Hell of a Blowout
Thousands Turn Out to Celebrate the Uniqueness That Is
Jimbo’s and the Man Who Started It All — While They Still Can

“I passed out in front of a trailer the first night,” Paul admits. “When I wake up, they tell me there’s another party.”

 By Rebecca Wakefield

Near as I can tell, the state of James Luznar’s physical health is the subject of as much concern and debate as that of the president. More, possibly. This past Sunday, Luznar, aka Jimbo, celebrated his 79th birthday at the squatter’s haven on Virginia Key, loosely organized as a shrimp, beer and bocce ball operation for five decades.

Several thousand people drifted through the muddy compound next to the sewage treatment plant, drawn by a cacophony of live bands, DJs, 39 kegs of free beer, assorted grilled meats and the curious sense of belonging that draws the unlikeliest folks together over the burning trash can every year.

“I’m sick and tired of my brothers and sisters dying to preserve America’s right to drive like assholes.” This patch was sewn onto the leather jacket of a middle-aged biker, celebrating with a clan of his aging fellows, the women resplendent in leather bras and jeans. Young black dudes with dreads mixed comfortably with Anglos and Hispanics from all over the Miami spectrum, from Hialeah bangers to college kids in Ramones T-shirts and camos, from lesbians in Tevas to old guys with their guts pressing on their knees.

If there was a unifying theme, it was the tattoos everyone seemed to have, and a universal sentiment that Jimbo’s (named for its cigar-chomping proprietor) should survive both the man and the nebulous agreement he has had with the city of Miami since 1954, which has allowed the place to exist thus far even though the city would, in these modern times, like to master-plan it away.

Ted, a blue-eyed, thick-accented son of the South, has been bringing a motley assortment of fellow South Carolinians to Jimbo’s birthday bash since Hurricane Andrew brought his construction crew to Miami in 1992. The men sleep where they can, usually in the back of the truck, fighting no-see-ums for a few days, before heading back north. “No matter where we are, we make sure we get here in April, even if we have to walk off a job,” he gurgles contently from under a black hat that reads “Walking Tall, elect Bob Voight Sheriff.” “There’s no place on earth like this.”

Ted means that Jimbo’s is a place where a man still has the freedom to be a man, thanks to a casual, all-inclusive atmosphere and a backwoodsy code of omerta. Off-color jokes can be freely told. Stupefying amounts of beer can be consumed. A visitor can trot off into the woods for a while to contemplate nature, throw a line in the water, or possibly, have sex or smoke a joint. Manatees, dolphins, iguanas, cats, dogs, and roosters are as much a part of Jimbo’s as the wistfully feral gentlemen gathered round the bocce ball courts. “A raccoon stole my damn teeth,” laments Dan, a sometime employee of 10 years who wears the change-making apron of office indicating he is the man to see about getting a handful of smoked fish or a can of Budweiser.

Also, there is a constant stream of ridiculously good-looking women being photographed amid the colorful decay of trailers, buses, boats, cars and miniature houses, pretty much every day. That the liberty-loving men of Jimbo’s tend to use their freedom slowly swallowing cheap beer while Matlock reruns play on a television outside the shrimp shack is an argument that perhaps they are not the best arbiters of their own destinies. That’s what the wives are for, when eventually they must go home.

Paul, a low-slung native of Ecuador resembling a sumo wrestler, considered Monday whether or not he would go home, after spending four days camping out in his car. The Realtor had arrived Thursday night during a pirate-themed party hosted by wealthy South Beach types and sponsored by Grey Goose, and found himself seduced by the calming Jimbo’s atmosphere during a stressful period in his life. He survived on some canned soups he had stashed in the truck of his car, and the smoked fish. He bathed by simply jumping in the canal out back, in his underwear. It’s that kind of place.

“I passed out in front of a trailer the first night,” Paul admits. “When I wake up, they tell me there’s another party. I’m doing wine today, and hopefully, hopefully, I leave here tonight.”

Paul and I chat about the immigration reform laws being debated across the country. He thinks it comes down to the balance of humanity versus practicality. It makes sense to legalize long-term, dues-paying aliens, but “there has to be some control,” he says. “The country can only absorb so much at a time.” Later, Paul hands me the last can in his trunk, 12 ounces of black beans, perhaps as a way of forcing himself to actually leave at the end of the day.

Meanwhile, a taxi pulls up on the dirt lane, disgorging one Roy Lennox, deep into the knees of an extended bender that began with mutton fishing off the Dry Tortugas. Lennox flips a bird at the patrons, removes his shirt.

“Dan, what the hell are you still doing alive?” he howls, before wandering off to burn some meat on a grill. Bubba Luznar, Jimbo’s son who lives on a houseboat out back, tells Roy that he missed a hell of a blowout. Then he continues collecting the beer cans Jimbo’s recycles throughout the year to pay for the birthday party.

Increasingly, this kind of Old Florida lifestyle has been disappearing, replaced by pale imitations, such as the gentrified Alabama Jack’s along Card Sound Road on the way to the Keys. It’s been a long time since former Mayor Steve Clark would hide out at Jimbo’s, sipping rum-and-Cokes. Although some local politicians still occasionally hole up there, an era is coming to a close.

Most people believe that when Jimbo dies or maybe even before, the city will take back the land it granted him decades ago. “The city’s been after it for a long time,” opines Dan. The city hasn’t expressed a specific threat to move on Jimbo’s anytime soon, but easily could, considering the numerous code violations integral to its character. The city is in the process of planning what to do with Virginia Key in general. The Luznar family is quietly seeing what can be done to preserve the place in the future and legions of loyal patrons stand ready to mobilize should Jimbo need them.

Jimbo is, fortunately, in fine physical form, judging by the virile hug I received from him while gifting him with a cigar Sunday. “The doctor told Jimbo that he could get him as far as 100, but after that he is on his own,” reflects Don E., another Jimbo’s employee of sorts, who would not look out of place in the Civil War.

Then Don E. walks back through the shack, through a couple of litters of kittens to prepare a load of fish for smoking. He explains that the fish, usually salmon or marlin, is first brined in a tub of water containing two pounds of salt and a pound of sugar. Then it is slid into an old bakery-style smoker for four hours over oak-fed flames, emerging flaky, delicious and guaranteed to emanate its smoky goodness through your skin for days.

Jimbo’s: The Documentary is scheduled to premiere at 8 p.m. Saturday, April 22 at Jimbo’s.

Comments? E-mail wakefield@miamisunpost.com.