How I spent my summer Faycation

I ran into Ian (remember him?) Tuesday morning in Sarasota near the downtown mermaid fountain a few hours before Hurricane Fay was supposed to ravage Sarasota.

I asked Ian, "Where will you stay in the event of a hurricane?"

And Ian said, "Come here. Come closer. Let me tell you something. There are some people in this town who would get offended by that question. Having said that, the question isn't, 'where will I stay in the event of a hurricane?' The question is, 'why isn't the hurricane here?'"

Ian went on to outline some kind of Matrix-esque theory about the cosmos - essentially his version of Murphy's Law. How puppets anticipate things. Not people. How government and newspapers are puppet masters. And how, if I were to sit on a bench wearing the Santa pajamas pants I was wearing when I approached him, how HE should be the one to ask ME where I'm staying in the event of a hurricane. 

So I looked down at my Santa hammer pants, which belonged to my friend Ricci before she moved to Africa, and I suddenly thought: touche Ian. I look like a slob. You look like a slob. For all anyone knows, we're a street couple.

So I backed away slowly and let him rant some more about his being a scientist and a journalist, and how some people say he looks like Jesus when he wears a headband. Feeling like an asshole for reminding him that he was homeless, I said, "I'm gonna skedaddle, Ian. But can I take your picture first?"

And he said, "Wait. No. Not without my headband." 

So he grabbed his headband and his ball cap, laughing like Muttley because Jesus didn't wear a ball cap. And I snapped his picture, waved goodbye, headed back to PK and Kyle's house and promptly took a shower and changed my pants.  

I was instructed by my editors to hunker down in Sarascrotum for the night and to be prepared to churn out a series of bang-up stories chronicling the destruction. Our publisher even pushed deadlines back a day to accommodate the coverage. 

Since all downtown offices were closed, all government offices were closed, Sarasota County schools were closed, stores windows boarded up and bottled water sold out, I ate leftover Chinese takeout, parked myself on the porch and invented "Fay" puns for the newspaper.

Should I Fay or should I go?

Oh Faymate. Come out and Fay with me.  

Would you like me to put the storm on fay-away?

Do not disoFay me!

My Western New Yorker friend Sam and his wife Beth were staying at a resort on Sanibel Island near Fort Myers, when the storm was scheduled to make its first Florida landfall. Around 10:30 a.m. I received an e-mail from Sam that went something like:

"Last night we were evacuated from the island. As non-residents we are not cool enough to weather the storm. I am pretty sure this state is full of wimps. I generate more of a storm surge when I take a leak in the toilet. We were going to venture out to the Bass Pro Outdoor World, but they are not open ... even though they sell survival gear. Anyway, I strapped on my rain suit and went out to try and make it look bad outside. Here are some pics. The coffee here is OK and I didn't lose my swizel stick."

If anyone has good storm photos (and this goes for the New York readers, the Kansas readers, the Colorado readers, the Missouri readers, the West Africa readers, the New Mexico readers, the UK readers, the Germany readers ...) please email them to blog.lance@gmail.com. In the meantime here's my sister Heelya in our backyard after a blizzard in North Collins, NY. 

    

Lighting up on Lemon Avenue.

I've been distracted. Birthday parties. Rays games. Ghost hunting in Sarasota. Bike riding with Joe. Interviewing Sarasota County Commissioners. Watching Batman. You know. The basic distractions.

This guy's name is Ian. Or at least Ian is one of his names. He also goes by Adrian and Avery. According to Ian, who likes to set up shop in the courtyard by the clamshell fountain in downtown Sarasota, his parents were a "headstrong lot," too stubborn and too squabbling to decide who to name their son after. Since they both had unisex names - Adrian and Avery - they decided to call him both.  

 

"Now listen," says Ian. "I think both names are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. But my parents had it coming. What did they expect giving their son two names like Adrian and Avery? I go by Ian now, which I consider a nobler name. It's a noble name, isn't it? Ian."

"Yes," I said. "It's a nobler name."

I asked Ian if I could take his picture. He was nervously rolling cigarettes like some people twirl straw wrappers. (If you look closely, you'll see that all those blue papers beside him contain tobacco. Grainy, dirty bits of brown tobacco the color of rawhide leather. Also the color of Ian's skin.)

So I said, "Hot damn, Ian. That's a lot of tobacco."

And he said, "You roll your own too?"

And I said, "Don't smoke. Hey, can I take your picture?"

And he said, "What for?"

And I said, "Because I like the composition of your loitering."

And he said, "If you want to take my picture you'll have to sit here and listen to me for a minute. That's my sitting fee - you listening to me talk."

And I said, "Ah OK. Go on."

And just like that Ian went on. And on. And on. He spoke with a slight British accent that reminded me of when Madonna started speaking with a brogue back when she was writing children's books. I listened to Ian for 20 minutes and in those 20 minutes I learned that he's a reporter investigating corruption within the local power structures, including the daily newspaper, and that the biggest problem with people today is that no one wants to make eye contact anymore.

I later realized that when I took these pictures Ian neglected to look me in the eye. It turns out that homeless people are as fearful of us as we are of them. The next time I see Ian I might tell him this, except that in listening to his stories I feel the people he fears most are ... his parents.

So be good to your kids, guys. Try not to name them two unisex names at once. It's hard enough finding your identity as a kid. 

Goodnight.