Santa visits Stock Island

Red-letter day

We didn't quite make it to midnight mass -- a pity, considering it's just down the street -- but Christmas Eve and Day were just about perfect in every other way.

Brunch at Heaven, dinner with Alice, sweet rolls and egg nog early
. . . and presents, of course.

And not to get too gooey about it, but the best gift of all was having Hoyle, Sharon, J.H., little Ro and Dandy -- the poodle -- with us for the holiday. God bless us every one.

And to all a good night

All-terrain vehicle

At least one lump of coal goes to Al, not that I know who he is -- aside from Florida tag J05 QQW.

He lurched into, and parked in, the plumbagos Monday night. I noticed it pretty quickly when we got back from Schooner Wharf, where Caffeine Carl was burning the place down.

I waited on the porch till he lurched back to his Jeep from the Duval bars. I pointed out the damage, and he drove lurchingly away.

Had he apologized even minimally, I might not have called the cops to report a drunk driver, complete with license plate and direction. But he didn't, and I did, and I hope he didn't run over anything else on his way home.

Fine bunch of chestnuts

More greenery

. . . In this case, the oleander on the other side of the driveway.

It's recovering nicely from fall's onslaught of the dreadful little spiky caterpillars that find it such an enticing banquet item.

I've just brought out the heavy artillery to cope with the rust that's still plaguing the dwarf plumeria.

The electric key lime shop

Season's greenings

We're still recovering from the bridge party, and getting ready for the arrival of Robert's brother, sister-in-law, two boys and dog this weekend for Christmas Week.

So here are some season's greens to deck these halls: a traveler's palm from around the corner.

More when I can.

Bye, Bettie

"The Notorious" Bettie Page died the other day, age 85.

Like so many others -- you knew about Stepin Fetchit and Gloria Swanson already, didn't you? -- she had a close Key West connection.

"In 1959," said the obit, "she was lying on a sea wall in Key West when she saw a church with a white neon cross on top. She walked inside and became a born-again Christian."

Not the usual trip here, but not much about her was usual.

Oh, there was a northern Southernmost connection, too: Sen. Estes Kefauver of Tennessee, Page's home state, launched a congressional investigation of her work and character.

Life is just a . . .

The splendid table

Here's how it looked this afternoon, decked out in Robert's flowers. I got a minute between the rolls and the ham to get a shot, but didn't have a chance to take any pictures during the party.

Let's see: Ham and fresh warm rolls, with mayo, mustard or chutney. Chicken satay, with peanut sauce. Shrimp. Goat cheese torta, layered with pesto, roasted peppers and tapenade. Fruit. Lemon asparagus. Red, yellow and orange peppers. The chocolate truffles and Trinidads were over next to the sofas.

And to pass: devils on horseback -- dates stuffed with roasted garlic, wrapped in bacon, fastened with a toothpick, brushed with a teriyaki glaze and broiled.

Joyce, who's 91 and British and delightful and plays bridge often with Robert, was particularly fond of those. "I can't see very well," she said, "but I can certainly taste."

We rented St. Peter's lot, just up the street, for guest parking, and of course asked Father Don to stop by. He was the last to leave -- he had scotch, rather than the white sangria that I'd made several gallons of (a great, cheap Spanish blanco, plus peach schnapps, plus a little limeade concentrate and a dollop of pomegranate juice, garnished with a Christmas-red maraschino).

I stuck with the sangria, and for a few minutes there I didn't even notice the dozen or so little chef cuts I had on my fingertips.

Relentless happiness

So, I was out picking stuff up for the cocktail party we're having for Robert's bridge group Tuesday -- about 50, I think -- and my stops were, in order:

Gordon Foods, Albertson's, Publix, the Restaurant Store, Fausto's on Fleming, Fausto's on White. . . .

Busy. Except that I had a flat tire in the Albertson's parking lot. So I went into a barber shop (not mine; it's in Searstown), called triple A, waited for the nice man with the heavy equipment. I was a little crestfallen that I didn't have the camera with me, because this was a superb example of the intersection of flatness and tire.

And by the time I got to White Street, because the Fleming store didn't have the dates I needed, I was a little frazzled.

Jimmy was at the cash register, and of course smiled and asked how I was. A little tired, I said, and mentioned the flat tire.

On your bike?, he asked.

No, the car.

Well, I bet you had a spare, he said and gave me a great big grin.

You're relentless, I told him, and thanked him for making me laugh, and he laughed, too.

One more time

The mussaenda drops bracts by the dozen daily now, along with yellowing leaves, making my morning cleanup patrol a little more challenging.

I need scissors to cut the spent stems (you can see what I mean here), and the other day I had to get out the long kitchen tongs to pluck clumps of dead bracts out of the Tahitian gardenias we put in the front bed, where the interplanted impatiens have grown too high and too full to let me step in and reach them directly. And yet.

The few bloom heads that do survive are still putting out flowers, little half-inch-high shots of joy in those pink pillows of bract.

They're not leaving for the season without a fight.

Good night, moon

The planes, the planes

Every time I sleep in the upstairs guest room -- also known as the Snoring Escape Chamber -- I don't need a flickering TV to put me to sleep.

Good thing, because it doesn't have one. Den and kitchen, period.

But it does have something even better to count than sheep: planes, angles, intersections, folds, recesses. Three dormers in one room provides for a lot going on, especially if the fan is turning, turning, tur. . . .

Performing nightly

The jasmines are back in full force, though here, in the afternoon rain, there's no hint of their real power.

They just look like thousands of tiny white trumpets (click the picture to see), and they don't smell like anything but rain.

Stop by again about 8 tonight. They're almost invisible in the dark, but sight isn't the sense they overwhelm. Their wall of sweet perfume carpets the place to the middle of the street.

The halls be decked

The first wreaths you might have noticed were the smoke rings around Sushi, but she was just taking a few drags, so to speak, before stepping up to the mike at La Te Da to emcee the "Share the Wreath" fundraiser for AIDS Help.

When we went last year, we ended up with two wreaths. Well, same story this year, but with money tight all over, the bids were a lot lower.

It was a special treat to get Ginger King's feather wreath (on the inside of the front door). She's a former queen of Fantasy Fest, and about the most vivacious charity supporter on the island.

Fausto's wreath (and here it is) was a treat, too: It came with a basket of jams, chocolates, salamis, coozies, eco-bags, a tote, a gift certificate. . . .

Everything but a glue gun, which we had to run out and get this morning to reattach three pieces of fruit.

Springing eternal

The dwarf plumeria outside the front fence has had me worried lately.

It's suffering terribly from rust, and we've tried every manner of remedy, organic and otherwise.

Jon, our landscape guy, suspects it's from overwatering, so I've dialed the system down a bit.

And just when I feel like giving up -- pulling another 10 or 20 diseased leaves off -- there it goes, bouncing back with new leaves, new bloom heads. New hope.

Delicious day

Pardon the lighting. I assure you it tasted better than it looks, and I was just too eager to dig in that I screwed up the exposure.

So if you can't tell that it's a filet au poivre, a cone of frites and a nice bottle of Malbec, I'm sorry. I'm not sorry I scarfed it down (with a bite of Robert's duck confit salad, and after the pâté we shared).

A meal fit for a . . . birthday, and one where the odometer rolls big time.

I'd been dreading it -- well, "dread" is too strong a word; but certainly not looking forward to it.

And then in the shower in the morning I started laughing. At least I can still bathe myself, I thought. Small blessings.

And then the large blessing of having this meal, at 915, just around the corner.

Magic -- and mermaids, too

You know it's Christmas when "The Nutcracker" is on the local stage. And you know the locale is Key West when the story's Christmas reception is a palm-sheltered garden party, the scary villain is the Rooster King, and Clara sails with the prince to the coral reef, to descend in a diving bell and be entertained by the Sea Fan Fairy and her court.

We went Saturday night, and it was nothing short of magic.

Joyce Stahl, a retired ballerina who lives on Eaton Street now, brought her whim of iron to bear several years ago to adapt the story to Key West, and she did an astonishing job. It's wonderful to see the dozens of children in the performance scurrying around as the little chicks you really do see around town, or swimming as anemones, angelfish, reef fish or shrimps.

And it's fun to see friends onstage in various supporting roles.

But then the amazement: When the Snowy Egret Queen dances across the Salt Ponds, just try to catch your breath.

Try to keep from laughing when you realize the sunken treasure ship, with its dancing jewels, isn't Mel Fisher's Atocha, but "A Toe Shu."

And when the Sea Star Fairy and her cavalier do their final grande pas -- well, you appreciate just how well Stahl mixed huge local talents (e.g., our electrician's wife, who runs her own dance studio and is gorgeous) with some imports from, say, the Russian State Ballet.

Bravo!

Meat pies a la Sueño Todd

Not stuffed with priest or vicar, let alone Royal Marine, but plain old leftover picadillo.

I was feeling too lazy to make my own crusts, so I hopped up to Fausto's for piecrust (really good) and puff pastry (a little fussy) and cut them to various experimental sizes.

And rapidito, there they were: empanadas savory and piping hot.

We made quicker work of them than Sweeney made of the judge.

Sounds the right note

Well, can you think of a better name for a piano bar here?

It's in Alice's old space, and they've moved the bar to the wall where the giant mirror used to be, and put a huge grand piano in the corner at Amelia and Duval. There's still some wrangling whether they can open as a bar bar, so for the moment they're a restaurant with a bar -- and one hell of a talent lineup.

Amen, brother

Canon Jim Naughton, of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, on why he doubted breakaway Anglicans would draw many more adherents:

“I think this organization does not have much of a future because there are already a lot of churches in the United States for people who don’t want to worship with gays and lesbians. That’s not a market niche that is underserved."

One, two, three

What to do on a shivery night?

Let's start at the bottom:

Picadillo, of course, simmered long and thickened just a bit (ground beef, onions, garlic, cumin, oregano, paprika, coriander, cilantro, red chili pepper, raisins, chopped olives).

Roll big spoonfuls into corn tortillas in a casserole.

Top with queso and good green chile, and pop into a hot oven.

The last step starts with the plate at the top, plus a fork.

Vigilance!

The island is full of Conch Cruisers -- beaters mostly held together by bumper stickers, or bedecked with shells or figurines, or painted with great tropical motifs.

There's even one vintage Jeep with a garden behind the driver's seat, trailing foliage out of the cargo area.

I hadn't seen this one until I pulled into Fausto's the other day for some Old Town salsa and a loaf of ciabatta.

And I feel so much safer now.

Dwindling down

The cold, which has re-snapped in the last few days (overnight temps near 60), seems to have put the end-of-season period after our mussaenda.

It's been blooming outrageously since May or so -- so much that passers-by would inevitably stop and ask what is it and whether they can grow it.

I've been out there in front of the porch every morning, picking up dropped bracts, snipping out those long, streaming tendrils holding the bloom heads, keeping it as tidy as possible. But now more old leaves are yellowing and falling, and the clumps of foliage are leaving in droves.

I'll miss the color, especially when, as here, the low sun gives it such a lovely backlight.

Recession accomplished!

From the Associated Press today:

The Bush administration backed off proposed crackdowns on no-money-down, interest-only mortgages years before the economy collapsed, buckling to pressure from some of the same banks that have now failed. It ignored remarkably prescient warnings that foretold the financial meltdown, according to an Associated Press review of regulatory documents.

"Expect fallout, expect foreclosures, expect horror stories," California mortgage lender Paris Welch wrote to U.S. regulators in January 2006, about one year before the housing implosion cost her a job.

Bowing to aggressive lobbying — along with assurances from banks that the troubled mortgages were OK — regulators delayed action for nearly one year. By the time new rules were released late in 2006, the toughest of the proposed provisions were gone and the meltdown was under way.

"These mortgages have been considered more safe and sound for portfolio lenders than many fixed-rate mortgages," David Schneider, home loan president of Washington Mutual, told federal regulators in early 2006. Two years later, WaMu became the largest bank failure in U.S. history.

The administration's blind eye to the impending crisis is emblematic of a philosophy that trusted market forces and discounted the need for government intervention in the economy. Its belief ironically has ushered in the most massive government intervention since the 1930s.

"We're going to be feeling the effects of the regulators' failure to address these mortgages for the next several years," said Kevin Stein of the California Reinvestment Coalition, who warned regulators to tighten lending rules before it was too late. . . .

The hills are alive . . .

. . . with the sound of send-up.

If that's Randy Thompson, Bobby Nesbitt and Mark Watson, it's got to be "Broadway 3-Ways" at La Te Da's Crystal Room, and the denimhosen means it's got to be "The Sound of Music."

And so it was on Saturday night, and we laughed and applauded, with Mary-something (Lou? Jane? Francis? I can never remember, so I think of her as Big Red Lips) on our right, and then went downstairs and Debra sang and Patrick played (they're finally back) and we drank too much rum, so we danced with BRL until our feet fell off.

The view from lunch

Saluté is one of our favorite spots -- a fine sea breeze and great views ringside at the volleyball pitch on Higgs Beach (if you can ignore the crazy Frisbee man), with dozens of bikers, runners and walkers streaming down the asphalt path by the front gate.

The food's been indifferent in the last year, and so was the former owner's attitude toward his lease payments (the county owns the land). So it was a great relief when Richard, who owns Blue Heaven over in the Village, got the county's blessing to take the place over a month or so ago.

They were still on the old menu the last time we dropped by, but today there was the new lineup. Gone was my beloved sausage sandwich; but the Tuscan white bean soup was still there, along with the orzo as a side dish (now warm, and better than ever). And now: burgers, shrimp salad, a roast chicken sandwich. . . .

Richard was buzzing around the place, bussing the occasional table before he dashed off to play the host in Nutcracker Key West out at the college.

When I lamented the loss of the sausage, he assured me I sould try meatballs the next time: better marinara and homemade meatballs (the previous owner served store-bought -- who knew?).

It's an offer I can't refuse.

Pearls, rubies, amethysts

The day for it

So here I am, thankful for Robert and Lou and Bam and Ken and Ben and Nita and Jim and . . . cousins and friends and laughmates and strangers with kindness, and for my Mom's health and BJ's making sure she keeps it, and for Mom's friends and . . .

We find ourselves at Alice's. Not the restaurant she's had for the last few years on Duval, but at La Te Da, just about across the street, where she made her stand on the island. She's back, and so are we, and so is Christine, the server who knows us all too well.

And I have a dirty martini, but not filthy; and Robert has a filthy martini, but not dirty (it's all in the blue cheese in the olives). And because it's Thanksgiving I have turkey with dressing instead of lacquered duck, which Robert has. I thought a nice pinot noir would do well with both, and it did.

It's our first real night out for dinner in maybe two months, money being what it is. And we're thankful that we have what we do, and raise a glass to survival.

Star-spangled, anyway

We went to the Waterfront Playhouse the other night for their gala season opener -- much along the lines of last year's great show, but instead of a full program of Sondeim greats, it was more than two dozen favorites from past seasons of every theater on the island (plus the opera, plus the symphony).

And it was, as ever, spectacular.

This is not a picture from that event. This is from a couple nights later -- Aqua Idol, patterned on the TV show I've never seen, and benefiting a local women's shelter.

It was Elvis night, and everyone had to do a number from the King.

The talent level was -- well, let's just say you'd hear better at the playhouse, even though it was dark that night.

A bit cool

Our little cold spell has made everyone bundle up.

It's been in the low 60s at night on and off for two weeks now, and sometimes the highs only get to 70. That may seem warm to most people, but when you're used to the 80s, you aren't surprised seeing jackets, sweaters, sweats and scarves around town, especially if they're adding to the wind by riding a scooter.

Unfortunately, it's also meant not seeing our outdoor shower much. It's quite liberating to bathe in the sunshine -- screened by a fence, some fishtail palms and other green barriers -- but not when the temperature doesn't cooperate.

Here's the view toward the street (click the picture to see the big, rubbery trumpets our privacy vine puts out), and though the afternoon light is lovely, I need some heat as well.

Man about town

In Tennessee, I've seen our letter carrier maybe three times in five years -- understandable, with a half-mile to the mailbox; she's driven up through the gates those few times with special deliveries, though.

Here, it's quite a different story. I saw Isabel, our carrier on Simonton, several times a week -- usually wheeling her little cart along the streets and always good for a smile. One time, after she'd dropped off a package notice, I saw her on the street and we hiked three blocks to her van in the rain so she could get me the box.

Now I chat with Ronnie, who takes care of our neighborhood, almost every day. He sees me and waves, and by the time he's at the gate I'm off the porch, and it's a hand-delivery and a review of current events, on the street and in the world.

Last week he was there before I could get up: He was testing a little electric cart for urban use. He gave it a thumbs-down: "I need the exercise."

Honk if you love fine art

Back to nature

It's been a while since I've done a flower picture, so I thought I'd share this blossom I found along Whitehead Street the other day.

It's obviously a passionflower, though I didn't know they grew here. The Wiki entry for passiflora says they're native to the Keys; I sure knew they're native to Tennessee.

Last summer I had Brenda, who works on the farm, dig up a few before we cut the hay, so we could get them trailing up the trellises, free fill-ins for the clematis that we paid for a decade ago. She says they've rooted nicely, and should be ready to plant in the spring.

Given their clinginess (note the spiral off to the right), they shouldn't have any problem making it up and over the arches.

Fiat lux

The other day I mentioned the light in the stairwell and referred to the prisms downstairs.

Well, here they are.

We're going to have to figure out how to start throwing dinner parties in midafternoon. (Think of the money we'd save on candles!)

Click on the picture to get the full effect.

¡Obamanos!

I got a note from Rachel today, and it reminded me that I had yet to post this shot of the three amigos from the Obama office here: Dan, the county field organizer; Bob, a volunteer who came down from Chicago for almost all of the campaign; and Rache herself.

Bob was my Cicero on my first day there, knocking doors and sharing stories of our common ties to the City by the Lake. I'm looking forward to the holidays, when he's coming back with his wife, Joan.

As for Dan: What a bundle of nerves, energy and talent. A degree in political science from USC and a plan to go to grad school in conflict resolution and human rights? Perfect for politics (though his taste in scotch will be a bit above his income).

And as for Rachel: At 17, she got her parents' permission to come down to Key West as a staff intern even though it's her crucial senior year in high school, months when she could have been racking up grade points and submitting college admissions instead of artfully managing an office full of volunteers. That's nerve, and faith, I can believe in.

Bob had already left by Election Day, but I asked Dan and Rache when they'd last had a home-cooked meal -- and it turned out to have been August. So we had them over late that week for a farewell dinner, complete with good scotch for one and chocolate mousse for the other. If I'd had rubies, they'd have been on the menu, too.

Seward's follies

Yes, that's a sculpture based on Van Gogh's "The Landlady," and the cavorting couple are Robert's cousin Clara and her boyfriend Philip.

That sculpture, along with a two-story version of "American Gothic" outside and a half-dozen pieces inside, make up Seward Johnson's "Icons" show at the Art and History Museum in the old Custom House. The idea is to present iconic art pieces in 3-D that you can get inside and interact with.

In many ways, Johnson, who lives near the Southernmost Point here, was scratching a kitsch, but it's a fun show. I mean, where else can you give a hooter honk to a Naked Maja, complete with beaded curtain at the installation's entrance, or dandle the pearl earring on a Vermeer (I gave her a classic rabbit-ears), or mug it up by trying to make your smile inscrutable?

Quite a full day, in the usual Key West way -- shopping for dirty T-shirts on Duval, dining with the chickens, ogling Fast-Buck Freddie's, having drinks with a Masterpiece Theater producer and being warned by Gail the Tango Dancer that we had a bad tail light.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Busy signal

Argh. Have meant to post, but Robert's cousin Clara and her boyfriend, Philip, arrived yesterday. Quite busy today -- but you should see some evidence of that soon.

Spot light

Twice a year, fall and spring, the light hits just right in midafternoon to illuminate a spot in the stairwell.

Downstairs, of course, it's the all-prisms light show that I noticed last year when the sun hits the dining-room chandelier with full force.

This one was more subtle -- or at least I hadn't noticed it until long after I put up a giclee of a picture I took at Mallory Square a year ago.

We all cheered

A few minutes into Saturday's equality rally, a couple who'd been married in San Francisco were telling what it was like to have a civil right removed by popular vote -- and then all eyes turned toward Ann Street.

A dozen or so kids from the high school's Gay- Straight Alliance were marching up, signs in hand and smiles on faces, to join the crowd. And those of us a generation (or two) ahead of them lifted a mighty cheer.

I mean, it was wonderful to have our former mayor there (Jimmy, over there on the right in the top shot), along with a few clergy, veteran activists from the ACLU and NOW, J.T. (who coined our island's "One Human Family" motto, and has distributed a million of its bumper stickers around the world), a score of other folks we knew and a few hundred we didn't -- gay, straight or uncategorized.

But that injection of young energy brought a shot of joy to the whole group. Robert had asked, as we were getting ready to walk up to the rally, "Are we gonna have to get this flag out every 31 years?" Right now, I don't think so.

When the rally ended, the Boomers mostly stayed around Old City Hall. The young-uns, and us, took our flags and pickets over to Duval, where the annual AIDS riders from Miami happened to be making their triumphal swing through Old Town. We cheered them, and they cheered us.

And, realizing that they'd cleared us a wonderful path, we followed by cyclists with an impromptu march up Duval. Bartenders rang their ships' bells, drivers honked and shouted and tourists on the sidewalks gave us grinning thumbs-ups as we chanted. Robert was all smiles: "Seeing this many young people show up. . . ." He just shook his head in amazement.

The kids kept going as we got to the 801, but we peeled away and had a cold drink. Age does have some privileges.

All together now

I'm getting ready for Saturday: At 1:30 our time, people coast to coast will be rallying to protest Prop 8 and Amendment 2. It's being organized at this site.

Locally, we're getting together at Old City Hall, and I've printed up some flyers to help get the word out.

I'm also dusting off my old Gadsden Flag -- "Don't Tread on Me" -- which I got specifically for Anita Bryant's Flag Day appearance at Medinah Temple at the height of her anti-gay crusade in 1977.

More than one activist has called this Stonewall 2.0.

Well, let's find out.

Oh, *now* I get it

Here's Sarah Palin, explaining her stance on Africa:

"My concern has been the atrocities there in Darfur and the relevance to me with that issue as we spoke about Africa and some of the countries there that were kind of the people succumbing to the dictators and the corruption of some collapsed governments on the continent, the relevance was Alaska’s investment in Darfur with some of our permanent fund dollars.”

I love a parade

Veterans' Day is a big deal here, given the island's military history (Com- modore Porter's Anti-Pirate Squadron took charge in 1823; the Union held us tight during the Civil War; we were the Gibraltar of the Caribbean during World War II and I won't even get into the Cuban Missile Crisis) and current interests: the headquarters of Joint Interagency Task Force South, the Naval Air Station, a big Coast Guard facility.

So the parade is always a good one, and I got out my best red, white and blue shirt -- the "Key West for Obama" number, since opposing the war doesn't mean opposing the troops (check out VoteVets.org for some true snapshots in courage) -- and tootled over to Duval.

The shirt got more smiles and nods from the marching squaddies, swabbies, grunts and jarheads than I could have expected, and the high school's Marching Conchs choked me up likewise with their version of "America the Beautiful."

It was pretty big for our little island: 45 minutes of marchers from every service, floats, bands, vets, pipers, ex-POWs, scouts, auxiliaries and flags, flags, flags. I waved a tiny one that a Navy League guy was handing out, and I clapped and sang along.

It made me think of something from the Leonard Pitts column I quoted last week:

". . . We have loved America when America did not love us, defended America when it would not defend us, believed in American ideals that were larger than skies, yet never large enough to include us. We did this. For years unto centuries, we did this. Because our love for this country is deep and profound. . . ."

Playing catch-up

I figure it's time to move a few images of the last few weeks from my hard drive to here.

This is how the house looked for Fantasy Fest -- with rainbows of beads on both sides of the porch this year, and of course the campaign banner.

Some poor soul ripped it off late one night, but I had a replacement within hours. It was the talk of Citizens' Voice in the paper: Obama signs disappearing all across town.

But far more often, we'd get a wave, a honk or a thumbs-up. One great guy from New Mexico who was staying around the corner talked politics across the gate for maybe an hour one evening, and the next day we invited him and two friends over for drinks. When they left, at the end of the Fest, they brought over their leftover rum and wine.

We kept a big bag of leftover beads (aside from the trunk of our own accumulations over the years, sorted for the proper costume correlations) ready to toss from the porch. It's a great time.

'Hello, world!'

There's a scene I can't get out of my head, so I suppose the only way to exorcise it is to write about it.

It's from "The Wiz," Sidney Lumet's all-black musical version of "The Wizard of Oz." I remember going down to the State-Lake with Robert and Johnny Killebrew for the Chicago premiere in 1978. It blew me away then, as it did when I saw a 30th anniversary re-release a few months ago.

A deliciously long-stemmed Diana Ross sang and danced her heart out as Dorothy. And she had one hell of a supporting cast: Pre-weird Michael Jackson was the Scarecrow, Nipsey Russell the Tin Man, Ted Ross the Lion, Richard Pryor the Wiz. Lena Horne tore your heart up as Glinda, the Good Witch. (We'd seen Ross in the '75 stage version.)

It was a critical and commercial failure, but it did get four Oscar nominations, along with my perpetual admiration.

And the scene I can't get out of my head after Tuesday:

Evillene, the bad witch, has tortured the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Lion in her sweatshop, filled with grotesque slaves. When she threatens to toss Toto into a pot of fire, Dorothy hits the sprinklers. The witch dissolves. The slaves' ugly costumes split -- and out come lithe, supple folk in tones of brown and black, amazed at their real beauty. They dance joyously across their work benches, freed from their evil spell. It's a moment of exultation, to the tune of Luther Vandross' "Brand New Day (Everybody Rejoice)."

I can't post the video of that exuberant scene (Universal holds the copyright), but here's one from another fan who obviously gets it:

Lovely day for it

It was a glorious day, clear and breezy, so I napped.

Because it was the first day in about a month (which felt like a year) that I had:

-- No campaign.

-- No Fantasy Fest.

-- No houseguests.

-- No dinner guests.

-- No one coming for drinks.

-- No state funeral.

That last one was just yesterday, the all-island sendoff for Capt. Tony: fishing- boat captain, bar owner (his saloon was the site of the original Sloppy Joe's on Greene), raconteur, skirt-chaser (at least 13 children by his four wives and a few others), gun-runner, gambler, chain-smoker, onetime mayor -- literally, one two-year term, because everybody figured he could screw it up just about as well as anyone. (He said the hooker vote put him over the top.) And, until Nov. 1, living legend.

He packed an immense trove of experience into 92 years, and his saloon was one of the first gay-friendly bars in Key West, which may be why the Navy put it off-limits for a while. But his orientation was definitely elsewhere. Even into his early 90s, long after he'd sold the bar, he'd show up there to smoke, drink, tell how he discovered Jimmy Buffet and sign body parts for gleeful women.

So the Conch Republic declared a holiday, and held a street parade down Truman after his funeral at St. Mary's, which turned up Duval and into Greene into the street in front of Capt. Tony's Saloon, where there were bands and songs and a dove-release and much revelry.

Nothing like it since Captain Outrageous, a bird of a decidedly different color, was piped out early last year.

There was the police horse with empty boots in reversed stirrups. There was the full CR Navy brass in dress whites. There were the Defenders of Ft. Taylor, with the mounted cannon they fired. There was the CR Marching Band, complete with banjos. There was the Hon. Sir Peter Anderson, Secretary-General of the Conch Republic, sounding a shell and driving a pickup with a likeness of the captain in the truck bed.

We watched the parade and went to Mangoes for lunch, and I lifted a mojito to the guy.