magis psittacus caput capitis

I had an uncle who spoke Latin. (God only knows why - I mean, unless you play Bingo on Wednesdays with the Pope, who can you talk to?)

In all fairness, I think both my mother's younger brothers learned Latin but Gene, we'd be doing this or that or driving here or there and he'd bust into 20 minute diatribes. . .
". . .Amicitia Romanorum paganus commodo mihi vestri intentio. Ut est optimus vultus mulier ego fuisti umquam vultus procul, inviso illud magnus pectus!"

The only Latin I ever learned was the stuff you had to know to be an alterboy. (a long time ago, on a planet far far away)

Years and years later, long after I'd given up faithful following of Catholic-ness, it was Friday Poker night at my brother Mike's place. Of the 6 guys at the table, it turned out that 4 of us had been alterboys and at some point in the early morning hours we all started regurgitating the Latin Mass in unison. I thought for sure I'd forgotten it all but out of my mouth it came and, ever since, I've credited Jack Daniels as the mnemonic device.

The other two guys, a Baptist and a Jewish dude, waited for the rest of us to finally shut-up and got equal time with a rousing chorus of Amazing Grace and reciting Yehuda ha-Levi verses from the Book of the Khazar. (It was a strange night)

These days, the only way the arcane language of the Caesars comes around in my world is through my casual interest in birding. Mine isn't a long life list but if a steaming meteor of once and future roadkill falls from the sky and finds its way to my shoulder, I want to know who's responsible.

About 250 years ago a Swedish guy named Carl von Linné classified life forms of all sorts, including birds, with Latin names. (the knucklehead even Latinized his own name)

According to "Carolus Linnaeus" . . .
Pelicans on the White St. Pier are "Pelecanus fuscus", the Laughing Gulls on Smathers Beach are "Larus atricilla" and the white Egret I saw walking on Frances St. yesterday is "Casmerodius albus". Those Turkey Vultures over Mt. Trashmore are "Cathartes aura", Florida Cormorants are "Phalacrocorax floridanus" and Parrots?

Well, parrots are "Psittaciformes".

So, taking the artistic license I'm famous for, it follows that parrot heads (like these four beauties) are "psittacus caput capitis" but since I recently wrote a post titled "parrotheads" and didn't want to repeat myself, I've taken the long way around the block to title these guys "magis psittacus caput capitis". (more parrotheads)

My uncle would have known that.

gone fishin'

key west 2010

Well, I finished them last week, approved the print quality this week (they turned out really well) and now their available for public consumption. Key West the Blog's 2010 Calendars, a "Key-zee" collection of some of your favorite photos posted to Key West the Blog in 2 great quality, designer editions.

The same way as last year's editions, I'm working through lulu.com and man, don't they have their act better together. The 100# stock is richer, the colors are more vibrant and turnaround time is under a week.

If you care to, click the link at the top right over there and it'll get you to a full preview of each of the styles and a convenient shopping cart for ordering.

. . .and that's it for my shameless plug.

classic key west

Higgs Beach

B.O.'s Fishwagon

parrotheads

Just when I thought it might be safe to get back in the water, the ParrotHeads have come to town.

ParrotHeads are the faithful followers of the legend of Jimmy Buffet and they're here in Key West for their 18th annual, four day "Meeting of the Minds".

It's a four day congress of colorful coconuts, complete with I.D. badges, a scavenger hunt and 5k walk/run, class clown and silly hat competitions, a street festival, lots of libation and live music (that mostly sounds suspiciously like "Margaritaville") and, of course, the Golden Coconut award.

Behind all the fun, an anxious under-buzz energizes the faithful like Christians waiting for the second coming. . .
"Is Jimmy coming?, When's Jimmy coming??, Jimmy's coming!!!"

. . .and the truth is, sometimes Jimmy does show up.
(gives the ParrotHeads a better batting average than the Christians, aye?)

Now me, I'm not big on signing up, sing-a-longs, silly hats and secret handshakes. . .

. . .but I'll admit that I allowed a Jimmy Buffett album to swing my decision to move on down to Paradise and, tune by tune on a scale, the weight of the Jimmy tunes I like, weighs more than the ones I don't.

So I won't, chime in and pile on with the ParrotHead detractors (and I know a few) wailing "get a life!" from the wings.

After all, they're just looking to have a little fun and at the end of the day, it's only rock and roll but I like it.

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pie in the sky

Alright, I'm gonna spool out on a tangent today.
(what's new, right?)

The other day, while I was shooting the Fantasy Fest garbage (see, "these pictures are some of the worst garbage i've ever shot"), an old John Lennon song - "I found out" - started playing in my head. You know how that happens and only God knows why.

It'd been forever since I heard the tune so I was amazed that I remembered the whole damned thing. . .
"I told you before, stay away from my door, don't give me that brother, brother, brother, brother. . ."
"There ain't no Jesus gonna come from the sky, now that I found out, I know I can cry. . ." ,
"Don't let them fool you with dope and cocaine, no one can harm you if you feel your own pain. . ."
and of course. . .
"Keep you occupied with some pie in the sky, there ain't no guru who can see through your eyes. . .
"I, I found out! I, I found out!. . ."

What was playing in my head was a record. Not a cassette tape, not a CD or an iPod. It was a record.
And I know that because at one point in the playback, the record skipped.
"Keep you occupied with some pie in the sky"/"you occupied with some pie in the sky"/"some pie in the sky"/"pie in the sky"/"pie in the sky"/"pie in the sky". . .
I had to ask myself (I didn't want to, it just happened) "What the hell is pie in the sky?"

I thought about Kermit's Key Lime Pie Shoppe, but that's "pie in the street" and Soupy Sales, but that's "pie in the face" and the dudes at Mr. Z's spinning pizza, but that's "pie in the air" (sort of).
It'd been an all night shoot, I was beat, went to bed and tried to forget all about it but when I woke up a few hours later, I was still preoccu-pie-d with it.

Well so, I looked it up and, what "pie in the sky" means is "a promise of heaven, while continuing to suffer in this life", "a fanciful notion or ludicrous concept" or, in my words, "a carrot dangling in your face while you're running in the hamster wheel."

The phrase was first coined by a guy named Joe Hill in 1911. He was a hobo and member of the "Industrial Workers of the World", an anarchist - syndicalist (there's a mouthful) labour organization, nicknamed the "Wobblies". (I guess even the professional homeless were union-ized back in the day).

Anyway, every member of the "Wobblies" got a little red book when they joined. It was called "To Fan the Flames of Decent" and was filled with parodies of popular songs and hymns.

Joe Hill wrote one of his own that was aimed directly at the Salvation Army who seemed more about drumming for money and saving souls than getting anyone, beside themselves, something to eat. Hill's song, "The Preacher and the Slave" was a red book parody of the Salvation Army's hymn, "In the Sweet Bye and Bye". . .
". . .You will eat, bye and bye,
In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay,
You'll get pie in the sky when you die. . ."

It's not exactly all that subversive, I agree, but it must have gotten somebody's attention. In 1913 the Federal Reserve Bank took control of America's money and, for his creative trouble, Joe Hill got to be one of the many martyrs of the IWW union movement. He was set up, convicted of murder, on "dubious evidence", and the state served him up a big slice of that "pie".
Joe Hill was executed in 1915.

artman's alphabet - X

These pictures are some of the worst garbage I've ever shot

So it's a Saturday night, you throw a party, all your friends and a handful of relatives come over in a really good mood for dancin' and drinkin' and meetin' and greetin' and eatin' 'til closing time.

The night rocks on, the tunes get louder and some folks get to dancing. Someone bumps Aunt Mary's drinking arm and her Beaujolais gets intimate with your beige carpet. Half eaten plates of hors d'oeuvres are piling up in the kitchen, Jack and Jean from across the street (you know, the enthusiastic couple) dance the Tiffany Table Lamp you found at the Big Pine Flea Market last spring right off the end table, Cousin Joe's building the world's biggest beer-can pyramid out back next to the pool and somebody took a leak an completely missed the toilet.

Still, everybody had a good time and at the end of the night as you close the door behind the last of your guests, you know it's time to clean-up. It's already late but you're not gonna wanna do it in the morning so, what the hell, get it done now and sleep in tomorrow.

This year's Fantasy Fest was a party and a damned good one! Thousands of people dancin' and drinkin' and meetin' and greetin' and eatin' 'til closing time.

Now, by the time the last of the die hard party people gets back to their home or hotel, crash land and sleep it all off, it'll be noon the next day. So by the time they've all crawled out of bed, dropped a couple of Darvon and headed back down Duval for brunch and a Bloody Mary, to jump-start the day, the street looks like nothing ever happened the night before.

Somebody cleans-up.
We all know "who" but, under the heading of "artists, go figure", I wanted to see "how".


Actually some of these made pretty fair incidental still-lifes. (or is that "still-lives? I was never quite sure on that one.)


A small army of city dudes and contractors starts at Front Street and one block at a time it's the same pattern. First the blowers and the guys who break down the barriers.

You've got to admire their energy and Spirit! It's 4:30 in the morning, the bars closed a half an hour ago, the lap dancers have all gone home, the streets are ankle deep in trash and these cats are bangin' a drum and dancin' in the street.

Then they bring on the heavy artillery.

It's landfill landscaping!

Next come the zambonis. . .

. . .and the sewer sump pumpers.


Then Toppino's truck dumpers.

I've gotta tell you, once they get the heavy equipment rolling around, the sound gets profound. But 'Ol Sleepin' Zeke here never heard a thing.



Curb your Captain?

. . .and that, is the way they do that.

What's next?

"the portrait"

Karen and Jim were newly weds when I met them, back in '02 and had just bought their first home in Key West on a quiet secluded lane.
They were furnishing their new place, very patiently, with treasures they would find here and there at Antique Shops up and down the Keys. During my last visit there I was admiring the latest finds but noticed, and had to mention, the lack of any artwork on the walls. That innocent observation has ever since haunted me.

One day, while out and about, the couple stopped in and Duck and Dolphin. Exploring the unique treasures, Karen drifted to a dark and dusty corner at the back of the store where she spotted a framed painting, standing on the floor propped up against a mahogany chifforobe.
It was a portrait of an old, almost sickly looking woman. Her jowls were drawn and there was a pale greenish tint in her sallow flesh. Her eyes seemed to be intensely fixed on something distant and in her thin hands she proffered an ornate gold vial. The vial seemed to glow against the dark shadows of her old fashioned clothes.
Karen called to Jim who was immediately repulsed by the the portrait but still Karen felt compelled to buy it.
When they'd gotten the portrait home they hung it in the half-lit hallway that led from the bedrooms to the rest of the house.

That night, Jim exploded from a nightmare so violently that he woke Karen too. He was visibly shaken and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Just a nightmare" he told Karen "I dreamed that, as I was sleeping, the old woman in that portrait came in with her gold vial and was pouring a strange hot liquid into my mouth."
I'll get you some water" Karen said sympathetically.
"No, I've gotta get up for a few minutes", was his answer.

Jim thought he could feel a presence, as though the old woman were watching him, as he made his was to and from the kitchen, passing the portrait each way.
Back in the bedroom Karen explained that she hadn't realized that the portrait was really so upsetting to Jim and they would absolutely return it in the morning.

When Karen woke to the full light of the morning, Jim's side of the bed was empty. Thinking she'd find her man having coffee in the kitchen, Karen walked the hallway toward the kitchen not giving any notice to the portrait. Jim wasn't in the kitchen, he wasn't in the back garden or anywhere else in the house. Just a little confused and upset, she started back down the hallway to the bedroom but stopped for a second to straighten the framed artwork she'd hung the day before. As she looked, what she saw was a portrait of a very sickly looking young man proffering an ornate gold vial. . .

masquerade march

So, it's 5 in the afternoon on the Friday before the day of the big parade. Hundreds of folks, locals and visitors alike, suit up with a refreshing libation and go hang out over by the cemetery.
Eventually, as if pushed by some hidden hands, they all start moving in the same direction.

The Masquerade March is honestly more like a stroll that winds it's way through Old Town. I've always thought of it as practice for the big event. Everyone gets decked out in drag, practices the fine art of keeping their livers lubricated and warms up their bead-pitching arms.
It's really a lot of fun.

One thing I recommend not doing at the Masquerade March is telling the motorcycle cop at the head of the line that he's got a great costume. I don't think it was the first time he'd heard that but man, talk about no sense of humor.