The Night of the Iguana

I started smoking again.

Things haven’t been the same since David Lynch died. Things haven’t been the same since my mother died.

My alcoholism went and nose-dived this past winter and the town got too hot, so I fled for South Florida like some Tennessee Williams heroine (“I always rely on the kindness of strangers”);

I decided to finally rent The Night of the Iguana tonight. I met a woman at the rehab clinic who actually stayed on property where that was filmed. She said there’s these alleyways in Puerto Vallarta that bear the names, “Ava Gardner Way” and “Richard Burton Way”, and that there’s this fine little restaurant that serves bountiful fresh crustaceans and martinis by the goblets full with fresh lemon peels curved just so, only we had to remind ourselves then that we were both in rehab at a very nice facility and so daydreams about frosted martinis wouldn’t do us much good.