Parrothead Ramblings

Great friends. Great place. Great music. Cold beer. I still can't find anything about Key West that sucks.

First day at the condo, the phone rings. Annette answers. It's a telemarketer, believe it or not. Spend a fortune to go to paradise, and telemarketers track you down just to annoy you. Of course, Annette was her ever-pleasant and polite self.

A little while later, another one. Annette is still pleasant and polite. Not an hour later, yet another call.

My turn.

"Hello?"

Hello, sir. Am I speaking to the homeowner?

"You bet your sweet ass, you are."

Um.....um....(Pause)Good! I'd like to speak with you about your current mortgage.

"Mortgage? I don't have a mortgage. I paid cash for this place. $750,000."

Umm, er, oh, that's great. (Sound of pages turning, long pause) OK, maybe we could discuss getting some cash back out of your home.

"Cash? What the hell am I going to do with cash? Got more than I can handle now. I hate banks."

(Longer pause)Ummmm, you keep cash in your house?

"Yep. Got that shit stuffed into every mattress in the place. It's coming out my ears."

Ummm, ummmm, errrrrr....(click)

For the remainder of the week, everybody was concerned that I'd managed to set us up for a home invasion. My guess is the bad guys would watch the place till we left for good, then burglarize it. I don't give a shit. Don't have a dime in the joint. Serves 'em right for having a malfunctioning emergency light and humorless manager.

Day 6 was great. We hit Rick's for the first actual MOTM party, and it was packed. Great bar! I even got to meet Doyle Grisham , genuine nice guy and tireless performer. While there, I bumped into a lovely woman whom I had encountered in passing several times the day before while all of us were volunteering as bag stuffers for PHIP. I thought at the time she looked familiar to me, but I just couldn't place her. So, just by chance, I passed her once again on the stairs at Rick's. She stopped me:

Don't I know you? You look so familiar to me.

"You're kidding me, right? I've been thinking the same thing since bag stuffing yesterday."

Me too! What's your name?

"Mark, from Arizona. Eveybody calls me Crime Dog."

No way! My nickname is Crime Dog, too.

I looked at her MOTM name tag. There it was: Crime Dog.

No matter how hard we thunk on it, we just could not find a connection. She's from D.C., in an entirely different line of work than me, easily several years younger. How strange is that? Every time we bumped into each other after that, one or the other would say, "Don't I know you?" I even shouted it out to her on Duval Street as we whizzed by on our scooters, which, despite what Cheesehead will tell you, still beats the shit out of walking. Especially when the fetching love-of-your-life has a busticated toe.

Anyhow, while hanging at Rick's, everybody got a little hungry. Since they don't serve food there, Cheap Bastard and I headed down to the pizza joint up the street to snag some slices. There, we met the kind of guy you can only find in Key West. A Cambodian dude from Brooklyn, flipping pies in Key West. Damned good ones, too.

There's gotta be a song in Day 6......somebody call Jimmy. Now, if I could just get it on paper.
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