Parrothead Ramblings

Me and my ugly red shoes, TFMCD, and Annette, rubbing it in outside Sloppy Joe's on Duval Street, while Officer Friendly keeps a wary eye open.

Given the previous night's events, it was no wonder that copious amounts of Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, and plain ol' water were being consumed Sunday morning, and folks were a little slow to get going. Nonetheless, we managed by lunchtime to stumble down Duval Street to that Parrothead Mecca, Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville. It's cool, because it was the first Margaritaville, but it's not even close to being the best bar in Key West. I doubt most folks would put it in the Top Ten. We all grabbed some grub and had a few brews, but Cheap Bastard and I chose the wrong side dish. Jimmy might make a great Margarita, but his potato salad sucks Montezuma's ass. And Montezuma always has his revenge.

So, with some grub on board, we decided we were ready for some football and headed across the street to Jack Flats. Three hours and countless dead brain cells later, I was happy (Cowboys), Pab was happy (Da Bears), and Cheap Bastard, Annette, and Cheesehead were not (Cardinals, Cardinals, Packers), but the pub crawling continued in earnest. There was Sloppy Joe's and The Hog's Breath with their webcams, where we called everybody we could think of and made them look at us having fun. Just look at all the fools up there on cell phones, doing the same dumb ass but fun thing I was doing. Even Officer Friendly was on his cell. Later, Wayners actually called me at The Hog's Breath and asked "Is that a Pina Colada Vivian is drinking?" Of course, I could not miss Captain Tony's, where the words the old man said are still written upon the dingy walls of the head. They seem to be one urinal short over there, though, since Hemingway bought one and put it in his yard over on Whitehead to use as a watering hole for the 40-odd weird cats they have living there. True story. It and the cats are still there.

We slammed one or two over at The Conch Republic, one of the best bars in KW, then headed out and staggered across a narrow boardwalk of sorts that runs between the water and a little non-descript white building - none other than Shrimpboat Sound, Jimmy's own studio. Or at least that's the Parrothead lore. If so, it's a very cool spot, because artists can pilot their boats right up to the door, hop out, and start recording. It's hard to believe pretty much all of Barometer Soup came out of that little building. The studio has the added advantage of being next door to one helluva fine bar - The Schooner Wharf, where I immediately fell in love with grouper sandwiches and had the best raw oysters of my life.

On the long walk back over to the condos, some of our party felt the need to answer the call, and scurried into a little bar on Duval Street to use the facility. Like most Key West bars, it had large, open windows all along the front. The music got to be too much for Annette and I to resist, so we shuffled in to cut a rug. I was just breaking into my middle-aged-white-guy-meets-Napoleon Dynamite groove when it struck me that there were several guys dancing in there. Together. We had stumbled our way into a gay bar. What the hell? When in Key West.......
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