Waiting for an Epiphany
by Rick Brown

Tuesday, March 17th, 2009 7:30 a.m. Siesta Key, Florida

Why is it I sleep less on vacations than I do at home? It's not like I wanted to jump right out of the sack because it's St. Patty's Day. I really do not care for the...uh...holiday...personally. And I suppose coming down to Siesta Key to visit Dan for a few days is more of a retreat than anything. Perhaps having full domain of a queen-sized bed when I am used to sleeping with my wife and a small dog, is too much territory for me to deal with...even in slumberland. The vastness must make me rambunctious. I miss their collective warmth...but not the snoring.

I can hear my friends now..."retreat from WHAT? You've been retired for over a year now!" I understand. Someone else's authority dictates their rising time. But hey! Jesus didn't have a nine to five and HE took 40 days to himself! Now I am in no way comparing myself to one of history's most notable sages mind you. I'm just thinking that if J.C. needed a break, everyone does. He probably didn't sleep any better than I usually do having to mostly sleep on the ground and all. And I’m sure his disciples could get...well...a bit tedious what with the constant questions.

Lastly...for now...this switch to Daylight Savings Time so early in the year...it doesn't seem right. I mean, the break of dawn is 7:30 a.m.? What's that all about? Even I can witness the sunrise...not that I necessarily ever intend to.

10:37 a.m.

Wow...the day seems a lot longer when you get up before 9! I'm not convinced that's a good thing.

I finished Jon Katz's new book "Izzy and Lenore" yesterday on the plane. I enjoy his Zen like admiration of dogs. But it's a serious tale of getting involved with the two dogs and hospice care. Since experiencing hospice recently myself because of a dying cousin I loved immensely, this was a difficult book to get through. And while I do not share the struggle with depression Mr. Katz has, I do grapple with severe melancholy. Katz is always looking for epiphanies...and he eventually finds them.

Since I possess a much, much calmer demeanor than I did in my younger days, I am mostly content. But it does take retreats such as the one I am currently on to make me re-realize things. Missing my wife Yvonne reminds me of how much I love her...although the first real adjustment is coming into an empty house and not hearing a Bichon throw himself at the door and proceed to yap at me as if it were the first time he's laid eyes on me. That I miss first because...well...Yvonne usually just opens the door and says "Hello" instead.

Earlier I walked into Siesta Village, picked up a local newspaper, and read it while having breakfast at my favorite morning spot, The Sun Garden Cafe. Afterwards I strolled into the small town grocery for a few various and sundry items. What is commonly known as "oldies" music is always playing there and mostly I find this quite pleasant...at times amusing. On any given day obscure tunes like "No Matter What Shape Your Stomach Is In" or "Telstar" might be enhancing one's shopping experience. But this morning I was cursed with "Winchester Cathedral", which of course got stuck firmly in my brain (why do you always know all the words to the songs you hate?). I could not for the life of me shake it out of my head. I even took the long way back thinking it might eventually wear out. But NO! Images of Rudy Vali in a raccoon coat holding a Yale pennant while strumming a ukulele haunted me for the entire walk. I suppose it could have been worse...might have been "Onward Christian Soldiers". Fortunately I have never heard that on the radio.

I suppose that's why I missed the dog's welcome more than usual today. "Win Chester Ca thee drawl...you're bringin' me dow ow nuh!". That can surely put a damper...a long delay...on any epiphany awaiting me on this retreat!

11:11 a.m.

"You didn't do nothin'! And mah babeeee left town." Geez!!

I'm headed to the beach. Maybe the surf can pound this out of my brain. Or I'll get inspired and replace it with "Iisy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini". At least that tune would be appropriately annoying.

1:23 p.m.

The surf got that crazy song out of my head...and the sand replaced it with "(Remember) Walkin' in the Sand." And that's okay. Steel gray sky today...the sun pouted through a couple times...albeit briefly. The solitary sounds of gulls, and waves, and the occasional passers-by conversations were therapeutic. I even dozed off a little. About the 7th sprinkling rain brought me back to the beach bunker. Relaxing but no epiphanies.

Unless a nap is the meaning of life. You won't get an argument from me...not today.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009 9:42 a.m.

Got a good nine hours sleep last night thanks to walking about 5 or 6 miles yesterday. Walking is slow...but you see the world in a different way...a more observational way I suppose.

I did some reading yesterday afternoon...David Sedaris's "When You Are Engulfed in Flames". Nice retreat read really.

Dan and I went to the Siesta Key Oyster Bar around 5 for...well...you know. And the place was packed. St. Patrick's Day is such a...uh...predictable sort of thing. Every year seems pretty much the same despite what location you might be occupying. After a plate of "on the half shells" we meandered over to The Old Salty Dog for dinner. While the restaurant area was crowded, the bar was not. It's a great place with better than decent bar food...a little eclectic with all the tattooed barkeeps.

After that we came home and watched "The Magnificent Seven"...which I had never seen. Dynamic flick for sure. So, no great shakes for the day. But in this life many times “uneventful” is a cherished environment. And no epiphanies either...unless you count Dan asking me to stay here one extra night. He is a valued, lifelong friend. There aren't many. But I knew that before...does that count as epiphany?

2:04 p.m.

I strolled into town for what started out as brunch but ended up early lunch. The difference? Depends who you ask. After unsuccessfully trying to find a different restaurant than the Sun Garden Cafe (Do I really want to dine at a place called The Broken Egg? It wasn't even so much the name but the crowd...Bob Evans eleven a.m. after church gathering...if you know what I mean.) So I went back to my usual haunt...and that's why it turned out to be lunch.

As it turns out...this was a revelation. Sun Garden Cafe is arguably the best dining establishment in Siesta Village. At the very least the best breakfast/lunch eatery. (Dinner is only served Saturdays and Sundays.)

Right after I ordered (my table was on the front patio) I overheard the hostess ask a couple coming in if "he was well behaved?" I assumed it was a little boy. But when I looked over at the table across from me I saw a dog. I heard the two tell their waitress...who said she loved dogs...that Roscoe was a mix of English Terrier and Pit Bull. I saw the Terrier sure...but Pit Bull? I think there are dog owners who say their animal is part Pit Bull because it's prestigious in some little way. "See! He's not dangerous!" He LOVES your kids!"

Their waitress made her way past my table and whispered to me, "You aren't offended by dogs are you?"

"Of course not" I replied.

And the couple, despite the Pit Bull claim, did have a wonderfully gentle, friendly pooch who loved children,...at least the two girls sitting close to us.

"Roscoe can actually climb ladders and sometimes trees!" the woman told the awestruck girls.

I would have found her statement preposterous had my family not owned a Beagle mutt when I was young who taught himself herself how to climb the backyard fence.

"Everything is fine here." their waitress told them when she returned with their drinks. "The man at the next table LOVES dogs!"

And as I was leaving I made a point to stop and pet Roscoe...who had spent a good deal of time sitting at my feet under my table. I told the couple my wife and I had a Bichon Frise since Yvonne was allergic to dogs. I raved about Henri and how adorable he was when the woman said to me.

"We have friends who have a Bichon they rescued...from a CRACK HOUSE! and he is the friendliest little guy! You wouldn't think it's the type of breed that would need rescuing."

Not from a crack house. That's what I thought as I left the restaurant while wondering if the staff asked people if their kids were well behaved.

While it is clouding up now the weather has been spectacular. So I wandered for a few hours in and out of souvenir shops, jewelry stores, et al. I found yet another mermaid t-shirt for my collection. Sure, it's cheesy and sexist. But is there such a thing as a non-sexist mermaid? Even Disney's little mermaid is hot...or so I'm told.

Thursday, March 19, 2009 9:33 a.m.

After reading a chapter or two I walked into Siesta Village again late yesterday afternoon. I'm pretty obsessed with oysters so I went to the Siesta Key Oyster Bar for their "happy hour"...a dozen for 6 bucks. In the past 12 or 13 months I have probably sucked down at least 500 of these wiggly jewels and I have come to a decision...probably not an epiphany but a conclusion. And that is this. Oysters...despite their "reputation"...do not make you any more or less horny than you already are or are not. But the evidence is still inconclusive. There is a new place in town I have to try. The prices are higher so I'll eat less I suppose.

I'd have stopped before now but the raw bar is an expansion of a place called the Daiquiri Dock. The place is kind of tacky really...a modular building converted poorly to look like a tiki bar. It looks as if they purchased the building next to them and made it an oyster bar to compete with SKOB. (The guys at SKOB chuckled when I mentioned their new competition yesterday.) Dan and I stopped in to the Daiquiri Dock the first time I came down. All of the daiquiris are premixed and in separate machines behind the bar, making the place appear as if it were a Laundromat whose washers dispense a cold, frosty daiquiri. Still, I must try the new raw bar. The oysters are calling me.

Friday, March 20, 2009 4:11 p.m.

I spent the last two afternoons lollygagging at the beach. For some reason both days had a larger crowd than I have ever seen there. It's not a problem because Siesta Key Beach is one of the largest I've ever been on...miles long and as wide as you can imagine. But I have this saying...actually I have several but this is the only understatement I can attribute to myself. It goes like this: "Everywhere you go there is at least one asshole".

Since the key is a bird sanctuary and technically dogs are forbidden on the beach, a lot of birds congregate in the sand. And kids being what they are love to chase the birds. As obnoxious as this can be at times, I can forgive a child. They are ignorant. Some might say "innocent". But I find with children that's a fine line.

For example...the time my friend Jeff and I blew up the ant hill with 3 gallons of gasoline...were we innocent? Hardy. We were ignorant. Or as Jeff's older brother called us as he was smacking us silly, "Dumb fucking morons". So kids trying to catch birds makes perfect sense to me.

But yesterday afternoon there was a man...and I use the word loosely...of about 30 say. And he was crouching ever so methodically...not unlike Elmer Fudd stalking Daffy Duck. He was being VEWEE VEWEE QUIET! Then this grown man leapt up and began chasing a flock of seagulls in a failed attempt at God knows what.

Along came a woman with a bike who inquired about his activity and he admitted he was trying to catch a bird. And it appeared to me that she was either his girlfriend or his wife. Why she didn't dump him on the spot I can't say.

Then they made camp right there and proceeded to annoy the living hell out of me. This is not good at the beach. or anywhere else for that matter...but worse at the seashore. So I decided it was time to walk to the pavilion men’s room and pee. I considered merely going into the ocean but figured walking to the shelter-house would take longer thus giving more respite from my new neighbors.

Of course the bulk of the gathering was plopped down close to the pavilion. You can’t stray too far from the pop and chips or the parking lot right? And because the crowd was so large I noticed a line for the women's bathroom. I didn't think much of it since in large crowds this is often the case. I waltzed into the men's lavatory and began relieving myself at an open urinal.

While I am enjoying this simple pleasure of life I hear a guy behind me say, "Don't think anything of it guys. She just has to pee REAL BAD." Having been to hundreds of rock concerts it is no shock to me when a woman barges into a men’s room. I assumed the relative sobriety the public beach usual commands would spare me the drunken girlfriend being held over a large garbage can nightmare.

But when she apparently tried to enter a stall the entire room heard her shout "OH MY GOD! There's someone IN HERE!" (As if men only did #1 in a public facility. Innocence? Or ignorance?)

Then her oh so sensitive boyfriend says, "Do you think you could pee into a urinal?"

And she replies, "I'll bet I CAN!" with an air of bravado.

Having finished my business for the time being a thought struck me. This wasn't about having to "pee real bad". This was about getting attention. Barbie shows Ken she can hit the urinal in front of his recently made friends. This would make any man proud right? I have no respect for such lunacy. I mean...she could have easily waded onto the Gulf of Mexico and let loose now couldn't she? The water is still cold enough that if you didn't have to pee when you got into it, you more than likely have to once you got in deeper than the…uh…point of no return.

Had the woman...and I use this word loosely as well...strode confidently into the men's room, sidled up to the urinal next to me, pulled her bikini bottoms down to her knees, aimed her pelvis confidently and shot her stream dead center while turning to me and saying "WADDA YOU LOOKIN' AT?" Well...I'd respect that. But she didn't. So I made a hasty exit before the drama unfolded further.

Fortunately today's beach experience was much more subdued. I did happen to see an Amish woman. I've seen small groups of Amish...or Mennonite...or some groups dressed like they just got off the set of "Little House on the Prairie" on the beach here. They always seem to be enjoying themselves immensely so I don't think much of it. Except for their tan lines. Do Amish men find a darkened hand with a white wrist provocative? Or an ankle split between a lower brown counterpointed by the whiteness of the shin?

The only people who might have stranger tan lines than the Amish would be the fundamentalist followers of Islam…women in particular. I mean...what kind of a tan does a Muslim woman in a burka get anyway? And is it tantalizing for the men? "WOW! Look at how tan that chick's EYELIDS ARE!!"

Food for thought…Amish tan lines…Muslim tan lines. Now there’s an epiphany!