The Perfect Storm

Sound track of the day:
I think of you every night and day
You took my love and you took my pride away

Current Temperature: sunny and hopeful





The Florida Keys is an experience much like walking into a Jimmy Buffett wonderland. And that’s not a bad thing. The alcohol is always flowing and no one’s going to judge whether you abstain or dive right into a week-long binge. During the day you’ll find weekenders and tourists enjoying the sun and sea lapping up the hedonistic vibrations, noshing on conch fritters (pronounced conck), and sucking down rum runners. At night everyone gets gussied up, although still half naked, and hits any one of a number of joints with live music, often accompanied by comedy.

This weekend Vicki and I had the pleasure of, not only enjoying Key West in its own ridiculously decadent splendor, but also of being able to experience it with the dash of spring break debauchery and a sprinkle of St. Patty’s day obscenities. It was the perfect storm to make this trip memorable. We stopped by Cowboy Bills where the live band was top notch featuring a guitarist right out of a CCR revival band, and an electronic bull was in full effect tossing off young able-bodied college kids to the bruising of their delicate egos. The second place Vicki took me was the rooftop of The Bull and Whistle, aptly called the Garden of Eden. Despite the stares and jeering of us, less evolved gawkers, several tanned, mostly old, bodies were dancing around in nothing but their skivvies, real small ones. One man, I’m guessing in this 60s, bounced around with just a slim g-string and a patch of cloth to cover his junk. I keep hoping he wouldn’t show brain. I think that night ended at Irish Kevin’s where a performer who goes by JMH gave a raunchy and brilliant performance in the spirit of Dane Cook and all those misogynistic comedians who are most likely married and owe their humor to this ever-supportive wives. Among all of these bar visits, the best, hands down, was the visit to the Lazy Gecky where a duo of guitar playing guys entertained a crowd of partiers with country classics like the Allman Brothers and new hits from Kings of Leon. My favorite by far was a hearty rendition of Garth Brook’s “I got friends in low place,” which brought warm memories of an early January morning romping the alleyways of Washington D.C., while belting the lonely tune with two good friends.

The highlight of our brief time in Key West was the visit to Hemingway’s house. Being dead and relatively private, he’s always been a mystery to me. Rumors of his alcoholism and his deep depressions make me wonder how someone with so many internal troubles managed to have such a prolific writing career, while I, with my lack of responsibility and a good childhood, am hardly able to get a blog post written without stepping away every 5 minutes to find something else to do. Seven hundred words a day sounds doable, but sometimes you have to squeeze every last drop from a place so deep in your core that you run your hands red trying. And sometimes that place is dry. We learned from our tour guide what I had already suspected, that dear Ernest was a major philanderer, hated his social climbing second wife, and was an original good ol’ boy – writing by day, catching record winning marlin and ending each night with a nightcap (or 10) at Sloppy Joe’s bar down the street.

On the streets of Key West, although you might not hear it with your real ears, you can sense that somewhere, some bar is playing the good tunes “I blew out my flip flop...” and “It’s five o’clock somewhere”. You start to talk to the locals and note how happy and utterly friendly they are. You also find that many move along too slowly as if life is going to last forever. You start to resent their indifference at your sense of urgency, even though you know you’ve slowed down a good couple of notches from your regular life speed. You find yourself praying to the god of sun and tequila, “please don’t take my brain too. I really like it.”

Then after a couple of days of the sun and purely good vibes you start to think “maybe, in exchange for this lifestyle my wits aren’t all that important.” And that’s when you know you have to leave.

The other sister and her friend Lenny

Sound track of the day:
This is the noise that keeps me awake
My head explodes and my body aches

Current Temperature: easier on the eyes



As evidence that the universe gets its kicks in amusing me and exercising my sense of humor, Vicki’s roommate and her new giant lover have decided to shack up.

Last night as I was blow drying my hair after a much needed shower, I hear Vicki chirping near the stair way. Preparing a warm hello I poke my head out the bathroom door and see her standing there with a scary smile on her face and a full glass of wine in hand, “We have to talk.”

Naturally, I rummage quickly around my mind to guess the situation. Did her roommate do something stupid? Did something bad happen at work? Did I forget to flush the toilet? I should have stopped at the first guess. Giant Lolita did do something stupid. She recruited Thor as a third roommate without even so much as a nudge toward Vicki. In fact, Vicki didn’t even hear directly from her. She received a call yesterday afternoon from a good friend who happens to be an acquaintance of GL, and was told the news. Vicki ended that call pronto in order to get the lowdown straight from the source. Needless to say, Vicki will be looking for another apartment.

As Vicki recounted the conversation to me I’m stunned. My mouth froze agape and I didn’t have the words. The only thing that manages to escape, and repeatedly, is “What an IDIOT!” She had known the behemoth for less than 24 hours when she made this decision. One very loud, and seemingly violent romp in the sack and they’re nesting? It’s just so bizarre. It’s like watching your prized cow run into the thrashing cone of a tornado and shouting for joy. My emotions of annoyance, giddy and anger eventually wound down to sheer astonishment and awe at one person’s ability to escape a depressed communist regime, become educated and even become a doctor and to then regress to that other version of herself; the one missing a chromosome. El Jefe Castro should be thankful to be rid of her.

The fact that I’m sitting here on a sunny Miami day attempting to describe the absurdity of the situation is ludicrous. How can I explain that she should consider the effect this will have on her living situation or the risk she is taking at offending her roommate, when any normal, functioning human being should not need to go through this thought process – at least not consciously. Does it need to be said? Don’t do it genius.

C-U next Tuesday.

Confessions of an imposter

Sountrack of the afternoon:
You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms

Current temperature: even brighter, but the fairy dust on the surface of the water makes it easy to tolerate

Needless to say it’s no easy feat to restart a writing practice after so many years of neglect. Fear and self-doubt are unwanted castaways on my journey toward voice recovery. Lack of practice makes me feel like a chef who can’t remember if it’s best to roux before, during or after the sauce has boiled. Procrastination and distraction are friends to my delay and enemies to my progress. Laundry, emails, photography are all tools for distraction. Even the act of writing this entry is in a small way contributing to the delinquency of my writing, so much in need of nurturing and guidance. God help me if I add food to that equation.

It’s so much easier to read something guaranteed to be of good quality. Tried and true, the real author’s words feed my hunger for imagery, poetry, song. But actually attempting to create something, risking the possibility of turning out a piece of crap, takes courage and moxy. Facing the sad and disappointing result after hours, days, even months of struggle can be heart breaking, soul tearing. So I read. I read and read and read. I memorize and I feel the words flying across the printed page until I soon become the author from which those beautiful phrases came. My greed consumes his work, devours his creation. It’s easier than giving of my own. And then when I’ve taken all I can, I feel inspired and hit the page. I move steadily into it carving out each detail, the words taking shape giving contours where they are needed. And then I see it. I see that I haven’t created anything at all. I’ve simply invoked the heart and soul of the author, breathed life into the voice that lie sleeping in the deep caves of my mind, but that life isn’t my own. I’m a fake.

And so I ask myself if the solution here, the way to avoid falsifying my own voice, is to stop reading. Stop reading? That’s just purely ridiculous. How can I stop reading if reading is the very air I breathe? I just can’t do it. Don’t make me.

What if I just took what I learn from another’s craft, sprinkled it with the style from some other favorites and stirred in the bits and scraps from my own memories and dreams? If the ingredients were blended so completely together like a lyrical puree, would they be discernible by their distinct qualities? I then call that concoction my own. Who is the judge of that? Who will ever really know?

Day 1 of my fantastic voyage

Soundtrack of the day
Even though your skies are blue
You're drying up my bed
How can I get any rest now?
Currently temperature: blindingly bright but the outlook is gentle




















I called today Day 1 because, up until now, although I’ve been free from the 9 to 5 for over a week, it is the first non-packing, non-moving, non-sayingoodbye, non-traveling day, which means it’s time to get to work.

When I laid down to rest last night, I had the best of intentions for starting my day with yoga, doing some laundry and beginning some writing exercises. Instead, I woke up late, slowly drank my coffee, put in a load of laundry and watched the Today show. I hadn’t yet found a yoga studio and when I finally found one within walking distance the class times didn’t work out. I’d go for a run but the UV index is probably very dangerous right now. The sunshine and steady tide flowing by is keeping me strapped to this deck. That walk along the beach will have to wait until the sun is a bit lower and the breeze is a bit stronger.

As I transferred my first load of laundry to the dryer, I heard footsteps upstairs. I thought I was alone, TV blasting, windows all opened, a song in my heart. Then I realized that it was the giant Swede who spent the night with Vicki’s roommate. They did have a lot of fun last night. I heard them from across the hall, and under my covers. Pardon my juvenile tendencies but it was hilarious and I quietly giggled. Chatting on AIM with Eugene last night didn’t help, because he only managed to aggravate the situation by making me want to laugh out loud and roll on the floor. But they beat me to it.

He's in the shower now. After joining me for coffee and rollerblading to his place, he realized his roommate (or rather, his couch surfing host) was not home to let him in. What a life, and now he’s back. We had lunch together: Thor with his Subway sandwich; me with my leftovers from last night’s BBQ.

I wonder how long he’ll be here. I don’t mind, he’s good company. But I don’t think I’m allowed to leave him here alone. And how am I supposed to choreograph my interpretive dance to Beyonce’s Halo?

I’m sure he’ll leave eventually. Until then I’ll finish my laundry, maybe work on my tan, and kick it with the cats on the deck.

More later.

I can see your halo

Soundtrack of the day:
Beth I hear you calling
But I can't come home right now
Me and the boys are playing
But we just can't find the sound

Current temperature: Brisk but clear

Two weeks left until I depart. Gym membership has been frozen, Netflix has been cancelled, insurance plans are being put into place, and I have one week left to reduce my existence into a suitcase and a few boxes - all to be placed into a temporary holding cell while the rest of me jets off toward the unknown.