The Jam Cruise
The Jam Cruise
Article originally written for High Times in January 2003
Escaping in a limo from the Fort Lauderdale mansion, being nice enough not to call 911, try to steal a dog or a phone like other people who shall remain nameless since memory of new faces blur, my "attorney" and I are given a fifth of Captain Morgan upon check-in for the Jam Cruise II. The only heartbreaking catch for my attorney was that we could not actually consume the bottle until we arrived back in port, after the cruise. After the previous night we had at The Ugly Mug in Del Ray Beach, things were not looking so pretty; a shot could have eased the lingering tension and headache from our Ugly Mug limo excursion.
The hurry up and wait game was evident at the cruise line. A monstrous line of what might as well have been herded cattle slowly inched onto the 612 foot boat. We, of course, were the very last in this line. Our procrastination in boarded made us miss the lifeboat drill, which I was greatly looking forward to, so we merely settled in the room before making a quick round on the boat.
Upon movement of the vessel, my attorney turned a pale shade of green, forcing us to take cover in our cabin. With a small amount of the ship’s gourmet high school food buffet in our stomachs, we tried to sleep off the Ugly Mug experience. As the wind picked up, doors slammed and opened as the ship rocked side to side. This noise was highlighted by the gagging of my attorney expelling his innards in the bathroom. I knew this marked the beginning of the fear and loathing sea venture.
Unable to sleep with clockwork Intercom bleeps, I stumble from my room to babble with a guy playing Ms. Pac-man. He says how he was on the first Jam Cruise, giving me a tour of the casino and other essential places onboard, and we go on an Easter egg hunt to find a little stash of Northern Lights left from a previous passenger.
After smoking and a massage that helped me close my eyes for another hour, I awoke to catch New Monsoon. Poetry and feeling through phenomenal lyrics, multiplied with the true groove of raw instrumental love, New Monsoon echoed the Mermaid Lounge with a psychedelic Jefferson Airplane type song. The boat and my stomach slowly swayed, but there was great sound in the small room. Each instrument could be clearly heard, and the bass vibrated the corner of the Denny’s booth style seating, a sort of half octagon leather couch around an oval wood table.
A frosted boxed-glass bar centers the room that seemed to contain the best looking bar tenders that were dealing with our drunken selves. The music is otherworldly, making our voyage on a small sailing city seem all the more like a dream. Hopefully, the nightmare of running into an iceberg does not become a reality, I remember thinking to myself.
Although there are many people willing to try for a "Titanic"-like hookup, schmoozing and boozing to the Hendrix-style classic, bluesy rock, people have moved past the point of caring as midnight lurks.
Babbling with a bio-engineer who made prosthetic legs, I decided to leave the Mermaid Lounge for the casino. A couple bucks into the slots made me rethink my luck for the evening, but my attorney and newfound egg hunter friend convinced me that black jack was essential, a necessity. Too bad, we walked up just as the tables were closing.
Luckily, RAQ was just taking the stage in the Grande Lounge, a dark room of blue couches stretched out in a lecture hall manner. The Vermont Boys promote a feel good vibe of make the best of what you can, and have fun doing it.
Meanwhile, back at the pool and the main stage, ravers tried to hula hoop their trips to the sound of Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe. I swear, one guy stole my attorney’s ritual mating robe and was jamming out in his own small world, but that’s what happens when there’s no cops and people openly smoking weed and doing other such illegal substances.
It is Karl Denson’s funky conglomeration of old school Motown, blues and the various instrumentals that make the jam experience stand out. Passengers groove about, trying to make their various intoxications work with the music, some on planets of their own, others in a community spirit of love and fun. Denson gives the "keep your head up" message that prevents bad vibes from arising, a nice change from some of the other scenes I’ve seen.
Militant cruise line officials cover the pool with net, not the safest idea I’ve seen, but probably better than alcoholic mishaps that could abound if it were open. In the vast of international waters, you never know what can happen. It may sound fun, but with the good, there’s always a bad lurking in the shadows. You just have to keep it in mind and in check.
Gulping a nice chocolate made my eyes unable to close and Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe all the more real. Lounging poolside until sunrise, letting out the Wildebeest with Tommy Thompson as Fascination was passing by, I noticed that we were pulling into Nassau, the Bahamas. Lack of sleep never hurt my work performance too badly before I figured, freshening up with a shower before stepping foot on the island.
Venturing off the boat led to a New Hampshire guy and I discovering a tourist mission of historical sights and natural beauty in the Bahamas. Unfortunately, I taught him a lesson of how greedy locals like to swindle tourists for their money, but we were able to smoke a spliff with a rasta in his bar and journey down the hand-carved coral reef and limestone phenomenon of the Queen’s Staircase.
Taking in the cemetery, the old slave trading market, historic forts, restored whore houses, the Atlantis Hotel and other such sights made us miss Michael Franti playing soccer, but luckily I sent my attorney to cover the event. From the condition he was in when we met up again on the boat later, I do not think he remembered too much of it.
Not too fear, Michael Franti and Spearhead were playing back in the Grande Lounge when I woke up from a two-hour catnap. Still groggy, I drug myself to the back corner in the last row, kicking up my feet and merely taking it all in.
Much more impacting live than on the preview CD I had heard, Michael Franti and Spearhead was like a message spoken to you. The primitive emotion was touched upon on the album, but live it seemed to consume you, like good rasta music should, sucking you into a vortex where reality ceased while the music played.
The culmination of beatbox and electronica gives a dance-y, salsa, drum beat, simplistic wavelength of musical emotion mixed with the message of this is what it is. Experience it or not, it will continue to be. If you follow, you know.
Freestyle lyrics zombies people into dancing, because they are pulled into the zone of the music. An instrument that makes the mass of a crowd get onto the same level, hitting deep into the soul, a basic drum beat, like a heart beat, then building from there until the wanted emotion is conveyed. Get the people to feel how you want them to; it’s a power not to be abused, like Voodoo on the islands.
Brought to tears when reminded that all change is good change, due to a wind of change in my own life, I sat in my dark corner with tears moistening my face while I smiled at the positive feeling in the air. He’s right. As has been said, the only thing constant is change.
Franti speaks of angels and suicide inside, and he mentions that each cry is a good cry. Sitting in the back by myself, I was not sobbing, but tears of understanding rolled down my cheeks. It really made Franti’s catch phrase of "everyone deserves music" take shape.
Everyone does deserve music, something to relate to, to help show that you are not alone. People are people. Money, looks, education, who you know and who you blow does not matter. This is a message more musicians should spread. They do though, just in different words. That’s the will to beast.
As Franti explained in a later interview, "I wish everyone ease of heart, and what that means is comfort to be who you are and express the comfort you feel. With music, life and whatever work you do. Music is difficult. There are few places for megastars, but there are lots of opportunities for people to pick up a guitar and share with others. Don’t give up integrity in your soul. Just do what comes naturally. Maybe it will happen; maybe it won’t. At the end of the day, you still have that, music."
Next, the laid back groove of the Mermaid Lounge called to me. The reflective ceiling mirrors people dancing about, sitting back to take it all in and standing about picking wedgies. Back to a simpler southern rock perspective of "bodies in the rain." Then the beat quickens a step, just more music to provoke the simple pleasures and reality of life.
Still, I hide in the back corner, simply taking in the sounds of the Codetalkers with Col. Bruce Hampton. The House Man with Galactic proves helpful in providing insight to the down home sounds produced that conjures people’s feet to slide around the room, catching the sway of the rockin’ boat. The key is hidden, not to be found on the radio, but live.
The secret to rockin’ the boat is not to try for the job that the waves have naturally, but to move people through the powerful command of music. This is not found in a catch phrase song, but in the vibe produced that can turn an entire room of unfamiliar people onto the same level of uncaring imageless fun. Not through the awesome distractions of flash and trash stage shows, merely the relative emotion of a song. For, when the world comes tumbling down, all are at the same level they were when taking their first breath.
So, back to business. They start Rock Star karaoke with the "Titanic" theme song, fittingly enough, "My Heart Will Go On," followed by an 80s flashback, "Burning Down the House." Next, even more seemingly appropriate, "Hush." I took this as my cue to go smoke some Purple Haze.
Exhausted from sheer lack of sleep, I sit on a couch, watching the waves from the deck. Les Claypool’s Frog Brigade’s music drifts down the hall, along with mutters from various passengers. My eye twitches, followed by a spasm in my hand. Now is when I am feeling to toll of the Jam Cruise’s non-stop entertainment. So many performances to see with multiple stages. They play seemingly to no end, like music from an ancient Pagan ritual steadily playing.
Then there’s the sunrise coming in just a few hours, which I might as well stay up to watch, seeing how I’m on a floating city with nothing blocking the view but water. Breakfast follows, an essential I know my body could use. Some kind of nourishment is needed after the self-inflicted torture it has had with no real sleep since the beginning of this voyage. My slight claustrophobia has been helping my eyes stay open.
I ponder how my attorney could be fast asleep, but for some reason, my eyes won’t close. I try to fight the urge to sleep, wanting to hear the Frog Brigade’s first set. Temptation makes my feet move towards the music... The Wildebeest rears it’s ugly head again. The urge to beast has become a challenge of wills for those in my position and the band, starting at 2 a.m. and having no set end time.
With Les Claypool wearing huge horns on his head, I am reminded of Pan and feel as if I have somehow been transported back in time by music. Flittery notes and insomnia take me to a world of fairies and the supernatural. I vow to be a warrior, trooping it out until the end, watching the crowd slowly disintegrate.
Engulfed by people influenced by a sea of various drugs, the effects of coke, crystal meth, pot, mushrooms, acid and alcohol sloshed around me in human form. Choosing to remain a non-drinker and non-speeder on the voyage, I felt a little off-level with some and completely at home with others. Even though most were completely cool, the inevitable interactions led to cliques on the boat.
Merely a butterfly fluttering through these groups to absorb for work, I made my presence as the drug culture reporter known, being rewarded with two-puff-done nugs varying from Wowie to homegrown specialties. There was still the Syn party going on, but I finally fell out in my bed for two hours.
My attorney slams open the door, startling me awake. Barking harsh orders for me to wake up and shower, I obey without listening or comprehending what I am doing. Putting my video camera in my palms, he pushes me out the door, directing me to the pool to take the Hackensaw Boys.
I’m not sure how familiar the general population is with the music, for, I admit, I was unfamiliar with the band before embarking on the cruise, but the Hackensaw Boys represent the music of the Virginias, truly remarkable and breathtakingly different.
As Peepaw Hackensaw explained, "hacken’ and sawin’ away at our instruments is where we adopted our family name from."
"It’s a safe alias in a terrorist society," Shiner Hackensaw added. "It’s the Land of George Bush."
The band has self-produced three albums and is now finishing their first studio work. Peepaw detailed, "we’re still trying to keep an organic feel about it. From the recording of our homegrown music and attitudes, to our everyday lives."
"People must be reminded that much of all comedy is incongruity," Mahlon Hackensaw stated. "Chuck Jones, the guy who created Looney Toons, said that."
"Bugs and Daffy had a definite impact on our music," Peepaw mentioned. "It’s great music."
"Not to mention Droopy," Shiner pipped up, "who we believe smoked a little weed. Look at his eyes. We believe firmly that he puffed."
Peepaw offered a final note of advice, "smoke pot out of apples, because you can eat it if you get pulled over."
"Ornately blown glass bowls are great," the Kooky Eye Fox credited, "but we recommend Granny Smith. Take it back to the Garden of Weeden. I don’t know if Granny was there, but she would have been puffin’."
"Just Adam, Eve and Granny Smith," Mahlon remarked.
Feeling dazed and confused from lack of true REM sleep, I found my name being paged over the haunting intercom. It was finally time to work, trying to squeeze in all the mandatory interviews into one day of me feeling like a slug. Not my first choice for arrangements, but a necessary one. With only five and ten minutes for actual interviews, I decided to test these extemporaneous artists, my fellow cruise venturers, with a little impromptu creativity check from my three famous questions.
MARISA WILLIAMS: If you were a unicorn, and could be any color but white, what color would you be and why?
LES CLAYPOOL: I am a unicorn, but my horn is not on my head. I’m into orange these days. I used to be into green, but orange makes me feel happy. My son’s favorite color is yellow. Perhaps that explains some of the influence, but it’s just a point in my life. I’m in an orange phase. It’s not as aggressive as red.
DJ Medi4: Blue. It’s one of my favorite colors, because it gives a sense of calm. I’m a Leo, so I tend to usually be a calm person. I wear it a lot, because it brings a sense of calm even just be wearing it. Now, if you go to my apartment, it’s orange, a mandarin of color, sort of a burnt orange. Perhaps I would be a unicorn with both of those colors somehow. I guess it would depend on the fashion police of the unicorn sect.
PHILIP FRAZIER (Rebirth Brass Band): Rainbow, that way I could bling with everything in the forest.
STEVE MOLITZ (Particle): Gookus comes to mind, but we won’t go there. I’m a flying unicorn, right? I would want to be a chameleon predator motif. I don’t want to always be invisible. I’d like to have the power to choose to materialize like Predator.
MAHLON HACKENSAW: Brown, so I could blend into the population. Unicorns tend to be a persecuted animal, so they might think I’m just a horse.
KOOKY EYE FOX (Hackensaw Boys): Green, because I’m bound to be super high when flying over pastures. They don’t fly? They just run? Oh...
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: Black, because I’ve been white my whole life.
MARISA WILLIAMS: If you were a yogurt, would you be mixed fruit, fruit on the bottom, what flavor and why?
SALVAGE HACKENSAW: I’d have to be a soygurt, because I’m lactose intolerant. Fruit on the bottom opium flavored, so it’d taste like flowers.
SHINER HACKENSAW: Blueberry, fruit on the bottom. Blueberries enhance memory.
ERIC GOULD (Particle): Half and half, not 60/40, peanut butter and fluff flavor. Fluff is a flavor for me, 50/50 split.
CHARLIE HITCHCOCK (Particle): Fruit on the bottom. I don’t know what flavor, but on the bottom, because what you see isn’t exactly what you be. Strawberry.
STEVE MOLITZ: Red raspberry, fruit on the bottom, because I like to save the best for last, work your way down to the sweet spot.
PHILIP FRAZIER: Raspberry in the middle, because you can start from the bottom or the top to get to the middle.
DJ Medi4: I’m a big yogurt supporter. We’re in the same crop. We’ve never had a problem co-existing. My favorite way to start the day is with oatmeal, a half cup of coffee, and yogurt, maybe green tea with lemon and honey and a bowl. That’s my morning wake up ritual with Howard Stern.
LES CLAYPOOL: If I was a yogurt, I’d be frozen. I’ve tried to like regular, but I just don’t like yogurt. To be frozen, I’d probably be chocolate, because everyone likes chocolate yogurt. Vanilla doesn’t translate as well as it does in ice cream. There’s a sourness hat doesn’t help the yogurt, to I’d be chocolate, with sprinkles on my head.
MARISA WILLIAMS: What flavor potato chip best describes your personality and why?
DJ Medi4: Jalapeno, that’s it. I go nice with everything, but if you leave me long, I’ll cause a stir.
PHILIP FRAZIER: Dill pickle tasting, sweet and sour, but with a punch of whallup, you know what I mean?
SHINER HACKENSAW: Cool ranch, because my shit is cool. Actually, marijuana caffeine beer buzz pill chip. That shit would be cool. With ripples. Or a Jesus chip, because JC was tight.
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: Piss and vinegar. Enough said.
SALVAGE HACKENSAW: BBQ, sweet and spicy. Yeah.
MAHLON HACKENSAW: Muncho, not a Pringle, a Muncho, because they got that pre-oil stuff on and the flavor lingers. They make you pooh and help you flow with the Olestra.
KOOKY EYE FOX: Tortilla chip. I’m nacho average cheese. I’ll be nacho. I’m nacho chip.
LES CLAYPOOL: Well, maybe, I don’t know why, BBQ crunch tenders pop into my brain. Perhaps because I can’t eat them any more. I used to love them. Their MSG is like a metaphor for my career. You can absorb to a certain point, but it might give you a headache. I like kettle chips, albacore flavor, an acquired taste that’s not for everyone.
CHARLIE HITCHCOCK: Plain potato chip, because what you see is what you get. There’s nothing fake going on.
ERIC GOULD: I’d have to go, not as standard, KC Masterpiece BBQ, because it’s good to have flavor, and that one is a good one to have.
STEVE MOLITZ: One of those, I just had one for the first time, more homestyle, thick sliced, fried in the pan at home with spices thrown on. Homestyle with skin and Lowry’s seasoned pepper that you can put on anything. I used to buy four jars of that stuff at a time.
I also learned some interesting tidbits during my interviews, like about Les Claypool’s new book.
"I’m just finishing my second revision of my first novel," Les detailed. "It’s sort of an Old Man and The Sea meets Deliverance. I wrote it first as a screenplay, but after losing money and whatnot, I decided to revise and give it after the new year." Noting a partiality to Sparrow Press, Zarkowski’s first publisher, Les said that nothing was definite as of yet. For as far as the new year, 2004, is concerned, Les only wants one thing.
"Howard Dean elected President of the United States. It’d make happiness, besides health and harmony. It’d be a great thing for the world."
Michael Franti had something a little different, but not too much so, in mind for his new year wishes.
"It’s important that the community of marijuana, which, we are a community, begins to come together and become a voice in this nation, like political and religious rights. Time that we as a people believe individual states and communities should decide what’s right, not the law and arm of the federal government. This year is an election year, a time for us to raise our voices as an audience. Time to shed stornerism of apathy and to recognize people who use are in all parts of society. People should not do four years in prison for what most of us do everyday. Listen to the candidate, and if they don’t echo your views, vote them the fuck out."
Yet, DJ Medi4 also echoed a lesson that is not often enough heard from people in the music scene, a reminder that should not be forgotten.
"Carry King is 200 beats per minute. How much more can you enhance that experience? Drugs are not for everyone, but everyone thinks they can do drugs, down to the little Mormon girl. Know, the first time you do something, you look within and it goes to your life, your perspective. If you got colodopins, half a bottle of Crown Royal and more, at what point do you say it’s time for no more? Time to sleep? I came from a line of alcohol and drugs, and I have to watch myself. God lives through you and your experience, and that inner voice says when it’s time to sleep. Sometimes you gotta listen."
MARISA WILLIAMS: In what way has weed affected you musically?
HACKENSAW BOYS
SHINER HACKENSAW: We’re retired growers. We only sell to little children (giggling hysterically).
MAHLON HACKENSAW: We just threw around a couple seeds. Nothing sprouted. I was growing X4172596KW41 seed, synthetic organelle. It’s all just seeds and stems ‘til there’s actual bud.
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: When we toured with Flaming Lips, Cake, De La Soul, Kinky from Mexico and Modest Mouse from the Pacific Northwest, we would invite people to smoke at the end of our show. We didn’t have any, and there was no money to be able to afford any.
MAHLON HACKENSAW: Organic grown in five gallon buckets with distilled water, we’d said from the George Bush farm in Texas, sneak out late and take from...
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: It was in Maine actually. Either way...
SHINER HACKENSAW: George Bush soil is the key ingredient to the creamy texture of Peepaw’s weed. There’s only been one known death from marijuana, smoke Shiner’s weed and die from happiness.
KOOKY EYE FOX: Sends me to the moon.
MAHLON HACKENSAW: It’s used to enhance. He’s color blind, so he uses it to see color.
SHINER HACKENSAW: It makes things more lyrical and poetic for the right people. That’s what it does for me.
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: Unless there’s too much consumption of it. That can make for ill events.
SHINER HACKENSAW: Peepaw doesn’t think we play right when we play high.
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: Being too stoned to think about what we are playing.
SHINER HACKENSAW: I don’t make any more mistakes than the sober people in the band, but it’s music first. Some people don’t smoke any more.
PEEPAW HACKENSAW: I’ve been sober for three years. Not that I’m anti-drug. I just don’t recommend it to myself.
KOOKY EYE FOX: Pot helps for sea sickness.
PARTICLE
STEVE MOLITZ: Some of us smoke and relax, play and write. It’s common of a day off to smoke a bowl of hash, get off the bus, work on new grooves and techniques; not think as much about notes, so much as the sound. I can hold down one note and think it’s the coolest thing. It doesn’t become analytical.
ERIC GOULD: It adds a little more inspiration and love into the sound going on. Not technique as much as sound and music. Smoking expanded my love and listening of music. Listen to Velvet Underground and Nico, one ironic number we won’t forget.
STEVE MOLITZ: For me, same thing. I remember my friend’s older sister got me stoned in Hollywood Hills. She put on "Money," The Dark Side of the Moon. I couldn’t tell whether the sax solo was someone singing or not. She said, "listen to this girl’s voice," to mess with me, and your appreciation for music grows.
The will to beast has been conjured by my first drink on this cruise. I feel its fitting to hide the duck I just devoured under the FU hoodie to head out to see DJ Medi4 and Les. The time has come...
Pink Floyd orgasms from speakers below as we venture with the Wildabeast into the Mermaid Lounge. Two basses in hand to be signed, a fan, Joe Peterson, also shared my Tommy The Cat Complex. My attorney completed the mission at hand, leaving me in the care of RAQ. I’m not sure if that was good or bad, because a friend walked some bumble berry indoor special from the hills.
Next thing I know, I find myself alone, captured by the carnival of RAQ’s hypnotism. Just when I figure all is simply swell, in walks Boo Ray, a guitarist that had ventured with three guys, as opposed to six, on some kind of musical voyage. I heard him mention something of $250 and the Blair Witch Project in his slurred mutterings.
The lanky guy with dark, mostly sleeved tattoos popped in to say hi, pushing my buzz to a whole new level, then he left. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself once again thrown into the influence of RAQ, a solo vision quest.
Pondering where did Boo Ray come from, I fought to figure his mission. Was he merely sent to scare me back into the dark fairy tale of RAQ’s rhythm? If only I could have decoded his message, then I wouldn’t be finding my myself in the vortex of swirling beats that taunt my senses. Wait. There he is. Longish hair. Bomber glasses. A Montana style 70s cowboy shirt and tight jeans motif. He was just passed... He must be in the Key West shoot.
My other choice for the Key West photo shoot was Tommy Thompson, a Georgia guitar and harmonica simultaneous player who invoked the Wildebeest, explaining how beast was a verb that must be conjured. Through various conversations of linguistics and style, his creativity engulfed my senses just through conversation, let alone hearing his expressiveness through music. His strong force convinced me to contain him in a leather straight jacket after visiting various home town buddies of mine in Key West.
The fear and loathing has begun into my fairy world. The beast has been conjured, and the sleep threatens to snake in and take hold. Politics surround within the microcosm, as the cliques have been set, and I am resulted in the life of piracy after the departure of my attorney. After a conglomeration of uppers, downers, lefters, righters, one like my attorney cannot resist the temptation of pulling a vicious burn before packing up, moving a short distance and pulling another.
At this point, I think of an individual with acutely insightful pain. It makes me wish I could tear it out of them, take it as my own and replace it with happiness. But then the reality of money puts all things into comprehension. It does not matter who you blow, what you know or the material you have gathered. People are into themselves and what it takes to survive.
Galactic jams out, rolling my thoughts to sleep. Zoning my attention back to the reality of the fairy tale around me. The jam softens for a moment of peacefulness, reggae with a soft female voice breaks from the formal former mind bender of the circus, a tantalizing twitch heightening the senses.
I took the two up and coming musicians to the dominatrix’s house in Key West for shits and giggles. Tommy Thompson was slapped into a leather straight jacket, while Boo Ray and Thorisaz positioned themselves with a small bag of buds. It was just the beginning of the Mardi-Gras themed night, the last night on the boat. A few people were left behind in Key West, including my attorney. Without his advice, I found myself lost at sea in a mushroom haze.
Vicious burns were spreading, and the fear began to take the form of politics. The bar no longer accepts our convenient money-eating cards, now only devouring cash. What kind of joke is this to people recovering from a bender, unable to sleep? Then they shut off all music and events, save for one tiny universe of a room where the claustrophobic would run from. Eyes not wanting to close, I retire to my small room, merely sprawling out on the bed to contemplate.
A visitor popped in, as I forgot to lock my door. It was the man with the subtle cowboy style, wearing another tripped out shirt I could not comprehend. We couldn’t speak, just random mutters from within. Still, I pondered of his mission, then thought of my own. My bellman barged in to order us awake and moving, telling us to abandon ship, seeing how we had arrived at the Fort Lauderdale Port.
Alternate ending
And thus began the beginning of the end of the cruise. We landed in Key West long enough for me to take two little known musicians, Tommy Thompson and Boo Ray, to a dominatrix’s house for a game a dress up with masks, straight jackets and a little bit of kind bud. Just another average photo shoot to start out the Mardi Gras-themed last night on the boat. Alcohol consumption was ended early, then the music was shut off. All left over tweakers were shuffled into a tiny room with blaring 80s hits. Reality dawned, and the ship pulled into port, ending the binge...or perhaps beginning a resting period, because even though my attorney never made it back onto the ship from Key West, a nice bottle of Captain Morgan was handed to me before I said bye to Frenchy, hopped in the convertible and was chauffeured to the mansion.
3:18 a.m. November 26, 2005
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