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.”

Ulan Ude?

As I sit and ponder my existence over a lukewarm plastic cup of beer, I am caught off guard by a city name on the signpost at Key West Bight. You know the one, don't you? The tall sign near Turtle Kralls that displays the distance to various cities around the world. It is a Key West landmark begging to be photographed and is several hundered times a day, I am sure. There is a city, apparently, named Ulan Ude, somewhere on this lovely blue marble that we call Earth. It dawns on me that I have no idea where this place is. Thailand? New Zealand? Russia?

Professional vagabond that I am, It disturbs me that there is somewhere I have never been, but it disturbs me even more to realize that I don't even know where in the hell it is. I have roamed the face of our planet for well over 40 years and like to consider myself quite the drunken prophet of the road. You need directions? How many different ways would you like to get to your destination? I am a walking road atlas so you understand when I say that Ulan Ude bothered me and would until I could get home to my trusty internet and do some research.

Contemplating the subject as only a man well into a six-pack can, I wonder how many of us really know where we are? I mean, sure, we are in Key West but where is that? End of the road?
Paradise? The Rock? We call our little island home so many things, do we ever really stop and think of what it really is? My friend, Stoner Steve, tells me that I am overthinking the whole thing and I should go ahead and buy the next round. Just enjoy Paradise for what it is, he says. Don't think about it too much, you will ruin it. Seems awfully tenious for Paradise, I say.

Is Key West the utopia that we always claim to the tourists? In some ways, I suppose it is. Plenty of sunshine, tons of activities to keep us busy, beaches, beautiful people, music flowing from every doorway, and permission to drink all you care to. However, 5 AM garbage trucks, vomiting tourists, lack of parking, overpriced mediocre bar food, roosters announcing their manhood during a Saturday morning hangover, corrupt politicos, crack fiends in Bahama Village, half-naked Czech girls who won't speak to me, and rampant smelly homelessness all make a strong argument that Key West is only a rehashed microcosm of the rest of the world. Add hurricane season, outrageous rents, and the prick on Caroline Street that stole my $600 Conch Cruiser weeks after I purchased it and the end of the road looks like any other pretentious ass of a town.

Stoner Steve and White Feather decide that I am thinking too slow and decide to pool up for another six pack. Fine with me, writing always makes me thirsty. I must be related, at least in spirit, to Papa Hemingway in that respect. As I am standing in line at Mustapha's (For some reason, I end up getting talked into buying.), I see it. I see all around me what makes this island so special. I am in line behind an unattractive transvestite in a spandex exercise outfit. She is buying a bottle of cheap red wine, a bag of Skittles, and a pork filled frozen burrito. Mustapha, one of the nicest men on this island, is a Muslim. The guy in line behind me is obviously Cuban. Outside on the sidewalk, I can see a homeless guy giving an elderly couple directions to, presumably, Duval Street. My neighbor, a stunning artist who likes to ride her bicycle naked around our neighborhood at 3 in the morning, comes in the store and hugs me hello. It is a sunny day.

We are truly one human family. It is not just a cliched bumper sticker. We are family here and just like any other family, we may not like it when Uncle Kenny shows up drunk for Thanksgiving or when Cuzzin Trevor rams his bicycle into your car, or your sister-in-law defrauds half of your island in the name of progress, but we are still family. That, to me anyway, is what makes this rock magical. It may not be perfect, it may not even be Paradise, but at least it is not Ulan Ude.

By the way, Ulan Ude is in Russia. Brrrr.