Party At The Top

 

PECKIN’

The saddest thing I ever did see

Was a woodpecker peckin’ at a plastic tree.

He looks at me, and “Friend,” says he,

“Things ain’t as sweet as they used to be.”

– Shel Silverstein

Since the 1950’s, at the least, the roof of the tallest building in Key West has been open to the public, providing a majestic vantage point to watch the setting, or rising, or ever presently beautiful sun gently caress the surrounding buildings, the hustle and bustle of Duval street reduced to a dimension of ant-like encouragement. Many old adages inflect that,  when your problems seem large, imagine them viewed from a tall building, from an airplane, from the atmosphere, and the hard lines surrounding your daily concerns and conflicts, your trivialities if you will, will blur into a much gentler, and approachable, broad perspective. It was in fact popular 90’s singer Jewel who mused, “I wanna pilot a plane with you, so all our problems look small, too.” Hit the nail right on the head, Jewel.

Soon, the public will not be allowed this option. The Top of La Concha, beginning this August 15th, is slated to be developed into another spa, barring public access and welcoming privatized segregation. This onset of restriction is, perhaps, in part, because the general populous, or specifically the tourist population, of this town do not appear to give a damn about their ability to climb to the Top. Personally, I am always looking to climb to the top of things. Mountains, buildings, ferris wheels, you name it–if I can gather a grander perspective on my surroundings, I crave it, seek it and do it. I have spent many an evening watching the sunset, in solitude, from the Top, just as I have spent many a moment, when overwhelmed by the inconsequential bumblings of the humans surrounding me, taking in the view from the top of the parking garage at the corner of Grinell and Caroline. Did you know this parking garage, in high winds, possess a series of open pipes who, when wind crosses them, sing? The singing of the parking garage, in combination with pretty twinkling lights of the city below, have blessed me with many a moment of peace. It was the best when the crazy bald and drunken man Brett, who went to jail for thirty days and, each day, drew a slightly different version of the same picture of a pelican resting on a piling with a ball point pen and who was also one of the finest piano players I have ever encountered in my brief years on this planet, would sit at the piano outside of Caroline Street Music shop for hours on end, grizzling with Natural Ice but making that piano sing too, banging out everything from Willie Nelson to Dave Brubeck to good old fashioned ragtime blues. From my vantage point atop the garage, I was never privy to his disturbing drunken perversions, and only to the enchanting sounds of the piano, floating across the open air.

But who really gives a shit about all that? Instead of an open space I can saunter to anytime I please to take in a pleasant view of this city I would like to adore, what I would like, instead, is a spa where I can exchange lots of money for the experience of some Russian broad slathering mud all over my face. Yes, that sounds much more peaceful. We had a “party” on Tuesday night–an intimate gathering of people wearing mustaches, an attempt to display some sort of unified front in opposition to the idea of development. Between this gathering, a huge petition with hundreds of signatures, and our ability to attend town council meetings and voice our displeasure, a few people are attempting to squawk and generate change. As optimistic as I attempt to be in my daily life, I don’t feel very hopeful that the subtle expressions of these few will be of any concern whatsoever to the whims of the larger, and richer, developers of Remington. But we are trying.

I have lived in this city, on and off, since 2007. I am not exaggerating when I say that I feel as though I am watching it die. It seems like every day I hear of another small victory for the bland, for the homogenous, for the moo-cow brainless zombies that both walk our streets and make our governmental decisions. We are destroying our wild places and silencing our weirdos. Key West is becoming a gigantic hypocrisy–championing folks like Shel Silverstein and Ernest Hemingway while allowing decisions to pass through our offices that would have both of those fine men rolling in their graves. The soundtrack of this town all sounds the same, and it doesn’t sound good. It sounds like a middle-aged fat man playing a G-C-D progression on his electric guitar while covering songs that someone else wrote, slaughtering the lyrics but, who cares, we’re all so drunk we don’t know the difference! It looks like expensive permits and even more expensive insurance for all curious street musicians and artists. It looks like the death of the Top of La Concha, the development of the yacht club where Mark Dejohn’s diesel engine repair has thrived for over thirty years and the loss of Nancy’s Secret Garden. It looks like a homeless man passed out on the sidewalk while hundreds of giddy tourists, laden with shopping bags overflowing with neon YOLO T-shirts from the “everything’s five dollars” store, stumble by in a Margaritaville-induced stupor.

I feel death in the air. Sure, I’m being melodramatic. Of course there is still beauty here, its innate, its a beautiful tropical island. But it is hidden, cherished by the locals, sipping their cocktails in their jungle-like backyards. I dare to say we’re missing the boat, though. We’re not paying attention to the minor details that are adding up to a major reconstruction. The island is shifting, changing, right before our eyes, and her new dress is boring.