Morning, Dearie. I hope you is up and doing something that really bothers you, since you’ve gotten me up again long before the wild Key West chickens will open their pretty little eyes and start making all their pretty little noises. Maybe I need to change the name of this daily drivel page from Today’s Cock-a-doodle-doo to News From the Night? Anyway, I hope you are wide awake and stay that way until some time into late next week.
I was howling at the fool moon last night at Bubba’s on the corner of Fleming and Margaret with several other wannabe werewolves/ettes, to some pretty darn good down home fried corn and baked beans and cole slaw and barbequed ribs music, when an old street performer buddy I met the first time on Pearl Street Mall in Boulder, Colorado in the early 1990s dropped by. That was back when I realized I was heading slap around the bend. Even the street kids who hung out around the mall in a constant LSD-induced daze were sort of freaked out by some of my tales from the other side. What freaked them out wasn’t the tales themselves, but the fact that I wuz claiming I wuzn’t taking LSD to make them happen. They wuz just happening.
Anyway, this old street bard told me he’d read where Mandy Bolen wrote about me in The Blue Newspaper, which I knew right away wasn’t so, because Mandy doesn’t write for Dennis Reeves Cooper, the publisher of what formally is called Key West The Newspaper, and maybe when Mandy gets her complimentary copy of this howling at the fool moon, she might feel a bit disembodied by the news that someone actually got her hopping into bed with Dr. Cooper, as Dennis also sometimes is called.
Anyway, around 9 p.m., I was getting horse, her, er, hoarse, from all that howling at the moon and jumped on my horse, er, bicycle, clicked on the front and rear flashing lights, and pedaled over to Sippin’ Internet Café on Eaton Street, just down from Tropic Cinema, to catch up on what had been written about me in The Blue Newspaper. I figured it had to be under the pen of Rhonda Linseman, as I knew her when she wrote the funniest, most irreverent weekly Blog I’d ever read for the Gossip Column, aka Kudos & Whiners, of BigPineKey.com, hosted by the nefarious, egregious, outrageous pirate, Captain Conch.
Rhonda sometimes gave me flavorable mention in her column, and once she published an anonymous retort I sent in from my own personal email account, just to make sure she knew who sent it to her, as if she couldn’t figure it out without that. She challenged me to come out and fight like a man. So enticed by the hiking of her skirts, I sent in another retort, which didn’t make it into her column. Not all that long afterwards she announced the early retirement of her anonymous Deer Abby column, admitted who she was, actually gave out her real name, and said she was taking a job with a publication in Key West.
When later I our beloved Deer Abbey’s bi-line started appearing under her real name in The Blue Newspaper, my heart sort of sunk. In the first place, all us rabid, drooling, lusting followers of her weekly mental health column wuz all left writhing in coitus interruptus, and here she was done gone to work for the drole Dr. Cooper, who never did strike any of us deer lovers as having much of a sense of humor or lust. In the second place, I was a bit concerned that Abby writing for Dennis would crimp her beautiful style.
As I read her column from time to time after that, once she even mentioned me flavorably in passing, I felt a rising sense of alarm, because I just wasn’t seeing the Deer Abby we up in the big sticks had all come to love and cherish and want to bend the bulkheads with. It was if she had gone through the change of life or something, and instead of starting a revolution in The Blue Newspaper, she seemed to have given up her testosterone and whining and whose the fairest in the land head and tail shrinking and bashing counseling service for something none of us from the old days could hardly even recognize anymore.
The name of her Page 2 piece, in which I’m flavorably mentioned this week, is “Checking in and out with God, Lucifer and Sloan.” Almost all of it, however, it is about her tryst, mostly unpleasant for her, with an automatic check-out machine at Winn-Dixie, which trauma I fully commiserate with, having come to know the automatic check out machines at the Big Pine Key Winn-Dixie quite well, thank you, when I lived on Little Torch Key last year, when I was falling into love and lust with Deer Abby, not having a clue who she was in real life.
After Rhonda went to work for Dr. Cooper, we, Rhonda and me, had a cordial email exchange. Without my even suggesting it, although I was thinking of suggesting it, being infatuated and lusting and all, Rhonda told me not to ask her out. Aw, shucks! How could I believe she really meant it, after she had asked me to come out and fight like a man and I had done it and she had hightailed? So I told her that sometimes people don’t mean what they say, or say what they mean, and I asked her out. Then came the silence of the ewe, er, doe, er, hen.
By and by, I’m reading in The Blue Newspaper that Rhonda slashed and burned the pope. Then, that she got her eyebrows waxed and got married. Next thing is what I read last night. Rhonda sez since I had said Lucifer was running Key West the Newspaper, that included her, too. Hell, she already knew how it was with Dennis and me, because I told her when she said she’d heard something about it. I knew Dennis wouldn’t tell her, because it didn’t put him on a pedestal he cared much about. I figured she needed to go into it with her eyes wide open, seeing’s how that’s how Deer Abby had told everyone up Big Pine Key way to live. Like I said, I had hoped Abby would start a revolution in The Blue Newspaper, but it was starting to look like she wuz falling into love with Dr. Cooper in some way, not the man-woman way, but in some way.
In her piece this week, Rhonda mentioned the Winn-Dixie check out machine being an agent of Lucifer maybe driving her to self-check into the DePoo local mental hospital, but she’d probably have the luck to end up my roommate. God knows Sloan needs it, she said. See, there she was, asking me out again. Too late, I don’t do married women. Tried that once, instead of telling her to get unmarried first. Deer Abby would have torn me a new one over doing something so loony.
Dr. Cooper inserted at the end of Rhonda’s piece that he didn’t approve it because he didn’t want unnecessary attention drawn to the lunacy of Sloan Bashinsky. If he didn’t want unnecessary attention drawn, how come he let the piece run? Why don’t you ask Dennis, Dearie, just what happened that caused him to tell me once upon a time, “You fuck! Get the hell out of here! I’m calling the police!” Just imagine Dennis calling the police on anyone, Dearie. Just imagine. After you talk to Dennis, come see me, and I’ll tell you what you will never hear from Dennis, nor, apparently, from Rhonda. Neither appear to really believe “journalism is a contact sport.”
Meanwhile, maybe I should appreciate Dennis and Rhonda’s flavorable mentions, because I told our city mayor Morgan McPherson at a candidate forum last summer, it’s a real bad sign if Dennis Reeves Cooper is never on your case. A real bad sign. While I don’t suppose I have to wonder how come Dennis never jumped on Morgan over his love affair with our truly loony county mayor, Mario Di Gennaro, I can’t help but worry about Deer Abby not coming back from the grave and reaming out the lot of them, instead of beating up on a poor dumb defenseless Winn-Dixie check out machine and blaming me for it. Just the sort of side show diversion Lucifer loves, what Abby really needs to do is start checking in and having it out with herself. God knows she needs it.