My plans to flee Florida have leaked all over the place. My cousin Sean seems especially disappointed. He's not the most demonstrative sort, so I have to admit I'm flattered. He told his wife, Teri, that I was applying for work in NYC because of "a bad case of grass-is-always-greener syndrome." And has been giving me lead after lead for better work down here.

But I just can't do it. I thought I'd be able to enjoy myself down here, make a life and maybe even a career- it is a swing state, after all!- but the better I get to know Florida the more I realize that there's barely anything to know. There's just no there there. Or, here.

Like I said, Sean's become suddenly demonstrative. We've both been going out to Cricketers several times a week lately, which has been fun and unproductive and expensive. The other night we convinced Shanna, one of the bartenders, to come to our next gig at Neptune's in Tarpon. The band's been perfecting a passel of tough salsa tunes which we've all been itching to show off. Sean kept trying to set me up with Shanna. He really laid it on thick, too. Told her I'm good at Jeopardy! (which is kind of a mixed compliment, around here), told her I'm a great pianist (I'm not), told her he'd even get her a job if she'd get her nursing certificate.

I haven't been writing here because how many different ways are there to write isolation, hangovers, and the miniscule sliver of light that the jobs I've been applying for shed on all of it?