Mickens To Duval

A night off work often leads to an early morning in town walk for Cheyenne if I wake up before the sun. I got lots of pictures as I trailed around behind my eager dog, and they will show up here in the fullness of time. Starting with a rising sun on Mickens Lane, a right angled alley between Angela and Whitehead Streets.

The modern obsession with hydration leaves me puzzled, for instance when did thirst become a need to 'hydrate?' Indeed I can frequently be found hundreds of yards from potable water with not even one plastic bottle of commercial water about my person, and I may even drive home feeling thirsty. I carry water for herself in the trunk but on our walks we end up relying on the kindness of strangers, like this bowl outside the Green Parrot under some street art. david wegman's art and painting.

.

Some people hydrate by sitting at a bar all afternoon despite the warning that alcohol kills cells and dehydrates the body. It also can lead to some really stupid behavior like walking onto a strangers porch, hammering on the door and then proceeding to take a leak under the gaze of the astonished visitor to Key West renting a cottage for a peaceful vacation. Sometimes a well hydrated driver will go off the rails, like the ick up truck driver who missed the intersection the other night and hit a palm tree and a house instead. I kid you not, there was a hole in the house on Eaton Street to prove it. The driver slept it off at the jail and will end up paying thousands for drinking and driving after conviction. The good news is that alcohol brings money to town and employs people to clean up after the booze has been poured.

I've been riding motorcycles since 1970 and I have come to loathe drunk drivers for their unpredictability and weird aggressive behavior. I met another one last night riding home at two in the morning. The car came up behind me at speed on the highway, high beams blazing, and I pulled off to let them by. That they had no tail lights at all was a bonus act of stupidity but after passing me they slowed down, typical for drunks behind the wheel struggling to find their way in the dark. For a while the car slowly straddled the yellow lines then at Baby's Coffee they sped up madly and even though I was doing sixty in the fifty five they disappeared far into the distance even as the speed limit dropped to forty five and I dropped back while they disappeared up ahead. I fully expected to come across them doing field sobriety checks up the road but they were nowhere to be seen when I turned off up my street. That far they had got away with it, as had any unsuspecting unfortunates whose path they crossed and who they did not kill in a weaving head on.

The former motorcycle dealership shown above on Southard Street has moved to White Street. Motorcycles crowded the parking on this block of Southard much to the irritation of some vocal neighbors, and now the building s shuttered up and cars have returned to the on street parking. Neighbors at the White Street location have been telling he newspaper the motorcycle shop has cleaned up a formerly blighted spot! Change can be good.

There are so many odd little corners of Key West that go unseen and unnoticed in the rush to serve the tourists. Above - carpets for sale? Below, an empty early morning street reflected in the windows of one more store that will likely be busy later in the day.

The Strand, now a pharmacy once a theater is also abandoned by people. You have to be on Duval fairly early to see the five hundred block this deserted.

It's the five hundredth anniversary of the arrival of white people in Florida, the flowery state, the Spaniards called it, and much of he state is celebrating. Key West has a hard time celebrating history, last year's centennial of the arrival of the railroad passed almost unnoticed and this year five hundred years of Florida settlement merits little flags draped off street lamps. This town, chartered in 1828, is very focused on the present, not the past.

By the time I steered Cheyenne back to the car on Olivia people were starting to appear on the street. This guy strode past me in shoes of a shade of electric blue that they eclipsed my pink Crocs.

I am no longer alone as Cheyenne takes her next pause on Angela at the corner of Duval.

 

The weird shaped shed is actually a ticket booth for tour boats and the day's occupant was setting up shop. Peop,e think I have a high stress job answering police phones but I can't imagine sending all day answering questions and selling tickets like that. It remains a source of amazement to me that I landed the job I did when I did. Cheyenne's job in retirement is to check out absolutely every single thing everywhere.

She spent her first eight years producing puppies and being kept in her rather uncomfortable place in the home of some freaks that dumped her for the crime of being too old. Nowadays she gets her daily walk where she sets the pace and the direction. It is hard work and she had to stop off for a drink at the 801. That is to say she stopped to hydrate.

And then she stopped for a final rest on this lengthy walk on the sidewalk between the car and the Hemingway House wall. She likes to end her walks with a pause to people watch. I get the feeling she never got to spend much time just watching the world in her former life. These days when not sleeping she likes to sit on the porch and watch the boats on the canal at home.

I don't think she noticed the rather anxious Hemingway cat perched on the wall. The cat sure noticed her.

Back home she passed out snoring on her grass bed. It must have been a good walk.

Posted with Blogsy

Dale Owen, Bob Brozman, RIP

It is I have long been told, a sign of aging that one turns first to the obituaries when opening the newspaper, to see who's dead and to reassure oneself about one's own status among the living. In the digital age one ends up opening Google and never quite knowing who will come across the page, by accident or by remotest coincidence. The other day I found a 94 year old Italian politician, Giulio Andreotti had fallen off his perch. That was cause for reflection for a moment considering he dominated the news cycles when I was a youngster in Italy.

And then there was Dale, a colleague who used to sell underwriting on KUSP, what was the public radio station in Santa Cruz in the 70s and 80s. Terry Green Blogs About KUSP » Blog Archive » Dale Owen passes away He was gifted with the rich deep basso profundo tones that were perfect for his classical music shows, the sort preferred by program directors. He had the thankless task at KUSP, that of selling the counter culture organization whose rambunctious members were always ready to spot and denounce a sell out as soon as they sniffed one. Dale worked the community like crazy and never lost his cheerful smile when sales came under fire for violating those protocols. He lived his life on crutches working paradoxically in a building that was as inaccessible as any second floor office could be and he never complained or turned away from the daily struggle to climb the shiny wooden stairs as steep and shiny as a granite mountain face. I was twenty-something and ran up and down easily, mindless if I forgot a microphone in the studio or needed to "run back up" for some other thing.

Sitting here, 3200 miles away, pondering the quiet, sudden illness and death of the unassuming Dale, I came across a connected death from a few weeks ago. KUSP, in it's role as a community voice was naturally a voice for resident and visiting musicians and Bob Brozman was a close friend of the founders of the station. It turns out he died in April, apparently by his own hand in an untold story, and was I surprised to see worldwide obituaries including the august New York Times, Bob Brozman, Guitarist, Is Dead at 59 - NYTimes.com and a Wikipedia page devoted to his tireless pursuit of what we used to call World Music.

I cannot say my life will be directly impacted by these disparate deaths, but they do provoke thought I guess is the best way to put it. I look back and feel an incredible sense of waste. I was a young man impetuous and let loose in the cultural playground that was California in the 80s and I had everything to learn and to do. I was so busy I missed so much of what the people around me every day had to offer. I read their obituaries and as brief as they are they reveal a large slice of details I never had the wit to enquire after at the time.

In many respects I feel fortunate with the way my life has unspooled, especially considering some of the turns it could have taken but those small insistent niggling regrets pop up in my life at the least expected moments.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Parrotdise Unraveled

It is unusual for me but I find myself missing the oddly named Parrotodise bar and restaurant on Little Torch Key. I see so much change, people come and go as do businesses, but this one I miss.

It's been closed for almost a year and already the signs of entropy are closing in on the formerly bustling eatery. Rather than pay the modest fee to dump a bed at the ...dump, some kind soul chose to drop it off in the parking lot. Much better.

It's as though when the place closed no one came back for any reason, to clean up or remove any decorative touches left by the ancien regime. The decorations are in place...

...the signage hasn't changed. I used to park here from time to time and I appreciated the convenient space for the Vespa or the Bonneville.

It's difficult to discern what made this place attractive. The food was okay, simple but not terribly brash or exciting, the service was cheerful and the owner was always to be found wandering the bar and restaurant keeping an eye on things and apparently enjoying the life of a restaurateur.

Key West Diary: Parrotdise

Looking back Parrtodise had its own place in the pantheon of Lower Keys restaurants, not as fancy as Square Grouper and not as organically hip as the Wharf, but they had a nice bar, good beers and fresh fish and locals flocked to it.

I also liked the view, unique to this place with its panoramic windows overlooking the channel. I enjoyed bringing visitors here and eating coconut lobster bites, or lobster mac and cheese and the ridiculous breakfast burger with bacon and a fried egg (!) drinking a draught Smithwicks while looking out over the water. I felt rather melancholy as I wandered around kicking abandoned dead palm fronds and remembering good times.

This was one place I didn't mind coming to have a beer and a meal by myself at the bar. The staff were friendly but not intrusive and the prices were good value. All gone.

The end came abruptly in June 2012 ironically while my wife and I were eating at Square Grouper we heard that this place was closing. It was not a happy moment, checks were left unpaid as te rumor had it and the operation closed on a sour note.

So there it is, abandoned but not forgotten, though a neighbor mentioned to me there is a rumor of a potential new tenant in sight which may reverse the gradual decay which is making it unlikely I will stop off again until something actually changes. Soon,  I hope.

Posted with Blogsy

Lobster Pots

Lobster season starts in August but apparently its never too soon to start to get ready.

I am very ambiguous about lobster ever since I found out that they will live 120 years if not interfered with. It seems rather cruel to induce them to plop into cages and then take them out and boil them for food in a world overflowing already with calories.

There again I am not particularly fond of lobster meat, I have compared it previously to fish flavored string cheese, but lobster is a delicacy and much desired so it seems churlish to spurn the stuff.

Yet the business of catching lobster is endlessly fascinating, watching Cuban fishermen build these cages, label them and paint their floats their own particular colors. Stealing from another's trap is a heinous crime, similar in all respects to rustling or horse thievery. Jail time is inevitable if caught.

Everything is labeled and licensed and marked.

 

There is a beauty in the hunt and that is what I look for as I walk my dog past these crates of death.

The lobster mini season, a hellish two days will be in late July when amateurs descend on the Keys and kill themselves in the unbridled hunt for lobster. More of that later as we get closer. Mini season produces no lyrical pictures of an ancient trade like these taken on Summerland Key.

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Made In Key West Band



 

Walk past the hard Rock Cafe  and you'll see there is  a narrow alleyway  that disappears apparently behind the mansion that is the Key West Women's Club, an edifice as fossilized as the club itself, yet in the darkness there is a little cobbled square and behind the square is a little wooden building and that is a  hive of wondrous activity every winter.

 

 

Sometimes it can feel onerous to lift oneself out of the comfort of one's own home and plod off down to the three hundred block of Duval Street, only to disappear up the little alleyway consulting the time in the manner of the White Rabbit of  Alice in Wonderland fame, tut-tutting about the time.

In order to avoid such a feeling of aggravation one buys  season's worth of tickets in advance. We in fact check the schedule and decide which plays we like the look of, and there being enough to justify it we do a season's worth. Then we cozy up to the bar, have a drink and sit on the porch to wait for the opening of the doors.

In years past the Red Barn had put on a lot of musicals and frothy silliness which are not my cup of tea, but the crop of dramas and thought provoking productions has increased each year and this year I am aggravated I managed to miss the opening production which was The 39 Steps, a story I have enjoyed in print and on screen but never live in a theater. Oh well.

 Our latest outing came last month when we saw the final night of Conchs, Cowboys and Tales of Old Key West, put on by the five members of the Made in Key West Band. Between them they claim 153 years of residence in the Southernmost City and because of that no doubt some cross dressing, even of the mildest sort was soon on display.



The band did a nice job, and they were having a rollicking good time on stage, a bunch of friends who for the most part go way back and are extremely comfortable together doing what is not at all their day jobs, except perhaps Paul Cotton who's musical career goes a long way back, enough that he is on a Wikipedia page  devoted to the band Poco...luckily for me as I had no idea who he was.

Above we have George Halloran a  local figure in the field of law. he has taken on a few sacred cows in the name of the people and he also knows how to sing. I thought he rather resembled Clint Eastwood in his shades. Below we have teacher Tom Murtha:

 Paul Cotton sang with a richness and presence that betrayed his professional career. It was also noted he was the only member of the band who did not know Mel Fisher personally. Murtha was proud to wave around a silver real hanging from his neck given to him directly by the august treasure hunter.

Gary MacDonald played the drums with fervor in the back of the stage. He and Mimi MacDonald have been leading lights in the theater operations in Key West for decades.

John Wells took on the role of de facto band leader,  grinning with delight at his own jokes, his plastic features expressing delight and surprise, desire and astonishment vividly enough to pull the audience into his performance. Some few visitors not completely familiar with Key West lore fell in love with him and his performance cheering him on, rowdy and happy, entertaining the staid theater audience with their seat dancing in the front row. They went home with happy memories of Key West those three women of a certain age in the front row.

 Then Island Alex cam on stage and danced sang and blew his brass, the consummate performer  having a ball on stage.

 Finally the sole woman in the performance Camille Russo Toler stepped up the microphone to sign variations on Oh Susanna. And in effect it was less a night about old Key West and more a night of cowboy and folk songs, familiar  repertoire with just a few references to Bum Farto ( the tourists loved that one) That Fucking  Conch Train in the spirit of cowboys singing of the Iron Horse, Mel Fisher and of course abundant if unsurprising references to coconuts, palms, warm weather and driving to the end of the road. Familiar stuff but not really engaging if you already live here.

It was a fun night out but with the winter snowbird season over I would have enjoyed a little more topical references, inside jokes perhaps and just a little mockery of the foibles of daily life on the island.