American Indian Arts Celebration.

I wanted to sleep. You know how it feels when you are just feeling like passing out? You crave the deep snuggling comfort of your bed? I laid down and my dog got next to me and... My wife shook my shoulder roughly: "Time to go. Get up! Places to see!" Damn it! I just worked twelve sodding hours...time to get up fifteen minutes after I laid down. She was merciless, gave me a pillow to lean against in the passenger seat and we pulled out from under the house at 6:50 am. I know because I saw the glowing blue numbers last thing before I passed out. She turned up the car radio and started humming to herself. She was having fun. I chose to drool into my pillow.

Four hours after we left home at Mile Marker 27 we arrived at the Seminole Village buried in the Everglades north of Alligator Alley, the highway that cuts across South Florida, and the tents were up, the vendors were primed and food was cooking for the American Indian Arts Celebration put on by the Seminole Museum which we visited just a few weeks ago when my wife learned of this weekend get together. Key West Diary: Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum .

We made our entrance even as the wild animal dude was showing off his rattlesnake buddy. The rope muscle is apparently as venomous as God made him but they think they are good buddies so no one is biting anyone. He said, but I was as grossed out as the young scouts were, including the one wearing the pink underwear on his or her head.

Linus the blonde skunk was next. I didn't know there were blonde skunks either...and we learned how skunks target you when they defend themselves and so forth. It was a great presentation. You missed something interesting informative and entertaining under the ninety degree sky.

His audience was all there for the Okalee Village Critter Show, from the Hollywood Seminole reservation. Seminole Tribe of Florida - Tourism And Enterprises, Seminole Okalee Indian Village

Black Jack was the black vulture on display,

...and then Sable the red tailed hawk, an interesting bird. Light colored underneath to blend with the sky and dark on top to blend with the ground beneath. Capable of flight at hundreds of miles an hour and a hard core predator. Many oohs and aahs from the crowd. Life's tough for these birds. One in five live long enough to leave the nest, one in 300 die of old age. This guy is past his sell by date but he lives in captivity.

Then the gator wrestling with Edward Osceola watched over by a grim looking Otter John. Apparently being on land makes alligators feel vulnerable (!) and they get a bit agitated. No problem for a man called Osceola. A bit of a problem for me as the show was hidden in the shade, out of the direct burning heat of the noonday sunlight. Camera settings were impossible to manage.

Say what you will I don't trust alligators, perhaps because I don't understand them, but I do know they catch food for consumption later so hunger is not why they hunt. I like to observe them from a distance thanks. Not so this dude.

Being a 911 dispatcher is said to be a stressful occupation. Check this out for stress:

Surviving an encounter with an alligator apparently brings out the bear in Seminoles. The bear dance, accompanied by pounding drum beats and guttural Mongolian throat songs, or some such.

Apparently it's a way for young Seminoles to feel each other up, a courting ritual disguised as an expression of animal empathy. Public dances for white people's appreciation are apparently toned down but the women volunteers invited to dance with the Seminole men got into the spirit of being a stomping bear.

Huh? We both noticed the Muslim woman getting into the multi-cultural spirit grinning like nobody's business, as she went round clawing in the air and pawing at the Indians. Kudos for breaking down barriers I say.

Then there was the all-important shopping.

We got Christmas gifts for my sisters who grew up on stories of Indians and I wanted a gross alligator claw back scratcher. My wife balked but it was recently my birthday and we both got into the event as seniors (urgh!) and I got my way spending six whole dollars for the object. "I don't want to know how you got these things," I said. He grinned.

This lot showed up from Andros in the Bahamas. It's the one among the Family Islands I haven't visited and want to. I'm told Andros which supplies the capital Nassau with fresh water is quite intriguing and under inhabited, a bit like my neighbor Big Pine Key with reticent residents, piney woods and watery channels. I still want to sail there. I remember hearing the radio crackling with messages from the village of Morgan's Bluff, as in those days they didn't have phones and used marine radio to communicate. They sounded isolated and romantic and piratical and I've never yet got to see the place! We bought some stuff as a stop gap instead.

No, we didn't eat alligator this time.

We had beef stew in brown gravy over rice and agreed the cabbage was first rate. "I think I may have to rethink cooking cabbage," my wife said. She does great Brussels sprouts but hates cabbage. Some Jew. I love cabbage. Some goy. Great things may come from this Indian experience...perhaps more cabbage for me!

It was close to ninety degrees, hot humid and close. They were quite heroic in their hot open air kitchen.

There was a lot of food for ten modest dollars, rich and heavy and delicious. "I will never be hungry again," I said as my dog watched my every move with great care.

She got a taste, I can't imagine denying her a chance to sample all those lovely smells that had got her interest. I am not one of those humans who expresses his self control through denial of his dog's base desires. I imagine interrupting Cheyenne's sniffing of an interesting smell in the same way I get frustrated when someone interrupts me reading a book. I anthropomorphize and I know it.

I have a confession. She got away from me while I was fiddling with my camera and started snuffling under a vendor's table earlier in the day. "I got those cookies from Subway in Okeechobee!" the poor woman wailed, a farm town 90 minutes away, whose bounty was now in my Labrador's mouth. I was mortified. I searched out every vendor, scoured their offerings and rounded up a mixed bag of cookies. I think she was surprised when I came back with two ice cold bottles of water and a dozen mixed cookies. I didn't blame Cheyenne for being a dog, it was my fault and I fixed it, as best I could.

A nice place to spend a Saturday together. Come early avoid the crowds. Sadly I have to admit my wife was right to keep me out of bed and get me on the road before the sun came up; it was worth it!

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Parrot Heads Meet In Key West

They call it Meeting of the Minds or MOM and people who like Tropical Rock music show up in a Key West, the place where their former idol Jimmy Buffett go his start and they hang out and have mild mannered middle aged adult fun. After the madness of Fantasy Fest the Parrot Heads are a nice mild tonic in a town that is rather exhausted and jaded by the nudity and noise of the October celebration. This is police work writ small.

Silly headgear is a hallmark of the Parrot Heads and should evince no surprise when on Duval this weekend. I am not a fan of headgear silly or otherwise but this is harmless stuff.

As usual I had to get to work and when I was on Duval things had barely got started. I shouldn't have even surprised to see people anxiously lining up for the distant evening entertainment. Parrot Heads are a devoted lot.

Fantasy Fest makes me wince sometimes though I see the point, where this lot just make me smile. It seems silly but aside from raising money for charity Parrot Heads are cheerful,harmless and relatively low key. They don't make much noise unless you are close by Casa Marina resort where they roost, they drink but they aren't rowdy and it seems to me they could teach a lesson or two to people who come to Ksy west and make proper fools of themselves.

More than you ever wanted to know about Parrothead - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

After all how cam one get behind a bunch of people who think lager is the be all and end all for a party? Fizzy beer? Really...

Yes but look at the smiles. This is an invasion Key West can live with, easily this weekend.

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Haunted Fort Zachary, The Adult Version.

Halloween 2013 is history and we are sliding fast into the end of the year and the holidays and fattening foods and all the rest of it. But before we go I have to thank my wife for dragging me to see the haunting at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park. As silly as it sounds I have to confess it frightened the shit out of me.

At the entrance we were directed to the motorcycles and bicycles lane which was staffed by some really charming I'm sure volunteer who had no facility with money and no ability to get a bloody move on. Eventually the ditz fumbled enough of our change and stopped losing the tickets long enough to let us in. I had plenty of time to take a picture and frankly it was the last decent picture I think I snapped all evening, but eventually we got in and at $13 apiece I was wondering what this foolishness was about. I think my wife was wondering too because she made a point of saying how fun it was to be in the park after dark and I confess it really was even though I wasn't expecting much else. We should have gone for a walk after we staggered out of the haunting, but I had to get to work and my nerves were in no shape to enjoy the darkened woods around the fort.

The fort lends itself to a scene of the macabre, let's face it with its 19th century brick walls and dark shadows.

There was a line to get into the haunted part and some bright spark had the inspired idea to play old scary movies on a projector screen...great fun. We were in line with some kids in front of us, two Heidi lookalikes with long blond hair and apparently sweet dispositions, possibly ten years of age though I am hopeless at guessing children's ages. They were really excited and chattering away and despite what people will tell you I find Key West kids, even teenagers to be polite and respectful in a way that surprises me. Perhaps I scare them into compliance but I think children around here somehow learn old fashioned manners. I have no idea what parents are doing right.

Anyway they were telling us they weren't going to go in because it was too scary and I sort of stood there stolidly pretending to be my father who never got scared by anything (except death, the closer he got to it I found out later), little did I know I was going to have the bejesus freaked out of me. Anyway in we went as the usher wished us a good time...and I was not really expecting much. The first chamber had a tableau with a madwoman cutting off a dude's head and his neck was double jointed such that he could sink his head forward on his chest as though indeed she had sliced it. It was gross and I got a kind of picture...so far so good. We followed the twists and turns of wooden partitions set up along one entire side of the fort, among the cannon and the arched brick walkways....very eerie!

I suppose I should point out I do have a bit of a weakness and though I don't believe in ghosts and the supernatural and all that stuff I have a deep abiding aversion to being in a place like the woods after dark. Put me on a wooded trail alone with the sounds of the night and I will curl up in a ball and wish to the god I don't believe in that I were dead. I have trained myself to walk Cheyenne on my street late at night; a very dark, street-lamp-free mile with palm fronds rattling and shadows closing in all around me. Put me around town or in suburban agglomerations I have no problems, but a wood alone at night would flip me the fuck out. I have no idea why. I love sailing alone at night and I can be alone at sea and have no fear of the dark at all. I remember once motorcycling down a long dark road through the middle of Florida one moonless night on my way to a friend in Ocala and the night closed in on me like a cold deathly grip around my throat as I pelted through the blackness alone, me and my Suzuki. What if I get a flat? Or the engine conks out? I asked myself those questions instead of enjoying a fabulous ride, which when taken by the light of day revealed miles of pasture, lonely farm houses and absolutely nothing to fear at all. Duh!

Well, the walk through the fort was far more intense than I'd have imagined, they blew fog, faces sprang at you from trap doors, statues came to life and strands of fishing line grasped you invisibly around the face. It went on and on and on and pretty soon I was ready to call it quits but there was only one way out and I had to press on. My wife had great fun watching me succumb and I tried to regain my equilibrium hiding behind my camera. I got a ghoul in my view finder just as...some other horror brushed past me with a clap of thunder in the dark and this was the result:

I was wet with sweat by the time we got out and I took deep refreshing gulps of the cool night air. The ten year old was waiting on the parade ground and asked if we were scared; she had in fact ducked out after the first bloody tableau, smart kid. My wife answered for me laughing uproariously: "He is!" she chortled. "Scared stiff." Very funny I'm sure.

I am definitely going back next year only this time I promise I won't ever shout out "Fuck!" At the top of my lungs no matter how close the boogie man gets to me. And to the mothers of the children in the vicinity I hope it wasn't too difficult to explain to your kids that even the bravest of adults sometimes expose the chink in their armor and swear words are all they can find to seal the gap. Sorry.

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Meeting Of The Minds

It is a very odd thing but there are people who dip into this blog from time to time and excoriate me for not knowing stuff they think is important - plant names for instance, this despite the fact that I admit freely and publicly I am useless as a botanist among my many other failings. Just because I live here doesn't mean that magically I will become well versed in the details of life that interest other people. I can't fish, no actually I won't fish, nor will I kite surf or scuba dive (though I am qualified oddly enough). Nor will I ever become a parrot head. Apologies all round but I have but one life to live and the path I stumbled down led me in a different direction.

Bob is a parrot head and he lives in Montana where he is a third generation Conch. His grandfather jumped a German ship in the late 19th century and for reasons known only to himself made a beeline for the most mountainous least hospitable climate he could find. Well, as Bob says at least he didn't choose North Dakota or Minnesota whose winters make Montana's look positively tropical by comparison. That's his story and he's sticking to it.

He bought me a fish sandwich (special) at Buddy Owen's Fish Wagon and regaled me with stories of the frozen north. Livingston has been discovered apparently and Hollywood decamps there for the summer. Like Key West winter is for locals. Bob told me about his winter chore of leaving work at lunch to cross the street to his parked car where he ran the engine long enough to warm it up to prevent it freezing solid before it was time to go home in the evening. Of course he could have walked the five blocks to his house but the first time he tried that it took half an hour of King Wenceslas style trail breaking through enormous snow drifts. I find these sorts of conversations rather startling as I wonder how I plan to cope with the first severe cold front of winter. The one that drops temperatures below sixty degrees...

Luckily I wasn't alone in my parrot head incomprehension. Gene and Nancy had been having lunch at the table next door and came over to say hello. Well bugger, I was trapped. Gene said he thought it was me glancing down at my racy Croc footwear (half price sale on unmanly colors in extra large sizes) and he summoned up the nerve to introduce himself. He put me well in my place noting I was rather sarkywheel he dropped a comment five years ago and he never bothered to again. I herewith publicly flagellate myself and beg forgiveness and encourage commenting. I just don't know what to say back (my wife hits me over the head repeating "just say thank you, dolt!").

His wife Nancy was very sweet putting up with the duffers in the corner chuntering on without her. They're in town for a month so God knows what mischief they will get up to. It turns out Gene isn't actually a parrot head though he was delighted to learn from Bob that the Duval Street gathering tonight is a free street concert. It's a crappy picture but meeting people gives me nerves... What can I say?

We took a walk along the waterfront as Bob reveled in the October sunshine. His journey from Livingston took twelve hours such is the miracle of flight, transporting him from a full Montana blizzard to this:

It turns out that being a parrot head has nothing much to do with Jimmy Buffett these days according to Bob, so I asked him to pose in front of the former guru's last little piece of old Key West, Shrimp Sound recording studio. Bob's conversation was peppered with far more references to Howard Livingston and other bands that hold the interest these days of the parrot heads. Supporting up and coming talent and raising money for charity is the name of the game. Jimmy Buffett's rather condescending attitude seems to have driven him out of their camp. Personally I've never understood the fascination with him but like so many things Key West my tastes tend to run wide of the local mark.

At least on that score I could be a parrot head apparently. However my natural shyness precludes me from the notion that traveling to distant places to meet a roomful of strangers and thus turning them into friends could ever be at all appealing. Indeed it holds about the same appeal for me as having an amateur appendectomy on my kitchen counter. Yet for Bob the extrovert, his label, parrot head gatherings are a chance for him to leave his beloved Montana for a few days and get together with his widely scattered friends. Brave man.

He recently retired from a life working as a political aide and campaign worker in his home state and he looks forward to more of the same kinds of gatherings on his terms now. Look out New Orleans, Bob has you in his sights...Meanwhile he will live it up for a few days in Key West, "I'm not much of a drinker," he mentioned in passing, thus neatly skewering another parrot head myth, before going home to a snow drift, several cords of wood and a crate full of books which have been waiting patiently for his retirement. Have you thought about renting a room here for a couple of months? I asked appalled at the image in my mind of some kind of Jack London survival experience in the ironically named Paradise Valley outside Livingston where bears hibernate and snow gets so deep four wheel drive Subarus can't travel. Oh no he said I want to keep an eye on my parents and I'll get into town every couple of weeks. He really did say that. You can imagine what I was thinking. I mean really, people think I am rugged because I like living at Mile Marker 27 and I have a forty minute commute to my job and the fleshpots of Key West. I am about as likely to get hypothermia on my Bonneville even in a rain storm as I am likely to encounter a bear. Never mind snow.

Bob would have it no other way. He has friends in Livingston and they must be magnetic people indeed. I have never had such a sense of place and it makes my attachment to the Lower Keys feel rather fraudulent honestly. I'd flee this joint if things were a tenth as rugged as life in Livingston. All Bob says is they have it a lot worse in North Dakota. I can hardly imagine. I drove from Fargo to Bismark once in a blizzard with my crazy sister in law for someone's grossly mis-timed wedding, and the next day the sun was out and it was twenty degrees. I was under dressed (of course) in everything I owned, but the locals, I swear this is true, were out and about in t shirts enjoying the break in the weather. For the first time in my life I was actually looking forward to getting on a plane to escape the lunatic asylum. And I still married her sister, in Santa Cruz California, in August, in shirtsleeves, outdoors thank you very much.

Lauren is from San Francisco where he works with electrons and plays with a guitar. He and Bob are friends in this weird and wonderful network from hither and yon. For them Key West is a myth, a dream, not a place at all. It's a wonderful thing and I admit there is a wistfulness lurking somewhere that I can't let myself in. Unfortunately I live here in reality and like a television show set in a place you know, the writer's imagination keeps butting up against the hard reality that kicks you in the posterior daily, the reality of high rents low wages, drunks, overcrowding and lack of amenity. Hmm...

 

Shit, let's be honest here for a minute, I'd much rather live here with all the daily nuisances of reality than live in a place where I have to plug my car into a socket to keep it alive and only dream of Key West from inside an igloo. Forget that, I'm just not tough enough, though I am entirely tough enough to ride 27 glorious miles each way to work on a road that went to sea, in a way unlike any other.

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