Carl Hiaasen and I were talking about recent absurdities in Florida politics, namely Moms for Liberty and their fight against a public liberal arts college, which ended with the school’s new administration literally trashing hundreds of books about gender and race at the same time that Moms for Liberty’s royal couple trawled the greater Tampa Bay area for group sex.
“You wait long enough in Florida and the other shoe drops,” he said.
For decades, Hiaasen’s visions of Florida have folded the state’s ancient beauty—mangroves, raptors, manatees—into the slop of now: buttercream-colored mansions built on the cheap, watered-down strip club cocktails, politicians with rictus grins tiptoeing across shorelines wounded by hurricane debris.
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