Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish Albert

Every morning, Albert makes a break for it. [At least that’s how I imagine it.] He cruises past the eco-shag, beach cabanas…la di da di da…waddles to the expansive stretch of white sand beach, spreads his feet on the welcoming bath water and allows the waves to gently drift him away. The owner of the hotel, Albert’s american sugar daddy, glances at one of his staff, does one of those gangsta mafia gestures, two fingers on the eyes, points to unsuspecting Albert…watch him!

One day, Albert makes it as far as the private homes on the southern strip of playa el cuco…he’s so far away, human eyes can no longer reach him. And that’s when I’m secretly hopeful of a successful escape.

But minutes later, he’s carried back to the hotel. One hand clutches his beak, the other, his gimp wing. He’s hauled back like a cheap handbag…no longer able to soar on the salty winds like he once did…the cost of an amputated wing.

I can’t fault him for the trade he made. Pelican got to eat. Fish cost money. Now Albert lives in a hotel, he’s on television…another line of work by the american sugar daddy [an ex-new yorker, out to seriously educate the world on the protection of turtle eggs by rifle bearing vigilante he hires to guard any egg hatching activity on the hotel premise…]

Albert, man. I don’t fault you. It’s one sweet gig you got. But I still hope that one day, those lumpy wings still have something left in them...that you're hungry enough to take one more risk, to dare flap foolishly...way up high above where your heart longs to be.

Dedicated to the memory of Steve Jobs.