They were in Costa Rica in something ramshackle on a hillside. Around the house was a tended garden and beyond that thick jungle. This was the mid-80s and one weak bulb hung in each of the two rooms. Nights were early and mornings earlier.

One such she awoke first and she felt guilt at the relief of having the quiet to herself. That marriage was falling apart. It had been since the minute they were hitched, however neither was willing to admit this, especially to themselves. Not yet.

She sipped a coffee and thought it would be good to be swimming. She took a towel and carefully walked the damp red earth path cut through the jungle to the sea.

The water was placid as a pasture. She dropped towel shorts shirt and waded in slowly until she dove into the incoming froth. When she came up for air and cleared her eyes what she saw directly in front was a wall so tall it obscured the horizon. It was rushing at her.

In vain she tried to swim to shore. The undertow effortlessly grabbed at the smallness that she was and the waves crushed her against the rocky seabed. Rolling her until she was spat out with scarcely time to focus she watched horrified as another wave, exactly as enormous, was coming right at her. Wounded from each battering she became concerned she might die. These elephants for waves charged in until suddenly the commotion stopped and the great Pacific Ocean was calm as a sleeping babe.

She flopped to the shore, airless and bloodied. He was never there when she needed him. Returning to the cottage she cleaned her cuts and made a second coffee. He asked nothing about her scrapes so she decided not to discuss the incident. More than the coffee in her mouth she could taste her resentments toward him. The adventure was over and when she eventually split, she never faltered. No regrets.

One job I fell in and out of fairly quickly was the time I worked for Robin Leach, the ‘the rich and famous’ dude. He and a TV network agreed to create a 20-episode pilot in one month. The concept was Mr. Leach and his co-host Rae Dawn Chong presiding over a ‘cocktail party’ with the two of them center stage on a sofa. First segment was them chatting with a ‘celebrity’ (anyone would do- we even had Donald Trump), then cutting to a segment introducing an item for sale, a cat hair remover or whatever, and ending with a musical performance.

My job was to fill the stage with ‘cocktail party goers’. In two episodes I ran out of friends who would participate in this orgy of commercialism. Next, I contacted the deeply insane and desperate, out of work actors, and daily they cued.

One busy day the stage manager yelled, “Cut twenty percent off the stage.” I scanned the crowd of fake cocktail partygoers and spotted a squadron of gigantic black men. I scurried over to the giants and ordered them off the stage. They looked down at me as if I was a squeaking Pekinese and said nothing. I’m sorry; I repeated louder, you’re going to have to leave.

At that instant the stage manager ran over, screaming, ‘NO! They’re the ACT!’

They were Run DMC and this was 1992.

I apologized to the band but they turned their backs to me. In their minds I was just another ignorant racist. And the horrible incredible truth was they were right. This was a mighty humiliation to learn.

So, no, I did not bond with the band who would go on to become the mega-legends they are today.

When I think of this moment I wince. I do not consider myself a racist but my actions betrayed me. Imagine that, I got schooled on racism by the future Reverend Run.

Thanks Rev!

image: www.leighvogel.com

Uninhibited as a child he danced with his eyes closed. In tight black pants he snaked his narrow hips. A billowing shirt flashed a wall of muscly torso. Early 20s tops. He took her by the hand and spun her toward him. She let him and then he led her out of the club and into the cool air of the wide quiet street.

Tenotch, He slurred at her, I’m from Mexico.
That’s a big country. Can you narrow things down?
Tijuana Baby, heard of it?

She wanted to like him, she wanted to lick him, he looked succulent as a caramel. He was so sozzled as they walked he was stumbling into her.

I built a house in South America.
Really? You built it? He stared coldly at her.
Ok, no, I didn’t build the house. Campesinos built the house.

He looked away and shook his head, as if to calm himself.

He pulled her to him and tried to kiss her but lost his balance and both were falling slowly, awkwardly, against a red convertible. She could not save herself and inexplicably she was beneath him. They crash-landed noisily and they laughed as they lay there in the gutter wedged ‘twixt curb and whitewall tire. Her shin was bruised.

I didn’t feel a thing! Tenotch roared as he effortlessly bounced to his feet and extended a hand to her.
That’s because you landed on me.
Ha ha! I owe you one. I’ve always been lucky; really, I should be dead a hundred times over. But here I am.

He smiled like a predator might and instantly she knew everything about this fellow. She didn’t have to ask. But she did anyway.

You ever killed anyone?
His eyes narrowed.
How? With a gun?
No, Baby, and he dragged an imaginary blade across her throat. With a machete.

When my grandfather took the train, it was his own train. That’s comfort.

My grandfather, HRH Prince Paul of Yugoslavia, was Serbian, and Serbs have a thing for cake.

One day my grandfather had plans to visit a friend. For a gift he brought with him a magnificent chocolate cake. His favorite, in fact.

He boarded his train. He placed the cake, in its box, on a table by a window. After divesting himself of overcoat and hat and whatnot fashionable items of the day, and all this caught in the expert handling of his retinue, I imagine the scene was docile.

For the journey he sat in a comfortable armchair by the window.

The city melted into countryside and wheat fields with magpies puttered past the sill, an endless Cezanne to watch. My grandfather was a major art collector, it was his fetish, if you like, he would have admired the scenery. He was likely fussed over, to a degree, for any want or need.

But there was that cake, in its box. Safe. And yet defenseless, say like a tiny mountainous country in the gun sights of WWII. Not that anyone knew that yet.

At some point he brought the cake box over and placed it on his lap. He opened it. He examined it. It appeared there was the tiniest of imperfections. Something he might correct easily with a fingertip. One taste was all it took. A single taste of the mighty cake and ultimately he demolished it. Not quickly, he was not a savage. But in bits and scoops until a hole had been made which was a point of no return. So he devoured it. He arrived at his friend’s with no gift to give. These were early days when losing a cake was the worst of things. No one knew what was coming.

image : www.SusanSugar.net

On nights I can’t find a band to inspire me another destination is The Garden of Eden, a clothing optional club, an open rooftop bar downtown Key West. But not for the obvious reason. I have no interest in soaking up the sights. I’ve danced there many a night but I’ve never removed a stitch of clothing and I never will and mostly I keep my eyes closed. Also my friend Cory is the DJ and he selects the grooviest of tunes until the roosters crow.

My routine is to place myself in front of a giant speaker, as if it was my dance partner. I like to think of this as ‘cardio’. Occasionally, while dancing, I’ll open my eyes and stare upward at the stars flickering in the gloriously salty warm night air.

Recklessly one evening I opened my eyes to notice a couple of men watching me. I could have let them be but their discomfort ignited a mischievousness and I couldn’t resist toying.

Come on lame-os! I mocked, beckoning for them to join me.

Did you call us lame-os? The taller one asked, looking shocked.

Yes, now get out here.

And they did! They were rusty but they were happy and I was pleased for them, at least they were away from their Cheetos and beer strewn ‘mancaves’.

This coming weekend, halejiula, my plans are etched in kryptonite. The best band in the world is playing at the best bar in the world. Check out www.xperimento.com (also available on iTunes) and www.greenparrot.com

Locals see you on the dance floor. Tourists don’t miss out on the magical music and out-of-towners please follow the fun on the Green Parrot webcam. Tomorrow Friday 5:30pm until Sunday 2am, I’ll be there.

Photo left to right: Emiliano Torres of Xperimento, Nile Rodgers of CHIC, and yours truly on April 1st, 2016 in Miami.

Photo by Tuli Ta

This predator says he is an ordinary guy, ‘with a pretty face.’

That face gets him into all sorts of happy trouble. His beguiling features divert from his simple intentions of a conquest. The mouth alone distracts with a top lip that curls upward, a miniature smile of its own. However it is not a smile, but that is hardly his fault.

Neither was the sting of never having met his father. A person who is alive today, somewhere, but who keeps out of reach. Gone on to other marriages and the making of more children.

Now this kid is almost thirty. Not a kid anymore, technically. Not vulnerable anymore, theoretically. In his late teens he gained control of his looks and their startlingly powerful effect. Ladies approach him and he says they are, ‘endless’.

‘Oh, I am grateful,’ he flashes his Joker’s smirk. ‘How could I not be?’

Coolly detached he explains, ‘I prefer ‘cougars’ because young girls say stuff like, ‘You couldn’t handle this’, and I’m not going to lie they are good looking, but I tell them, Miss, I’d rock your world and break your heart. Girls get clingy. When I move on they freak out.’

Does this mechanical ‘endless’ turnover avenge the hurt? Earnestly he implores he loves his mother. By protecting her he shields himself from reality. Truth is she did not keep him safe, yes there are other more sordid secrets, and for this he will bear scratches on his heart.

As an adult all he has known are nights to brag about. On the crest of thirty there is the merest slack to his taut torso. He’ll always have his looks, to a degree, but changes are coming when pride will be forced to bow low. Until then, to the hearts yet to be mauled, take cover.

image by SUSAN SUGAR

www.susansugar.net

Awake and asleep all at once and lying on my side on a hard bed slowly waking. I had no clue where I was, a sensation so familiar as to remove any tartness. Instead I was blasé about discovering where now had I landed. I was more concerned with why my eyes were open but I could see nothing. More curiously, I could feel the blowback of my eyelashes fluttering but I could see nothing at all. Blades of panic speared me.

I blinked my eyes but there was nothing except more nothingness in front of me.

I was blind. I was in a world of blur. Fear burbled rattling deep within. 

I tried to stay calm, delaying the inevitable but in truth I’d expected this. A pessimist by nature what were the chances I would get through unscathed? I had not considered blindness. Other scenarios of degeneration, but not blindness.

Devolving into depression I twisted over so that I lay on my back and because my eyes were open I saw a wave of colors. I saw shapes and tones and it took a beat before I realized I’d awoken staring at a wall.

One or two seconds of looking at a blank wall and I had unraveled. That’s all it took for me to dismantle and give it up to the dark side. Not impressive.

I recognized my surroundings. I had landed well. My life has been about gutters and castles and I was in a castle, metaphorically speaking. I’ll take it.

image : http://www.susansugar.net

On nights I can’t find a band to inspire me another destination is The Garden of Eden, a clothing optional club, an open rooftop bar downtown Key West. But not for the obvious reason. I have no interest in soaking up the sights. I’ve danced there many a night but I’ve never removed a stitch of clothing and I never will and mostly I keep my eyes closed. Also my friend Cory is the DJ and he selects the grooviest of tunes until the roosters crow.

ps: photo of Lucca and I at the Green Parrot before we got thrown out! 

image by painter/photographer extraordinaire

Susan Sugar

http://www.susansugar.net

Long ago I was traveling around southern Peru. Along with some local pals we hired a car from the coastal city of Arequipa and headed east and inland and up thousands of feet into the fabled Andes. Our intentions were to travel over the first peak, or cordillera as they are called, stop at the midway restaurant and then wind our way down to a golden canyon where time has been idling in magnificent stillness. Placid in its perpetuity in a valley of hot springs and cold rivers and over which the condors cruise on high currents in their lazy loops.

A decade earlier a road was constructed. Before then llamas were the only mode of transportation, and largely they still are and lope alongside, heavily laden with whatever. Our Toyota motored smoothly careful not to blow smoke in the faces of the past.

Topography altered as we drove above the tree line to an industrial gray moonscape with glistenings of ice and lichen. Midway was flagged by the restaurant, by which I mean a shambling lean-to of sticks and tarps. They served soups and teas. Also on the menu were tiny clear bags with dry coca leaves and a piece of rock. My Peruvian pals apprised me, ‘It’s for altitude sickness.” You masticate, like chaw; everything dissolving meanwhile the volcanic rock activates the enzymes in the leaf. Then you wait. Apart from tasting disgusting first there is a numbing and then a slow deeper all-over numbing. No hunger, no fatigue, clear headed, I felt great. In a word, delightful. My Peruvian friends were vomiting and fainting all over the place.

Back on the road we were held up by a couple of kids. Stern faced banditos with copper skin and red cheeks and baggy woolen clothes. Each was holding the end of a string. We parked and opened the windows. The children carefully laid down the string before scarpering over to inform they were charging a toll.

Image by painter/photographer extraordinaire

Susan Sugar

http://www.susansugar.net