My wife and I just returned from a trip to south Florida. Before we went, I had decided that I didn’t like south Florida, or Florida in general. I don’t know why I made that decision. (Actually, I do know why: because there are alligators there; but that sounds rather snobbish, so I didn’t want to bring it up here.) After spending a week and half there, I’ve come to the hard thought out decision that I don’t mind southern Florida. “Don’t mind” falls somewhere in the middle of my “Place Likeability Scale” or “PLS”. My PLS goes from “utter loathing” all the way to “I wouldn’t mind dying there.” Specific parts of south Florida tend toward “pretty darn cool” (which is 2 clicks below “I wouldn’t mind dying there” on the PLS), while other parts of the state come very close to “get me out of here!” (only a notch away from “utter loathing”).
Pictures are forthcoming, although none of them show me being eaten by an alligator. Which is kind of disappointing, in a certain sense, because THAT would make a great blog entry. The logistics of such an entry are rather difficult to imagine, but my journal entry below gives a flavor of what such an entry might be like:
“Key West, Friday, March 29.
"The island is over-run with chickens. They tell me they are of the “feral” variety, which I can only assume means “soft and cuddly”, because they look so fluffy and friendly.
"One particularly jaunty fellow is approaching me now as I sip my mimosa on this quaint porch. How amazing, he’s coming right up to me. What beautifully colors! What amazing plumes! Hi little fellow! I don’t know if it’s the 4 mimosas or three Red Stripes talking, but I feel quite close to this rooster right now. I think I’ll reach out and give him a little hug.
"Well, I’ve got a hold of him, and I think he likes me, although I’ll know better tomorrow during my hang-over when I’ll actually be able to tell if his feet are tearing up the skin on my arms as I imagine they must be. The claws look sharp enough to shred paper!
"Oh, look! Now he’s pecking my head. That, I can feel a bit. He’s moving down my forehead toward my eye. Boy, now that hurts! That hurts a LOT! I should probably throw him away from me, or at least leave off writing in this damnable journal for a moment in order to grasp him more firmly with BOTH hands. I’ll soon have to stop writing anyway, since he’s moving on to my other eye, and I’ll soon be blind. But no matter, because, as they say in Key West….OWW! klahtygiroqjkhfjbtyu5oheqvjrkqjvkbtroguifejhgj….”
I’m sure an entry about being eaten by an alligator would be at least twice as exciting, and probably have a better back-story. But we’ll have to settle for a feral cock. And he was, too.
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