This is my version of Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar : We got dumpsters, we got motherf*****s Good ol’ boys and fronters We got Dollar General and A Convenience Store The Boat Bar and The (First) Turn All walking distance So you don’t need a car You can get drunk just right where you are Ooh ooh oh I love this park We got night owls, we got fishermen, Three docks and one fire pit We get hurricanes And we don’t give a shit The cops come by for welfare checks And the Mexican drives his white van in the dark Ooh ooh oh I love this park It’s in my kind of state (Florida) Living in a real house would be such a waste It’s not too hard To fall from grace You can stay inside and hide but it won’t save you face Ooh ooh oh I love this park I’ve seen possums, I’ve seen raccoons Like Forest Gump said “My mama just chase em off with a broom” But we give em food We got stray cats by the dozens Fighting and humping each other And we got ladies, they’re real nice They drink ...
I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look u...
We went for a walk in Spruce Creek Park. It’s down the road from our house, heading south towards New Smyrna Beach. We walked through the woods, over several wooden planks, to the treehouse. I prayed we didn’t see a snake! We didn’t (why do I go on these adventures?). Just the small holes of fiddler crabs. We walked up the two levels of stairs to the top (I need to stop smoking (I did not bring cigarettes with me)). What a view (and I’m not talking about the various graffiti inscribed on the wood). Then we walked past the treehouse, down a dirt road to a worn grassy trail that leads to a picnic shelter (tightly packed with picnic tables), and farther yet, past the “END OF TRAIL” sign (says who?), where there must have been water once, according a myriad of mangrove sprouts. “Is that poop?” No, it’s just small balls of dirt that small creatures move to dig holes. We could walk no further: the non-trail ended. My back was sweaty and I yearned for a cold water. The flies were c...
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