Self-referential

The Iguana Cafe, leveled by Wilma,
is on its way back. Me, too.

Give thanks

For clear sailing, for health, for family, and for
views like this from Mallory Square Wednesday.

Blog forecast: Patchy, At best.

Malinda, Esmond, E.A., Michelle, Fletcher, Crawford, Natalie, Ari, Aiden and Addison arrive Wednesday and stay until Sunday.

All but three of them are sleeping here (we've rented the guest cottage across the street for the unmarried adult kids). The two little boys are on an inflatable queen-size bed in the loft, where my "office" used to be but now reminds me of the Hindenburg hangar.

Robert's sister and her brood can be quite a handful, and Robert (and I) have spent hundreds of hours over the last 10 or 12 weeks planning their every step and nibble. Executing the plan is likely to leave me not a huge amount of time to check in here, for which I apologize in advance.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Dazzled

We made our way up to the Waterfront Playhouse the other night, where my socks would have been knocked off if I hadn't been wearing flip-flops.

It was the season opener -- a benefit to show off the new lobby and the new landscaping (done by Jon, our plant guy) -- and between goosebumps I kept reminding Robert how amazing it was to have so much talent on an island of 24,000 people.

About 30 singers did "A Lot of Night Music," a revue of Sondheim songs culled by Danny Weathers, the playhouse's artistic director. Carmen Rodriguez, who's glittering in the picture, did "Being Alive," from "Company," and was absolutely electric. I've never heard anyone, anywhere, sing better, which is saying a lot, and she sang the song as if she owned it. When I told her later how much I'd loved it (think the affect of Cyd Charisse, and the voice of Barbara Cook), she cried and I cried and we were both alive indeed.

But there were so many others with great passion and talent, too -- from Clinton Curtis ("Joanna") and Bruce Moore ("Something's Coming"), both home for a few days from Broadway, to Laurie Breakwell ("Some People") and Mary Falconer ("Broadway Baby") and Vicki Roush's "The Ladies Who Lunch." ["I don't call him Sondheim," Vicki said later. "I call him f-ing Sondheim." The song is hard, though of course a show-stopper.]

Randy Roberts, who appeared in full fig, brought down the house with a boffo belt-out of "I'm Still Here."

After the show, at the reception in the sculpture garden, Robert gasped when Mike McCabe, the strapping, bearded hunk who sang "Barcelona" with the tiny Nulita Loder, ran across the pavement to kiss his boyfriend hello.

"Oh, thank God," Robert said. "He's one of ours!"

Togetherness

Slowly but surely, the plumbagos on the street side are poking through the fence to bloom on the house side. Meanwhile, the hibiscuses inside are poking through to the street side.

Altogether they're making a little wall of colorful blossoms, soon I hope to be a continuous thing, which is the best kind of wall I can imagine.

On closer inspection

There were a few artists at the Armory and elsewhere showing pictures much like this. I need to get a better printer, and a better-developed ego, and then learn matting and framing.

Sighted

Is that a pistil in your pocket,
or are you happy to see me?

Mixed messages

Our friend Ferron, the itinerant artist, pedaled up last week.

"I've been thinking about you," I told him. "There's a little something I'd like to commission from you."

"And I've been thinking about you," he said. "I'm going to be at Night on White tonight, in the Armory."

Night on White is a gallery walk up and down that street, on the east edge of Old Town, and the Armory, at the corner of Southard, is the home of the Studios of Key West, which provides work space for artists in a variety of media.

I told him about my "commission," and said we'd see him that night.

Well, he hadn't set up in the big downstairs space by the time we were there -- there's exhibition space downstairs, and studios up -- so we went on down to the Harrison Gallery, where we saw some great chickens by Cindy Kulp, then to the Red Ribbon show at the new appraiser's space, then on down toward Moe's . . . .

Nice night. And the next day Ferron pedaled up to tell us he was sorry to miss us, to have a couple glasses of tea and to deliver what I'd asked for: a thick, old shutter slat with one message for afternoons, and another, garnished with plumbago, for every other hour.

Here and now

I walked up to Wal- green's to pick up some eye meds, with double sunglasses and a cap to keep the sun under control, and when I came back down our street the light was just right. . . .

It's a far cry from where we started. The bougainvillea is getting established, the plumbago along the street is blooming in riots, the other plantings are filling in, the new palms are vigorous and happy.

And so am I.

Sailing away

These have been a few rough days for eyes -- or rather eye, since the right has been signed and sealed as healed. It's been enough to keep me from reading, which discourages me from writing, and the camera has been mostly a paperweight.

Light is unpleasant. Still, the vision when I do look! And with those birds in the sky. . . quite truly hundreds of buzzards and hawks perning in gyres all day, to get all Yeats about it, and above them a frigatebird or two.

Must have been an adventure for them: The World Cup fastboat races have been in town, and with them a squadron of photo helicopters swooping over the harbors and near-shore waters, and then roaring low over the town, and around the giant wheeling masses of birds, to get back to the airport for refueling before roaring back to the action.

Turns out they're turkey buzzards on their way from Ohio to Central America, waiting here for the right breezes to blow them south (at 6 feet from tip to tip they're great gliders, but not terrific fliers).

As usual, The Citizen's Rob O'Neal came through with a spectacular shot -- but not as breathtaking as watching a hundred or more slow-swirling around an aerial drain.

So I lift up my eyes, and and then close them and think of Byzantium and Yeats:

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Catching up

It's not fair to have snapshots of Fantasy Fest and not post them, so here are the four of us decked out for the Masquerade March.

The year's theme was "Gnomes, Toads and White Rabbit Tea Parties," which Robert took seriously, going as a gnome with frogs all over his drawers. (If you're planning early for '08, the theme will be "Pirates, Pundits and Political Party Animals," given the election -- though this year's parade already had a rolling mensroom cubicle.)

Ben wore a many-colored coat. I used the big coq-feather mask for the first time, since I don't need glasses anymore (the bikini top and coin belt were leftovers from previous years; theme schmeme). And Ken found a gnome suit on markdown somewhere on the mainland.

Good time had by all.

Bird of a different color or two

This one, on the Clarks' side of the driveway, started doing its thing just before Ben and Ken got here -- and it's still lovely two weeks later.

I'm fascinated by the contrasting intensities and gentlenesses of color, and of course by the shapes. Art Deco can eat its heart out.

I'm also fascinated by the birds around here in general. For the first time in many years I can actually see them in good detail, from the hummingbird perching in the deadwood on our sapodilla to the little yellow-breasted warblers that seem to think of our palm trees as home and the squadrons of pigeons that make wide arrows against the dawn sky.

Such a blessing actually to see.

High drama

There was scuffling in the Clarks' palm trees next door. An arboreal rat? A cat?

Then a short sighing sound, and the hawk rose out of the fronds to take the killed dove to the top of the power pole across the street.

He plucked it, spitting feathers on a VW parked below, ate half and took the leftovers off for later.

Remains of the day (or night)

For a while, during Fantasy Fest, the house looked like an explosion in a glitter factory.

Beads, bangles, funky threads everywhere -- plus the odd leopard lampshade hat or rice-paddy topper.

I'll fill in some blanks in the coming days.

Ephemera

I've been spending a lot of inward time, probably too much, so I'll point you toward this hibiscus along our front gate -- intense color, perfect shape, a vessel for images of passion and joy. And I'll reflect on the fact that it blooms for one day, one short day, before withering. So. In the last week:

-- Steve invited us (Ben and Ken, too) for a gathering he was having at the Chinese place near his house. It was a fine group -- the guys who founded Fantasy Fest, the 50-year couple from across the street, Nick's best friend from San Francisco -- and we talked and laughed and gorged. I'd taken Steve some brownies: "I can't do much for your heart, but your stomach I can handle."

-- We saw B&K off at the airport, teary to see them go, and the weather instantly changed, to the mid-70s, so the doors and windows came open and the AC went off. Perfect island living.

-- Robert finally came in first in a bridge game here.

-- With gold at a 20-year high, I finally sold another part of Dad's stash and got the money into Mom's investment account, where it will generate income after all these years fallow.

-- Jimmy Weekley lost the runoff for mayor, by 56 votes.

-- I appreciated everyone's thoughts and prayers more than they'll know.

-- Several dozen more hibiscus blossoms budded, grew, did their thing without a lot of fuss and died.

Sadness

Friday's march and Saturday's parade were wonderful, and everyone had a great time.

But I'm taking some time off from posting because my heart hurts right now. Late on Saturday night, Steve, our temporary landlord and permanent friend, found his partner, Nick, dead in our old apartment's pool.

Nick was a beautiful, brilliant and wonderful man, and he and Steve had been together 23 years.

A royal moment

We were out crawling Duval with Ben and Ken and about 50,000 other people Friday when who should we run into but Fantasy Fest's king, Chris.

He was happy to stop for kisses, smiles and a picture.

Ben, by the way, got multiple bids on his Poison Ivy sunglasses, which Robert won at bingo several weeks ago.

I got several nice compliments on my bunny-ears Playboy sunglasses, which we bought at Miss Southernmost Gay's fundraiser for queen.

The essentials

Today's list:

-- Eye doc. Check.

-- Accessorize for daytime. Check.

-- Note first bared breasts of season on our little street. Small check.

-- Lunch at Blue Heaven. Mojitos! Check and mate.

-- Investigate Lemonade Stand Gallery across street, where McBride of Maskerville is holing up for Fantasy Fest. Fall in love with mask. Buy mask. CHECK!

-- Gallery-hop. Check.

-- Pool and siesta. Check. Yawn. Check.

-- Call from mayoral candidate thanking for donation. Check.

-- Call from Pier House canceling costume competition because of rain. Reluctant check.

-- Walk to Pier House during lull in rain to eat discounted dinner because otherwise they'd have thrown away hundreds of pounds of food. Double check.

-- Fight way home through throngs attending Toga Party at Sloppy's. Chuck.

-- Pool before hitting street again. Check!

-- Bed instead of late-night return to unreal world. Checkzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A moment sans Kodak

I have to get out to an early eye appointment today, so this will be brief. And I didn't have my camera out, so there's no picture. But I just had to share.

We picked up Ben and Ken last night (their flight was only an hour late, and Delta hadn't lost their luggage, so we considered that a high-five), met them with drinks and beads and came home in a drizzle -- which turned into a downpour.

Up early this morning, with coffee on the porch, I saw Skip, from the hotel down the street, carrying a huge plywood cutout to work. Obviously it was a decoration for their balcony, overlooking Duval Street.

"Looks like a gnome," I said.

He grinned, stopped and turned it around so I could see.

"Gnomes, Toads and White Rabbit Tea Parties," he said, quoting this year's Fantasy Fest theme.

The gnome was portly, cute and naked except for his conical cap. His right hand held a teacup, in which a white rabbit sat. His left was holding a toad in a strategic spot.

And of course there was a twinkle in his eye.

Postscript: As we went down Duval later in the day, there he was -- and I did have my camera this time.

She gets it

Diane Roberts, who does NPR com- mentary among other gigs, wrote a great piece on our rock for the Washington Post the other day. A few excerpts:

. . . Key West is famous for its exotic creatures: skinks, conchs, feral chickens, feral poets, parrotheads, drag queens, pirates manquees. . . .

Hurricane season -- which officially ends Nov. 30 -- may seem a strange time to visit this comma of an island parked in a notoriously stormy stretch of water, but airfares and hotel rooms are cheap. Headwaiters who wouldn't give you the time of day in January and February are delighted to seat you at their best tables. True, there's a late-October bacchanal of rum-drinking, feather-wearing and body painting known as Fantasy Fest, and the Disney cruise ship still docks near Mallory Square, blasting the island with "When You Wish Upon a Star," making me wish I had a bazooka. . . .

"It's not about what happens on Duval Street," says Lorian Hemingway, granddaughter of Pauline and Ernest. "Key West has a magic that goes beyond anything. It's tied in to all that's taken place here. Look in the alleys, the corners, the little streets. Go when no one else is there."

And if a hurricane comes calling, do what the natives do: Buy a six-pack and sit tight. The chunk of coral that is Key West has been there for 10 million years. . . .

I'm somewhere on Olivia Street, trying to find the gate to the Key West Cemetery. I made it here from Caroline Street, where Robert Frost used to spend his winters in a cottage parked in back of a foam-green Conch mansion built in 1834, but I'm not quite sure how. The Old Town is theoretically laid out on a grid, but Key West geometry tends toward the surreal: Streets found on no map appear; other streets disappear into the sea.

Not that I mind being a little lost. Great swags of purple, peach and magenta bougainvillea hang on fences, and white houses with porches like fancy crocheting line the road. The poinciana trees are in hot-red bloom, and gem-colored lizards dart across the sidewalk.

Finally, I see the main gate at Margaret Street and Passover Lane and walk into a silent garden of stone crosses, obelisks, urns, lilies and lambs presiding over echoes of long lives, tragic accidents, dreadful diseases, crimes of passion, military adventures and eternal love. . . .

There are large plots ornately fenced or supervised by big-haired angels and aboveground tombs that look like miniature Gothic churches, Roman temples or art deco hotels. . . . Then there's local hypochondriac Pearl Roberts (no relation, thank you), whose 1979 marker reads: "I Told You I Was Sick."

The sea breeze has died down. The copper sailor statue at the U.S.S. Maine monument is so shiny it looks like he's sweating as he presides over the graves of Spanish-American War veterans. . . .

I decide to go walking in Old Town. It has rained. At this time of year, storms rush in from the sea, soaking the island, then skedaddle back out again, leaving the pavement steaming. The resulting flora are monumental. It's as if you find yourself on a planet where ordinary houseplants -- your ficus and your philodendron, your fern and your hibiscus -- have ingested some fierce horticultural steroids making them grow as tall as telephone poles. The banyan tree up the road at the old lighthouse could have its own Zip code.

I wander around Bahama Village, marveling at the political posters up on everybody's fences: Key West is voting for city commissioners, utilities board members, school board members and, of course, King of Fantasy Fest. Somebody named "J-Ho" is campaigning hard. . . .

About now I'm regretting having quit the air conditioning. It's not just hot, it's thick: air like wet velvet. To be in Key West in hurricane season is to become one with your sweat. . . .

Late at night at the Green Parrot, an island bar where people have been known to play pool naked, where right now Abdul Mateen, backed by the Key West Reggae Ambassadors, is singing Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up," it's hard to believe that Key West will ever become "normal." . . .

Through my bionic eyes

Five a.m. is a good hour. Early enough not to be disturbed by the clank, thud and grind of the garbage guys; late enough to miss the last-call crowd lurching down the street home alone or paired off; and just right for a few roosters crowing -- at least half a block or so away in every direction, thank heaven. (Robert thinks chickens at the house would be cute. He is misinformed.)

It's a good hour to look up and see Orion through fronds -- certainly not this well, but far more clearly than I can remember. Without glasses, I'm now better than 20/20, thanks to my implanted lenses.

The scars are healing nicely, though the eyeballs themselves are not reacting well to post-surgery drugs.

My left eye, which has always been Old Reliable (stronger, more vigorous, the last to go blind, decidedly not the one that had the tumor when I was 5), has proven particularly treacherous: For some reason, the steroid drops prescribed to "calm" the surgery's wounds have spiked my eye pressure -- so now I'm on the same glaucoma drops my Mom takes, while doing the steroids five times a day, up from two, which was down from four.

This makes daylight difficult. And photography. And reading.

A crisp Orion at 5 a.m. is fantastic compensation.

Add a bit o' glitter

We decided to accessorize the porch for Fantasy Fest -- and no, these aren't neon chasers. It's a lizard's eye view of the beads we knotted around the railing.

As you saw the other day, we've got plenty of leftovers from previous years; but we were looking for particular colors. And tracking down beads in bulk proved harder than we'd expected. K-Mart used to sell them -- pre-Wilma, anyway. This year they just had a few strands in tacky Mardi Gras colors. The costume store next to Sears hadn't gotten theirs out of storage yet -- if they had any to start with.

The party store was the obvious solution -- the one across from Office Max, with the blond out in front dressed up as a French maid, boogeying next to two huge speakers blaring R&B. We took that as a sign.

Back on the porch: Loop two strands together. Drape the joined strands over the railing. Slip the long end through the short end, and 72 strands later it's looking festive.

Storms and a lull

Pardon my absence Saturday, but the skies opened just at the end of the coronation ball, killing Bahama Village's Goombay festival for the rest of Friday -- and then the rains went on into Saturday morning, then all day, and then into the night.

On some parts of the island, cars were over their hubcaps. We took in a movie at the Tropic and then took refuge in the Sippin Java Cafe and spent a while over cappuccinos with Penny, the owner, talking water levels, tax rates and home improvement.

"Ohmigod," she said at one point, "you're the windows guy! We were talking about you last night at Square One."

But Goombay was rained out. We went home in drizzle, dried off and made a chef's salad that we ate on the porch in the downpour. I feel so sorry for the purveyors who had so much food ready for the street fair, only to see it go to waste.

Sunday, which you see here, complete with our new flag and some recovering hibiscus, was perfectly post-storm clear. Of course, there were no major events scheduled to match such fine weather. But the new king and queen made the bar rounds, basking in the clear light and bowing to rounds of applause.

Kick it OFF!

Caribbean Queen and her Junkanoos took their cowbells, drums and whistles down Duval to the Coronation Ball Friday night -- and oh, what a good time.

The city closed off the street, and La Te Da set up tables (we paid to sit down with six new friends, and get a buffet platter with them), and Jeremy brought us drinks and we clapped and sang along and cried and danced while former Fantasy Fest kings and queens entertained, and the current contenders wowed us again with their dedication.

The result was more than $200,000 for AIDS Help, and this on an island of 24,000.

Chris won for king, Mary Lou for queen -- and every one of the contenders won our hearts. We got our first beads of the season, and a rose, and were the first couple up for the street dance. We boogied good.

Harry Sawyer, the county supervisor of elections, presided over the ballot tally, and two things struck us: one, that buying the election (with a nonprofit contribution) was actually encouraged without hypocrisy; and two, that an old-conch official elected countywide was such an enthusi- astic participant -- not bad for a straight guy, and a far cry from anything you'd see up on the mainland.

And when Mary Lou and Chris won, the skies opened up (it had only been sprinkling before, not enough to offset the sweat), and everyone cheered and wet home slick with joy and tropical rain.

- -

Did I mention that Chris was in white tie, tails and flip-flops?

Here comes the blur

So there we were having drinks at the Bourbon Pub to celebrate their umpteenth year in business a block or so away from our house, with guys who were not exactly shy getting into and out of the pool.

I made sure the camera wouldn't capture details, and only fired it off when faces weren't in the picture.

I think part of our island's mystique is the ability to be anonymous,even if fictionally, in a small town.

It's a delusion, of course; a few weeks ago Nancy Klingener, who edits our alternative newspaper so brilliantly, said she'd heard a friend say that in Key West no one cares what you do; they just want to know about it.

Still. nobody should enquire about the obverse of this picture.

You don't want to know about it.

Sorting it out

Fantasy Fest preparations so far have involved a trip to Home Depot for some tubing (where our clerk didn't even bat an eye to learn it was being used in a costume), to the fabric store (where the seamstress asked with only one raised eyebrow whether we were planning to wear underwear, and of course urged us to go commando) and to the chemical supply house -- its counter sales guy is running for queen (as Miss Southernmost Gay), and we were making a donation.

The royalty campaign proceeds go to AIDS Help, after all, and it's really inspirational to know that the whole town gets behind the effort, and that so many talented people put so much of their time and effort into the cause.

Not that we needed Miss Southernmost's Playboy sunglasses, topped off with a pair of bunny ears. I mean, given the beads we've accumulated from previous Fests -- which I color-sorted on Wednesday from the grocery bags they live in the rest of the year -- we don't really need much of anything new for a costume; but every little bit helps.

And who could argue with a new pair of sunglasses?

All dressed up

We've been meaning to have the guys down the street over for dinner for a while now, so when Robert ran into them at Sunday bingo he asked them for Monday night.

Monday was busy: cleaning, groceries, cooking, getting the CDs ready, vacuuming the pool, filling the ice bucket, getting the lights right and making an arrangement for the outdoor table.

The clock hit the appointed time and kept on ticking. A half-hour later, I asked Robert to hike over and tell them that if they hadn't eaten, I had dinner ready.

He came back to let me know they'd forgotten all about it and had company of their own, so I wrapped up half the food, froze it, poured the wine and served dinner a deux on the deck.

I'm happy to report it was a marvelous party.

First thing

It's become my morning ritual: Scanning the papers, listening to NPR until there's enough light, then primping our little patch along the street.

The only drama in it is our battle with the dreaded pink hibiscus mealybug lately, and we seem to be winning through some chemical warfare.

Of course, I can't do my usual pruning, picking and weeding for a few days after an application of the stuff they sold us at MARC House (a nonprofit paradise for plantspeople), but I take the break as a blessing to catch up on books.

Since the last application was Saturday, there I was this morning, keeping the rosemary from invading the dwarf plumeria, pulling down a dead palm frond, cutting dead lantana shoots -- not a job for those with even borderline OCD -- finding a new bloom shoot on one of the little birds on the far side of the parking space. . . .

As morning exercises go, they don't get much better.

Nothin' but net

And no one to play across it: too early in the season for the usual cadre of bronzed bodies generating a good coat of sweat at Higgs Beach.

But everyone else is getting damp ramping up for Fantasy Fest.

I knew the king and queen competition was heating up when I looked up from my Margaret Atwood novel and saw a queen contender bicycling down our street (on the migratory flyway between the Monkey Bar and One Saloon) decked out in a black-feather bra with matching headdress.

He was singing loudly, I think getting ready for his act at the Coronation Ball on Friday.

Sunrise, sunset

. . . Early, from the guest-room window. Late, from the porch . . . .