what passes for progress isn't," Webster says. He includes himself among the threatened: "If our marine resources collapse, the bottom falls out of the boat business."

And while FLAP stops shy of advocating a cap on growth, Webster has dryly suggested that Florida ought to start "depromoting" itself to slow the influx of new arrivals.

Which got me thinking: What better way for a city to spook prospective residents than to publicize (with fireworks!) its own overcrowding.

Is it possible, I wondered, that FLAP infiltrated Jacksonville's chamber of commerce? Was Webster himself secretly responsible for the big "celebration"?

Though he denies involvement, the phrase "Millionth Mania" certainly has the sly ring of parody. Perhaps it wasn't the hokey, misguided boosterism I first thought. Perhaps it was a prank—a perversely brilliant prank—meant to scare people away from Duval County.

And it'll probably work.

Court's message to home buyers: Trust no one April 18, 1996

By overturning the fraud convictions of four developers, a U.S. appeals court this week affirmed a common-law doctrine of Florida land sales known as Fornicat Emptor:

Let the buyer be screwed.

The court dismissed the case against former executives of General Development Corp., one of the state's most prolific land-scamming operations. Judges said there was insufficient evidence the men broke federal law.

Which is ironic, considering that GDC had long ago pleaded guilty, and two of the four indicted big shots had tried to do the same.

"Construing the evidence at its worst … it is true that these men behaved badly," the appellate court wrote. " [But] the fraud statutes do not cover all behavior which strays from the ideal; Congress has not yet criminalized all sharp conduct, manipulative acts, or unethical transactions."

Not exactly a ringing character endorsement, but a legal victory nonetheless.

The core of the case dates to the '70s and '80s, when GDC was vigorously marketing Florida property to out-of-state buyers. In its heyday, the company sold thousands of homesites and tract houses in "planned communities" such as Port Malabar and Port St. Lucie.

GDC's scurrilous sales techniques became legendary. Bare lots were sold to aspiring snowbirds for three to five times the true resale value. Waterfront sometimes meant swamp front.

And when customers asked to see their land, the company invited them down for a free tour—but only if they first signed away their right to cancel the contract.

GDC's most ambitious swindle targeted home buyers. The company used its own appraisers to jack up the value of its houses. Customers, most of whom financed through GDC, didn't learn about the price gap until they tried to resell.

Couples who'd bought a retirement home for $65,000 found out the hard way that its market value was $40,000. Complaints began piling up.

Finally the feds indicted the company in 1990. GDC pleaded guilty to conspiracy and pledged restitution. Chairman David F. Brown and President Robert F. Ehrling also agreed to plead guilty.

Within a month, GDC filed for bankruptcy, but the case wasn't done. U.S. District Judge Lenore Nesbitt surprised prosecutors and defendants by rejecting the original plea deal, and a subsequent one. She wanted tougher sentences and stronger terms of restitution.

Trial began in 1991. Nine months later, a Miami jury convicted Ehrling, Brown, Richard Reizen and Tore DeBella. Nesbitt sentenced them to prison, and ordered each to pony up $500,000 to defrauded GDC customers.

What seemed like a victory for the little guy didn't turn out that way. Many home buyers who'd sought compensation ended up with a small check and securities.

Meanwhile, the ex-executives appealed their convictions, leading to Tuesday's dismissal by a three-judge panel in Atlanta.

While agreeing that GDC had overvalued its homes, the judges ruled that "people of ordinary prudence" could have investigated the marketplace before purchasing.

In other words, the customers were at fault—not GDC's bosses. It's a coldhearted view, but the reasoning has logic.

Basically, the judges are asserting what many of us have known for generations: that anyone buying real estate in Florida should trust no one and assume the worst.

Lawyers for the defendants have tried to put a more positive spin on the court's ruling, claiming it vindicates the late GDC as a fair and honorable firm.

And never mind about those guilty pleas.

A gift for dad who has it all in his backyard December 5, 1996

If you live in a Lennar development, here's the perfect holiday gift for Dad: a shiny new backhoe, so he can find out what's buried in your yard.

The residents of Hampshire Homes in Miramar already have watched as 260 truckloads of tires and trash were hauled out of the infamous sinkhole that opened up there.

Now, three former subcontractors for Lennar Homes have come forward claiming that company officials told them to bury illegal trash at 19 construction sites in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties.

According to the subcontractors, the debris included household appliances, auto parts, batteries and even a fuel drum.

Last week, the president of Lennar Homes said the company never ordered anyone to bury junk beneath its developments, because that would've been against the law! "Some fuel drums might have been buried," Stuart Miller said, "but it was not done under company direction."

For alarmed homeowners, the most pressing issue isn't who ordered the trash buried, but what exactly got buried where.

Lennar doesn't offer random excavations of its subdivisions, although the company promises to haul off any unsightly debris that might surface unexpectedly.

That's fine if your dog happens to dig up a rusty Maytag near the hibiscus or a seeping 12-volt Delco under the swing set. But what if the junk is buried too deeply for Fido?

The former Lennar subcontractors say washing machines and other secret goodies are interred beneath FPL power lines in the upscale Coral Springs developments of Turtle Run and Whispering Woods.

At Tamarac's Kings Point, they said, the mother lode of debris is entombed within the banks of lakes.

And somewhere beneath the Images of Pembroke Pointe is the not-so-scenic image of a buried fuel drum.

Even if your hobby is archaeology, you probably wouldn't buy a house if you knew it was built above or even adjacent to an underground dump site.

But more than a few Florida developments are. The law allows limited on-site disposal of lumber, tree stumps and nonhazardous construction materials, but some builders bury all sorts of nasty stuff. It's cheaper than paying hauling fees, plus you get to keep the fill.

The sneaky practice was widespread in years past, and almost never disclosed to potential buyers. Lennar would've sold very few houses had Hampshire Homes been straightforwardly advertised as Tierra del Tire Dump or Sinkhole Estates.

Recent headlines have piqued the interest of hundreds of other Lennar customers, who now wonder what's percolating beneath the surface of their neighborhood. Also curious is Florida's attorney general, who has subpoenaed records from all Lennar developments dating back to 1980.

The company president says the files weren't always meticulously maintained. That could make it difficult to determine which subdivisions are at risk.

For concerned homeowners, even a small backhoe would be a big help. Lennar should provide them free to anybody brave enough to buy one of its houses.

That way there will be no guesswork or suspense. Once you notice the shrubs blackening or the patio furniture starting to melt, you can dig up the lawn and find out what the heck's buried down there.

Apparently Lennar isn't that eager for you to know. So, at least for this season, it's up to Santa to bring Dad that backhoe—and maybe a lightweight metal detector for Mom, too.

And don't forget the kids. Just imagine the joy on Christmas Day if they woke up to find cute little Geiger counters in their stockings!

Our dream, our nightmare September 13, 1998

The least startling headline of the last few days: The Sierra Club has rated South Florida one of the most blighted places in the country for unchecked urban sprawl.

Among the major metropolitan areas, Broward County ranks ninth nationally in annihilating of wetlands, farms and forests since 1990.That statistic is surprising only because Broward didn't take first place—imagine eight other regions actually doing a worse job of planning.

Elsewhere in Florida, Tampa ranks 14 and Miami-Dade is 18 on the Sierra list. Nationally, the top spot for runaway urban sprawl is fast-mushrooming Atlanta.

Losing land to development was only one factor considered by the Sierra Club when evaluating the impact of metropolitan expansion. The group also looked at pollution, water consumption, traffic congestion and population.

The critical yardstick is density, the ratio of people to land mass, and few places are as densely packed as South Florida. Nowhere is the ugliness more evident than southwestern Broward, where a drive along I-75 reveals little but rooftops, as far as the eye can see.

If the torrid pace of paving continues, Pembroke Pines, Coral Springs and other hot spots will eventually make Hialeah look like the Garden of Eden.

According to census data and University of Florida economic research, by 1997 Miami-Dade's population added up to 2,070,473 people living in an area of 2,109 square miles—or about 982 persons per square mile.

By contrast, Broward had 1,439,663 residents living within a much smaller area, 1,220 square miles. That works out to a nerve-jangling 1,180 persons per square mile, the human equivalent of living in a beehive.

The true elbow-to-elbow density of both counties is actually higher, when you eliminate their vast, unpopulated Everglades acreage.

Only one place in the state is more statistically overchoked: Pinellas County, the St. Petersburg/Clearwarer area, where more than 2,700 people are shoehorned into every square mile. If they were rats, they'd probably be gnawing each others' limbs off.

Inevitably, growth has slowed dramatically in Pinellas, as it has in Miami-Dade—not only because these places are running out of room, but because people are running away. In large numbers, they're fleeing the woes and headaches of rapid urbanization—crime, traffic, taxes, sardine-can classrooms.

Where are the disenchanted going? Broward, according to population experts. Then Palm Beach, Martin and St. Lucie along the east coast; Lee, Collier, Charlotte and Sarasota on the west coast.

That's the great, bitter irony. About 800 people a day move to Florida in pursuit of a dream that's being obliterated by their own footprints. It's a dream they're destined to chase from one end of the state to the other, trying to escape all the other dreamers.

Thousands have fled Miami-Dade for Broward, and now Broward is more densely congested than Dade. In a few years, the same thing will likely happen to Palm Beach County, and hordes will flee there in search of someplace more sane and livable.

An advanced civilization might produce leaders who would learn from the foolhardiness of others and take steps not to inflict the same ills on their own communities.

This doesn't happen in South Florida, where politicians customarily cave in to developers at the expense of wise long-range planning. The result is what you see, an unbroken panorama of greed.

Palm Beach County is destined to become another Miami-Dade, just as surely as Collier is destined to become another Pinellas. Nobody has learned a damn thing, which is symptomatic of another type of density crisis.

The density of certain skulls.