Florida seems much more independent than helpless New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. I don’t see Floridians looting and murdering as much or sitting around crying for rescue. Are there many snipers in FL shooting people for sport? Do Floridian rescuers fear crims shooting them? Is there widespread rape in Florida now?
New Orleans residents after Katrina seemed like the most pathetic Americans I’ve seen on the tele.
We’re all going to be helpless at times, but whenever I encounter someone who asks me to do something they can do for themselves, that person drops so far in my esteem that we’ll never be friends. I’ve never known such a person to snap out of it.
I’m looking at the devastation in Central Florida and remembering all the women I loved there in 1993-1994. I was no angel. I was just looking for love. I pray they are safe. I pray they are blessed. I pray they have moved on. I pray they are still not still pining for me. I pray that whatever it was they were looking for in me they’ve found instead in God.
In January 1994, I had fallen out with both my ex-girlfriend and my girlfriend, and so I walked around Flagler College in Saint Augustine seeking to feel good and I saw this lovely blonde woman walking towards me and I started up a conversation and we soon delved into our shared transcendent values and things led on from there in a largely chaste manner. I was just coming out of six years bedridden with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I was on Nardil and feeling about two-thirds of normal strength. I was a stranger in a strange land after having moved to Orlando in August of 1993 for a love that quickly flamed out. I had to move and for six months relied upon the kindness of strangers until departing to Los Angeles in March of 1994 and burying myself in the heart of Orthodox Judaism. I was a tad compulsive during those years, but heck, as our president reminds us, love is love. Whatever my faults in Central Florida, I didn’t devastate as many people as Hurricane Ian.
I came. I loved. I conquered. I was conquered. I moved on.
Don’t judge me bro until you’ve worn my soiled things.
I was last in Florida in October of 2005 when I met photographer Holly Randall at the Tampa Show.
I still have the t-shirt she’s wearing here. I only put it on for special occasions.
I met Heather Pink and her boyfriend Andrew Parker in Tampa Bay between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur of 2005.
We were at the “Tampa Show”, an informal gathering of Shakespeare scholars.
I wrote then:
She’s a nice Jewish girl (the youngest of five children) who went to Brandeis University before transferring to the University of Miami where she graduated with degrees in journalism and political science.
Heather grew up in New York (she now lives in Manhattan), attending at times a Reform synagogue with her family. At age 12, she had a bat mitzvah. “My brother had a better one.”
She says she’s been reading me since 1998.
“I wish I would’ve stayed at Brandeis. I would’ve turned out a lot better. I had the grades. I was intelligent in that way. But I was very immature at 19 and I wanted to go to Florida.”
Heather Pink says her mother describes Canadians as “sophisticated Mexicans.”
Luke: “I imagine this has all taken some toll on your health.”
Heather: “My health is not good. It’s becoming obvious to other people. I’ve spent this year in the hospital. These people weren’t loyal to me when I was in that.”
Luke: “Have there been people in your life who pleasantly surprised you during these difficult times?”
Heather: “No. They stick around for a while and then leave.”
Luke: “Have you been reading anything good?”
Heather: “I haven’t been able to eat much. My stomach’s been bad. I haven’t been able to eat. I’ve lost a lot of weight, which is why I’ve been in the hospital.”
“At the beginning of this year, I was in hospital but I still had friends. I had somebody in my life who was there and basically they betrayed me. They turned on me.”
“The unsung hero of the film Jiggly Queens 3 returns in this action-packed indie flick as a shirtless BDSM proponent!”
