Forty: Cypress (Roots)

Home for the Holidays. Fort Lauderdale Florida. I'll admit, I'm proud to be from such a quirky, fucked up place. Where the dog chases big neon iguanas off the dock and into the canal. Where half the people on the road have a concealed weapons permit but no driver's license. Where sequined guests at the neighbor's never-ending cocktail party sway to a Vegas lounge duo's (he in a feathered, rhinestoned jumpsuit at the baby grand) Electric Slide. Even my sister the Social Prodigy was afraid to mingle with that lot.








There were grouper fingers, stone crab, key lime pies, deep fried turkey and two birthday cakes. Kayaking in the Everglades, swimming at the Surf Club, a New Year's Eve boat ride along the Intracoastal (and a near collision with the Jungle Queen). We saw alligators, herons and turtles on a drive down Turner River Road and panoramic views of Miami Beach from the MacArthur Causeway. At Smith & Wollensky's, cigarette boats drowned out conversations and departing cruise ships blocked out the sun. We even drank moonshine and discharged a few firearms. And all in the company of the people I've known longest...