I sat at a table in the Wet Lizard\nLounge in Charleston. It was a lazy, hazy April afternoon. The fish\nweren’t running and the port appeared dead. A kid fisherman wearing\nblack sweats, a black hoodie and brown rubber boots sipped a Bud\nLight and Rockstar and stared into his phone for deliverance.\nDoubtless, the phone would deliver. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The only sound in the lounge emanated\nfrom a blinking machine that dispensed Jagermeister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My associate was in the restroom\nchanging out of her green shorts into pink yoga pants. She was\nsimmering on acid and starving for fish and chips. Soon, she would\neat fish and chips on acid, wearing pink yoga pants, and guzzling a\nlocal IPA. It was surely the first acid trip of its kind in OTA\ncountry and probably the last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at a framed faded photograph\non the wall of a man and presumably his three small sons. An\ninscription read: \u201cAll Lost at Sea. Aug. 28, 1986.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No names. Shouldn’t they have written\nthe names of the dead? It seemed like an inexcusable omission and why\nwas the photograph still hanging in the Wet Lizard Lounge 33 years\nlater after the capsizing? Where was the wife today? I wondered. I\nimagined. I had questions. When the acid queen emerged from the\nbathroom and taken a bite of fish and chips, and slugged half the\nbeer, I would seek her insights. They would open doors of perception\nfor me that I couldn’t begin to fathom. \n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I sat at a table in the Wet Lizard Lounge in Charleston. It was a lazy, hazy April afternoon. The fish weren’t running and the port appeared dead. A kid fisherman wearing black sweats, a black hoodie and brown rubber boots sipped a Bud Light and Rockstar and stared into his phone for deliverance. Doubtless, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5221,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5220","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-meditations","category-oregon-tavern-age","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5220","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5220"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5220\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5223,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5220\/revisions\/5223"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5221"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5220"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5220"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5220"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}