I am well aware that I live on a tropical island. I am reminded of this every morning as I step out onto the deck of the Rusted Root, butt naked, Cuban coffee and cigarette in hand, and gaze at the multi hued sunrise. I am also well aware that I live in Key West, Florida. I am reminded of this every morning when my neighbor, Gay Steve, whistles and catcalls at me but is discreet enough to wait until I am dressed to come over with the daily dose of Kahlua and vodka.
I am also well aware that thousands of tourists scrape and save for sometimes years before they can afford to spend two weeks down here, pissing away many, many dollars all in the name of recreation and vacation. Key West is one of the major tourist destinations in this country and if you haven't been here, well, it's kind of like Vegas, you need to visit at least once. So to say that I need a vacation from Key West is kinda like saying I need a vacation from bacon and cigarettes. It is nearly blasphemous. What kind of dumbass leaves Paradise? And more importantly...where the hell do you go?
I am going home.
Home...Home where the pot dealers and meth cooks run rampant. Home where the banana pudding and real pit BBQ flows like rum does here. Home to a dry county and NO social diversity. (Where I come from, diversity means that your neighbor is a Methodist) Home where they still take great pride in voting for Bush and Walmart is a social meeting place. Home where Momma still makes the BEST bisquits you have ever eaten and the sheriff is as corrupt as a Nigerian money making opportunity.
I miss Key West already.
My momma is sick, my daughter just made me a new grandfather, and I need a break from the insanity of this rock. I am taking a vacation from a permanent vacation. I will go and visit E., the biggest pot grower in West Tennessee and my best friend for 20 years. I will visit S. and F. who just came to KW to visit me and are now back home in rehab(Just Kidding, Guys). I will visit the Mom and eat real PORK for the first time in years.
I miss the island already and haven't even gotten on the plane. I will miss the Cafe Con Leche that I drink every morning. I will miss the bouganvillias that are blooming in reds, oranges, and pinks all over the place. I will miss the sunsets and the sunrises(Yes, we have those here, too). I will miss all you freaking weirdos, drag queens, artists, writers, and drunks. I am going home.
Of course, I will be back in a couple of weeks. I just need a break. I just need to go somewhere that can remind me of how oppressed the rest of the country really is, so that I can more fully appreciate the One Human Family, social diversity, and natural beauty of this place that I choose to call home.
Yes, I am going home. But home is where you feel the most comfortable, right? So I suppose I am leaving home to go home. And I will love them both for what they are.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Toearitaville...
“Blew out my flip flop…stepped on a broken beer bottle, cut my vein and had to cruise back to the emergency room where there’s Vicodin in the blender and soon it will render me numb, so I can stumble on home…”
Ok, that was a horrible rendition of that timeless classic. Just be happy I didn’t sing it out loud. My singing sounds like two cats fighting in a bag of broken glass. So instead of screeching, I just choose to write down the words. It is less painful and it doesn’t interrupt the CD of Carole King that I am listening to.
There are occasionally times when even me, Consummate Adventurer and Genius Vagabond, does something so stupid and clumsy that you have to laugh. I had one of those days recently. Even while the emergency room doctor, Serge the Gay Butcher, was sewing my big toe back on, I was laughing my drunken ass off.
I had recently accompanied the Lovely Sam to a fundraising concert for the Boys and Girls Club hosted by TGIFridays, Howard Livingstone and his Mile Marker 24 Band. We wanted to see Howard again but we were also there to show support for the Club where our son, Moon, is a member. He is a good boy and helps with the smaller kids. I suppose, living with me, he is used to immaturity. The organization is fantastic and we try to show our support whenever possible. Besides, it was Howard Livingstone! Also, my completely clueless nemesis, Bill Hoebee, was in attendance.
When I say that Bill is clueless, I only mean that he is clueless that he is my Nemesis. I am constantly observing Mr. KeysTV for any signs that his excessive imbibing in all things adult and liquid, is taking its toll on his mind or body. At no time do I entertain the notion of unseating the undisputed king of Keys nightlife, he is an institution and a drunken hero to many on this rock. But Bill, if he ever falls out and his liver takes a vacation from what is left of his booze ravaged body, will have to name a successor. I am jockeying for position as we speak. I am watching you, Bill Hoebee…and I am coming for the throne!
Anyway, Lovely Sam and I grabbed a couple of burgers and a few beers and sat down to enjoy the concert. You would have to be dead not to. Howard and the boys always put on a great feel-good show. I personally rank country island music this way: Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Chesney, and Howard Livingstone. He sang all the favorites and during the break came over to our table and said hello. Of course, Bill Hoebee was already there, cocktail in hand, showing off his supernatural ability to drink and never age. Bastard! (Just kidding, Bill!)
Again, I digress. After the concert was over, Sam and I disposed of our trash properly and headed to my dinghy that I had parked in the mangroves behind TGIFridays for quick access. I had only had a few beers so I did not think my rowing would be too impaired. I had no idea that just getting into the boat was going to be the problem. Tide had receded until the bow of the boat was stuck on the edge of a mangrove root, unbeknownst to me, so when I stepped into the boat, the whole damn thing tilted to the starboard.
I knew immediately that I was going to fall somewhere, into the boat or into the water, so I chose the lesser of the two evils and just stepped into the water. I do not know how long that broken Miller bottle had lain in wait for a victim, but it found one that evening. It sliced cleanly the bottom of my foot, through tendon and vein and all the way to the bone! By the time I climbed out of the water, over the mangrove roots and onto the parking lot, I was literally spraying blood across the pavement. The gusher was disturbing me. There was so much fresh red liquid ME squirting out it was hypnotizing.
On your next visit to Key West, don’t let anyone tell you how bad the hospital is here. Let me do it…(just kidding.) The EMTs showed up so fast, I didn’t even have time to pass out from loss of blood and I was in the emergency room before Howard and the Boys were finished with their second encore. Serge the Gay Butcher had me sewed up, ten stitches, and laughing my butt off in less than an hour! I am not joking! He made me feel good about being such a dumbass by telling stories of other dumbass locals and tourists mutilating themselves in the name of debauchery. The one about the hairy fat KISS guy and the bottle of Everclear was so damn funny I almost tore my stitches open! Thanks Doc!
So, there I was. Prescriptions wadded in hand. Foot in bandage and boot. Missing my other flip-flop. One cigarette. No matches. Parked across from me, in the bike rack, was my ugly green bicycle. Grateful, I climbed aboard and headed to the dock where The Lovely was, of course, waiting for me. She had been sitting there since she dropped off the bike, trying to compose herself before I arrived. She had been laughing since I stepped on the bottle. I then realized that she hadn’t been at the hospital, at all! She had been sitting here all that time trying to gather enough composure not to laugh at me! Unsuccessfully, I might add.
Giggling, she hands me my missing flip flop. It is cut nearly in half! We both start laughing then. She asks me if I wanted to go dancing, hands me a cold beer and my cracked wooden paddle and says, “Row, ya crybaby. It’s time to go home.”
Ok, that was a horrible rendition of that timeless classic. Just be happy I didn’t sing it out loud. My singing sounds like two cats fighting in a bag of broken glass. So instead of screeching, I just choose to write down the words. It is less painful and it doesn’t interrupt the CD of Carole King that I am listening to.
There are occasionally times when even me, Consummate Adventurer and Genius Vagabond, does something so stupid and clumsy that you have to laugh. I had one of those days recently. Even while the emergency room doctor, Serge the Gay Butcher, was sewing my big toe back on, I was laughing my drunken ass off.
I had recently accompanied the Lovely Sam to a fundraising concert for the Boys and Girls Club hosted by TGIFridays, Howard Livingstone and his Mile Marker 24 Band. We wanted to see Howard again but we were also there to show support for the Club where our son, Moon, is a member. He is a good boy and helps with the smaller kids. I suppose, living with me, he is used to immaturity. The organization is fantastic and we try to show our support whenever possible. Besides, it was Howard Livingstone! Also, my completely clueless nemesis, Bill Hoebee, was in attendance.
When I say that Bill is clueless, I only mean that he is clueless that he is my Nemesis. I am constantly observing Mr. KeysTV for any signs that his excessive imbibing in all things adult and liquid, is taking its toll on his mind or body. At no time do I entertain the notion of unseating the undisputed king of Keys nightlife, he is an institution and a drunken hero to many on this rock. But Bill, if he ever falls out and his liver takes a vacation from what is left of his booze ravaged body, will have to name a successor. I am jockeying for position as we speak. I am watching you, Bill Hoebee…and I am coming for the throne!
Anyway, Lovely Sam and I grabbed a couple of burgers and a few beers and sat down to enjoy the concert. You would have to be dead not to. Howard and the boys always put on a great feel-good show. I personally rank country island music this way: Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Chesney, and Howard Livingstone. He sang all the favorites and during the break came over to our table and said hello. Of course, Bill Hoebee was already there, cocktail in hand, showing off his supernatural ability to drink and never age. Bastard! (Just kidding, Bill!)
Again, I digress. After the concert was over, Sam and I disposed of our trash properly and headed to my dinghy that I had parked in the mangroves behind TGIFridays for quick access. I had only had a few beers so I did not think my rowing would be too impaired. I had no idea that just getting into the boat was going to be the problem. Tide had receded until the bow of the boat was stuck on the edge of a mangrove root, unbeknownst to me, so when I stepped into the boat, the whole damn thing tilted to the starboard.
I knew immediately that I was going to fall somewhere, into the boat or into the water, so I chose the lesser of the two evils and just stepped into the water. I do not know how long that broken Miller bottle had lain in wait for a victim, but it found one that evening. It sliced cleanly the bottom of my foot, through tendon and vein and all the way to the bone! By the time I climbed out of the water, over the mangrove roots and onto the parking lot, I was literally spraying blood across the pavement. The gusher was disturbing me. There was so much fresh red liquid ME squirting out it was hypnotizing.
On your next visit to Key West, don’t let anyone tell you how bad the hospital is here. Let me do it…(just kidding.) The EMTs showed up so fast, I didn’t even have time to pass out from loss of blood and I was in the emergency room before Howard and the Boys were finished with their second encore. Serge the Gay Butcher had me sewed up, ten stitches, and laughing my butt off in less than an hour! I am not joking! He made me feel good about being such a dumbass by telling stories of other dumbass locals and tourists mutilating themselves in the name of debauchery. The one about the hairy fat KISS guy and the bottle of Everclear was so damn funny I almost tore my stitches open! Thanks Doc!
So, there I was. Prescriptions wadded in hand. Foot in bandage and boot. Missing my other flip-flop. One cigarette. No matches. Parked across from me, in the bike rack, was my ugly green bicycle. Grateful, I climbed aboard and headed to the dock where The Lovely was, of course, waiting for me. She had been sitting there since she dropped off the bike, trying to compose herself before I arrived. She had been laughing since I stepped on the bottle. I then realized that she hadn’t been at the hospital, at all! She had been sitting here all that time trying to gather enough composure not to laugh at me! Unsuccessfully, I might add.
Giggling, she hands me my missing flip flop. It is cut nearly in half! We both start laughing then. She asks me if I wanted to go dancing, hands me a cold beer and my cracked wooden paddle and says, “Row, ya crybaby. It’s time to go home.”
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Fly Like an...Archeologist?
My son, Moon, turned 13 last Saturday. It is a pretty big deal around our house. Transitioning from a boy into a young man is a major milestone, not only for our household, but also in many cultures around the world. Bar Mitvahs, ritual scarring and other painful rites of passage are big affairs that sometimes take weeks to prepare and complete.
After whatever ordeal is inflicted upon the boy, whether it is walking on hot coals, genital piercing, or having his cheeks pinched 100 times by Jewish grandmothers, the young man walks (or waddles) away from the ceremony feeling accomplished, changed, and somewhat wiser.
I had big plans for the boy's 13th. The lovely Sam and I (OK, Sam) made reservations to take Moon on a 2 hour Barefoot Billy Jetski Tour around the island. Howard Livingston and the Mile Marker 24 Band was holding a fundraising concert at TGI Fridays for the Boys and Girls Club (Moon is a Junior Staff Member) later in the evening. That still left half of the day for fun and exciting activities. Since the lovely and prudent Sam informed me that under NO circumstances was I to tattoo, scar, burn, or even frighten the boy, my choices became extremely limited. So when I saw the sign on Roosevelt (Thank You VFW!!!), I knew that the heavens had opened up and dropped the Rite Of Passage solution in my lap.
I was taking the boy flying.
The EAA Young Eagles program was launched in 1992 and has provided over 1.5 million free flights to young people aged 8 to 17. They are a nonprofit organization where pilots volunteer their time and their planes to try to inspire young folks to explore the world of flight.
The Young Eagles Rally was bieng held on the morning of Moon's birthday at the Key West Airport. In a small hangar near the biplane terminal the EAA had set up 3 tables. One was for registration, one was for information on how to become a pilot, and the other, my favorite, was for hot dogs and hamburgers.
There was a small seaplane parked outside where a very informative and patient Mark Hightower was sharing his love for flying with the dozens of kids who had shown up early, leading 2 or 3 at a time through a tour of the cockpit. I think he showed Moon every knob, bell, whistle and button on the tiny plane.
I don't know who was more nervous when the plane, a Piper, took off from the runway, we parents or Moon, who had never been on a plane. Twenty minutes, 3 hot dogs, and a half a pack of smokes later, the boy was back, grinning as if he had just eaten 6 pounds of candy corn.
"OHMYGODMOMYOUWILLNEVERBELIEVEITDOLPHINSANDTURQUOISEANDGREENANDDADWEFLEWRIGHTOVEROURBOATANDITWASSOOOOCOOLTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!!!!"
He was almost jumping up and down but bieng 13, was way too cool for that. In public anyway.
When they gave Moon his verytotallyawesome Certificate of Flight, which declares that he is now a Young Eagle and that his name is now permantly entered into the Worlds Largest Logbook in the EAA Airventure Museum in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, I read the signatures at the bottom and could not help but smile.
Not only did the pilot sign the verytotallyawesome certificate but so did the Chairman of the Young Eagles. Only the Greatest Action Hero of ALL TIME, Harrison Ford! Indiana FREAKIN Jones is the Chairman of the EAA Young Eagles! Turns out he is an avid and active member of the Experimental Aircraft Association but also frequently flies the Young Eagles himself.
Can you imagine? Bieng 13 years old and you and Indiana Jones in a small plane flying over some tropical island in search of Mel Fisher's Gold of the Haunted Ruins of Old Fort Zack?
The look on my son's face said that it did not matter who the pilot was, he had found Aztec Gold and the Lost City of Myparentsaresocool in the last twenty minutes.
I suppose, begrudgingly, that not all rites of passage have to involve pain, scarification, and anguish.
A few things that all good rites of passage have in common though. They are death defying, life affirming, and inspire you to new heights and new ways of thinking. I think Sam and I did alright by the the boy.
I still wish she would have let me make him eat a bug or something...
After whatever ordeal is inflicted upon the boy, whether it is walking on hot coals, genital piercing, or having his cheeks pinched 100 times by Jewish grandmothers, the young man walks (or waddles) away from the ceremony feeling accomplished, changed, and somewhat wiser.
I had big plans for the boy's 13th. The lovely Sam and I (OK, Sam) made reservations to take Moon on a 2 hour Barefoot Billy Jetski Tour around the island. Howard Livingston and the Mile Marker 24 Band was holding a fundraising concert at TGI Fridays for the Boys and Girls Club (Moon is a Junior Staff Member) later in the evening. That still left half of the day for fun and exciting activities. Since the lovely and prudent Sam informed me that under NO circumstances was I to tattoo, scar, burn, or even frighten the boy, my choices became extremely limited. So when I saw the sign on Roosevelt (Thank You VFW!!!), I knew that the heavens had opened up and dropped the Rite Of Passage solution in my lap.
I was taking the boy flying.
The EAA Young Eagles program was launched in 1992 and has provided over 1.5 million free flights to young people aged 8 to 17. They are a nonprofit organization where pilots volunteer their time and their planes to try to inspire young folks to explore the world of flight.
The Young Eagles Rally was bieng held on the morning of Moon's birthday at the Key West Airport. In a small hangar near the biplane terminal the EAA had set up 3 tables. One was for registration, one was for information on how to become a pilot, and the other, my favorite, was for hot dogs and hamburgers.
There was a small seaplane parked outside where a very informative and patient Mark Hightower was sharing his love for flying with the dozens of kids who had shown up early, leading 2 or 3 at a time through a tour of the cockpit. I think he showed Moon every knob, bell, whistle and button on the tiny plane.
I don't know who was more nervous when the plane, a Piper, took off from the runway, we parents or Moon, who had never been on a plane. Twenty minutes, 3 hot dogs, and a half a pack of smokes later, the boy was back, grinning as if he had just eaten 6 pounds of candy corn.
"OHMYGODMOMYOUWILLNEVERBELIEVEITDOLPHINSANDTURQUOISEANDGREENANDDADWEFLEWRIGHTOVEROURBOATANDITWASSOOOOCOOLTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!!!!"
He was almost jumping up and down but bieng 13, was way too cool for that. In public anyway.
When they gave Moon his verytotallyawesome Certificate of Flight, which declares that he is now a Young Eagle and that his name is now permantly entered into the Worlds Largest Logbook in the EAA Airventure Museum in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, I read the signatures at the bottom and could not help but smile.
Not only did the pilot sign the verytotallyawesome certificate but so did the Chairman of the Young Eagles. Only the Greatest Action Hero of ALL TIME, Harrison Ford! Indiana FREAKIN Jones is the Chairman of the EAA Young Eagles! Turns out he is an avid and active member of the Experimental Aircraft Association but also frequently flies the Young Eagles himself.
Can you imagine? Bieng 13 years old and you and Indiana Jones in a small plane flying over some tropical island in search of Mel Fisher's Gold of the Haunted Ruins of Old Fort Zack?
The look on my son's face said that it did not matter who the pilot was, he had found Aztec Gold and the Lost City of Myparentsaresocool in the last twenty minutes.
I suppose, begrudgingly, that not all rites of passage have to involve pain, scarification, and anguish.
A few things that all good rites of passage have in common though. They are death defying, life affirming, and inspire you to new heights and new ways of thinking. I think Sam and I did alright by the the boy.
I still wish she would have let me make him eat a bug or something...
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