Flashback: In The Lair Of The Europeans

In the lair of the Europeans, December 1994

"Why don’t you close your eyes and re-invent me?"
-Massive Attack, "Mezzanine"

Sticking close to Ana, my security, not knowing them, unfamiliar, unsure, and yet…

Limbo, the treetop bar, overlooking Duval, close to midnight, on a still warm December night. I am with Ana, of course, and Nathalie, Sharon, and Elan, sometimes Helen and Stephan, and the gay Israeli guy who likes me (and I kinda like him, but I’m still with ___, so no…) are there, too. The trade winds are blowing most pleasantly, and there are some girls dancing in front of the DJ, who is from England (not that that makes him cool or nuthin’) and who is more than competent…

The bar catered to this fun, young, gorgeous, international crowd that was so nice to look at. But most of the time, I was quiet. Observing them, shy, intimidated by these interesting, rounded, sophisticated young adults, some of them, anyway (sophisticated, that is), their hands extended in friendship to me.

I wear a baseball cap, flannel shirt, smoke Marlboro Reds, and drink Budweiser. "You are so American." They say. "And yet you are not."

They are curious of me, also.

Flashback: Seven Random Thoughts of Key West

1. (November 1993) On the first night of her arrival, my roommate _____ got hit in the head by a coconut. We had been drinking in celebration of her arrival on the island, and were walking down a side street. _____was underneath a Palm at exactly the right moment. The coconut came loose and dropped right on her head. Coconut impacts have killed people before, but this incident only left her extremely shaken.

She never liked living in Key West. And from the beginning, the feeling was evidently mutual.

2.(November 1994) My friend Ana, the French girl, and I would sit outside our respective places of work and smoke. "Let’s have a ciggy, shall we?" She’d say. So we’d sit, with nothing else to do but smoke, watching the people walk Duval.

A drunken bearded man in a black dress riding a bicycle approached. When he got in front of us, he decided to stop by putting on his brakes and slowly falling over. Ana and I exchanged looks, neither of us busting out with laughter, but close. The man lay half on the street and sidewalk for awhile, then began to get up, wrestling with the bike and his dress and his intoxication in the fight to right himself vertically. It was a slow process.

His dress appeared to be of cheap satin (Is it called Crinoline?) that swished and crunched loudly as he rolled around the sidewalk. And unlike the drag queens, he didn’t wear makeup. But then, how could he, with that full, full beard he was sporting? I’m not sure he was even aware that we were several feet away the whole time.

Seconds turned into minutes turned into pathetic, and we decided to go inside by the time he began to fully stand. We watched some more from inside, as he smoothed his dress down and began walking in the direction from which he’d come, leaving his bike half on the street, half on the sidewalk.

3.My stalker, Simon – October 1993 to May 1994
God love him, this guy was a mess. He was obsessive, kinda creepy, not threatening, really, but he did provide some seriously unintentional comic gems during our stalker/stalkee acquaintance.

The first time we met, I was working at the smaller clothing store by myself one Saturday afternoon/evening. He came in, looked around a few minutes, and then began to ask me questions. No one was in the store, so he questioned further, then began telling me about the minutiae of his excruciating everyday existence. Painful to go through, I’m sure, but painful to listen to, as well.

No one came into the store, so I had no distractions and no course of action but to continue listening. After about 90 minutes, the manager of the other store called and I acted like he wanted me to close the store and go across the street to the other store, for a moment. So I finally got rid of him, for the meantime, for the first time, that day. He then began to show up at either store frequently, and consistently.

After I got fired from the clothing stores, I got a job bar backing and bar tending at One Saloon. Simon couldn’t find me, for a while, anyway. He spotted me one night, emptying glass bottles into one of the recycling bins at the front entrance of the bar. I saw him coming, mentally cussed for a moment, turned around, said hello, then went back to work.

Afterward, his visits became, once again, frequent and consistent. Sometimes he’d come in, sometimes not, content to speak with me by the garbage cans. Once in a while, my friend the bouncer wouldn’t let him in, just to fuck with his head. On my nights to bar tend, I usually worked the bar by the dance floor. It was a little slower volume-wise, and the other bartenders had seniority, so they’d take the two other, busier bars and leave that station to me.

But I was totally fine with arrangement. I loved the music, and could work at a little slower pace than when I’d bar back. And I was also first out, which meant I might get five or six hours of sleep that night, as opposed to my normal two and a half to four. My life consisted of nap time, twice daily, and work. Graphic design by day (10:00-5:00), bar staff at night (8:30/9:00-5:00), and in between, sleep.

The bar wouldn’t fill up until 10:30 or 11. Sometimes it was earlier on busy weeks, but at 9 when we opened, there was almost no one there. Few people came in earlier than Simon. The dance floor was fairly small, mirrored, had a continuous rail for drinks and ashtrays, and light and fog effects for the dancers. And it was empty, except for me and Simon, disco music blaring from the speakers as he awkwardly stared and/or mumbled.

The owners took operation of the bar seriously. One of them was the DJ on Mondays and Tuesdays, our busiest nights. On those nights, Simon would stand at the back of the dance floor 20 feet away, and lay out papers against the back wall of the floor, showing me proof that he’d done his homework. He went to school at Florida Keys Community College. He’d leave them out until people started filtering back to the back bar. Then he’d get very frantic, quickly pull the papers together, and rush out the back exit, all in a matter of 15 or 20 seconds. Just like his presence, his aftermath was puzzlement to all involved.

Sometimes, if I was behind the garden bar changing kegs or doing whatever, the bouncer would give me a heads-up that Simon was there by saying his name loudly. I’d stay hidden until he was convinced I wasn’t working that night. He was harmless, like I said, but some nights, I just couldn’t be bothered. It was a game, in a way. I never led this guy on, but I didn’t take his visits too seriously, either.

One night, as I worked at the garden bar, Simon came in, drank three cans of beer, and fell asleep in his seat, face-first on the bar, snoring somewhat softly. He said he’d been drinking earlier, so his passing out was of no surprise. The waiters from our sister establishment, La Trattoria Venezia, would usually sit at my bar after their shift, get very drunk, and leave lots of money. They were also great customers, very pleasant and fun to be around. Sometimes the bar would show gay porn on the televisions around the bar, and we’d make up hilarious, drunken dialogue to coincide with the action.

But on this one particular night, they were content to drink and laugh, humored at the sight of Simon sleeping and snoring and drooling at the end of the bar. I looked at the French girl, Coco, and said, "Watch this—SIMON WAKE UP!!" I screamed. He jolted and shook and panicked and ran out the door before he’d even woke up, laughter from the employees following him down Appelrouth Lane.

I didn’t see him for awhile after that. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one he was stalking. ___ said a friend of his found Simon in the gated driveway of his house, asleep on the gravel drive. And he’d follow other guy’s home, too, never threatening, just following or talking. Later, another friend told me he’d seen Simon being restrained then dragged, screaming, from the Red Cross blood drive.

4. November 1993 The cute insane guy would walk the streets all day, every day for awhile, holding a copy of some unexpected classic in paperback, saying very little ever, walking and stopping and staring. I’m not sure if he was homeless or not, as he stayed pretty clean despite the heat. And he was so damn cute! Really strong, handsome good looks, good hair, and (had he not been crazy) beautiful eyes. He wasn’t ill mannered or seemingly all that tortured, just not there.

My guess was assisted living via rich family. Out of sight, out of mind, fun in the sun, this sort of rationale. He left or disappeared maybe a month and a half later. I wish I could remember the name of that book. It gave me the impression he was really smart, but had crossed the line. I also got the feeling he read that book repeatedly.

5. September and October 1993 The owner of the ChitChat was quite demonstrative of his opinions. The sign outside the restaurant promised a two eggs, grits, and home-fries meal for 99 cents. The place was always busy, although I never met anyone who’d gone twice. The ChitChat was our first breakfast in our new home. The eggs sucked, the cream curdled the second it entered the coffee, and it was there that we realized Ben’s van had been towed, as it was visibly gone from where it had been parked. The waitress said, "Welcome to Key West."

Along with the restaurant, his property included a white stone wall along Duval Street. Whenever the urge his him, he’d spray paint different anecdotes to provoke thought, incite a riot, or some action in between from those reading his diatribes. I took a picture of one that said, "Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders: Tell the American people about "Agent Orange and AIDS serum"…When was it made??? By whom? "Well maybe I can help you" (1) July 7, 1976."

After awhile, he’d repaint the wall white, and then later, he’d spray paint something else.

6. September 1993 Ben and I listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ "Siamese Dream" most of the way from Missouri to Key West and then until he left, three months later. I don’t know how many times we listened to it, but the number was close to 200. And I still don’t know the names of most of the songs and very little of the lyrics. But he really loved that CD.

7. _____ hated to go to the New Moon Saloon, but she would go if I repeatedly asked her. They had great burgers and wings, but they also had the worst service on the island. The bar was sunken, so the sitting patrons and bartenders were at eye level with the other. There were black velvet portraits on the walls of Miles Davis, Carly Simon, Jimi Hendrix, I think, and Sinatra or someone like him. There was always some kind of shit kickin’ rock and roll, boogie or blues, or metal blaring, much more for the bar patrons than the restaurant. And those Sixties or Seventies-era monolith comfort booths really hit the spot after a hard night of drinking.

But the service sucked so bad! On more than one occasion, the waiter or waitress was obviously more wasted than we were, seriously pissing _____ off. Also, there was this funked-out crack-head vibe about the place, as it was only one of a few 24-hour places in Old Town. Lots of weirdness, lots of druggy stares and behavior, from both the staff and clientele, and snippets of conversation that was, in any context, unsettling. Always.

Good wings, though.

Nibiru/Planet X/Wormwood picture gone from Google Earth Sky

This is not "proof," as the You Tube video claims, rather strong circumstantial evidence. Seeing that cropped out box is more than a little ooh-gy.

What? No Outrage From Teabaggers for Lack of Coverage of Sunday's Gay Rights Protest in D.C.?

From Bradblog via Raw Story..

Earthquake Pattern?

Anonymous dude at Alien Earth ran across this disturbing little earthquake related tidbit.. Now, check out this perspective.. That's right; look up, then right, then look at the bottom. Connect those dots and you've got yourself the beginnings of one scary lookin' box..

Have you seen.. This Man?

Found this quote from George Ure's awesome Urban Survival site:

"I take it you've seen that something in the predictive linguistics due to go viral here shortly is the story that thousands of people are having the same male figure appear in their dreams? If not, check www.thisman.org. Notice the face that seems to be popping up in people's dreams, got it?

Now...go flip to the Wikipedia page on Willie Sutton. Am I the only one to notice some kind of resemblance? Is there some kind of...you know....bank robber meme going around?"

This is an Economics website?

Urban Survival rates "awesome" by mixing easy to understand, conversational, gut-punch economics about the upcoming (soon, unfortunately/quite possibly) Depression Two with material on Quantum/Paranormal activity (most notably, the Web Bots), and the increasing intensity of global earth changes. And, with the introduction of this man to the site, his more conservative readers must wonder about his sanity, but for those of my ilk, "awesome" applies.

Ure has been spotting then writing on important economic trends and data long before the financial networks/media, and much longer than the Mainstream Media, who, in actuality, almost never broadcast any relevant trends or data. And it's not pretty. Massive debt, double digit declines in shipping numbers, the upcoming derivatives implsion.. None of it's good.

"I'm committed to connecting groups of dots, wherever possible." He says, on his site. He also connects dots within the realm of the (all encompassing term here) Supernatural. He is a thoughtfully organized Woo-Woo, presenting concepts not usually(Read: Ever.) found on any mainstream economics sites, and economic information and strategy for Conspiracy Weirdos and the Tin Foil Hat Set. He's logical, rational, and Wants-To-Believe. And he wants to warn you about the looming crisis in our collective immediate future.

I hope to hell George Ure's wrong about almost every economic thing he writes. Unfortunately I don't think he is.