I needed to drive my car somewhere to do something. Except I could not find my car. It was not where I had left it up which was parked out front of my house. It was gone. I moseyed down the street. I took longer walks around even farther blocks pressing the panic button on my keychain. I came home in a state of shock. I’ve never had a car stolen before. I wasn’t sure who to call. So I called my friend who is a psychic and he said call the police and call the insurance people. Which was a tiny hiccup because I despise the police and have frequently written heated diatribes about my loathing of them.

I am neither black nor prone to wearing hoodies and yet, in my experience, almost every interaction with the police in Florida and some of the rest of the country has been negative. Therefore, on principle, I hate them.

In a moment of hypocritical weakness I phoned and asked for help. In less than five minutes three young tanned healthy police people in tight shorts and smiles and riding bicycles arrived and asked me to exit my house. I thought they should be coming in and we would be filling out reports. But they motioned to me to come out and I thought I better do what they say. So I walked down the little path that leads to the street and there was my car.

I was jubilant. I was so impressed. I asked, ‘How did you do that?’

One policeman asked me, with a broad grin, ‘Did you have a big night last night?’

The three law officers smirked at me as if I had passed some college initiation ritual.

My options were to confess, ‘No! I’m a teetotaler I’m just a straight up idiot.’

It might be a crime to lie to the police but I had to put my ego first and I said, ‘Yes, it was a bender!’

I guess these police types, they’re not all bad.

Vuk, a man with a background no two villagers could agree on, ran the cafe in the small mountain town.

Vuk, which in Serbian means wolf, was from the Balkans, the forested area, picking plums in the summer, and clearing brandy glasses from the scuffed wooden tables of the town cafe in the wintertime. He was often teased, especially on nights of a full moon, where he might suck down too much, until he was aslant. And when he drank enough he’d been known to howl.

They told him he was an orphan and that he had been brought up by the village, he was everyone’s child. The truth was on a snowy night many years ago a gathering of wolves dropped a wicker basket on the doorstep of the cafe and setup a caterwauling until sleepy humans stumbled out to investigate.

Thus the boy was named Vuk, thus the nipper was raised a ward of the cafe. Vuk would grow up to be grateful and resentful, affectionate yet dangerous. The old cafe owner, who would one day die a nightmare end of attrition as he lost limbs to diabetes until he was a stump in a wheelchair, he loved the lad. He had Vuk parade him around in his rusty rickety chair. Vuk was strong and easily rolled the old man up and down dale. He could shove that recalcitrant chair through knee-high mud.

No one guessed it was anything but an accident when the wheelchair plus occupant was discovered at the bottom of a steep slope of poplar trees. In a heap, in sulfuric rotting leaves, no one ever noticed the puncture marks on the old man’s neck.

There was speculation naturally, cautious whisperings, but no one had any proof. They continued to patronize the cafe and treated Vuk with respectful trepidation.

I’m from a land of vampires and wolf dogs.

Živeli Vuk!

The tarantula stretched lustrous hairy legs and made its way down the boulder. It was that time of day.

Meantime, in his favorite customized automobile, the man from the hill was ripping across his land.

He purchased this terrain a score of years ago yet still the townsfolk murmured. He knew they asked after him, behind his back.

He didn’t care. He loved this land. A gorge where the desert breaks apart, bursting with forested canyons and splashing rivers.

The tarantula was off the boulder and proceeding across the path. It tentatively waved a sentinel digit, reading the tremors, and deemed it safe.

It was rare for the man to drive recklessly, but he was late for a meeting. He had to, besides, it was fun.

The tarantula sensed the horror before he saw it, felt the rumbling in the ground, and in no time he was caught in the middle of the path with this looming terror closing in.

When he saw the tarantula he was horrified.

He loved tarantulas. He loved all living creatures. But he’s a dude so for entertainment he also loves his guns and explosives.

When he noticed the black ball of fuzz he sliced the wheel, carving his way out of killing the arachnid who thought for sure he was one dead bug.

Except the machine ran out the way and up the boulder, tipped over, wheels rolling. And on he scurried with his routine.

Meanwhile the man shrugged out a window. After some exertion he straightened his truck. A matter of leverage. He’d been through this before and it was always exhilarating.

He made it to the meeting. The day was stuffed and he forgot about the incident. Until midnight, with all his chores done. The reminder made him laugh when he inspected his auto. Minimal damage.

He selected a favorite sledgehammer and set to righting the crushed bumper, under the daylight splash of a full moon.

Somewhere the tarantula slept, to live another day.

It was 2011 and the meteorologist was boisterous with his waving of arms in front of maps of loud colors and all this a backdrop to the portentous news. Snowstorm of biblical proportions, buy shovels, get your flashlights’ batteries checked.

Eff off, I thought, and I bought a one-way ticket to Miami, departing in six hours. I made the flight, picked up a rental car and with barely a plan, except to drive as far south and as close to the sun-warmed equator as was possible, I was on the road.

Miami’s Medusa junction of highways heading south narrows to bridges arcing over expansive twinkling ocean and linking islands of ever smaller boulders of coral.

Thus I was led to the curved end of the road where it meets with the start of Whitehead Street, the tip of America. The Southernmost point.

Since moving to Key West I’m asked what about the dangerous weather? In the years I’ve lived here there’s been an earthquake, a tornado and a hurricane, all in New York City.

Today, now, reporting on the news from terra firma here in Key West we’ve had nothing but perfect tropical days, blue skies, sunshine, hot and humid. Buffett lyrics?

Ad nauseam the weathermen thrum their drumbeats Driving grannies to early graves. Flooding grandchildren with waves of guilt and panic.

Evacuate?

The only evacuating I’m doing is checking out the Green Parrot. Don’t let those weathermen get you down. Unless it’s down to Key West where the sun kisses your freckles and the liquor flows to the sea.

image by

www.susansugar.net

Please listen with headphones *this was recorded at The Green Parrot * If you like this please find more on iTunes & http://www.xperimento.com

Imagine your impression of the world, apprised from the sidewalks?

Have you seen couples living on the streets? Hippies?.White folks with dreadlocks, in tie-dye clothing they’ve patched themselves. Sometimes infants bulge in papooses.

Imagine you were one such child?

Would you remember, in years to come, how your mother danced bare foot with ankle bracelets of bells?

Would you think fondly of your father the musician with his handmade lyres? Will you think of him at all?

You might be brilliant, possibly even a genius. Does the chaos whence you wound drag you down? Will the hardened scars strangle you as you query the circumstances? Now older, jumpy, quick to anger, your heart languishes in a low-grade but permanent state of trauma.

By dint of your experiences you will likely become a taker. You will  justify your behavior because you are convinced you were dealt half a deck of cards, by your reckoning you are helping yourself. You will snatch at shiny objects. Precious orbs to be collected, some even human. Exciting until they crack.

You take, you grab, you never consider this theft. But it is, if only in the fundamental human contract of trust, you break the social order. You think you have gained, in truth, you have lost yet more footing. I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed but that’s because you’re shooting for the middle.

I’m not offended by the hustler. I’ve displayed tendencies myself when times have demanded it. The effective  ‘hustler’ must display self-awareness; humility to balance the desperation whirling behind their terrified eyes. For them I’ll extend a hand. As hands have been offered me, to hoist me from the gaping abyss. Angels paying forward is the survival of the urchin. I’ve been there and I’ll never forget their interventions without which I would not have made it, not sane anyway.

If you are born into a game, by definition, you are programed to win. Meantime, the half cracked peppercorns live amongst us. Look out, but more importantly, look up.

image by http://www.nancyberry.com

THIS JUST IN! Trae Pierce and the T-Stone Band blew the roof off the Green Parrot!

‘I expected to find a crater when I came back today!’ laughed John Vagnoni, co-owner/overseer of the GP, and the man with the incredible ear who selects the bands. Not a day passes he doesn’t receive CDs from hopefuls requesting to play.

John must be breaking a lot of hearts. Daily mountains of submissions arrive and he has to mine for the diamonds.

I asked him if he’s ever made anyone cry when turning them down, and he said, ‘I hope not!’

John mixes things up and these days on Sundays, from noon to 4pm Captain Blues, a local treasure, takes the stage and anyone with an instrument and any courage can join an impromptu jazzy/bluesy band. Captain Blues leads meanwhile belting out tunes. Here’s some bad quality footage from 2007?, but you’ll get a hint of his gorgeous voice:

Because Trae Pierce, who has won 4 Grammys, is a generous man, for the last set of the weekend, Sunday Sound Check, as they call it from 5pm to 7pm, he gave the microphone to Captain Blues and when the Captain was done Trae graciously said, ‘You weren’t supposed to outdo me!’

Fact is Trae Pierce and The T-Stone Band are loaded with supersonic talent and since they visited last time all of town has been clamoring for their return.

Please look them up on their website www.traepierceandthetstoneband.com and/or iTunes.

Keyboard player David D1 Grant assures me the release date for their new single is merely months away and a whole album can be expected in 2017. Yay!

Along with my first love www.Xperimento.com, TPTS is now permanently on the biannual trek to remote Key West. We’re grateful for the quality willing to travel to our faraway isle. Just another reason why Key West is the best.

In the days when I sold my first husband’s paintings we made quite the cute team. It fooled us.

I easily parlayed his colorful renditions into cash with my multifarious connections.

While I have no inheritance I come equipped with the ability to contact anyone. Once. Then I gotta have something to say, something to sell.

I soon figured the husband was not permitted near while I was making a sale as he would inevitably wreck it. He talked too much. Except for when we were alone as then he was mute and this would grate.

Years accumulated and I got slicker with the negotiations. A friend, a Hollywood producer, was making a movie about a painter. The ‘painter’ would be played by Brad Pitt, then still an unknown.

I chained hubby in his studio and gave him instructions laden with bribes and threats. Hubby loathed orders but I was the boss, because I made the sales. Sparks flew but the work got done.

The producer flew hubby and I to the shoot, a warehouse in Portland, Oregon. I prattled with Pitt one evening outside his trailer and I remember thinking he was reserved. Plus he was pretty, like a girl. He barely left a stain of a memory. Thankfully I’m not in the movie trade as I have zero instincts for future mega-stardom.

The producer suggested hubby and I play background roles. With my 19^th century upbringing I was horrified and refused. Not the first wrong decision of my life.

Hubby and I earned a comfy income and this encouraged us to ignore the stifling tensions. Marriages collapse for a multitude of reasons. In our case, in retrospect, the fractures were obvious from the start.

Shy of a decade I bolted. Divorce, in a word, was the happiest day of my life. I hope the same for others.

I’m traveling and only have access to my tiny phone. For the Sunday story please go to http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/11831236