When I lived in Munich back in the 80’s, I would often visit the English Gardens. This huge park, larger even than Central Park in New York, is a lovely green space in the middle of the city favored by all Munchkins, the long and the short and the tall, but favored especially by nudists.
At first it was a novelty to see people walking and laying around in the buff, flying kites, wading, reading . . . but then I quickly avoided even a peep at these naked naturalists like the bubonic plague. Why? Well, no matter what you might think, despite lovely dresses, gorgeous gowns and tons of make-up, the odds of seeing a really beautiful feminine form in the park was about the same odds as being struck dead in the head by a hunk of space junk while slaving down in some salt mine. Old, fat, flabby, wrinkled, skinny, cadaverous, spiny backbones, bulges, bumps, scars, and lots and lots of uuuuuuuugly . . . no, not ugly as in ugly, but ugly as in grotesque ugly—indeed, it seemed to this observer that those with the most loathsome bodies were also those most ravenous to show them off (after each trip to English Gardens I could only ponder why there weren't more statues to those magnificent men who invented clothes).
Hence, I can well commiserate with the taxed town fathers down at Key West. Each year the famous “Fantasy Fest” (a wild week-long freak and geek pub crawl similar to Mardi Gras) gets a bit more edgy, a degree more orgiastic, a might more naked, and a whole bunch more beastly ugly.
The final straw in the progression from nice nudity to creepy nut sack perversion occurred last year when some jack wad dill hole walked into a Denny’s and sat down at the counter, and, except for a coat of paint, sat down totally naked. Now, Key West—at any time of year--is about as close to Sodom and Gomorrah as the US can get. Almost anything goes. But when people start walking around like old Adam with full erections or when they start filling Eve’s taco on streets and sidewalks in broad daylight, or when some kinko flasher sits down at Denny’s when folks are trying to eat their breakfasts, well, maybe it’s time to tone it down a bit. And who could blame them? Seeing some stranger’s shlong and balls hanging down would quickly kill a healthy appetite in the strongest of stomachs.
I generally have no problem whatsoever with a human body on display . . . as long as the bods are beautiful. But these sore old eyes don’t want to see no naked 400-pound land whales of either sex (if a gender can even be determined at the weight), don’t want no meth-addicted skeletoid stick figures neither, nor no friggen d-bags with flags at full staff, no. . . . Oh hell, guess I don’t want to see any body period, since the odds of seeing a really sweet body is as remote as drowning in a desert.
Judging by the photo (above), the liquor must flow like a river down in Key West during Fantasy Fest since totally blind drunk is about the only mental state that one could deal with such sights.
Lotsa noise down here among the swamp savages about housing starts and about how the economic corner is finally being turned and about how the state is about to return to the good old days before the Florida boom went bust back in 2000-and lively something. As proof, state brains point to certain areas in certain paper cities and ghost towns and spit out factoidal stats on construction. Hmmm. As a Gulf Coast cyclist who does get around, all I can say is “Phssssssssst!” From my observations, the number of homes being built are not even keeping pace with the number of homes that are being burned down due to insurance fraud, meth lab explosions and squatters roasting marshmallows in foreclosed homes.
And speaking of squatters and homeless sapiens—every patch of woods down here has its share of hapless, hopeless, homeless, and, if machete-mania strikes some whacked out drug addict, sometimes headless, humanoids. Mostly, these hardly human humans are not econo-casualties of Wall Street; no, they are simply those who just can’t cope with work, stress or responsibility in any way, shape or form. Many/most/all are addicted, of course. Not sure which came first, the homeless chicken or the addicted egg, but if I was living in the woods with fire ants, snakes, gators, burrs, rain, mentally deranged people, drunks, addicts, murderers, and shouting religious nut sacks trying to save my soul, I too would probably get addicted to the first drug I could lay my hands on in the least amount of time possible.