Last night I cracked open Wally Stroby's new novel, Gone 'Til November. I was surprised to see my name in the acknowledgments. Why'd he do that? He also has this annoying habit of putting people's thoughts in italicized font. I finished the book and was struck by how Wally captured Florida and it's people. And the fog.
Am I making any sense? I've never seen fog like the fog I've seen in Florida. Maybe it's the elevation, the humidity, the swamps. I dunno. But it's thick and damned near impossible to drive through. Wally has a scene in the fog that's absolutely terrifying. It's bad enough dealing with mother nature in Florida but throw into the mix some heavily armed thugs from Newark, NJ and a parcel of stoned Haitian drug dealers with Soviet AKs and things get interesting.
And this morning I thought of the Foggy Day. An ounce and half of gin. A quarter ounce of Pernod. An ounce of water and a quarter ounce of lemon juice. Stir and throw in a slice of lemon. It's foggy to look at and if you have more than one -- I suggest you stay far away from I-95 between Jacksonville and St Augustine on a foggy morning. You never know what you'll run into.