The paper reports another no hope candidate running for Sheriff, as the incumbent is retiring after 40 years with the department. Some other wackos of a different stripe have killed and beheaded key deer, and all I can think is that I'm grateful they did the deed outside the jurisdiction of the Key West Police.
Settling back into my snug armchair with the Citizen I see Paul Krugman of the New York Times, is busy debunking the myth of Reaganomics, which is a pleasure as ever. Common sense always trumps political posturing in his columns, and he is the only economic pundit I pay attention to, not least because he is ridiculed far too often. Despite the fact that everyone knows our leaders have no idea how to lead, people who criticize them still get it in the neck from people with agendas that have no basis in reality as we live it. I heard at school yesterday stories of impending economic destruction on several and various islands as balloon payments come due and interest rates reach catastrophic heights, even as the Fed makes panic rate cuts, and evictions are on the horizon of too many peoples' marginal lives. Even though we have a fixed mortgage and "secure" government jobs I wonder where this recession will leave us. And still the state legislature yaks on about Reaganomic tax cuts as though destroying Florida's flimsy social fabric will make things better. We have to "hunker down" not just for meteorological storms around here.
In the meantime, night is retreating pretty rapidly and gray skies are yielding to blue and by golly we have the prospect of a sunny day today. I may have to force myself to go for a ride, an aimless meander made aimed by the need to take some pictures to document my pleasure and remind myself that so far, life in the Keys remains good, wars evictions and global warming aside.Then the phone rings again. "Yes dear?" and this time she has instructions on how to prepare the Geo Metro for its new owner. Apparently we have a buyer for the 43 mpg hatchback which has been replaced in our family by the 31mpg convertible. I wish the Vespa GTS were so desirable at 70mpg, but it is still for sale on Flagler Avenue.
Ah well, clearly on my day off I am under surveillance by she-who-must-be-obeyed, and its time to get moving. I have to wash the Bonneville as there was some rain on the commute this week, and I've got to scrounge some supplies for my marine corrosion class experiment at the College, and I might want to check out a matinee of "Juno" to have a few laughs a second time around at the Tropic; besides I love sneaking off to matinees when the rest of the world is busy being busy. And on and on and on.
Life, as the cartoon Calvin used to say, is just packed.
Like the Diving Museum mentioned earlier, Key West's own Haitian Art Company is a gallery founded by a person who was driven all his life by the subject on display. I'm moved to write about the Gallery at Frances and Southard especially because of its likely imminent demise.
The building that houses it has been for sale for some time and one hopes the owner is greedy and asks too much and thus allows his gallery to continue for a while, at least until real estate reasserts itself and we get back on an even keel selling our property wildly to the nearest speculator and developer with deep, soulless pockets. Besides all that, the economy is floundering, tourists are in short supply this year and the owner of this place is old and getting older and one can't assign blame for his wanting to end the business.
I guess I do have to blame Graham Greene for feeding my fascination with Haiti, he wrote about the world of Papa Doc in The Comedians, the mixture of true exoticism, terror and tropical nuttiness of the island. The fascination that was born in me when I read about Toussaint L'Ouverture and his rebellion and Sans Souci, the palace in the mountains and all the rest of the stuff that is Haiti, Baron Samedi and secret ceremonies, which comes to our country in the form of janitors, and street vendors and, as it happens, Art.
The top picture on my wall is Haitian, purchased in Key West and I see the colors and the form and I wish I was there, on the docks.
I was photographing homes on Frances Street last week and I saw this other picture in the window of the gallery and I wanted it, and I showed it to my wife and she nodded and maybe we will and maybe we won't, and if we don't the colors will remain in my mind half muted like in this photo, totally unlike the painting itself, that leaps out at you as you stroll past, and sucks you in:
The gallery is just a heap of Art, stuff I love and stuff I don't and stuff that gives me the creeps and stuff that makes me laugh out loud.
And when you look at it sideways through the plate glass you see Southard Street in all its 21st century glory overlaid on the charms of a bygone era:
I want to go to Haiti, I've wanted to sail there since God knows when. I've figured a way I could take a road trip on my motorcycle there. I've studied the maps and charts, and I've dithered and traveled elsewhere instead.
Boondocks is an excellent location for the band, informal Tiki architecture, intimate seating for lots of people and a decent restaurant serving a solid serviceable menu. The seats for those not eating filled up well before the start of the concert and the T-shirt and CD stands were doing good business.
I like the music (what's not to like? A group that includes an actual trumpet and tin drums is searching for, and finding, it's true Caribbean roots), and the band sings about rum and hurricanes and tropical breezes and even if you didn't know any of them you'd know the lads sang of that which they know. They aren't pirates or millionaires (yet) they are just a bunch of dudes having fun and inviting the listeners in to enjoy their jam session. It's very effective. 
All this abundance of joy followed by an unfortunately short ride home on the ever delightful Bonneville. My wife finally admitted that commuting in a convertible makes her look forward to the daily drive.
We got to talking about the commute while chatting up the wife of one of the band members. We used to live in the marina she runs in Key West and now that her husband is becoming a full time musician she too has a commute from the area of...Mile Marker 24 to the marina. As a convert to the keys commuting lifestyle she told us how much she likes living in the Lower Keys outside the city.
We feel like its a secret not shared by the inmates of Key West who put up with narrow spaces, loud noises of all kinds and crazy neighbors. I enjoyed living on our Gemini catamaran while traveling but it was a tiresome in the Key West marina we called home for a couple of years. Marina living is "affordable" and for too many people its just cheap rent, say $800 a month, not a sailing lifestyle and our living aboard became a burden to us and our Labrador. Not half the burden it is on a marina manager dealing with all the petty bullshit of a bunch of malcontent liveaboards so I am pretty sure our friend will be glad to get away and become a road manager for the touring band. 
So I took off with the helmet and gloves in the top case and enjoyed a perfectly glorious summer afternoon in January. 85 low-humidity degrees, bright sunshine reflecting off the water and traffic that didn't bother me a bit as I was perfectly content to pootle along at forty miles per hour.
The road beckoned. And I had choices- east or west? I went north instead, an oldie but goodie. In keeping with the laid back theme of the day I just blipped the throttle when some dork tried to cut into my lane before the traffic light; I assumed lack of attention, not homicidal tendencies and kept going.
I crept towards No Name Key on the back roads, clipping the dirt short cuts in first gear and missing the holes as best I could. The Bonneville, even in its modern incarnation is renowned for its torque, that is its ability to get up and go from low revs in high gear. What isn't so well known is that it has a very tall first gear which makes ambling at walking pace a little more tricky. I like to think I could pick my way through a dirt road or two in a more hilly part of the country but I think it might be quite an exercise in feathering the clutch or going hell for leather, which would, in either case, be unnerving. Dirt on Big Pine is mild and not so bracing.
So much so I stopped and played with my Nikon Coolpix point and shoot camera, fiddling with focus and light and wondering how I managed before the advent of digital when you took your pictures, took laborious notes and got it all muddled up when you finally got the pictures home. I could see my crappy ones immediately, by the side of the road. 
It wasn't anywhere near that dark, but I liked the definition I got on the cloud, which got a summery, thundery air. No Name Key has but one road leading to a dead end, actually the place where the old pre-Overseas Highway ferry arrived from Knights Key in Marathon. Nowadays the boulevard just stops at water's edge and the few people who live on No Name do so on typical side streets on canals. 
This was also the place where the Cuban counter revolutionary nutters practiced for the Bay of Pigs invasion in dreadful secrecy because it was all terribly illegal. Nowadays its a wilderness area, electricity-free and the bridge from Big Pine offers splendid fishing apparently. For me the end of the road was a place to play with the camera.
No motorcycle. Then add one motorcycle.
Then add a motorcycle part and let the exposure show the real state of the day.
I tried to take a trip down a dirt side road but soon enough the gruesome ubiquitous "No Trespassing" sign popped up with a locked chain dangling across the dirt. I positioned the Bonneville to hide the chain and highlight the motorcycle.
Then I figured the Bonneville's 865cc power plant deserved a mention and a thank you for giving me 5,000 splendid miles.
And on my way off the island I passed by this wonderment that caught my eye. I'll bet you can't get the decrepit structure at the end of this lane for less than say, 750,000 US dollars. Consider there is no electrical service on No Name Key so you'll need to learn to maintain the generator, replace the batteries from time to time, and drive 20 minutes just to get to the Overseas Highway, which still leaves you an hour from the fleshpots of Key West. You'd think with all these inducements to keep looking the owners would perhaps clean up one's first impression? Hell no baby! 
We don't need no stinkin' curb appeal. Nor vertical mail boxes apparently. Its all part of the charm and if you don't understand it, no one can enlighten you. And you probably shouldn't think of buying either if you think an expensive home for sale deserves the best possible presentation. This is as good as home sales get in the fabulous Florida Keys, when a crappy home looks like a million bucks on a sunny day in January.
Help! The sailors are coming to town! It's January and the amateur boat owners and their professional crews of the Southern Ocean Racing Conference are littering our streets with their boats and trailers and massive trucks. They've taken over the Outer Mole and Truman Annex parking area and are exposing themselves en masse to our weak January rays. Unlike the inappropriate tourists paddling in the freezing 77 degree sunlit waters, these sailors are busy maneuvering trailers: 
maintaining the hulls:
and hoisting themselves aloft to reeve halyards and secure tangs:
Busy, busy stuff, which is all very well and good but it has impacts, you know, all this busyness. I don't want to sound whiny or anything but our town is now filled with burly sailors and while that may make many a gay heart flutter, as it did years ago apparently, when the Navy loosed hundreds of lonely sailors on the city nightly, for those us us trying to live well regulated lives these sailors are a damned nuisance.
City residents more often gripe about Bike Week and loud motorcycle mufflers, or Lezzie Week when the city fills with women holding hands, but personally Race Week troubles me. Not least because, as a former cruising sailor, everyone expects me to be interested in the antics of a bunch of pituitary cases loose on the water, but also because too many islanders don't know the first thing about sailing and they expect me to know about racing. Aside from the fact that I couldn't care less about racing, I couldn't care more about the long slow lines on the roads and streets as boats come and go with all their protrusions and extrusions laid unnaturally horizontal.
Which, when they are left vertical even I have to admit they have somewhat slightly poetic lines, as they soar above the ugly, slab-like raceboats.
But also because this is the week my wife has her birthday and finally after years of pretending to ignore the problem we have to come out of the closet and admit it. No matter how much money the city at large earns from Race Week we absolutely hate the fact we can't go out for a quiet tete-a-tete and have dinner together somewhere nice, because every bloody eatery is packed with loud obnoxious sailors using bread and wine bottles to illustrates the day's idiocy (tactics they call them) carried out on our beautiful winter turquoise waters.
Really, couldn't they just move race Week to say, early February and let us celebrate the passing of the years together with a nice, quiet meal out?
Am I a fuddy-duddy or what?
Layton is just a long straight stretch on the highway, a speed limit of 45 mph, with, from time to time a Sheriff's deputy on patrol keeping an eye on those passing through. However there is always one patrol car lurking near the Post Office and you know when you are tailing a visitor because the brake lights come on in a hurry.
I never speed through Layton because after the tyro has slowed and sped up again realising its only a decommissioned patrol car, there can often be found a second, occupied, car at the last remaining grocery store in the little town. 
Or possibly a patrol car on the verge further south near the entrance to Long Key State Park, just before the limit goes back up to 55mph. 
The suburban canals behind the homes give access to some pleasant natural mangrove waterways, decent enough fishing spots of course,
but also they lead to the real prize,the open waters of fish-infested Hawk Channel behind the reef, and to the north there are the endless shallow waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
Sailors know of Long Key because of the bight at the east end which offers a shallow anchorage and the Channel V bridge which provides the last seventy-foot tall bridge before Marathon.
Though you can't buy gas because the gas pumps and associated grocery store/bait shop closed a while back. 
Layton has two claims to fame. One was that the author Zane Grey spent winters living and fishing here between writing Westerns and second I bought my first and only skiff from some dude who lived on a canal behind the grocery store and marina.
It was a 14-foot Dusky for with all the trimmings including a duff 30 horse outboard that died soon after, but the hull is excellent and with a new Yamaha its a great addition to my motor pool. I think about that slick bugger every time I ride through town.
My wife and I ate at Little Italy one night on our way out of the Keys; it was old fashioned checkered table cloth Italian food, decent enough I suppose when you are waiting for a traffic accident to be cleared, but rather funky old fashioned. There was a plan to develop the restaurant out of existence and replace it with a resort, but for now what with bursting bubbles and all, its still there. This waterfront thing is next door to the restaurant and aside from not knowing what its about exactly, it highlights the fact that as usual curb appeal is totally lacking in the Keys. God Bless Funky.
But they don't depopulate Key West for Layton, because there are only a thousand hardy souls who can stand real-life Mayberry blandness, and my helmet's off to them every time I rumble through- at a sedate and legal 49 miles-per-hour.