Fringe Florida: Travels Among Mud Boggers, Furries, Ufologists, Nudists, and Other Lovers of Unconventional Lifestyles by Lynn Waddell Page A

given chunks
    of it away. He financed a new city park in a rundown neighborhood and
    gave generously to children’s charities.
    Joe has let his hair grow and restarted his weekly public-access show,
    now espousing broader political views. He argues for a cleaner environ-
    ment, development that pays for itself, high-speed rail, and healthier
    school lunches. He rants that Wall Street stole American’s home equity.
    He rails against Florida Republican Governor Rick Scott.
    Despite his populist appeal, public office eludes him. Joe has run for
    office nine times and counting.
    His best showing was in a 2007 city council primary. He beat out
    ad
    four candidates to make the runoff. He lost to the incumbent, garner-
    ir
    ing only 44 percent of the vote.
    olF
    He laments that many people see him only as the nude-lap-dance
    eg
    king and says the local media perpetuates it. “They just don’t listen to
    nir
    me. My campaign slogan was ‘My name is Joe Redner and I’m NOT
    F
    FOR SALE.’ I never once saw that in print . . . The press does not print
    26
    what I say. They just do not.”
    Granted it was hard for voters to forget that he’s made a living off
    nude women who give boob facials to strangers when he offered free
    Mons admission to anyone wearing “I Voted” stickers.
    He also can’t help but antagonize conservatives on the campaign
    trail. Even though he’s an avowed atheist, Joe said a prayer at a 2011
    candidates’ forum held in a Baptist church. It just wasn’t one that
    would win him votes with that crowd. He thanked God for the Califor-
    nia judge who overturned a law against gay marriage. “Doing things
    like that, you can’t win an election,” he says with a sigh. “You’ve got to
    kiss some people’s ass.”
    Joe says he now focuses on helping get others elected. But his eyes
    sparkle at the suggestion that voters might be willing to elect him
    given the outcry for widespread governmental reform.
    If for no other reason, Joe may run again because he hungers to be
    heard. Public-access TV just isn’t a large enough stage. “When you’re
    running for office you get to go to these forums and say what you’ve
    got to say and people listen. They’re not hearing but they’re listening,
    so if you say something outrageous . . .”
    He lets his words trail into quiet introspection. What legacy will he
    leave behind?
    The Mons, the Mons. The stage he created may not be for his feet,
    proof
    but it is never far from his thoughts.
    “Mons brings in so much money to Tampa that it’s unbelievable,” he
    says, beaming about his brainchild. “It has a more positive economic
    impact than the Bucs because Mons brings money in from outside the
    area.”
    I share with him Kristopher’s Hong Kong cab experience. He grins,
    but is not surprised. Joe has a cabbie story of his own.
    “I was in New York about fifteen years ago. I was staying at the Mar-
    riott Marquis on Times Square. I went downstairs, got in a cab, and
    said ‘take me to one of your local strip clubs.’”
    ap
    “We’re on the way and he said, ‘Where are you from?’”
    Mar
    “I said ‘Tampa.’”
    t

“He said, ‘You’re not going to like this place.’”
    Fo
    “I said, ‘Why not?’”
    gni
    “He said, “There’s nothing in New York City like Mons Venus.”
    K e
    “I said, ‘I own the Mons Venus!’”
    ht
    “He didn’t believe me!”
    36
    re3
    tpahC
    Sisters of Steel
    proof
    Coastal Highway A1A rumbles with the sound of twin engines. Bike
    Week, the world’s largest motorcycle event, is at full throttle. Nearly a
    half million motorcycle lovers have converged on the central east coast
    of Florida to check out bikes and show off theirs. The majority are men
    who spend a good deal of time downing beers and gawking at woman
    in wet T-shirts and assless chaps.
    A motorcycle posse of middle-age men in standard biker uniform—
    black leather jackets and vests, boots, and reflective shades—pulls out
    two by two from a