Parrothead Ramblings

I'm goin' down to Fausto's, get some chocolate milk


No trip to Key West is complete without having a few cold brews at The Green Parrot. It's like most other bars down there, they keep it intentionally run-down and decrepit, just like Sloppy Joe's, Captain Tony's and the others. You find yourself hoping they are structurally more sound than they look, lest the headlines back home read:

Local Parrotheads Squashed By Falling Wall in Key West Bar

I can think of worse ways to go. There's a certain sort of weird symmetry there.

Even the awnings at the Green Parrot look ready to fall in. The floors are a hodgepodge of ripped linoleum and bare concrete. But when you walk through those doors, you step into a time warp.

CB is alert for the infamous men with knives and scars at the Green Parrot

You come back out expecting dirt streets and no cruise ship within a thousand miles, but this day, not one but two cruise ships were docked, disgorging their loads onto Duval Street. Nice for the merchants, I suppose, but it sucks for those of us who previously enjoyed a little relative peace and quiet. It gets worse - one of them there cruise ships had mouse ears painted on the funnels. What that meant was that every other cruiser bumping aimlessly down Duval Street had at least two rug rats in tow. None of the rug rats seemed happy, because Key West ain't exactly the most kid-friendly town.

So The Green Parrot, which is off Duval Street and requires you to be 21 to enter, and looks like a structural death trap, can actually serve as a refuge. On we were glad to have.

Of course, I also had to hit the last on my list of Buffett historical sites: Fausto's. It's not really the last, but since Wilma took Louie's Backyard, and The Snake Pit is evidently gone, it's the last for now. I actually only added Fausto's after getting to Key West, because Cheap Bastard and Pab had to remind me after all these years that it even existed. It had pretty much slipped completely from my memory. I mentioned it to my pal Steve-O when I got home, and even he had forgotten about it. And like me, he knows (or at least knew) pretty much every word to every song in the Spiritual Core of the Holy Canon. Guess that was a case of Karma biting my ass again in retribution for my chiding a number of my phriends, including Cheap Bastard and Cheesehead, last year for not knowing who the hell Spooner was. What goes around comes around.


One last group shot at The Conch Republic, and then home again.

There was a "No Plane On Sunday" party with Jim Morris out at The Schooner Wharf that night. Was it just me, or did every freakin' party for the last three days include either John "I Forgot The Words Again" Frinzi or Jim Morris? They're good, great in fact, but sheesh! Enough is enough! So we all headed back down Duval Street, enjoying one last curious look at the drag queens at The 801 Bourbon Bar along the way. There was a dude out there that night that looked to be 6-4, and was wearing pretty much nothing but fishnet. I'm still slamming two Crowns before bed each night to try and get that image out of my brain.

We finished up our trip with a party at the ol' condo. No casualties this time. Drunk Girls #2 and #3 made only a brief appearance.

I've decided that any vacation I ever take again needs to be about one week long. Those three day vacations (Hey, it's the lost verse!) ain't long enough. I'm always pining away and depressed from wanting more time when it's over. After ten days, even in paradise, I was ready to get my happy little ass home and sleep in my own bed.
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