Tiki Me, Tiki You

From wikicommons, a graciously shared image of a Tiki: in this case a deified ancestor.

I have a green light on constructing a detached screened porch. Ostensibly, I'd use it to write into the evening on lovely summer nights.

I'd also equip the room with a fold-out bar. A .. ahem ...Tiki Bar.

There was an advertisement some time ago which featured blind pigs: unlicensed bars. I've wanted one since seeing the advertisement.

Most unlicensed bars are in a basement or garage. Mine would be in a screened room with a very few tasteful Tiki accouterments. Oh yes, my associates would indeed flock to the bar.

When the Paris Review comes for the interview, we'll be able to conduct the affair civilly over a couple of Suffering Bastards (my favorite Tiki drink) in the summer house.

I'll also be able to write, smoke a cigar, and not be consumed by all manner of flying bloodsuckers we have in Michigan. I live adjacent to a wetlands - which you know if you've seen the seasonal announcements of "Frog Day" here at Mayhem. It's pretty wet. I have wood ducks breeding in it.

Anyway, there is something to work for now. How can I have the trappings of a well accomplished writer of mayhem and murder without actually killing 'em with the debut novel?

How indeed?

I think I'll save pouring the footings until I have a clean prose draft in hand of all three acts of this work-in-progress. That's a goal. You've read it here. The working title? Despot Island. Fitting, no?

Now, before I get the Tiki Voodoo HoooDoo, I'm off to write.

Remember what happened to Bobby Brady? You should leave the Tiki alone and go write, too.