The past few days have been devoted to Parrotheads, the mobile fans of Jimmy Buffett who carbon footprint their way down in pickup-trucks with overinflated tires to the Mecca that is Key West for a celebratory week homage to their hero.

Obviously, Jimmy Buffett is a very clever man, by anyone’s standards the dude has made a fortune. But since his product is the musical equivalent of a Trailer Park, and attracts those who dwell in them, his tribe is a shabby lot. Meanwhile, you won’t see the likes of Jimmy Buffett in their midsts. A nuance entirely lost on the flock.

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The Fantasy Fest migration stampeded in and disrobed and got body painted. Half way through the week the rains came. A flash flood of Noah proportions washing off their eye-popping paint jobs, swirling away into the overpriced and mold ridden gutters that are their rooms for the night. All before last call.

The hot season was a swelter of solid humidity. The air was unbreathable and leaden. Luscious from flowers and fermenting sea grasses sweating on the beaches, and thus ultimately nauseating. Gradually I retreated and spent my days behind drawn blinds, A/C blasting full power, emerging only after sundown.

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Currently Key West is bloated from an additional mostly naked 50,000 partiers come to immerse themselves in Fantasy Fest. Including a thirty-something Marine from upstate who drove to town for a single night, to witness for himself the fuss he had only heard of. Despite a couple tours in Iraq and the same again in Afghanistan he was rocked and wide-eyed at the extremes before him. He stopped to photograph a naked lady astride a motorcycle, surrounded by other slack-jawed men also photographing her and a generously displayed glistening poon. The Marine took photographs of himself and porn star Ron Jeremy, who for once had his clothes on. The Marine took many photographs that night, because as he plainly stated, “The guys back home are never going to believe this!”

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Ass-less chaps on the chap striding ten paces ahead of me. I sensed his discomfort with my proximity, I felt his sober thoughts, “Why is this hetero-bitch following me?” I was mesmerized by the soft white orbs of ass exposed in the ass-less chaps. I was following him, not on purpose, but there I was, and I thought I noticed those buttocks flinch with each step he took with his slim, black leather encased legs. He strode with confidence, and yet I felt sure he never anticipated this ‘perp walk feel’ to launch his night out. Probably he was headed for the sexually liberated clubs at the corner of Duval and Petronia, the fruitiest part of town. Clearly he had put some thought and care into this costume. But I noticed the puckering flesh of those visible, unsmiling cheeks.

Fantasy Fest is coming to town. This is an annual tradition. It is Key West’s way of celebrating Halloween, with more, bigger, better entertainment, and it lasts a full week. Drawing, from all over, those who wish to disrobe in public.

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Speaking of Blood on my Hands…

I love true crime shows. When I settled down to watch another episode of The Bride Wore Blood and the narrator said ‘some of this material might be disturbing to some viewers’, I thought, “It bloody well better be disturbing, ha ha!”

Here on the paradisiacal coral rock island that is Key West we have three times the amount of crime than in the rest of the country. Shocking statistics reveal there are three times the aggravated assaults and three times the amount of rapes, almost all of which are perpetrated on tourists, around 4am as they wobble and weave their inebriated selves back to their hotel rooms. For the repeat offender predator these easy pickings are irresistible.

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Last night I went to a dinner party, somewhere up the Keys. The liquor flowed and a fresh batch of hash cookies were passed around, (I declined) and then some of the guests volunteered anecdotes.

One lady told about how, and a long night at the house of a friend where they inflicted upon their own persons copious cocaine abuse. At the end of the very long night she swallowed a sleeping pill and laid herself down on her bed to begin to end the raucous soiree, except the sleeping pill had a strange effect and although she did fall asleep she also began to walk around the house. First thing she did was to snort up the remainder of the cocaine and then made her way to the drinks cupboard where she selected some shot glasses, and gave them all a sound telling off, admonishing with a stiff finger, before she threw them out a window.

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In a club after midnight. Men in tight jeans and serious demeanors skulk and track with great intent. Eyes trolling the clusters of young women on towering sculptures and with firm asses encased in micro miniskirts. Everyone clutching drinks. Everyone posing and hunting and overtly behaving covertly. And some of them will get lucky. One couple gets lucky right in front of me, seated nearby on the dark, slightly sticky pleather banquette. She is sitting on him, and they are kissing passionately and with her legs across his lap, neatly crossed at the ankle, one cheek is visible, creeping forth from the hem of the micro skirt.

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It’s true, Candace Bushnell wrecked my second marriage. Yes, that Candace Bushnell, of Sex and the City fame.

This was a handful of years ago in the wilds of New York City. I was six months into my second marriage when the husband, whose name I cannot recall, declared his intentions on attending a concert, and would I care to join?

I love music, but to me, and my eighteenth century upbringing, a concert is a man on spinet and a lady on harp. As a child, when left alone, I spun Schubert and Tubular Bells. While the second husband loved music as much I our tastes did not mesh. I learned this the first time I attended a concert of his absolute favorite band.

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A friend from New York beseeched me to crash a big fancy Cuban wedding at the Casa Marina Hotel last night. And I considered it, but as the time approached I chickened out. Later on, predictably, I was to be found on the dance floor of the Green Parrot, the greatest bar in the history of bars, where a powerful band of Latin brothers from Miami were entertaining.

Gradually I noticed that in amongst the crowd were men in white jackets and ladies in vintage this and that and looking very glamorous, and a bride, all rocking out alongside myself on the tiny sticky dance floor.

The bride begged to be allowed to bust out one song, to which the lead singer replied, a little snarkily, “The bride says she is a professional singer. Well so am I!” He made her wait but then finally acquiesced, calling her up to the stage, with, “Yo Bride!”

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You can tell who isn’t going to make it, and oftentimes you are right, but it is still always a shock. A gutting hollowing shock.

When he called you refused to take his call. You became afraid of him. You shrank from him, avoided him, even though you loved him and you felt guilty about doing so, you consciously chose denial.

One time when you pretended to sleep you watched him inch carefully around your bedroom until he found what he had come for, your wallet. He helped himself to all your cash and then he tiptoed away. You didn’t have what it took to face the monster. You preferred to pretend to sleep.

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