By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
Montone, who had imbibed "a few strong ones," began singing JB's praises before I could ask about his accessory.
"The atmosphere is phenomenal, top down," he said. "I haven't tasted the food because the drinks are so heavy. Why eat when you can drink?
"I develop relationships," he told me when I asked his line of work. "The difference between me and most is, I deliver results," he said, swaggering though he stood in place, an effect that seemed to be the cumulative result of the pirate wristband, the alcohol, and a healthy ego.
Since Capt. Jack had already won his heart, I moved on. Outside, among those following the keyboardist's command to "put your hands in the air," were hotties of all sorts — made more attractive, experience tells me, by the fact that conversation was impossible. So I eyed the muscled back of one tall stud through his cotton T-shirt until I found a better diversion — two guys with bagpipes under their arms stood at the far end of the bar, away from the band.
With disarmingly perfect smiles created by the same dentist, John Fischer and Doug Watson told me they are firefighters who come to the beach regularly to practice for PBC Pipes and Drums. They agreed that their roles — especially the kilts — drew the babes.
"Must be hard to be a man's man in a skirt," I joked.
"I'm now very comfortable with my male sexuality," Fischer said while holding what looked to be nine or ten inches of his instrument's blowpipe.
I spotted Christine at the outdoor bar, a glass of water in hand. Q., she pointed out, was shaking what her mama gave her on the dance floor with a skinny guy in a plaid shirt.
'Thank God it's never come to this," Christine remarked, observing the singles scene.
As we headed out along the beach sidewalk toward our car, the scent of desperation and cigarette smoke dissipated with our worries in the sea spray and moonlight.