sunset cruise

I doesn't matter; the size of your boat.

What sanctifies the sail, is your view of the horizon.

rapture rant

Hmmm. . .
Two Hands, two feet, ten fingers, ten toes and I still have my nose. No shaking, no quaking, no end of the world.
I'm guessing we didn't get raptured on Saturday night.
(well actually I did, but not in the biblical sense)
As well as I can guess, neither have my neighbors. I mean if they'd been raptured, would they be dragging out the garbage cans and watering their lawns?
Being a student of comparative religion
(I know, I know; I didn't chose it, it chose me), I know that Jesus never said there'd be an end of the world.
It's a mistranslation! What the scripture actually says is, ". . . and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”
(Matthew 28:20)


It's an astrological reference. . . the end of the age of Pisces.

Biblically speaking, Moses ushered in the age of the Ram (Aires) and it's why in the Hebrew tradition they still blow the Shofar (ram's horn). Jesus ushered in the age of Pisces, the fish (which is probably why we have Chicken of the Sea tuna in a can) and in about 2150, some new mythological deity will kick off the next age, of the water carrier, Aquarius.
“As you enter the city, a man carrying a jar of water will meet you. Follow him to the house that he enters." (Luke 22:10) (Evian sales will explode!)

But what actually happens when the world ends? Does it melt, implode or crack like an egg. (a bit of omage for the graphic I heisted from google). And what happens to the moon if there's no more earth? Is it left out there just swingin in the wind with nothin' to orbit or does it go down with us? After 4 billion years of moon dance, that just doesn't seem right. And what about the sun? (By the way, if the sun is shining and there's nobody there to see it, does it still make light?) The sun's not going anywhere for the next 5 billion years! (at which point none of us will give a sh*t) And when it does, it'll take our world, the moon and most of the solar system with it.

Then there's that business of the rapture itself. . .
All those dead folks being raised from their graves and lifted into holy heaven. I would think that all that rotted flesh being raised above ground would stink to holy heaven.
(I live a block away from the cemetery)

This Harold Camping knucklehead decided that based on Jeremiah 25:32, “Look! Disaster is spreading from nation to nation; a mighty storm is rising from the ends of the earth.”, he could start shouting "the end is near, the end is near" and extort somewhere around $7 million dollars in donations.

What's got me cheesed about that is, I didn't think of it first. What a Scheme!

key west coin toss

The building at 428 Greene St. in Key West is an historical landmark with a storied past.

These days it's the home of Capt. Tony's Saloon but starting sometime in the 1800's it has been an ice house that doubled as a morgue, a telegraph office and the original site of the first and original Sloppy Joe's.

But all that, for the right price, is a tale for another time.

Today's interest is the giant Jewfish hanging above the sign over the front door of the place.

After it was caught by Capt. Tony himself, the Goliath grouper made a visit to the taxidemist and was suspended, as you see it here, about 15 feet above the pavement.

Now, the tradition with the fish is, after you've got yourself appropriately enlightened at the bar, you stand on the side walk below the sign facing the street with your back to the Jewfish's gaping mouth.
Then with a quarter in hand, toss the coin back up over your head in an attempt to land it in the fish's mouth.

Personally I've never tried it (but of course, I don't get enlightened anymore) but I've watched dozens of others try their luck without success. But a few years ago, a few of my cousins from Long Island came down with some friends to throw a bachelor party for cousin Dan. We spent some time at Capt. Tony's, (Dans favorite Key West bar) then headed up Duval to the Red Garter for a while and then it was back to Capt. Tony's for a nightcap.

All said and done, as we left the saloon for the night, cousin Eric came out, quarter in hand, assumed the position and made his toss.
That, my friends, has been the one and only time I've seen anyone get it done.
Into the belly of the beast, nothin' but net!

Since then I've wondered if and how often a Capt. Tony's bartender gets sent up a ladder to collect
what that Jewfish has swallowed.

proclivities 20:11 - verse IX

Normally I think of myself as a pretty educated, well informed, smarter than the average bear kind of guy.

Still, every once in a while I catch myself doing
some pretty knucklehead stuff.

artwork by Judy Mackey

Today's case in point. . .
As the weather's gotten warmer, I've taken to cranking up the A/C in the bedroom an hour or two before I head for the bed. Then, by the time I'm ready to give it all a rest for the day, the room is de-humidified and comfortably chilly.
So what do I do?
I curl up under the covers to keep toasty warm as if it were February in Vermont.

What's up with that?

a stretch of beach-front, a palm tree and a handful of colorful kayaks

Life in paradise, at least for me and most of my friends, is the greatest thing since sliced bread. But it is in no way an inoculation against "real world" horsesh*t.

I guess I've got the "real world" up my ass as much as
anyone else. . .
Death and taxes, angry ex-wives, workplace issues and maybe the occasional run-in with the sheriff's department.

When that stuff happens, I deal with it as best I can and try not to take any of it all that seriously. Then I'll retreat to a quiet corner of Cayo Hueso, catch my breath and remember that in spite of it all, life is good.

All it takes is a stretch of beach-front, a palm tree and a handful of colorful kayaks.

resurrection

Easter is the cornerstone event in the Christian tradition. It celebrates resurrection; death and rebirth; or at least the possibility.

Easter validates Christmas. Although not quite the commercial success, without Easter, the Nazarene is just another precocious Jewish kid who
grows up to be just
"The Resurrection"
Carl Heinrich Bloch (May,1834 – Feb,1890)

another disenfranchised radical Rabbi.
But, throw in the miracle of the resurrection and Jesus the Nazarene becomes "The Christ".

"Christ", as you probably already know, is not a name
but a title.
As the man, Siddhārtha Gautama, became "The Buddah" (enlightened one) so the man, Jesus of Nazareth became
"The Christ" (anointed one)

Now whether or not we accept Jesus as an historical figure (which I'm honestly not sure I do) most of us embrace the somewhat comforting allegory.
And that's a good thing.
We live in a predominately Christian country and the parables, myths and sayings of the tradition serve to keep most of us living according to our better natures.

Still, the concept of resurrection and Christianity are not mutually exclusive. . .
There was Attis from Greece in 1201BC, Mithra from Persia in 1200 BC, Krishna from India in 900 BC and Dionysus, also from Greece, in 500BC; to name just a few.
All these personages, including the Christian Christ, had very similar lives and ministries that ended with sacrificial death, three days entombed and triumphant resurrection.
It's an old, old tradition adopted by one culture after another from the time of Horus in Predynastic Egypt, circa 6000 BC.

I could, I suppose, give you chapter and verse on the whys and wherefores of the story's astrological parallels and how such a set of circumstances have had such a recurring relevance throughout varied human civilizations but that's a tale for another time. (or not)

But the pure and simple business of resurrection offers hope. A hope in the possibility of something other. A hope in a life after death. A hope that there is much more to this plane of existence than many of us know.
And that, I suppose, is what Easter is all about; hope.

Happy Easter my friends.

SR939A

So, the past week and a half have been "taxing". (get it?)
I"ll admit, it takes a little doing for me to get my artistic mind around the annual Infernal Revenue issues but in the end, my girl Louise, the CPA, has seen me through once again. I've sent my checks by certified, rectified, bona fide mail and feel much better having "Rendered to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. . ." (from Mark 12:17 and/or Luke 20:25) and getting the unconstitutional monkeys off my ass for yet another year.
Now I can get back to the business of living quietly under the radar in the Florida Keys.

Anyway. . .
Out on the long end of Sugarloaf Blvd., on Lower Sugarloaf Key, there's only one way you can go. It's a sharp right turn onto SR939A (a.k.a. Old State Rd.4A). I figure that stretch is just about 1/4 mile before it stops dead at a barricade behind which is a dirt trail into the mangroves. On my last visit up that way I took a little time to check it out.


I parked the convertible and set off on foot not knowing what to expect. That's the adventure on paths (spiritual or otherwise) with no end in sight.


Unfortunately, it was late in the day and while I walked and I walked for the better part of 2 hours eventually I realized the daylight was fading with still no end in sight. (2 hours ingress means 2 hours egress).


I knew if I'd pushed on any longer it would be dark before I got back to the car and I just wasn't prepared for that.


So I didn't get to the ultimate end of the trail (but that's not ever the point of any journey - is it?) but promised myself I'd be back earlier on another day with a dirt bike to revisit
the adventure.


And that will be a ton of fun.
Stay tuned. . .

maxine's 13th

This past Friday, April 1st, was my girl Maxine's 13th birthday. Max adopted me back in 1998 when, for some God only knows why reason, I wandered into the Philadelphia Humane Society Shelter on a snowy December night.
The nice ladies at the shelter told me she was 8 months old and I counted backwards and figured she'd been born in April.
In my imaginative/poetic/artistic/twisted mind, I decided that April Fools Day was her actual birth date. (Why the hell not?)

The nice ladies at the shelter put Max and I in a small room together for a little while and we buddied up right away. It was like we recognized each other from a previous life. (yeah, the concept of reincarnation is a real deal to me) I mean, think about it. . . a shaky homeless kitten and a leather jacketed punk driving a T-Bird. What are the odds?
I'd never had a feline life-form in my world before, with me it was always a dog or nothing. But somehow, on that cold December night, bringing this cat home felt like the right thing to do - so I did.

Of course at that point in our relationship, her name was not Maxine. Her previous owners and the "official" adoption paper-work called her "Kirby" which sounded like a brand of vacuum cleaner to me and I thought, really sucked. So for the next two months, while I waited for the divine inspiration, my new roomy remained nameless. Then one night in February, my state of the art sound system was playing Donald Fagan's collection called "The NightFly". The 4th track on that album is a very easy piece called "Maxine".
I knew right then it was gonna be all good and it has been
ever since.

So, that's my sappy story and I'm stickin' to it.
Happy birthday Maxine, you knucklehead.

it's about time

In my house, there are four digital clocks.
There's one on the computer and another on the cell phone. One is on the oven and the last is on the microwave.

Now I've never been much of a clock watcher.
Mostly, especially since I've lived in Key West, unless I've got a meeting or a date, I don't care what time it is.
Still every once in a while my eye will catch a glimpse of one or either of my kitchen clocks and it seems like, since we sprang forward to daylight savings time again, my clocks are having a little fun with me.

If I look at a clock three times in a day (which is about right),
two out of those three times the green LED will read in seemingly whimsical ways.

For example. . .
1 - 1 - 1, 2 - 2 - 2 or 3 - 3 - 3
And it doesn't stop there. . .
10 - 10, 11 - 11 and 12 - 12
Then it gets more interesting. . .
9 - 10, 10 - 11, 11 - 12, 12 - 13
or. . .
2 - 3 - 4 or 4 - 3 - 2
and 4 - 5 - 6 or 6 - 5 - 4
Then, there's my all time favorite. . .
1 - 2 - 3 - 4

To me, it just seems a little peculiar.
I mean, what are the odds?
Glance at a clock maybe three times in a day and at least two of those times seeing static or sequential numerical patterns.
Are the clocks timing me or am I timing the clocks?

It's nothing I spend too much "time" thinking about (I'm not a numerologist after all), it's just something to make you say, "hmmm. . ."

"Tempus Fugit"

. . .a word from our sponsor - VIDEO

Click the arrow to start video. Run time, 1:27

sugarloaf 's bat tower

During my last visit to Sugarloaf Key, I took a little down-time to visit the "elephant in the room". See, I always knew the
Bat Tower was there; I'd even seen it; but I figured
"what's the big deal".
But, on this particular occasion, the Bat Tower seemed to be calling out to me and I surrendered to the summons. . .

As it happens, Sugarloaf's Bat Tower was one of fourteen
Bat Towers worldwide.
Bat Towers were the brainchild of a Texas doctor named Charles Campbell who's intention was to house bats, that can eat up to 1000 mosquitoes in an hour.
An organic attempt at mosquito control intended to lessen the spread of malaria.

Anyway, in the mid to late 1920's a fairly well-to-do business-guy named Richter Clyde Perky bought a bunch of land on Lower Sugarloaf. On that land he built a fishing lodge (which, I'm guessing is what we call Sugarloaf Lodge today - but feel welcome to check me on that), then cleared and paved what is now called Sugarloaf Boulevard to give his fishing visitors easy access to the Atlantic side of the island.

But even with all that accommodation, Mr. Perky
had a problem.
He couldn't get anyone to stay at the lodge because it was crazy with mosquitoes.
So in 1929, borrowing Dr. Campbell's design, Perky built the 35 foot tall Bat Tower and imported a pant-load of bats
from Cuba and Texas to roost in it and control the
mosquito population,
(remember, 1 bat can eat up to 1000 mosquitoes in an hour).

Unfortunately for Perky though, apparently his bats weren't hungry and when he released them into the tower they flew up and out of the thing and just kept on going, never to return. (oops!) . .
. . .and with them, went the guests at the lodge.

So there stands “Perky’s Folly” (as some locals called it at the time), out in the middle of almost nowhere. An organic attempt at mosquito control that didn't work.
All the same, the Sugarloaf Bat Tower was added to the U.S. National Register of Historic Places in 1982 and for me, yielded some interesting research and a few good pictures.

everything else is crap

During the last couple of months I've been visited by quite a few ghosts from Artman's past. Old acquaintances who've found me through FaceBook and distant relatives phone calling out of the blue. I've bumped into a few past lovers
(in one case literally) and was visited by an old friend and former band mate who I hadn't seen in 40 years.

Now, I accept, as an axiom, the proposition that all we create our own realities. But sometimes it boggles my mind how
that works.
Like now, with all these recent "blasts from the past".
As far as I knew, I was happily living my low-key island life when all these chance encounters came along. What the hell did I do to manifest this stuff? I'm not saying any of this is bad stuff, just very curious.

Understandably, revisiting one's past can run the mind through a gauntlet of memories and emotions, re-open old wounds or re-live past joys, reawaken former pains and prejudices, issues unresolved and unfinished business.
Then there's the boatload of "what ifs" and "whys".
"How could this or that situation been better or worse?" "What difference might it have made to have turned right instead of left?"

Selfish questions all steeped in ego; a sort of feeble attempt to over-master memories of the past and surely not the best of all places for the mind to dwell too long.

Anyway, I put myself through that gauntlet and, in the end, happily came to the place where mind is right, heart is healed and soul is satisfied.
Detached from ego, it's an easy thing to be grateful for those children of God whose lives I've touched and who's lives have touched mine.

Our courses had crossed, drifted their separate ways and now, for some God only knows reason, have briefly crossed again. In the end, all that really matters is the happy knowledge that we're all still weathering the waves and making way
under sail.

Everything else is crap.