It must be time for a movie review, as I haven't looked at a Key West related movie in quite a while. This summer I mentioned some other movies relating to Key West and the Keys that I checked out: Toll Booth (not the one about the Jewish family in New York), The Rose Tattoo, 92 In The Shade, and Criss Cross. I like Criss Cross and Rose Tattoo best of the lot but for a glimpse of the islands they all bring something to the table. Russkies is a mediocre movie, my wife gave it thumbs up as a sweet little thing and we enjoyed locating the shots, which at the same time tends to wreck the plot.
Watching the kids cycle up Smathers Beach after starting at the old Peninsular marine on Stock Island, via the seaplane basin at Trumbo creates for a convoluted journey, scenic I'm sure but not real. So the brain struggles to enjoy the town as shown and not get wigged out by the locations...
Just like Peninsular Marine on Stock Island, Valladares no longer sells merchandise on Duval Street. Indeed it is now a chain store selling shoes. The many marinas shown in the movie are still there, snap shots of Garrison Bight, Key West Bight and the Galleon all make cameo appearances in the film:
The film was labelled by Netflix as being produced in 2003 which seemed odd but online it is described as produced in 1987 which makes more sense as the plot revolves around the arrival in Key West of three wayward Soviet sailors. Three American lads, led by Joaquin Phoenix (listed in the credits as "Leaf Phoenix" for whatever reason), get caught up in the nefarious Soviet plot to steal a computer (the "device" in the plot) from a Navy base. The lads have a secret hideout on the beach, a dream location for any warrior child, where they read comic books and dream of war: 
Peter Billingsley on the left made his name as Ralphie in A Christmas Story and I thought he was the scene stealer here with the same huge glasses and impertinent cracks. Stefan DeSalle disappeared from view after this movie, while Whip Hubley who played the lead Russian sailor has appeared in other films including I'm told Top Gun:
On the whole the plot was daffy but plausible enough. Neither the "device" nor the traitor who sold it played much of a role in the plot which was really a vehicle to explore friendship and the political divide separating people. The acting was rather wooden I thought and the obligatory bad guys and their guns seemed tacked on for unneeded excitement at sea:
I thought the story would end up in the usual hurricane that seems to be the common plot device for Keys movies but the seas were calm at the end of this flick. Overall it's worth a view for the Keys scenery and the magnificent shots of summer thunderheads which crop up as background from time to time. There are many worse ways to burn an hour and forty minutes than watching this funny little B movie, especially for anyone tired of snow and long dark evenings.
Driving home in the Nissan before dawn Thursday I had to pull over to fumble with the unfamiliar heater controls in the car. I accidentally fired up the air conditioner and I couldn't remember how to turn that off and replace it with necessary heat. The last time we used it was last December in North Carolina, but my wife was in charge of heat on the road trip and it took me a moment to figure out how to warm up the car (push the knob to the red. Doh!). The outside temperature gauge read 46 degrees Fahrenheit which is less than 8 degrees in new money. That is cold when you are used to 80 degrees/27C. 
The good news, when I awoke six hours later and crawled out from under a heap of every blanket we own, was that there was sunshine. That same cloudless sky that allowed all the warmth to drift up into the stratosphere was making for a glorious, bright winter day. One pair of socks was not enough so I pulled another pair on top of that and contemplated heading out in the brisk north wind. The outside temperature gauge under the house read 58 degrees (14C) and it didn't even feel that warm. Nevertheless I wheeled the bicycle out and decided I had to make an effort. Besides, sitting at the computer reading about wonky economics and unhappy people worldwide wasn't doing my mood any good. I rode north to the pool.
Even in winter, when the water temperature is 70 degrees, there are some fruitcakes that come out and sit on the rock hard "beach" and take swims in the little salt tidal inlet that constitutes the "park." Aside from a trash can and and a gravel open space "parking lot" there are no amenities here which suits me (and lots of others) just fine. I have to confess I am losing my faith in the will of our leaders to do anything radical about our economic woes and the continued news of bankers and their poxy proxies continuing to line their pockets at our expense fills me with rage and a bicycle ride is a fine antidote to the wilful inability of our new president to follow through and bring a new economic attitude to our nation's capital. I shouldn't be surprised, he got donations from the same skanky investors who always pay to get their candidates into office, the ones who enjoyed a 150 million dollar inaugural party. The pool was looking delightfully unattended in the brisk afternoon sun:
I'm figuring that as time goes by and we print money to fund a stimulus that will do nothing more than patch the gaping holes of an economy in endless decline we will all have to find our own amusements, after we have gone through the tedious business of completing all the chores we will need to do to stay alive. In that respect I plan to take advantage of living on the water and enjoying the views and hell, perhaps even learning how to fish and fillet. It's all in the attitude I guess, so I will enjoy it all.
It's hard to maintain a grumbly attitude on a day like this, especially knowing that decent people in British Columbia are getting snow and fog and general nasty dampness. Plus we have a new head of the CIA who is decidedly opposed to torture and now with Associate Justice Ginsburg revealing, as it were, a very nasty cancer, perhaps the President will show us his ability to appoint a new attitude on the Supreme Court. There's no doubt his economic advisers want more of the same wasteful spending of our money, and it irks me mightily to see that. But the sun is out: 
Perhaps a gigantic financial meltdown really is the only way to get re-started, though I cannot begin to imagine the pain we shall be forced to endure, not only here but across the world where people have a lot less than us to start with. Perhaps on second thoughts they, who have less of an entitlement attitude will do better than we shall. Perhaps, on third thoughts, not: especially when their meager rations get cut even more to feed our political demand for this ridiculous ethanol.
Ah yes, Thursday was a glorious day in the Keys. My wife said she loved me before she left for work, I'm not even missing the Triumph as it's so bloody cold and my job for now seems secure even as the city mandates no overtime and tries to figure a way to enforce such a rule when public safety is at stake. Who knows, perhaps I'm wrong and President Obama will carefully and subtly put a collar on the financial shenanigans and for once my gloomy prognostications about politicians in general and some in particular won't be borne out. The anti mosquito canals filled with water in the thunderstorm we had earlier in the week. No sign of the mosquito eating fish though:
I had left overs for lunch, and burned not a drop of ethanol to get these pictures. I hope their immoral bonuses choke them, I'm having a "no dollar day" off work.
Carsten Lane is become a bitter disappointment to me. First it used to have a messed up name and it was impossible to tell if it was supposed to be Carsten, or in the plural Carstens because the signs at William and Margaret Streets couldn't agree. Nowadays they seem to agree on the singular. Very boring:
We still have it listed in our computer aided dispatch as Carstens, long may it stay in confusion. Worse than that is the fact they have cleaned up the back of the old Harris School and now the lane is wide open to the northwest and any air of dark and forest-like mystery has been lost to efficiency:
I mentioned the Harris School in a previous essay (30 November 2008) and it seems no one wants to buy the building, nor the huge chunk of land it sits on so here it is, all cleared and ready for unbridled development. Meanwhile Carsten(s) Lane is no longer a shady jungle of growth, overpowered by the building that used to be occupied by the MARC House.Now its just a one sided alley, but at least it's only the middle piece. The opening off William Street still retains some of that closed in look I am so fond of:
And the overgrown bit still curves wildly as it always has:
Of course there is still a chance that you can rent a house, rent a bicycle and enjoy looking out without missing a thing:
Then there are the attempts at beautification which looks really nice, all symmetrical and tidy and stuff and in the middle of it there is one of those bizarre signs. I wonder why anyone imagines that some dolt who lets their dog crap all over a flowerbed is going to be put off by a vivid little sign:
Besides the sign spoils the effect, but there we are. These signs are all over the place because too many people who walk their dogs, and there are tons of them in Key West, don't pick up after them. I swore after my last dog died I wasn't picking up after anybody's dog ever again, I had bagged tons of the stuff over the years. Twelve years of that is enough and I don't envy people like this lady shown below walking a large, doubtless productive, animal, though I'm sure she was amply armed with plastic bags:
There are better maintained homes on Carstens Lane too,
And there are the castles in the air, with all their different living levels,
And there are projects jealously guarded:
Margaret Street leads away past the ravaged Harris school block which is wide open on that side too:
But taken at a slightly different angle things really don't look so bad, especially if there is a Bonneville in the foreground:
It was a gray afternoon, overcast and promising rain, which never materialized, so I looked up from where I was standing contemplating change and how annoying it is:
Very apocalyptic I'm sure but it's just a photographic illusion. 
There used to a Harley Davidson dealer on Truman Avenue called Hornes, but the old man got tired and decided it was time to retire. MamaJoe's, an old fashioned H-D repair shop in Marathon closed last year as well. Aside from the myriad scooter shops around Key West there are two motorcycle dealers, the Honda shop on Southard Street run by a Conch known for his extremely eccentric business style, and the more professional Yamaha shop on North Roosevelt which is strictly a Yamaha only shop. Boots Scoots, an independent repair shop gave it a try on Fourth Street but the owner got ill apparently and had to close. Bones cycles is now a scooter rental shop on North Roosevelt. Jiri at Stock Island Cycles on Laurel Avenue keeps on keeping on:
He's a busy man, now that he runs the shop by himself after his former partner dropped by the wayside and Jiri the entrepreneur takes care of everything. He hired his own assistant, a shadowy figure working on a scooter on one of the lifts:
Jiri chats with customers, takes appointments...and wrenches on bikes as well:
Like any self respecting old fashioned motorcycle shop Jiri's place is partly a social gathering spot, partly a repair place and partly also a showroom to look at different motorcycles on this variety starved island, even if they aren't for sale:
Jiri (pronounced: hee-ree) grew up in communist run Czechoslovakia before emigrating to the US in 1996 and ending up on Stock island doing what he knows best: fixing motorcycles. His hobby is racing and he has his own bike that he trailers up to Homestead for track days. He also gets to test ride customer bikes of course and he has a variety:
Jiri remembers going to watch motorcycle races at the Grand Prix circuit at Brno, before the Berlin wall came down, and he, along with his buddies, would check out the huge touring motorcycles ridden east from West Germany, and they would gawp, all envious as only small boys can be, and never imagined that he could ever ride, never mind own a machine like those sophisticated BMW's. "Now I fix them!" he grinned, surrounded by Western motorcycling decadence and enjoying every minute of it.
Jiri likes Japanese motorcycles for their reliability, but he works on anything he can order parts for and he has dealers in South Florida happy to ship him parts, including Pure Triumph in Fort Lauderdale. 
Pick up service is possible though I coordinate with my wife when I drop off the Trumpet, as she works half a mile away and she lets me borrow her Vespa if the bonneville is getting a tune up... Wandering the rows of tired and needy old motorbikes is always an experience at Island Cycles. I saw another of those typically Cuban rolling memorials: 
And typically southernmost-proud bumper stickers:
Locating Island Cycles (305 292 5444) is a bit of a trick, but the best way is to take the Highway out of Key West and at the flashing yellow lights turn south, past the Coral Hammock development, then take the first left towards Murray Marine. Jiri is next to the defunct propeller shop on Laurel Avenue . In the distance one can see Highway One running alongside the trees that line the Key West Golf Course:
Having Jiri's shop makes Key West feel somehow less remote when it comes to riding a motorcycle every day. Technical back up is no bad thing at all for a daily rider.
Here's something completely different, a lane that isn't in the historic old town part of Key West. Seidenberg Lane is a kind of alleyway that runs parallel to Seidenberg Avenue, which in turn parallels the main cross town street called Flagler, and while all these streets are paralleling themselves across New Town, little Seidenberg Lane goes almost unnoticed, not surprising when it starts off this busy street, imaginatively called First:
From the hustle and bustle of homeward bound commuters to the little lane was a complete transformation, old world Key West in full force:
Imagine that,kids just hanging out in the street (the lane actually) playing like we used to when I was small decades ago. There were adults keeping an eye on them from open doors (this is winter and thus considered not steaming hot) and I rolled very slowly through their midst. But such is the all pervasive influence of the pernicious television that I am sure I'd be taken for a pervert were I to stop and talk so I took a couple of surreptitious pictures and left them to it. I mean do they do this in your neighborhood streets, even in summer? 
Well, maybe they do this sort of outdoor playing Up North but all I hear is the lamentation that streets aren't safe for children anymore which seems a shame to me. Being outside was the best part of my unhappy youth. Be that as it may Seidenberg Lane gets very interesting (to a nerd like me) after it crosses Second Street:
It becomes a grassy alley, and considering the shortage of lawns in the Keys I'm surprised some enterprising Conch hasn't set up a goat to graze on a chain down here. As it was the grass was mown and I had the alley to myself, me and tall fences of various sorts:
Looking back the lane was bathed in a sort of light that brings to mind the long summer evenings of northern latitudes, especially with those kids playing in the alley. I couldn't believe it when one of them started twirling a hula hoop, like she thought it was 1950!
Not all of the lane was fenced in and I got to peak a little bit and even though this isn't the fashionable old town neighborhood beloved of the trolley tours I enjoy the views:
And then we have the eternal side yard projects:
Eventually the lane dead ends unceremoniously into Fourth Street, no signs, not even any clear markings of any kind. If you didn't know it was there you wouldn't find out by looking:
And after I had walked in a small circle to see if indeed the lane continued through someone's yard to a more natural conclusion on Fifth Street, which is a main artery, I turned around and strolled back. The kids were still playing in the light of the setting sun:
And all was right with the world. As long as you don't read the financial pages...