“Everyone who hears that you’ve got your dick stuck in anything thinks you were trying to have sex with it. I have no idea how that’d be possible in this case. I have been in the depths of the compound bow, and it was not pleasurable. All right, so anyway, my dick. It’s been a while since I told this story. But basically, there are moments in life that kind of define you, they point you in a direction, they — you’re forged in the fires.”
What do we even mean when we say “Florida Man”? It’s an American phrase that identifies one of those indescribable French feelings, the kind there’s no word for in any other language. But it has evolved into something that transcends language. Give a state invasive fish and imported exotic birds and hordes of freed pet pythons, and in return it gifts us with the most specific sense of place imaginable, one with layers of humanity, history, and ecology fusing into something that can’t be defined except maybe by a laugh — rueful, but warm — and a certain tilt of the head, and a look of You Just Had To Be There, And Aren’t You Sorry You Weren’t.
(Read the rest at Grantland.)