“Are we there yet?”
This omnipresent question could have been uttered before, during, or after my recent foray to and from the Al Can’t Hang Compound, bunkered on the southern most point in Key West, Florida. Since my last trip to the land of oranges, hurricanes, and Disney characters was nearly 20 years ago with my parents and younger siblings and consisted of begging of one more ride on “It’s a Small World After All” at House of the Mouse, I was only sure of one thing…
I wouldn’t be as sober this time.
The trip started with the beautiful Gracie picking me and BG from the Fort Lauderdale airport with the weather starting to get a little stick-your-shirt-to-your-body-from-sweat-hot outside. Air conditioning > *
Passing up temptations to hit up the Hard Rock Casino and two or three race tracks, we headed to Key Largo to pick up Sweet Sweet Pablo at his parent’s place. “Would you like a beer?” ask the gentleman with the fluffy white beard. Of course I’m never one to shy away from such offers and since the seven dollar Cap’n Coke at the airport didn’t even register, I felt a cold beer while stretching my little legs would certainly be welcome.
Pablo hopped into the captain’s seat for the remainder of the journey towards Key West as I was amazed by the many bridges we had to cross to reach our destination of the place Ernest Hemmingway once called home (we’d find out more about the author later…).
“What was the bar called again?” as me and BG wandered around The Westin hotel walking down the boardwalk in face of several street performers, a band/dj from a deckside bar, and including what appeared to be a sword swallower that had a dialogue streaming from his mouth that I couldn’t understand. Finally after walking down to the end of Duval Street (which would become our drinking destination for the remainder of the weekend) we found several totally visible internet friends waiting with drinks and laughter in hand as we arrived.
Maudie, F-Train, Bacon Bikini Mary (lemme know your blog link!!), Pauly, StB, Lewey, Landow, Big Mike and of course the reason we were down there, AlCantHang celebrating 40 years of life. After the initial hellos were passed out and listening to a fairly good band that played at the marina, my memory gets a little fuzzy due to a drink that knocked me (not literally) on my ass called a “Sunburn”.
“I think I’ll take things slower so I don’t have a repeat of Vegas”
When you’re trying to hang with Al, drinking in moderation means tipping back a beer in-between shots. We would leave as a group for Duval Street and its plethora of bars, each with its own vibe which made the experience even more fun. Live music at each venue, combined with me remembering to snack on something since the stale pretzels on the plane certainly wouldn’t soak up SoCo shots and Yuenglings.
I’ll continue to this tomorrow as my head is still a bit swimmy from all the travel. When your usual commute home is ten minutes along a county road and Sunday’s was nearly fifteen hours with a connecting flight, I still feel the effects of traveling by plane, train, and an automobile.
I’m entirely graceful to those who’s friendship I count on, and hope the next time we meet I don’t end up with bruises the size of Lake Superior on my inner thighs… (picture might be taken after I down another bottle of Advil). Tomorrow, the boys are back in town, friendship bought at 2 minutes 10 seconds a time, and teaching city folks how to hit things.
Thanks for dropping by, now hit up Pauly’s write up of why you shouldn’t shoot at virtual deers for money against someone who’s actually shot at bambi before.
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