Velociworld

KITSCH AND RED TIDE

I love staying at your fancy cribs. The Breakers, the Ritz-Carlton, any spa in Palm Springs that will suffer me. But I likes the slumming, too. Why I am at the Thunderbird. A beautifully renovated postwar motel. Tile, tiki hut, martini bar on the Gulf. Reminds me of my childhood vacations in similar establishments.

This place is great. And the clientele are all Florida and Georgia Cracker white trash. More ink here than a Bic plant. The womens' idea of a beauty mark is a motorcycle muffler burn scar. I would much rather sit at the Ikki Woo Woo Tiki Bar and swap bullshit stories with a guy who is bragging about his 30 unit trailer park than talk to some stuffed shirt cocksucker at the Breakers about his currency speculation coup. And the difference is that Mr. Trailer Park will pull the last $20 out of his shirt pocket and buy me a drink.

Into every dream some piss must fall, though, eh? I didn't mention the red tide? Oh, hell, yes. I LOVE to go on vacation and have the Dread Fucking Red Tide harsh my scene. Thought Dennis would drag it north, but no. The air a miasma, burning the throat, making snot pour out of our collective noses like Johnny the Wad Holmes delivering a money shot.

The upside? I don't have to surf fish, because I can collect all the fish I want, washed up daid on the beach. Iffen you don't mind your puffer fish bloated, your mullets with blowflies crawling out of their empty eye sockets, your horseshoe crabs watering your eyes with their fetid stench.

I just might haul ass and run over to Palm Beach. Get away from the fucking Gulf, and its fucking red tide. Then again, the Senator used to always sayI'm snakebit, goddammit! when things didn't go his way, and since I am taking a little trip down memory lane perhaps I should respect that. Nay, revel in it.