Neighbors, friends, elected representatives—I am Margaritaville. My father was a simple shrimp-boat captain who set course for a sleepy fishing village almost 40 years ago. He didn't want much. A little plot of land, some skanks, maybe a flask of rum to warm his swollen belly. I'm not sure a little boy was in the plans, but he raised me with love and, more importantly, a love of this land.
From the crisp scent of vomit-soaked pizza boxes baking in the sunrise on East Sound Pier, to the pink-and-orange sunsets softly shimmering behind the West Railyard prostitute encampments, I love every inch of this town. I took my first body shot right around the time I spoke my first word, and that word was "body shot."
