Perhaps you've not heard, but I am not the most famous among our small writing staff at the Gabber. No. That dubious distinction currently goes to our own Cathy Salustri.
Cathy recently wrote a three-part series for our paper about Barlett Park - a nightmarishly underprivileged neighborhood on the south side of St. Pete, a place she ultimately credited for her "new found" racism.
Several years ago Cathy, for reasons I won't bore you with, found herself looking for a new home. The only neighborhood she decided that she could afford to buy into was Bartlett Park.
We, her friends and colleagues, begged her not to do it. (I will hardly drive through that neighborhood, and I am certain that the majority of St. Petersburg's citizens have never even seen it.) But Cathy - vowing that the neighborhood was simply misunderstood - found a cute, if ailing, bungalow on what we have now learned is one of the neighborhood's most notorious streets. So be it.
Now Cathy, I can attest to you, is probably one of the most open-minded people I know. Or, at least she was.
While some may call them petty crimes, hardly a month has gone by since Cathy's relocation that hasn't seen some sort of theft or otherwise degenerate action perpetrated on her household, culminating in the larceny of her scooter.
No, no one ever tried to get in the house (that we know of). No one assaulted Cathy personally. But plenty of innuendo and outright treats have been made in the two years that she has called Bartlett Park her home.
I say all of this not to defend Cathy's current position as a "racist." Cathy and I have gone round and round on the subject in the past few weeks - me trying to come to terms with her position, she trying to explain hers. But, regardless of its cause, you simply can not defend racism. However, it does seem - since the story first ran in the Gabber - that a whole lot of people have gotten this message wrong.
Had Cathy not said those inflammatory words - had she simply written a piece about the plight of Barlett Park - none of this would be up for discussion. Frankly - and sadly - no one would have cared. But, as it is, Cathy has been the center of a maelstrom of sorts, with attention from Creative Loafing, WMNF, the St. Petersburg Times, and the Tampa Bay Association of Black Journalists.
This latter organization criticized Cathy for even attempting to live in Bartlett Park. They told her that her issues were not race-related, but driven by an aversion to a certain economic class. The Tampa Bay Association of Black Journalists implored Cathy to "find a better class of black people."
But the point is not whether you trust your neighbors. The issue at hand - the issue that Cathy clearly did not succeed in bringing to the surface - is "institutionalized" racism.
We live in a society where "bad things" are not discussed - a society which seems content to believe that hearing no evil is tantamount to godliness. In short, we live in a society that confuses the discussion of ugliness with ugliness itself.
Cathy gets my vote for the best intentioned reporter of the year because she has enough respect for the truth to actually tell it. When she voluntarily publicised the fact that she was "becoming a racist," she was opening the door for a long-needed community dialogue, one that acknowledges the inherent issues of racism and bigotry stewing in us all, regardless of color.
Maybe we don't put it out there - we've learned that it's not to be discussed. But the problems facing minorities in our world - or any race you harbor a negative stereotype for - are not so easy to pinpoint as a burning cross and an epithet. The problem of racism lies in the myriad of responses Cathy has received - from both white and black members of the community - saying, without a hint of irony: Oh, you're not a racist...because I feel that way, too.
My point is simply this: who cares if Cathy Salustri is a racist? This issue was never supposed to be about the conversion of one woman, or even her relatively inconsequential decent into hatred. This story is simply a tell-tale sign that silence, that the era of "political correctness," has actually corrected nothing.
Do I think that proud racists should fly their flags and preach their own brand of cancerous hate? Certainly they've got the right, but no - I don't want to see it. But I do think that a real opportunity has been missed here.
We could have used Cathy's example as a way to open up a discussion about the latent racism which hides in even the most open of hearts. We could have used this experience as starting-point for a focus on what really frightens us - about ourselves and those who are different.
Instead, we told a brave voice to do what we have all learned to do - to make excuses and to simply sweep it under the rug.
I was recently at a birthday party where the issue of Cathy's articles - and the buzz that they have generated - came up for discussion. As a colleague and friend of Cathy's, I was invited to give my perspective. But, I did not get a minute into the background of the issue before a friend of mine rose abruptly and left the party.
Now, I do not know this woman well. I know that she is an artist: a vocalist, and a savvy political poet. But, I have never had the opportunity to talk with her about racism.
I am white - she is black. Some things are not discussed in a cordial society. It seems that I have been taught - commanded, actually - to forget that she is black. As if that's a dirty word.
But the truth is, she is black. And the truth is, I notice. In the same way that she notices that I am white.
The unfortunate thing is, she left the party before we could get down to the details. As uncomfortable as a dialogue about race might be for me, I can not pretend to understand how such a conversation - in a party of mostly white acquaintances - must make her feel.
The point here is that we've really got to stop pretending that being "colorblind" is somehow a virtue. That is simply an absurd notion. We have to start opening up - however uncomfortable it may be - to a conversation, a dialogue, about racism.
Worrying about having the "wrong answers," or being vilified, as Cathy has been, is a slippery slope to a deeper misunderstanding. Perhaps we in the media missed an opportunity, but these opportunities are missed everyday. As regular folks, we ignore - or run from - dialogue with a co-worker, a mail-carrier, a waiter, a boss - wherever you see a different color. We are conditioned to ignore an opportunity to simply offer - or even request - an honest perspective.
What if, instead of keeping a polite silence, we had all been learning to ask questions?
June 17, 2007
It’s Your Turn to Shuffle
Anyone who knows me, knows how much I like games. Board games, video games, word games, card games – you name it, I’ll play it. And, while I may not be an athlete (you’d probably have to blackmail me into playing flag football), my favorite games are of the more active variety. I love badminton, croquet, ping pong, and have even built my own ladder golf set out of PVC.
(To anyone who might be unfamiliar with ladder golf, I command you to stop reading this and go look it up right now. It’s oh so much cooler than horseshoes.)
I tell you all of this not to give you an idea of what my personals ad might look like, but to explain why it’s so very weird that it took me this long to discover St. Pete Shuffle.
Well, “discover” is probably an overly generous verb, here. I’ve actually known about this shuffleboard event for over a year. I have been invited – nay, implored – to try it out half a dozen times. Why did I decline? What took me so long?
I’d never played shuffleboard for the very same reason that many of you are reading this with incredulity: shuffleboard is for old people.
As all Floridians know, shuffleboard is the patron sport of the geriatric set. It is synonymous with buffet specials and leisure suits. It is as obsolete as the foxtrot, just one step away from the Long Shadow Inn.
When I actually turned down a party invitation last Friday to go to the Shuffle, my friends said, “What are you, eighty?”
But you know what? I have never been happier to miss a party.
People, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t expect to be saying this, but shuffleboard is the coolest game ever! And the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle is the coolest place to play it.
The Mirror Lake recreation area (559 Mirror Lake Drive, Downtown) is home to some of St. Petersburg’s oldest buildings. Though many of them are a little worse for the wear, the shuffleboard courts are in excellent condition. Stepping into the hexblock courtyard is like stepping back in time – it’s like finding yourself in an old Florida postcard.
The playing starts at 7pm every Friday, weather permitting, and when I showed up around 7:15, Chris Kelly, the current head of the St. Pete Shuffleboard Club, was just patching his iPod into the court’s PA system. Once a month, I’m told, live bands play, but Chris’ music mix was mellow and hip enough to please just about everybody. Otis Reading’s “These Arms of Mine” created a surreal time warp – I felt like I was in the Florida version of Dirty Dancing. Being a big history geek, I was nearly giddy with this retro glimpse of old St. Pete.
When the sun goes down, white Christmas lights illuminate the courts, and play goes on until 11pm. Club members, who pay just $20 annually, can play later, if they like.
The St. Pete Shuffleboard Club was established in 1924, and the first Clubhouse was built in 1927. I’m sure the place has seen its ups and downs, but the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle started about two years ago, and is well on its way to reviving the game. Is it still a senior pastime? You betcha. But the folks at the Shuffle are far from geriatric, and there’s an equal amount of families and college kids – all shuffling happily, side-by-side.
As for the main attraction – the game – it’s easy enough to keep you from getting discouraged and challenging enough to be fun. Friday night Shuffle is free (which is a whole lot cheaper than miniature golf) and open to everyone, so bring friends or even the kids. You can play by yourself, but it’s obviously more fun with an opponent or a group of four. I had the privilege of being heartily defeated by St. Pete Councilmember Jeff Danner, and his teammate - the master himself - Chris Kelly.
But, lest you think I’m some kind of slouch, I should warn you: I annihilated the Gabber’s own Cathy Salustri in my very first attempt at shuffleboard, 87-31.
And, I reserved all bragging rights.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/21/07
(To anyone who might be unfamiliar with ladder golf, I command you to stop reading this and go look it up right now. It’s oh so much cooler than horseshoes.)
I tell you all of this not to give you an idea of what my personals ad might look like, but to explain why it’s so very weird that it took me this long to discover St. Pete Shuffle.
Well, “discover” is probably an overly generous verb, here. I’ve actually known about this shuffleboard event for over a year. I have been invited – nay, implored – to try it out half a dozen times. Why did I decline? What took me so long?
I’d never played shuffleboard for the very same reason that many of you are reading this with incredulity: shuffleboard is for old people.
As all Floridians know, shuffleboard is the patron sport of the geriatric set. It is synonymous with buffet specials and leisure suits. It is as obsolete as the foxtrot, just one step away from the Long Shadow Inn.
When I actually turned down a party invitation last Friday to go to the Shuffle, my friends said, “What are you, eighty?”
But you know what? I have never been happier to miss a party.
People, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t expect to be saying this, but shuffleboard is the coolest game ever! And the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle is the coolest place to play it.
The Mirror Lake recreation area (559 Mirror Lake Drive, Downtown) is home to some of St. Petersburg’s oldest buildings. Though many of them are a little worse for the wear, the shuffleboard courts are in excellent condition. Stepping into the hexblock courtyard is like stepping back in time – it’s like finding yourself in an old Florida postcard.
The playing starts at 7pm every Friday, weather permitting, and when I showed up around 7:15, Chris Kelly, the current head of the St. Pete Shuffleboard Club, was just patching his iPod into the court’s PA system. Once a month, I’m told, live bands play, but Chris’ music mix was mellow and hip enough to please just about everybody. Otis Reading’s “These Arms of Mine” created a surreal time warp – I felt like I was in the Florida version of Dirty Dancing. Being a big history geek, I was nearly giddy with this retro glimpse of old St. Pete.
When the sun goes down, white Christmas lights illuminate the courts, and play goes on until 11pm. Club members, who pay just $20 annually, can play later, if they like.
The St. Pete Shuffleboard Club was established in 1924, and the first Clubhouse was built in 1927. I’m sure the place has seen its ups and downs, but the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle started about two years ago, and is well on its way to reviving the game. Is it still a senior pastime? You betcha. But the folks at the Shuffle are far from geriatric, and there’s an equal amount of families and college kids – all shuffling happily, side-by-side.
As for the main attraction – the game – it’s easy enough to keep you from getting discouraged and challenging enough to be fun. Friday night Shuffle is free (which is a whole lot cheaper than miniature golf) and open to everyone, so bring friends or even the kids. You can play by yourself, but it’s obviously more fun with an opponent or a group of four. I had the privilege of being heartily defeated by St. Pete Councilmember Jeff Danner, and his teammate - the master himself - Chris Kelly.
But, lest you think I’m some kind of slouch, I should warn you: I annihilated the Gabber’s own Cathy Salustri in my very first attempt at shuffleboard, 87-31.
And, I reserved all bragging rights.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/21/07
Hot Dogs in Paradise
Well, here I am again, mired in schoolwork. Yes, there are times when even my life is truly uneventful. But, a few hours chained to my computer, or pouring over the surprisingly uninteresting details of witchcraft in early modern Europe, are nothing compared to the soul-crushing boredom that my dog Mango endures while I am attempting to be a student.
In all honesty, sometimes a short walk is the highlight of both of our days. But hey, St. Petersburg was made for walkin’ – at least that’s what Mango tells me.
Now, I know you’re all grumbling right now. A walk? In Florida? In June?! But I can assure you that I am not crazy; I hate the heat as much as anybody, and possibly more than most. But, dogs don’t need less exercise in the summer, and frankly, neither do we, so I am going to share with you my secrets for a happy life with your dog as we enter into the brain-frying months ahead.
Firstly, there are pockets of this town that stay relatively cool. (Of course, by relative, I mean that the alert levels for heatstroke are downgraded from red to orange. But, without a membership to a dog-friendly gym, that’s as good as it gets.)
My old favorite is Crescent Lake. One of the finest parks in St. Petersburg, Crescent Lake offers tennis courts and a playground (for you crazy kids), and over a mile of paved, lakeside foot path. The lake is really more of a pond – okay, a retention pond – but it’s clean enough to fish, apparently, and allows for a righteous breeze to keep you from passing out. Mango’s favorite part, of course, is the dog park, which is a decent size, and attracts a good crowd of mutts in the evening. When you’re pooped from your walk, you can sit in the shade while your dog socializes.
If you’re into this kind of thing, dog owners are fairly sociable creatures themselves. They never tire of relating their puppy’s wacky antics, useful house-training tips, or salacious dog park gossip. A recent trip provided this little gem (and I am actually not making this up): “Yeah, that German Shephard’s always got diarrhea…I don’t know what they feed her, but I wouldn’t let your dog get too close.” Fascinating.
Personally, I like to turn up my iPod and look anti-social, but that’s just me.
The Vinoy Park/ Northshore/ Spa Beach area is probably one of the most beautiful places in St. Pete – it’s certainly, in my opinion, the finest thing about downtown. We like to stroll along the water, admiring the view and contemplating just how lucky we are to live here, and Mango likes to play “tight-rope” with the sea wall. So far, no Coast Guard rescues, but we take a cell phone just in case.
When Mango’s really wound up, though, we take her to the dog park there – which is absolutely enormous. The dogs at the Northshore park seem younger, hipper somehow- a little more cosmopolitan, if you will. I guess that’s city dogs for you. There’s also a fair helping of show-quality Weimaraners and Vizslas from Old Northeast, but they don’t seem to mind rubbing paws with slobs like Mango and me.
Of course, even Mango likes to get out of the city now and then, so my number one secret for staying cool with your dog (and really, if you haven’t heard of it by now, shame on you) is Fort DeSoto’s Dog Park.
Mango actually starts heaving and salivating if I drive even vaguely in the vicinity of this place. All of her training is left on the mainland – all bets are off at the beach. Only a small section of the beach is open to off-leash dogs, but as it turns out, most dogs can’t read. Mango, in particular, has no love for the boundary markers. Non-dog people take note: If you don’t want a big ol’ mess of sandy, wet and stinky slobber spraying onto your family picnic, it is best to avoid this area – by at least a mile or two.
But for dog owners, Fort Desoto is really the saving grace of summer. If you’ve got a “runner,” like Mango, you can actually still enjoy all the glory of the beach breeze and salty air at the adjacent fenced-in park. There’s even a shower, which I’ve found comes in handy, and can save you money on your water bill. Hey, why not get some leverage out of those property taxes?
So, do not despair, Floridians, in the dog days of summer (groan). There’s still plenty of fun to be had. Just drink lots of water, get out to the parks, and move your mutt.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/7/07
In all honesty, sometimes a short walk is the highlight of both of our days. But hey, St. Petersburg was made for walkin’ – at least that’s what Mango tells me.
Now, I know you’re all grumbling right now. A walk? In Florida? In June?! But I can assure you that I am not crazy; I hate the heat as much as anybody, and possibly more than most. But, dogs don’t need less exercise in the summer, and frankly, neither do we, so I am going to share with you my secrets for a happy life with your dog as we enter into the brain-frying months ahead.
Firstly, there are pockets of this town that stay relatively cool. (Of course, by relative, I mean that the alert levels for heatstroke are downgraded from red to orange. But, without a membership to a dog-friendly gym, that’s as good as it gets.)
My old favorite is Crescent Lake. One of the finest parks in St. Petersburg, Crescent Lake offers tennis courts and a playground (for you crazy kids), and over a mile of paved, lakeside foot path. The lake is really more of a pond – okay, a retention pond – but it’s clean enough to fish, apparently, and allows for a righteous breeze to keep you from passing out. Mango’s favorite part, of course, is the dog park, which is a decent size, and attracts a good crowd of mutts in the evening. When you’re pooped from your walk, you can sit in the shade while your dog socializes.
If you’re into this kind of thing, dog owners are fairly sociable creatures themselves. They never tire of relating their puppy’s wacky antics, useful house-training tips, or salacious dog park gossip. A recent trip provided this little gem (and I am actually not making this up): “Yeah, that German Shephard’s always got diarrhea…I don’t know what they feed her, but I wouldn’t let your dog get too close.” Fascinating.
Personally, I like to turn up my iPod and look anti-social, but that’s just me.
The Vinoy Park/ Northshore/ Spa Beach area is probably one of the most beautiful places in St. Pete – it’s certainly, in my opinion, the finest thing about downtown. We like to stroll along the water, admiring the view and contemplating just how lucky we are to live here, and Mango likes to play “tight-rope” with the sea wall. So far, no Coast Guard rescues, but we take a cell phone just in case.
When Mango’s really wound up, though, we take her to the dog park there – which is absolutely enormous. The dogs at the Northshore park seem younger, hipper somehow- a little more cosmopolitan, if you will. I guess that’s city dogs for you. There’s also a fair helping of show-quality Weimaraners and Vizslas from Old Northeast, but they don’t seem to mind rubbing paws with slobs like Mango and me.
Of course, even Mango likes to get out of the city now and then, so my number one secret for staying cool with your dog (and really, if you haven’t heard of it by now, shame on you) is Fort DeSoto’s Dog Park.
Mango actually starts heaving and salivating if I drive even vaguely in the vicinity of this place. All of her training is left on the mainland – all bets are off at the beach. Only a small section of the beach is open to off-leash dogs, but as it turns out, most dogs can’t read. Mango, in particular, has no love for the boundary markers. Non-dog people take note: If you don’t want a big ol’ mess of sandy, wet and stinky slobber spraying onto your family picnic, it is best to avoid this area – by at least a mile or two.
But for dog owners, Fort Desoto is really the saving grace of summer. If you’ve got a “runner,” like Mango, you can actually still enjoy all the glory of the beach breeze and salty air at the adjacent fenced-in park. There’s even a shower, which I’ve found comes in handy, and can save you money on your water bill. Hey, why not get some leverage out of those property taxes?
So, do not despair, Floridians, in the dog days of summer (groan). There’s still plenty of fun to be had. Just drink lots of water, get out to the parks, and move your mutt.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/7/07
Distractions of the Caribbean
In general, this column is a mirror of local color and adventure – a place for me to remind us all about what great stuff there is to do right here at home. And, while there is seemingly no end to the parks, restaurants, bars, festivals and outdoor fun in the St. Petersburg area, it serves, on occasion, to get the heck out of town. So today I bring you a distraction of a different sort.
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07
The St. Pete Sampras Tennis Fan Club
Being a bit of a homebody, I don’t often get across the bridge. Tampa is a dirty word in my house. But, every once in a while, a friend or relative will acquire tickets to something really cool, and I am obliged to leave my little corner of St. Petersburg. Just such an occasion presented itself the other weekend when I was invited to watch Pete Sampras play in the Mercedes-Benz Classic at the St. Pete Times Forum.
Now, before I tell you how incredible it was to watch Pete Sampras play, I realize I need to explain to half of you just who the heck he is.
The thought that there might be somebody out there who has not heard of Pete Sampras would have been incredible to me a week ago. I mean, I never watch basketball, but I know who Michael Jordan is. However, when I pitched this column idea to my colleagues – with a huge “you-are-going-to-be-so-jealous” smile on my face - they simply stared blankly. The clock ticked awkwardly for what seemed like an entire minute before one finally asked, “Who?”
Who?! “Pistol” Pete Sampras – the “King of Swing” – is arguably the greatest men’s tennis player to ever pick up a racquet. He retired from tennis in 2002 after winning his fifth US Open. But, I guess winning 14 Grand Slam titles – including a record seven at Wimbledon - doesn’t mean much to some people. I suppose 286 weeks (that’s six years) as the number one men’s tennis player in the world is no big deal.
Well, fine. I probably wouldn’t be interested in a column about Wayne Gretzky. But for you tennis fans – this one is for you.
Pete Sampras retired from competition with nearly every title tennis could afford, and an insane $43 million in career prize money. But he couldn’t stay away. The Mercedes-Benz Classic – an exhibition charity event for Courier’s Kids – was his first foray back into the world of tennis. Judging by the rock-star-worthy screams he inspired - in what I have now dubbed the St. Pete Sampras Times Forum - fans couldn’t be happier.
At the age of 35 – nearly ancient by tennis standards – Pete will be competing at “seniors” events. No, he won’t be smashing it out with Roger Federer (though wouldn’t we love to see it), but he will be back – a little greyer, a little balder – and, judging by his play the other night, no less a champion.
Pete won his best-of-three match against Tampa's own Mardy Fish (7-6, 6-4), ending on an ace, and I would like to believe that maybe it was yours-truly who got him through the tight spots. Just before his monstrous serve on match-point, I shouted “C’mon Pete!” And Pete Sampras – Mr. Wimbledon, that living legend – definitely heard me.
I am a huge tennis fan, if I haven’t made that clear. I am actually something of a geek about it. When the Grand Slams are on, I have been known to sit up until 4 am just to watch live coverage from the Australian Open. Being a June baby, I spent more than one happy birthday morning having “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” I have longed to go to Paris – not to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa – but to cheer in the red-clay-romp that is Roland Garros – the French Open.
But, why do I love tennis? Because unlike so many sports, tennis is a one-on-one drama. It is personality, guts and pure desire that drive players on a grueling year-round tour of tournaments. There is no “season” or draft. There are no team politics. For a tennis player, it’s you against the world and, more poignantly, you against yourself.
Of course, I’m not talking about me against myself. As anyone who has ever seen me can easily tell, I am no athlete. My idea of competition is to see how many M&Ms I can pick up with a pair of chopsticks. I did “make” the tennis team in high school, but that’s really just because they took anyone who tried out. I think I played one match – a doubles match – and lost because I couldn’t get a single serve over the net.
That fact, however, only makes me love tennis all the more. How do they do it? Andy Roddick is on record with a 155mph serve. Some cars won’t even go that fast, people.
Polo may be the sport of kings, and baseball might be America’s past-time, but tennis is the truest test of will, a spectacle of spirit. Just when you think that a player can’t give any more, he digs deep and comes up with the grit to pull through. And, maybe that’s why I admire it so much: it’s a little bit like life. Only, without the big fat prize money.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper 5/10/07
Now, before I tell you how incredible it was to watch Pete Sampras play, I realize I need to explain to half of you just who the heck he is.
The thought that there might be somebody out there who has not heard of Pete Sampras would have been incredible to me a week ago. I mean, I never watch basketball, but I know who Michael Jordan is. However, when I pitched this column idea to my colleagues – with a huge “you-are-going-to-be-so-jealous” smile on my face - they simply stared blankly. The clock ticked awkwardly for what seemed like an entire minute before one finally asked, “Who?”
Who?! “Pistol” Pete Sampras – the “King of Swing” – is arguably the greatest men’s tennis player to ever pick up a racquet. He retired from tennis in 2002 after winning his fifth US Open. But, I guess winning 14 Grand Slam titles – including a record seven at Wimbledon - doesn’t mean much to some people. I suppose 286 weeks (that’s six years) as the number one men’s tennis player in the world is no big deal.
Well, fine. I probably wouldn’t be interested in a column about Wayne Gretzky. But for you tennis fans – this one is for you.
Pete Sampras retired from competition with nearly every title tennis could afford, and an insane $43 million in career prize money. But he couldn’t stay away. The Mercedes-Benz Classic – an exhibition charity event for Courier’s Kids – was his first foray back into the world of tennis. Judging by the rock-star-worthy screams he inspired - in what I have now dubbed the St. Pete Sampras Times Forum - fans couldn’t be happier.
At the age of 35 – nearly ancient by tennis standards – Pete will be competing at “seniors” events. No, he won’t be smashing it out with Roger Federer (though wouldn’t we love to see it), but he will be back – a little greyer, a little balder – and, judging by his play the other night, no less a champion.
Pete won his best-of-three match against Tampa's own Mardy Fish (7-6, 6-4), ending on an ace, and I would like to believe that maybe it was yours-truly who got him through the tight spots. Just before his monstrous serve on match-point, I shouted “C’mon Pete!” And Pete Sampras – Mr. Wimbledon, that living legend – definitely heard me.
I am a huge tennis fan, if I haven’t made that clear. I am actually something of a geek about it. When the Grand Slams are on, I have been known to sit up until 4 am just to watch live coverage from the Australian Open. Being a June baby, I spent more than one happy birthday morning having “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” I have longed to go to Paris – not to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa – but to cheer in the red-clay-romp that is Roland Garros – the French Open.
But, why do I love tennis? Because unlike so many sports, tennis is a one-on-one drama. It is personality, guts and pure desire that drive players on a grueling year-round tour of tournaments. There is no “season” or draft. There are no team politics. For a tennis player, it’s you against the world and, more poignantly, you against yourself.
Of course, I’m not talking about me against myself. As anyone who has ever seen me can easily tell, I am no athlete. My idea of competition is to see how many M&Ms I can pick up with a pair of chopsticks. I did “make” the tennis team in high school, but that’s really just because they took anyone who tried out. I think I played one match – a doubles match – and lost because I couldn’t get a single serve over the net.
That fact, however, only makes me love tennis all the more. How do they do it? Andy Roddick is on record with a 155mph serve. Some cars won’t even go that fast, people.
Polo may be the sport of kings, and baseball might be America’s past-time, but tennis is the truest test of will, a spectacle of spirit. Just when you think that a player can’t give any more, he digs deep and comes up with the grit to pull through. And, maybe that’s why I admire it so much: it’s a little bit like life. Only, without the big fat prize money.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper 5/10/07
Landlubbers Take Note
Ah, Florida. It’s no secret why I live here. I had no choice. My parents forced me to move here from my beloved California when I was only eight.
Twenty-two years later, though, I have forgiven them. I now consider Florida – if not my native home – my chosen home. I actually love everything about it, with the exception of one tiny detail: the paralyzing and insufferable sauna that is summer.
But hey, who’s thinking about that this time of year? I’m thinking about street fairs and festivals, about backyard barbeques on my new, water-sucking sod and, well, just about anything that gets me outdoors. It is, as Mayor Baker says, another great day in St. Petersburg.
Know what else is great about St. Petersburg and, oh, I guess most everywhere in Florida? The coast, the water, the beach!
Everyone who knows me is now laughing hysterically. I am absolutely famous – infamous really - for my intense dislike of the beach. This is largely due to my skin’s propensity to fry like a conch fritter in the sun and my absurdly irrational fear of marine life in general – sharks in particular.
I know, I know. I just need to put on some sunscreen and suck it up. There’s 1200 miles of coastline to explore, some of it not even obscured by mangroves! Well, that’s fine, but I have better idea.
My buddy Dan – a guy so strapping and handy, he makes all of his friends feel like amoebas – has a boat. And, it’s not just any boat – it’s a 28 foot sailboat with all kinds of thingies and doodads and other impressive nautical business on board. He keeps it at the St. Petersburg Municipal Marina downtown, where I recently had a chance to come aboard. At night.
Despite the fact that my head was reeling with visions of Jaws IV, The Revenge (you know, that scene in the beginning? In a marina? At night?...of course you don’t, because I’m the only person who would ever see that movie), I was actually delighted to accept Dan’s invitation.
The Marina is a pretty happenin’ place. There is a secure boat house with showers, laundry and a communal space – complete with a TV and dart board. Fresco’s, the marina-side restaurant, even provides the distant wail of karaoke tunes for the lonely live-aboards.
Apparently, and according to Dan, who knows everything, there is a two-year waiting list to get a slip. Most folks circumvent that by simply buying a boat already in one of those sweet spots. That’s what his “neighbor” Matthew did with his new boat “Free Willy” (I’m sure Matthew would like me to note, for the record, that he did not come up with that designation).
It’s a lot less hassle to have a friend with a boat, though, than to go get one of your own. If you don’t have a boat-buddy, they’re not hard to find. The live-aboards are friendly folk, and they’re always ready to tell you about some impressive nautical doodad they’ve hooked up. Just hang around down by the marina and one is sure to ask you to check out it out. There is nothing like sitting on a boat, on a cool night, kicking back a couple of beers and pretending to understand mariner-speak.
Mariner-speak, I now know, is similar to car-fixing-speak and lawn-gadgetry-speak. It’s a kind of boat lingo that only official “mariners” use involving bizarre and, clearly, made-up words like “bilge” and “keel.” Its sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to instill awe and humility in “landlubbers” like myself.
I daresay that trick would have worked on me the other night, had I not been listening intently for the slightest rumbling of tubas and large fins in the water.
For the future, though, I am looking to shed these silly fears of skin blisters and feeding frenzies. As part of my recovery, Dan has promised to take me “out” in the boat. Apparently these things are designed for actual “sailing.” He says that if the wind is right, we might even get to “bury the rail.” Whatever that means.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/26/07
Twenty-two years later, though, I have forgiven them. I now consider Florida – if not my native home – my chosen home. I actually love everything about it, with the exception of one tiny detail: the paralyzing and insufferable sauna that is summer.
But hey, who’s thinking about that this time of year? I’m thinking about street fairs and festivals, about backyard barbeques on my new, water-sucking sod and, well, just about anything that gets me outdoors. It is, as Mayor Baker says, another great day in St. Petersburg.
Know what else is great about St. Petersburg and, oh, I guess most everywhere in Florida? The coast, the water, the beach!
Everyone who knows me is now laughing hysterically. I am absolutely famous – infamous really - for my intense dislike of the beach. This is largely due to my skin’s propensity to fry like a conch fritter in the sun and my absurdly irrational fear of marine life in general – sharks in particular.
I know, I know. I just need to put on some sunscreen and suck it up. There’s 1200 miles of coastline to explore, some of it not even obscured by mangroves! Well, that’s fine, but I have better idea.
My buddy Dan – a guy so strapping and handy, he makes all of his friends feel like amoebas – has a boat. And, it’s not just any boat – it’s a 28 foot sailboat with all kinds of thingies and doodads and other impressive nautical business on board. He keeps it at the St. Petersburg Municipal Marina downtown, where I recently had a chance to come aboard. At night.
Despite the fact that my head was reeling with visions of Jaws IV, The Revenge (you know, that scene in the beginning? In a marina? At night?...of course you don’t, because I’m the only person who would ever see that movie), I was actually delighted to accept Dan’s invitation.
The Marina is a pretty happenin’ place. There is a secure boat house with showers, laundry and a communal space – complete with a TV and dart board. Fresco’s, the marina-side restaurant, even provides the distant wail of karaoke tunes for the lonely live-aboards.
Apparently, and according to Dan, who knows everything, there is a two-year waiting list to get a slip. Most folks circumvent that by simply buying a boat already in one of those sweet spots. That’s what his “neighbor” Matthew did with his new boat “Free Willy” (I’m sure Matthew would like me to note, for the record, that he did not come up with that designation).
It’s a lot less hassle to have a friend with a boat, though, than to go get one of your own. If you don’t have a boat-buddy, they’re not hard to find. The live-aboards are friendly folk, and they’re always ready to tell you about some impressive nautical doodad they’ve hooked up. Just hang around down by the marina and one is sure to ask you to check out it out. There is nothing like sitting on a boat, on a cool night, kicking back a couple of beers and pretending to understand mariner-speak.
Mariner-speak, I now know, is similar to car-fixing-speak and lawn-gadgetry-speak. It’s a kind of boat lingo that only official “mariners” use involving bizarre and, clearly, made-up words like “bilge” and “keel.” Its sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to instill awe and humility in “landlubbers” like myself.
I daresay that trick would have worked on me the other night, had I not been listening intently for the slightest rumbling of tubas and large fins in the water.
For the future, though, I am looking to shed these silly fears of skin blisters and feeding frenzies. As part of my recovery, Dan has promised to take me “out” in the boat. Apparently these things are designed for actual “sailing.” He says that if the wind is right, we might even get to “bury the rail.” Whatever that means.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/26/07
Poetry for the People
When I was in college the first time around, I decided to major in journalism. It wasn’t, as you might suspect, because I had this burning desire to be a hard-hitting reporter. I’m no Carl Bernstein. But, I thought perhaps a journalism degree would allow me to do what I love – write – and actually make a living.
However, now that I’m back in school I’ve decided to study what I always wanted to study: creative writing. And, while that might seem impractical, I think that people should pursue what makes them happy in this life.
Recently, though, I’ve found that there is something I enjoy just as equally as fiction – poetry.
Now I know, I know. Poetry? Who the heck is going to pay me for that? Well, probably no one. I’m certainly not going to quit my day job. But, I have discovered this whole other aspect of myself, largely due to my new favorite class, Intro to Poetry.
My professor is an adorable Italian from Brooklyn who is – gasp – younger than me. But he’s also a brilliant poet, and has challenged us to write things I never would have tried on my own. This week we’re trying our hands at terza rima, the form Dante invented and used throughout his insanely long Divine Comedy.
I’m sure many of you would rather go to the symphony than sit through a lesson on fourteenth century verse. I wouldn’t do that to you, because the truth is that poetry can be a whole lot cooler than that. And you don’t have to write it to totally dig it.
There are actually lots of ways to enjoy poetry, many of them involving attractive people and adult beverages, if you like that sort of thing. And, as this is National Poetry Month (seriously) it only makes sense that I highlight a couple of local events to start you on your own personal poetry journey. Or, to just go have fun. Whatever.
Recently I went to Poetry Resurrection!, a spoken word event at The Lobby, upstairs from the Garden Restaurant in the 200 block of Central Avenue. My friend Alicia was performing, and I initially went simply to watch her piece.
Soon, I became enamored with these brave performers, trudging up to the mic to bare their souls for a bar crowd. Not all of the performers were veterans, and some of them weren’t that great but, the many who were simply blew me away. They mixed the personal with the political and beyond for a room full of people in every color, class and creed.
Who knew such passion and talent was hiding in our bay area? If this is what poetry reading is all about, I know I’m hooked. Luckily, the Lobby event is a regular Wednesday night occurrence, and usually starts around 10:30 pm. Get there early for a good seat.
If the coffeehouse scene is more to your liking though, you can check out The Globe in the 500 block of 1st Avenue North. Many of you may be familiar with owner JoEllen Schielke, the long-time host of Friday afternoon’s WMNF radio show, Art in Your Ear. Her little coffee shop is probably one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. There’s a great mix of folks at The Globe, along with homemade eats and the funkiest décor in town.
Now, I admit I haven’t yet been able to check out The Globe’s occasional poetry events, but there’s one coming up that I don’t want to miss. On May 18th, at 6pm, The Globe is putting on one of their Sunday School Confessions in Poetry showcases, “S.O.S. The May Day Session” which promises to be a darn good time, if nothing else. What more do you want?
Okay, maybe there are poetry purists amongst us. Well, fine. For you there are several upcoming events hosted at USF-St. Petersburg. April 18th, the Tampa Bay Writers Network, a USF St. Pete organization designed to bring more literary culture into our lives, will host an Evening of Poetry. The event will feature Lizz Straight, a spoken word poet and fellow WMNF-er. Poets from around the community are invited, and can even share their work. You do need to audition for them, but I’m pretty sure that means just sending them a tape. Oh, and if you need a little more motivation, I believe there are cash prizes involved.
The Tampa Bay Writers Network has also been hosting a Wednesday Writers Series to highlight local writers in various genres. Last week they featured Martha Serpas a poet and professor from the University of Tampa and Gianmarc Manzione, my aforementioned professor. TBWN will host one more event this semester, and you can get more info at www.stpt.usf.edu/tbwn/
Well, enough of the shameless plug for my beloved little school. But, you’re lucky you have me to keep you updated on all this cool stuff, because yeah, poetry is cool.
However, for those of you who are easily offended, poetry events are not necessarily for you. They are almost always R-rated, can be radical, political, and even sexual. But they are an incredibly rewarding and uniquely casual way to engage in other people’s perspectives.
Verse is considered the oldest literary art form. It has documented, painted, and projected every inch of the human experience and still finds ways to evolve. You might never look at the world the same way again after seeing it through the words of a poet.
Don’t be afraid to get out there. All it takes is an open ear and an open mind.
Published in the Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/12/07
However, now that I’m back in school I’ve decided to study what I always wanted to study: creative writing. And, while that might seem impractical, I think that people should pursue what makes them happy in this life.
Recently, though, I’ve found that there is something I enjoy just as equally as fiction – poetry.
Now I know, I know. Poetry? Who the heck is going to pay me for that? Well, probably no one. I’m certainly not going to quit my day job. But, I have discovered this whole other aspect of myself, largely due to my new favorite class, Intro to Poetry.
My professor is an adorable Italian from Brooklyn who is – gasp – younger than me. But he’s also a brilliant poet, and has challenged us to write things I never would have tried on my own. This week we’re trying our hands at terza rima, the form Dante invented and used throughout his insanely long Divine Comedy.
I’m sure many of you would rather go to the symphony than sit through a lesson on fourteenth century verse. I wouldn’t do that to you, because the truth is that poetry can be a whole lot cooler than that. And you don’t have to write it to totally dig it.
There are actually lots of ways to enjoy poetry, many of them involving attractive people and adult beverages, if you like that sort of thing. And, as this is National Poetry Month (seriously) it only makes sense that I highlight a couple of local events to start you on your own personal poetry journey. Or, to just go have fun. Whatever.
Recently I went to Poetry Resurrection!, a spoken word event at The Lobby, upstairs from the Garden Restaurant in the 200 block of Central Avenue. My friend Alicia was performing, and I initially went simply to watch her piece.
Soon, I became enamored with these brave performers, trudging up to the mic to bare their souls for a bar crowd. Not all of the performers were veterans, and some of them weren’t that great but, the many who were simply blew me away. They mixed the personal with the political and beyond for a room full of people in every color, class and creed.
Who knew such passion and talent was hiding in our bay area? If this is what poetry reading is all about, I know I’m hooked. Luckily, the Lobby event is a regular Wednesday night occurrence, and usually starts around 10:30 pm. Get there early for a good seat.
If the coffeehouse scene is more to your liking though, you can check out The Globe in the 500 block of 1st Avenue North. Many of you may be familiar with owner JoEllen Schielke, the long-time host of Friday afternoon’s WMNF radio show, Art in Your Ear. Her little coffee shop is probably one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. There’s a great mix of folks at The Globe, along with homemade eats and the funkiest décor in town.
Now, I admit I haven’t yet been able to check out The Globe’s occasional poetry events, but there’s one coming up that I don’t want to miss. On May 18th, at 6pm, The Globe is putting on one of their Sunday School Confessions in Poetry showcases, “S.O.S. The May Day Session” which promises to be a darn good time, if nothing else. What more do you want?
Okay, maybe there are poetry purists amongst us. Well, fine. For you there are several upcoming events hosted at USF-St. Petersburg. April 18th, the Tampa Bay Writers Network, a USF St. Pete organization designed to bring more literary culture into our lives, will host an Evening of Poetry. The event will feature Lizz Straight, a spoken word poet and fellow WMNF-er. Poets from around the community are invited, and can even share their work. You do need to audition for them, but I’m pretty sure that means just sending them a tape. Oh, and if you need a little more motivation, I believe there are cash prizes involved.
The Tampa Bay Writers Network has also been hosting a Wednesday Writers Series to highlight local writers in various genres. Last week they featured Martha Serpas a poet and professor from the University of Tampa and Gianmarc Manzione, my aforementioned professor. TBWN will host one more event this semester, and you can get more info at www.stpt.usf.edu/tbwn/
Well, enough of the shameless plug for my beloved little school. But, you’re lucky you have me to keep you updated on all this cool stuff, because yeah, poetry is cool.
However, for those of you who are easily offended, poetry events are not necessarily for you. They are almost always R-rated, can be radical, political, and even sexual. But they are an incredibly rewarding and uniquely casual way to engage in other people’s perspectives.
Verse is considered the oldest literary art form. It has documented, painted, and projected every inch of the human experience and still finds ways to evolve. You might never look at the world the same way again after seeing it through the words of a poet.
Don’t be afraid to get out there. All it takes is an open ear and an open mind.
Published in the Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/12/07
I’d Like to Buy the World Symphony Tickets
Lest you think that all I do is lounge in coffee shops by day and booze away at night, I will tell you that I am also an enthusiastic patron of the symphony. That’s right people, high culture.
Well, “enthusiastic patron” might be a little excessive. Okay, so maybe I’ve only been to one show this year. But, what I lack in attendance I make up for with sincerity. I actually own a CD of Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony – the very same piece the Florida Orchestra performed on the night in question. Also featured that evening was Vivaldi, who I have definitely, actually heard of.
Now I know I lost some of you at the very mention of Beethoven. Or perhaps it was Vivaldi that got you. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Lot’s of folks are scared of classical music. One look around the Mahaffey Theater the other night would tell you that just about everyone under the age of seventy had something better to do.
But frankly, I’m hoping to change all that.
People, the symphony is awesome! I’m totally serious. The Florida Orchestra may not be St. Martin in the Fields, but they’re pretty darn good for all the support they don’t get. And, in spite of our neglect, they’re ours. These world-class musicians schlep themselves from the Mahaffey to Ruth Eckerd to the Performing Arts Center over 150 times a year. They are warriors, I tell you.
So, for you yet uninitiated: what’s so great about the symphony? You don’t even have to love classical music to enjoy it. Really. Aside from the fact that all of the venues I just mentioned do have cash bars (you lushes), the Mahaffey Theater has just undergone a gorgeous, $20 million facelift. She’s been updated – dressed up in a more sophisticated style as befits a lady of her age. So, if you like architecture, there you go.
But wait – there’s more…
Apart from the Beethoven on the schedule, I mentioned a piece by Vivaldi - a duet between an oboe and bassoon. Now don’t freak out if you have no idea what those instruments are all about. They are woodwinds (the non-shiny, horn things - like that clarinet your parents made you play). They create melodious duck noises of varying pitch, and are honestly quite pleasant.
Also on stage was a wild-looking harpsichord (like a piano, only it’s skinnier and sounds like a toy) with a wild woman at the keys. Oh, she may have looked like your run-of-the-mill, middle-aged-librarian type, but once Vivaldi kicked it up a notch, she got to bopping her head and tapping her feet like the harpsichord was going out of style.
On the bassoon was none other than Mark Sforzini, a regular with the Florida Orchestra for some 14 years. But don’t let that fool you. This guy is a rock star. He was jammin’ like the Hendrix of the bassoon world – heck, of the whole woodwind world.
I admit, my feet were doing the tap-a-long.
But when I say you don’t have to love classical – or know a darn thing about it – I mean it. You do have to like it, though. Or at least be willing to give it a go. For those who think classical music is just background noise at Panera, you’ve got to see it live. You’ve got to see these virtuosos with their syncopated bows and fingers flying, the gong and drum guys wailing, and that rock-star bassoonist – it’s an incredible dance set to music that has stood up to two, three, sometimes even four hundred years of judgment. Who are we to thumb our noses?
If you don’t ever make it, it won’t be the end of the world. There will always be another crop of old folks ready to (sort of) fill the seats. But personally, I like to think of the symphony as bungee jumping for your ears. These days, it’s pretty radical. And, at the very least, you want to know what you’re missing.
So, lest you think me a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that I’ve already got a seat for next weekend. Mozart’s going to be rockin’ the house, and I can hardly wait.
You know, there might even be a few tickets left…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/29/07
Well, “enthusiastic patron” might be a little excessive. Okay, so maybe I’ve only been to one show this year. But, what I lack in attendance I make up for with sincerity. I actually own a CD of Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony – the very same piece the Florida Orchestra performed on the night in question. Also featured that evening was Vivaldi, who I have definitely, actually heard of.
Now I know I lost some of you at the very mention of Beethoven. Or perhaps it was Vivaldi that got you. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Lot’s of folks are scared of classical music. One look around the Mahaffey Theater the other night would tell you that just about everyone under the age of seventy had something better to do.
But frankly, I’m hoping to change all that.
People, the symphony is awesome! I’m totally serious. The Florida Orchestra may not be St. Martin in the Fields, but they’re pretty darn good for all the support they don’t get. And, in spite of our neglect, they’re ours. These world-class musicians schlep themselves from the Mahaffey to Ruth Eckerd to the Performing Arts Center over 150 times a year. They are warriors, I tell you.
So, for you yet uninitiated: what’s so great about the symphony? You don’t even have to love classical music to enjoy it. Really. Aside from the fact that all of the venues I just mentioned do have cash bars (you lushes), the Mahaffey Theater has just undergone a gorgeous, $20 million facelift. She’s been updated – dressed up in a more sophisticated style as befits a lady of her age. So, if you like architecture, there you go.
But wait – there’s more…
Apart from the Beethoven on the schedule, I mentioned a piece by Vivaldi - a duet between an oboe and bassoon. Now don’t freak out if you have no idea what those instruments are all about. They are woodwinds (the non-shiny, horn things - like that clarinet your parents made you play). They create melodious duck noises of varying pitch, and are honestly quite pleasant.
Also on stage was a wild-looking harpsichord (like a piano, only it’s skinnier and sounds like a toy) with a wild woman at the keys. Oh, she may have looked like your run-of-the-mill, middle-aged-librarian type, but once Vivaldi kicked it up a notch, she got to bopping her head and tapping her feet like the harpsichord was going out of style.
On the bassoon was none other than Mark Sforzini, a regular with the Florida Orchestra for some 14 years. But don’t let that fool you. This guy is a rock star. He was jammin’ like the Hendrix of the bassoon world – heck, of the whole woodwind world.
I admit, my feet were doing the tap-a-long.
But when I say you don’t have to love classical – or know a darn thing about it – I mean it. You do have to like it, though. Or at least be willing to give it a go. For those who think classical music is just background noise at Panera, you’ve got to see it live. You’ve got to see these virtuosos with their syncopated bows and fingers flying, the gong and drum guys wailing, and that rock-star bassoonist – it’s an incredible dance set to music that has stood up to two, three, sometimes even four hundred years of judgment. Who are we to thumb our noses?
If you don’t ever make it, it won’t be the end of the world. There will always be another crop of old folks ready to (sort of) fill the seats. But personally, I like to think of the symphony as bungee jumping for your ears. These days, it’s pretty radical. And, at the very least, you want to know what you’re missing.
So, lest you think me a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that I’ve already got a seat for next weekend. Mozart’s going to be rockin’ the house, and I can hardly wait.
You know, there might even be a few tickets left…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/29/07
Bar-hopping the Night Away
I used to party. Seriously party. I didn’t even get ready to go out until 11 pm, and then I’d drive all the way to Ybor to join the debauchery. Those days had a time and place in my life, but I don’t miss them.
Even though I’m technically a “college kid,” my weekend bedtime is not far from my school-night bedtime. A glass of wine and a rousing game of Scrabble are a good Friday night.
However, I do still have friends who have not succumbed to a life of quiet domesticity, and sometimes these friends successfully lure me out on the pretense of having “a few drinks.” Last Friday was just such a night.
I got the call, as usual, late in the evening. My friend Bryan and his band, Hey There, Battleship were playing at the Emerald Bar downtown. Did we want to go?
I said yes for several reasons, but the most important one being: I do not want to grow old before my time, a shriveled shell of my former cool self (if such a thing ever existed).
Unfortunately, I forgot to check my calendar.
As many of you know, last Friday was First Friday. In Gulfport that means Art Walk - a chilled out stroll amongst the shops and mellow bands, sipping wine and coffee until the wee hours of 10 pm. St. Pete celebrates the first Friday of the month a little differently.
What I have always called First Friday in St. Pete is actually and officially known as (I am not making this up) “Get Downtown.” As in Get down, town! Groovy, baby.
But, while the name might be a little out of style, apparently everyone and their cousin loves this chaotic block party situated between 2nd and 3rd Streets on Central Avenue. I mean, there must be a million people there. And, while the party is supposed to peter out around 10, the kids in St. Pete are just getting started.
If this sounds like your cup-o-tea, check it out. But, I warn you: parking becomes an Olympic event and you could wait up to a decade for a drink sandwiched in between Paris Hilton wannabes and their cologne-drenched counterparts.
It’s an event I usually skip, if you want to know the truth. I prefer my downtown on the down low. However, Bryan’s band was tuning up around 11, and it’s important to support local music – especially if it’s your friends.
The Emerald is a dive bar on Central Avenue, round about 6th Street. Their profile on AOL’s City Guide (which was apparently written in 1965) sums it up as a hangout for “war vets, musicians, artists, divorcees and other sundry misfits and hipsters.”
That might be true, but here’s my take on it: The Emerald is a raucous smoke den about the size of my first apartment in Boston. It’s one of the last remaining places in St. Petersburg where you don’t have to be something you’re not. When the BayWalk crowd starts to bug you, check out the Emerald.
So there I was, sipping a beer and enjoying the din after Hey There, Battleship attacked the crowd with their three-piece funk. Suddenly I found myself at one of those pivotal points in a night: should I stay or should I go now?
The answer was to go…to the Bishop Tavern on First Avenue North.
When I tell you that Get Downtown was still gettin’ down, I mean it had whipped itself into a dervish-style frenzy and apparently the Bishop was its center point. Under normal conditions, I like the Bishop. It’s comfortable with a hint of 1920s speak-easy style that makes you feel as though a much larger and older city waits outside. However, on the weekends it suddenly turns into a sardine can - only slightly less smelly. There’s even a velvet rope at the entrance which, next to St. Petersburg’s still-small town disposition simply reeks of pretension.
After a twenty minute conversation in line for the bathroom, I booked it over to Don Leoncio’s Cigar Lounge about a block up the avenue.
Ah, the smell of good cigars, big leather couches, lots of imported beer – these are a few of my favorite things, and Don Leoncio’s has them all. The place opened up maybe six months ago, and I have often felt that it’s still searching for its niche. For the record, I don’t think thumping techno and rave kids is it, but maybe Don Leo’s was just trying something new Friday night. Personally, I’d love to see a live salsa band, but that’s just me.
For the last drink of the evening, my friends and I settled into the street seating out front. With the techno a few decibels lower, I was actually able to talk with an old friend I’ve hardly seen since high school. That’s what life in the little-big city is all about.
And for the record, I didn’t hit the sack until 2:30. True story.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/15/07
Even though I’m technically a “college kid,” my weekend bedtime is not far from my school-night bedtime. A glass of wine and a rousing game of Scrabble are a good Friday night.
However, I do still have friends who have not succumbed to a life of quiet domesticity, and sometimes these friends successfully lure me out on the pretense of having “a few drinks.” Last Friday was just such a night.
I got the call, as usual, late in the evening. My friend Bryan and his band, Hey There, Battleship were playing at the Emerald Bar downtown. Did we want to go?
I said yes for several reasons, but the most important one being: I do not want to grow old before my time, a shriveled shell of my former cool self (if such a thing ever existed).
Unfortunately, I forgot to check my calendar.
As many of you know, last Friday was First Friday. In Gulfport that means Art Walk - a chilled out stroll amongst the shops and mellow bands, sipping wine and coffee until the wee hours of 10 pm. St. Pete celebrates the first Friday of the month a little differently.
What I have always called First Friday in St. Pete is actually and officially known as (I am not making this up) “Get Downtown.” As in Get down, town! Groovy, baby.
But, while the name might be a little out of style, apparently everyone and their cousin loves this chaotic block party situated between 2nd and 3rd Streets on Central Avenue. I mean, there must be a million people there. And, while the party is supposed to peter out around 10, the kids in St. Pete are just getting started.
If this sounds like your cup-o-tea, check it out. But, I warn you: parking becomes an Olympic event and you could wait up to a decade for a drink sandwiched in between Paris Hilton wannabes and their cologne-drenched counterparts.
It’s an event I usually skip, if you want to know the truth. I prefer my downtown on the down low. However, Bryan’s band was tuning up around 11, and it’s important to support local music – especially if it’s your friends.
The Emerald is a dive bar on Central Avenue, round about 6th Street. Their profile on AOL’s City Guide (which was apparently written in 1965) sums it up as a hangout for “war vets, musicians, artists, divorcees and other sundry misfits and hipsters.”
That might be true, but here’s my take on it: The Emerald is a raucous smoke den about the size of my first apartment in Boston. It’s one of the last remaining places in St. Petersburg where you don’t have to be something you’re not. When the BayWalk crowd starts to bug you, check out the Emerald.
So there I was, sipping a beer and enjoying the din after Hey There, Battleship attacked the crowd with their three-piece funk. Suddenly I found myself at one of those pivotal points in a night: should I stay or should I go now?
The answer was to go…to the Bishop Tavern on First Avenue North.
When I tell you that Get Downtown was still gettin’ down, I mean it had whipped itself into a dervish-style frenzy and apparently the Bishop was its center point. Under normal conditions, I like the Bishop. It’s comfortable with a hint of 1920s speak-easy style that makes you feel as though a much larger and older city waits outside. However, on the weekends it suddenly turns into a sardine can - only slightly less smelly. There’s even a velvet rope at the entrance which, next to St. Petersburg’s still-small town disposition simply reeks of pretension.
After a twenty minute conversation in line for the bathroom, I booked it over to Don Leoncio’s Cigar Lounge about a block up the avenue.
Ah, the smell of good cigars, big leather couches, lots of imported beer – these are a few of my favorite things, and Don Leoncio’s has them all. The place opened up maybe six months ago, and I have often felt that it’s still searching for its niche. For the record, I don’t think thumping techno and rave kids is it, but maybe Don Leo’s was just trying something new Friday night. Personally, I’d love to see a live salsa band, but that’s just me.
For the last drink of the evening, my friends and I settled into the street seating out front. With the techno a few decibels lower, I was actually able to talk with an old friend I’ve hardly seen since high school. That’s what life in the little-big city is all about.
And for the record, I didn’t hit the sack until 2:30. True story.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/15/07
The Luckiest Coffee Shop in Town
When I was in high school, my friends and I did what all kids do – looked for somewhere cool to hang out. We had a little bar we drank coffee at until the owners decided that was no good for the older, drinking clientele and kicked us out. After that, we were out of luck.
Basically we ended up at Denny’s. Now, I’ve got nothing against Denny’s. It’s great if you want a four-course breakfast at 2 am. But, it’s not exactly “cool.”
Back in those dark ages, St. Petersburg was woefully lacking in coffee shops. This was long before Starbucks discovered our Bay area. I only remember one place – Mother’s Milk - and it was way up in Clearwater.
Times have changed. I’m old enough to go wherever I want to. Frankly, I’m too old to go to some places, but that’s another story. St. Petersburg, in the downtown area alone, now boasts “four Starbucks” as Mayor Baker recently, and somewhat inaccurately, announced, adding that he felt this was a sign that the city had arrived as a chic metropolis. I’m not sure I agree with Mayor Rick, but it is nice that I can find a decaf Americano just about anywhere these days.
Now that I’m a student, I’m ever-more on the lookout for a “cool” place to sit and read, write, or just plain goof off. Starbucks aside, the downtown area also has a smattering of independent coffee houses to supply the growing American need for caffeine. I too, though I drink the low-test variety, find myself seeking out the bean.
But, I might as well save you the guess work and tell you that my new-favorite coffee house is Bohemia on Central Avenue.
If we’d had a place like this back in high school, we might have been a lot cooler. Or, at least we would have felt a lot cooler. But I digress…
Bohemia, as the name might imply, is an independent coffee shop that serves up what you would find at any corporate spots, but with charmingly-original size choices like small, medium and large.
It’s everything I love in a coffee shop – artsy, eclectic and a little bit gritty. Rather than marketing their own “line” of music, they play all sorts of cool stuff. Just today I was grooving to The Cure, The Smiths and New Order (hey wait – AM I still in high school?). Well, I still love that music, and so do a lot of us former nerds.
Sure there are a few drawbacks to going “independent.” There is a minimum charge for credit cards, and you certainly won’t find any internet access (which is actually a good thing, for me, as it keeps me on track with my studies).
However, apart from the bratty service you often find in a place as “hip” as this, these folks are seriously lacking in pretension. They are totally cool. The other day, a girl put herself in mortal peril - atop the most rickety ladder I have ever seen – to plug an extension cord into a dubious outlet so that I might amuse myself with my laptop. Lovely.
Inside you have the option of comfy couches or tables and outside – my favorite part – a huge patio, literally twice the size of the shop, with a sea of tables, benches and old-fashioned bistro lights crisscrossed overhead. At night, though I’ve only driven by, it looks kind of like a twinkley, Parisian café. I half-expect to find Toulouse-Lautrec in the courtyard, putting the final dabs of paint on a poster for the Moulin Rouge.
Oh, and they have beer. Glittering, frosty imported bottles – some brands even a beer snob like me didn’t know existed. Need I say more?
But, before you go rushing out to Bohemia, taking up all the sweet spots on the patio, I should warn you. Just this morning I was sitting – steamy Americano in hand, laptop at the ready – reveling in the sunshine. All was perfect.
Out of nowhere, it came. I thought I had been assaulted by stray buckshot until I saw it. On my pants, in my hair, and terribly close to my full cup of coffee: bird crap. There, I said it. Maybe you should just stay home.
Of course, on the other hand, my friends tell me it’s a sign of good luck. We’ll see.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/1/07
Basically we ended up at Denny’s. Now, I’ve got nothing against Denny’s. It’s great if you want a four-course breakfast at 2 am. But, it’s not exactly “cool.”
Back in those dark ages, St. Petersburg was woefully lacking in coffee shops. This was long before Starbucks discovered our Bay area. I only remember one place – Mother’s Milk - and it was way up in Clearwater.
Times have changed. I’m old enough to go wherever I want to. Frankly, I’m too old to go to some places, but that’s another story. St. Petersburg, in the downtown area alone, now boasts “four Starbucks” as Mayor Baker recently, and somewhat inaccurately, announced, adding that he felt this was a sign that the city had arrived as a chic metropolis. I’m not sure I agree with Mayor Rick, but it is nice that I can find a decaf Americano just about anywhere these days.
Now that I’m a student, I’m ever-more on the lookout for a “cool” place to sit and read, write, or just plain goof off. Starbucks aside, the downtown area also has a smattering of independent coffee houses to supply the growing American need for caffeine. I too, though I drink the low-test variety, find myself seeking out the bean.
But, I might as well save you the guess work and tell you that my new-favorite coffee house is Bohemia on Central Avenue.
If we’d had a place like this back in high school, we might have been a lot cooler. Or, at least we would have felt a lot cooler. But I digress…
Bohemia, as the name might imply, is an independent coffee shop that serves up what you would find at any corporate spots, but with charmingly-original size choices like small, medium and large.
It’s everything I love in a coffee shop – artsy, eclectic and a little bit gritty. Rather than marketing their own “line” of music, they play all sorts of cool stuff. Just today I was grooving to The Cure, The Smiths and New Order (hey wait – AM I still in high school?). Well, I still love that music, and so do a lot of us former nerds.
Sure there are a few drawbacks to going “independent.” There is a minimum charge for credit cards, and you certainly won’t find any internet access (which is actually a good thing, for me, as it keeps me on track with my studies).
However, apart from the bratty service you often find in a place as “hip” as this, these folks are seriously lacking in pretension. They are totally cool. The other day, a girl put herself in mortal peril - atop the most rickety ladder I have ever seen – to plug an extension cord into a dubious outlet so that I might amuse myself with my laptop. Lovely.
Inside you have the option of comfy couches or tables and outside – my favorite part – a huge patio, literally twice the size of the shop, with a sea of tables, benches and old-fashioned bistro lights crisscrossed overhead. At night, though I’ve only driven by, it looks kind of like a twinkley, Parisian café. I half-expect to find Toulouse-Lautrec in the courtyard, putting the final dabs of paint on a poster for the Moulin Rouge.
Oh, and they have beer. Glittering, frosty imported bottles – some brands even a beer snob like me didn’t know existed. Need I say more?
But, before you go rushing out to Bohemia, taking up all the sweet spots on the patio, I should warn you. Just this morning I was sitting – steamy Americano in hand, laptop at the ready – reveling in the sunshine. All was perfect.
Out of nowhere, it came. I thought I had been assaulted by stray buckshot until I saw it. On my pants, in my hair, and terribly close to my full cup of coffee: bird crap. There, I said it. Maybe you should just stay home.
Of course, on the other hand, my friends tell me it’s a sign of good luck. We’ll see.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/1/07
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