I overslept, missed the ride to Sanibel Island and so instead of swimming in the gulf of Mexico, I’m catching up on episodes of CSI while I wait for the heat of the day pass on by. Man, Peterson leaving the show. Besides him being a Cubs fan, he can stoneface bad pre-show puns like nobody’s business.

It’s with this kind of sidetracked, indirect bumbling that I stumble through a day.

If I want to go to the gym, I’m lucky to get in a walk first. If I want to play video games, I’m off to the gym.

Today, I have an actual excuse consisting of waking up early-early to see my sister off to the airport, again. Afterward, everybody got up before I did & I didn’t get to hitch the ride to the island. This left me with the simple things I get to do next week when the rest of the family goes home.

Herein lies the issue:

Before I came down to Ft. Myers, Margaritaville, I was heartset on physically sketching the Book of Blues Prequel. Dreams of scenes, plot lines, and Sorkin-like dueling banjos dialogue were flowing into a flawless little quick-tempo novella. But once I got down here n started to replay the scenarios, visions of Book of Blues Sequel danced in my head.

The only conceivable way I have, at present, to gauge my life in linear means is with hindsight and points of references. A lighthouse, if you will, to study and measure the wake made by my days. My lighthouse is called Ft. Myers, Margaritaville – a public Mecca.

The episode of CSI is almost done. The heat of the day has passed. Time to do things I need to do, at last.

And just like that, as I was walking out the door, my family pulled up.
I’m told I’m going to Naples for dinner.

I guess I’ll walk later tonight which means I’ll do something else.

And other first-word problems.

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