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In which your narrator fails at exercise ...
 Dateline: Miami. I write to you from a breezy terrace overlooking the Biscayne Bay. In my left hand, a Virgin Pina Colada. In my right, a key of prime, uncut Dama Blanca, which makes the alcohol free Pina Colada seem pretty silly in retrospect. Well, best not to mix, I guess. And, yes, I know what you’re wondering, and yes, I am typing with my tongue.

Actually I’m at the Coral Gables public library because the Wi-Fi is better here than in my hotel. I’ve been down here a little over a week shooting an episode of a popular cable TV show with a great group of people. 

On my first day off in the beach oriented community I thought it might be fun to go snorkeling. I am not much of an athlete, but I do like to snorkel and look at reefs and brightly colored fish, so I found a place close by and signed up to be the snorkeling wing of a diving trip off the marina, leaving Saturday afternoon.

On the dock, a young man named Ed and his friend Rod (Rob? Ron?) introduce themselves. Lovely guys, fans of the Big Bang Theory and if they hate Kripke, they kept it to themselves over the next few hours. Super nice guys, super supportive diving aficionados down from Mississippi for the weekend. They’re on my boat! 

We zoom off into the open water – beautiful but very choppy. At the first stop, I jump off the boat, swim over to the reef, but I’m used to snorkeling pretty close to shore. The reef is thirty feet down and while the scuba divers twenty five feet below me seem to be enjoying themselves, we snorkelers up on the surface are … nonplussed. Well, fuck it, I’m kinda tired, I’ll just go up and chill on the deck.

I go up onto the anchored boat, we’re maybe a mile from shore, I’m slathered in spf50 because Daddy has to take care of his skin and also I’ve already shot a couple scenes, and showing up burnt to a crisp is gonna fuck up continuity. It’s a little thing called professionalism, folks. The boat is rocking. A lot. I burp. I burp again. It becomes very clear that the burping is but an awful overture to the nightmare musical that is to come, so I dash over to the side of the boat.

Ed and Ron(b? d?) couldn’t be nicer and they have a couple good suggestions to help me deal with my nausea, but there is nothing to be done. I am cleaning house. Mightily. The thing is I don’t usually get seasick, but this was some choppy traveling. And I’m used to puking from food poisoning or the demon liquor, but that’s different. That’s getting rid of a toxin. This is a fundamental structural problem.  It's not the contents, the whole container is not right. So when I tell you I spent two hours puking off the side of a boat, I mean I spent one hour puking and another hour dry heaving. (Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.) As I staggered back on to the dock after a three hour tour (A three hour tour, yes, I know) I realized my vision was a little off – my depth perception not quite right. Completely empty, vision distorted, and a sickly shade of green, I consented to a photograph with Ron (I’m going with Ron, I’m 90% sure it was Ron). When I got back to the hotel, I checked the mirror and figured out why my vision was acting up. In the course of my violent dry heaving, I had burst a blood vessel in my eye (okay, ladies, fine, one at a time, there’s plenty of Bowie to go around).

I have been pretty landlocked since. I went swimming at South Beach the other day, which is fascinating. Ladies take their tops off! In public! One woman stood up next to me and took off her top, revealing the most ridiculous set of pneumatically fake boobs, I’d ever seen, which she proceeded to just SOAK in suntan lotion. And that might sound wildly awesome, but trust me it was about as erotic as watching someone change their brake fluid. I kept my head down and walked past. It’s a little thing called professionalism.

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