The Sweet Succession

Blocking the writer

2011-07-22T13:24:00.006+02:00

The following is an excerpt of a conversation I have with myself almost every day.

This is one of those times you should be writing.

But I don’t even know where to begin!

It doesn’t matter. You’ve had this idea for days. Just start anywhere.

The character’s not developed yet. She’s boring.

And she always will be if you don’t write her down.

Borrrrinng.

Do it.

No.

Look, it’s raining. The house is relatively clean. You’re not reading anything right now. Just write a sentence.

One sentence is pointless.

Ok, write a paragraph.

I’m busy.

No, you’re not. You’re bored.

I have real work to do.

But you’re not doing it. You’re not even going to do it.

Yes, I am. And I have to beat the Bejeweled high score.

Wouldn’t you rather write this story?

You would think so, but no.

Why not?

Because it’s not defined. And it’s pointless. I have this beautifully vague thing in my head and words will just mess it up.

You don’t want to share that story?

Not really.

Why not?

Sharing stories feels like sitting in my underwear.

So, why do you spend so much time thinking about it?

Because I want to be a writer.

You are a writer.

I want to be one that people respect.

You want to be a writer who people respect, but you won’t write anything because if they read it, they might not like it, thus no respect, thus no writing. Does that seem silly to you?

No, I think it makes perfect sense.

Why not write for yourself, then?

What’s the point in that?

To sort shit out. You’re doing it right now.

I hate you.

What?

You’re the same voice that tells me I suck when I get more than five pages of anything. You’re a sadistic asshole.

No, actually. That’s you.

Um, no it’s not. I think I know the difference.

Suit yourself.

Fuck you.

.

The glory days of urine-dusted birthdays

2011-06-29T19:00:00.004+02:00

So, two things are happening tomorrow: I am going to the Roskilde Festival and, somewhere around the time that Frisk Frugt is hitting the Gloria stage, I will be 34.

Is it crazy that I feel entirely too old for the former, and far too young for the latter? Anyway, so PJ Harvey's stopping by for my birthday. I bet you can't say that about your 34th.

This is a crazy big festival, people. It's like the mother of European music festivals. People die here. People are conceived here. Hell, I'm pretty sure that more than a few people have been born here. (Cool fact: the festival was created forty years ago by two geeky Danish high school students and, get this: since 1972, all of the profits are donated to charity. Yeah, serious.)

Now, normally, Roskilde is the sedate little sister city to Copenhagen, with about three percent of the population. And that's saying something. Dude, I’ve been there many times; it’s about as happening as Mayberry. They still have houses with thatched roofs. There's a fjord. And a Viking boat museum logically placed on the fjord. (In defense, though, their magnificent cathedral holds the bones of every Danish monarch back to Harold Bluetooth. Yeah, that’s where that comes from.)

But for one week every summer, this town gets inundated with hippies and backpackers and all sorts of unclean and possibly deranged tent-dwellers... I'm told that the Roskilde Music Festival is an absolute rite of passage for Danes. We'd put it off for a few years, but sure as hell, no one was going to let us escape the spectacle.

So, but that's just the thing. It's a motherfucking SPECTACLE, y'all. I'm talking 80,000 people and port-a-potties. I'm talking weirdos (European weirdos!) from every strange counter-culture enclave you can imagine. We'll be floating on this putrid wave of debauchery for three days in a tent you would buy at the corner drug store.

People, I'm a little bit terrified. Actually, I have a lot of anxiety about this whole business. I don't have a car. I don't have a private shower. What if I get sick? What if it's too hot? Too wet? Too crowded?

Oddly (so I've been told by the forty-somethings in my office who go every year), it's not chaos. And maybe that shouldn't surprise me. The Scandinavian ability to control oneself is not, as I first assumed, the product of inhibition. No, it's actually something much deeper than that. It's a sense of decency that comes from a society that treats people as adults and expects the same in return. Remember that one really cool teacher in high school who let you assert yourself, your identity, your manic teenaged opinions so long as you did it with respect? Do you remember how calm that class was? How supportive?

That's Denmark. That, I'm told, is the Rosklide Festival. They call this phenomenon the "orange feeling." I don't know why, but basically it has to do with not just the hippie mindset of "live and let live," but reflects something more dynamic. A personal responsibility. And a sense of trust in the system.

That's like the antithesis of counter-culture, right? But the interesting thing about Scandinavians, and Danes in particular, is that – just like the kids in that high school class – they kind of figured out how to assert themselves without fucking up everyone's good time. See, being an asshole is not hygge. And hygge is the highest Danish good. Even at a urine-soaked rock festival.

The move to Denmark has easily been the most cathartic of my life. Before I left the States, I was getting panic attacks in Home Depot. I was talking myself down in traffic jams. And it's not what you think. It's not because life is "simpler" here. It's not because I now ride my bike to work and have only three brands of toothpaste to choose from.

On a hot, crowded bus, a ten-story stairwell or a nine-hour flight, there’s nowhere to run. And in any strange country, support comes where you can find it. Sure, I'm older, I'm more centered – you might argue those things – but here's the fact of me, what I’ve learned about myself – the worrier, the superstitious fool: my comfort zone is entirely variable. It's a spoiled space of my own definition.

So bring on the Roskilde Festival. Bring on 34. Bring on the chaos and the urine dust and the hippies and all the cold showers with strangers. Bring the intensity of 80,000 bodies, all of them seeking that one righteous thing: hygge.

That’s my favorite word, by the way. A prize for someone who managed to snatch some sanity back from the face of the Chaos Monster. Dancing my ass off in the middle-of-nowhere-Denmark, up urine creek without a flushable toilet, I guess we’ll see. I guess we’ll see if joy isn’t something I can have anywhere.

April is the coolest month

2011-04-08T18:48:00.002+02:00

So, while the dead land is now breeding daffodils (daffodils!), and mixing memories of Alice in Wonderland with my desire for fucking warm weather, already, I have to admit that this little old lady of a town is finally coming back to life.

It's really an amazing thing to live in a place that has seasons. I mean, even if most of those seasons are winter, there's still this great anticipation, this sense of hitting the refresh button, when all the little things start to change. There are buds on the trees, tourists in the harbor, daffodils in pots on all of the tourist cafe tables in the harbor. It's ... wait for it... wait for it... Spring!

And I feel like writing. Man, do I feel like writing! I'll write on this damn iPad, if I must, but I'm dangerously close to rambling (Spring is all about rambling), so I'll make you a list instead. Here's some of the shit going down in Coopertown...

1. Danish people refuse to accept that there's any weather unsuitable for biking. I watched them slip and slide all through winter, and now they are full-on getting blown across the street. Forty mile an hour wind gusts? Don't be such a chickenshit.

2. Time change = magic. Coinciding with the crazy bell graph that is Scandinavian sunlight, adding an extra hour somehow instantly yields like four more hours of post-working daytime.

3. Carlsberg is probably not the best beer in the world anymore, unless you live in the UK. The company changed their classic slogan to "That calls for a Carlsberg," prompting Anheuser-Busch's army of lawyers to proclaim that the campaign infringes upon their "This calls for a Bud Light" branding. Interestingly, Carlsberg's new tag line is actually quite old: it's one they used in the 1950s, so, yeah... much head-hanging and possible counter-suing to come.

4. I have a scheflera plant that may or may not have been exposed to high levels of radiation. Are they supposed to sprout like a million new arms overnight?

5. It's shame upon shame for the Danish immigration services. After the former minister retired in disgrace (apparently you can't deport stateless people when they have no state, and folks tend to frown upon sending kids back to parents in Thai prison), our colleague Gus was kicked out of the country for some serious governmental fuck ups. But, it made the news and, more importantly, Facebook. We're betting Gus gets his visa back within the week.

6. Maricris and I are going to Budapest next month. So I'll be adding Hungarian to my ever-growing list of languages in which I can order beer.

7. Even though I rarely (ha!) update this beast, and have all of three readers, I'm considering a switch over to Wordpress. So pretty! So shiny and new!

8. Children and birds go batshit crazy in Spring. Serial. Between the screaming and the chirping and the trolls that live in the apartment above ours, it's amazing that we get any sleep at all.

9. Because it's about the only thing we can get for free online over here, we are spending way too much time watching Rachel Maddow. Dude. I'm scared to come home. What the holy crap is wrong with you people?

10. And finally, Mango's best friend is now a goat. Named T-Payne. And no, that's not happening in Denmark. But really, it bears repeating.

Huh, that's totally a top ten list and I didn't even try. See? Even my subconscious likes symmetry. But I promise that the next post will be horribly morose. Really. I mean, all sorts of shit could happen. Will I ever figure out how to get a monthly Metro pass? Will I be fired for playing with Wordpress all day? Will I be driven to alcoholism by a hoard of angry trolls?

Dude. Who knows?

The family tree

2011-03-08T17:37:00.003+01:00

In Norse mythology, the whole Universe is a tree: Yggdrasill. It joins and shelters all worlds, and her messenger -- the go-between of gods and demons, giants and men -- is a mean little squirrel.

The Yggdrasil suffers. But it is the timeless Guardian Tree, and it never dies.

Of course, that's just one of myriad tree myths. They're an easy hanger for belief, trees. Targets for cliche and epicly bad poetry, but justifiably so. Few people live to see the birth and death of a great tree. They're very easy to take for granted.

When we moved to Florida, I was eight. Our house was brand new, built on a dirt lot full of weeds and not much else. We came in at night with blackened feet, and knees and necks, pulled sand spur spikes out of our fingers and toes. For my father, this was a blank canvass. And within months there was jasmine and scheflera, baby palms and citrus saplings and who-knows-what. Over the years, he's experimented with all sorts of plants: roses, pumpkins, tomatoes, ficus, butterfly bushes. It's a jungle, now. The configurations change, but always it is green and lush. My dad can make anything grow.

Well, anything that doesn't require sun. See, there was something else on that dirt lot: a massive live oak. It was two trees, practically. So enormous that even though it sat on our property line, bisected by a wooden fence, there was enough for two families. And we did all of the family things you do with a great tree. We tied ropes with tires and hammocks to it. We carved at it and cursed the layers of leaves it dropped year-round. This tree raised thousands, perhaps millions of angry squirrel babies, all chattering proprietarily from its heavy limbs. I imagined that this tree had shielded Seminoles and dinosaurs.

Today is the first day, perhaps since the beginning of the world, that there is no tree. There is no tree because time and disease and chainsaws can dismantle any Universe. Let it be a lesson to you, says the tree -- because I am always surprised by this lesson -- that all things go.

Fear

2010-11-06T23:52:00.005+01:00

Ok, so I'd love to say that my many-month absence has been tied into my inability to change the language settings on my Gmail account. I'd love to say that it's because I've been traveling. Or because I've found a new job.

All of these things are true. But they're not correct.

There's no good reason for me to neglect this space except one: I didn't know where to go. What on earth do you say while you grieve? "Hello, everyone... here's a post about how I'm still grieving..."

No. And I also felt the need not to write anything silly. Like how I don't really know what "business smart" means, as a dress code. How the centrifuge at the laundromat shredded my only appropriate pair of pants...

But tonight, I think I've isolated something that is both past and future. In as much as I want to think about either of those things.

I've been reading Nicola Griffith, lately. The most recent of her Aud Torvingen series. Let's nevermind the fact that I think of Aud as--that, in fact, she is-- a superhero. Let's not discuss how passionately I want her to simply occupy my couch; to feel her spring-coiled power, to look at the gorgeous expanse of her legs in my living room. No, that's all just good writing.

What I'm interested in is how deftly this novel explores the concept of fear. Fear in every tense.

My girlfriend and I don't, generally, discuss certain feelings. We don't much "process." We don't really know how to, not with each other. It's a strange state, actually. One that forces me to be far less verbal, and entirely more present. It's important that she gets my message right from the beginning; it's vital that I understand hers.

But tonight, somehow fear came out. The way we anticipate it, the way we hurt over what is simply a message. The way we worry it into a great monster. And my girlfriend--my weathervane and my lee--named her fear for me.

It's so simple in its brutality. I can comfort, I can soothe. I can open myself up and say, "Here I am. I'm just like you." But I cannot protect. It is not only me who has lost. Who is grieving. And who, again, will lose.

There is always a monster bigger than you.

What I Meant

2010-05-22T00:48:00.012+02:00

Well, I haven't posted much. Clearly. Of course, those of you who know me probably don't expect much, anyway. And I guess I appreciate that.

The truth is, I have written. I've written three or four different posts. Most deleted because they're, really, not what I want to say. Always, there is the line from Prufrock: That's not what I meant, at all.

But writing goes the way of living; very often, what comes out is a great surprise. I sit down to do one thing, and, somehow, I create another. So, to circumvent any need for poetry, I will make a list (my writer-friend Jill has illustrated the succinct power of the list) of all that is with me.

1. I miss my brother.

2. I am giving myself license. To miss him and to be self-destructive.

3. Self-destruction is less dramatic, as I get older.

4. I need. I have an intense need--the kind which is there in all of us, all the time.

5. Loss makes this need a sad hunger. Insatiable.

6. History has taught me: this will become a longing. And then a simple hurt. And then a fact.

7. The fact is that I could not save him. I could not, maybe, ever have saved him.

Also, there is this: I'm back in Copenhagen, with what was waiting for me. Regular life. Normal life. Easy to be here, without him. It's a guilty ease. But also, I am immobilized. And I'm not particularly self-motivated, as a rule.

So, again, this is not what I want to say. Or even what I meant. What I meant is his smile and hopeful voice: Hey, big sister... It is a person, flesh and bone. Living, hands and blood.

But I do understand, now, that words are the only thing I can do. And I understand, now, that these symbols are an adequate illustration for loss. Because they are essentially a removal. Sorry little place keepers for the thing itself.

Things

2010-05-13T03:17:00.007+02:00

Of course, it doesn't make sense. There is no sense in it.

If this were someone else’s thing, their life, there’s little doubt it might have gone this way. There’s little doubt that the twenty-five year old boy would have succumbed to all the demons he’d met.

How fitting would have been that funeral, then. How easily canonized the pretty day, the hand-in-hand walk from the grave back to the church.

I process all of these things, now. They are all a part of this, and yet still wrong. Grief delivers all things wrong, to me. It makes an uncommon family phone call portentous; it turns the crystal around my neck into a life vest.

In short, I feel the need to ward off everything. I feel myself descending to a place where life is a warning, a line cobbled in stone, a last breath.

The ordinary fact of it is that I ache for my father. A hurt I can’t believe. I ache for me, and for all of us. All of us who had this boy—this magnificent boy—as our care. We could have done better, I have thought. Because somewhere, there’s an outcome—a purely rational outcome, I think. A boy who didn’t die.

Reality, however, is where we all fail. It’s where we grieve and suffer until our throats go numb. It’s where we find how much we loved, are loved; qualifiers so often measured not in major events, but in moments. And in things.

I gave my brother two items of note in the last few years. One, a framed picture: I held him, a child sleeping in a rocking chair. The other was a modest silver cross I’d found in our mother’s jewelry box. I was, for some silly and perhaps not-silly reasons, convinced that it protected me. And I’d told him to wear it.

Objects. Baseballs, and trophies, a worn leather belt. T-shirts and wallets. Just little remainders. These are what I have, what I keep. But, still, they work like amulets. They feel like some kind of power.

Funny thing, though, is the power that we are. That thing that is living, alive and unbroken. I can hold this baseball—I can wear these jeans, this sad little scarf—and I will. But these are nothing so much as an afterthought. A longing.

The day my brother died, there were two things of consequence on his nightstand. One, the picture—an almost blurry, candid shot of his sister holding him in a rocking chair. The other, a tarnished silver cross.

Happy Birthday, Mangopants

2010-02-26T15:50:00.004+01:00

We almost didn't get her. Wait, we said. Don't just get the first shelter dog you see... not just because she is a happy, goofy, beautiful dog who stole your heart. Be practical, we thought. Sleep on it.

I went back the next day because, of course we wanted her, loved her already. I went right to her cage, ready to liberate her from the hot, stinky captivity. But she wasn't there. She was being held for someone else.

So I drove home, thinking about how Maricris--who'd never been much of a pet person--had fallen in love with this silly yellow dog. I drove back.

It turns out, the family never came. And so we had a dog, a dog who loved to run and jump and chase... everything. A dog who was a little nippy, sure, but who came when you called her. A dog with stinky feet and silky soft fur... a dog named--most improbably--"Shelly."

It seemed pretty obvious to us that she was a Mango, though. That was July 28, 2006.

Today, Mango is being fostered by Maricris's brother, a veterinary resident in Texas. And she is as happy and healthy as a young dog with hip dysplasia and a bulging disc can be. If she plays too hard, she is often in pain, which is sometimes debilitating. And maybe, just maybe a complicated back surgery will make it all better.

How do you decide? How do you make a decision for a being with no knowledge of her condition, no voice of her own? The surgery could leave her paralyzed. Doing nothing might end the same.

How on earth do you decide?

Olympic Hopeful

2010-02-15T00:21:00.009+01:00

The other night I attended a little get-together at the Niels Bohr Dark Cosmology Center--known professionally and affectionately as simply "Dark." (I have no credentials for this, or even the remotest idea of what people do in "Dark," but somehow I manage to talk my way into these things.)

Anyway, at Dark I pretty much held my own with science people in serious conversations such as this:

Me: "So, do you know if there'll be any Danish coverage for the Olympics?"

Science Person: "Who cares? It's just the Winter Olympics."

Me: "But the Winter Olympics are awesome!"

Science Person: "No one watches the Winter Olympics."

Me (disliking Science Person, who eats pistachios and refuses to look at me): "Where are you from?"

Science Person: "Athens." (And then, as if I clearly wouldn't know) "Greece."

Me: "Oh, ha ha. I didn't realize I was speaking with an Olympic expert."

Athenian Science Person: *much self-satisfied pistachio eating*

So the rumor is confirmed. I have it from a Doctor (probably) of Science Stuff. And not just normal Science Stuff, but Space Science Stuff. The Winter Olympics is dead. And anyone who's anyone from a hot climate knows it. Except for me.

I freaking love the Winter Olympics. And, I don't care what people know, science or otherwise: I love it way more than the Summer Olympics. You know why? Because I've never done any of it.

Oh, you can swim? Awesome, great. You can ride a bike? Me too! You can run, fling a rock across a field? I've been doing that since I was three.

Eh, fine: I'm not an athlete. I'm not even athletic. And I am profoundly in awe of anyone who is, regardless of the season. When I run, I do it because I must. In tennis shoes. While someone chases me. But I don't ever, ever do it on a sheet of ice with razor blades attached to my feet.

I have a reverence for snow that can only be defined as childlike. A frozen puddle, icicles off the roof--these things send me to near giddiness. When I watch the Winter Olympics, I reflect not only on the dedication of the athletes, but also on the sheer joy they must have known once, when they first fit their feet into skates, into skis, and glided across and over winter's quiet places. It's a glimpse of snowmen through the trees, of frozen crystals on the window pane.

Maybe this is the fantasy of a someone who grew up with hot sandy beaches at her door step, the romance of a girl who imagined moguls instead of waves. But I have always loved the smell of ice over salt. For it, I would have suffered scarves and snowsuits gladly.

In a few weeks, I will be in Norway. On skis and hopefully on my feet in a little village called Lillehammer. If that name sounds familiar to you, it should. I can't tell you how stoked I am to learn on slopes first known by some of the world's greatest athletes--for the awe and the joy of it--as the Olympics.

And I'm pretty sure I'm going to break something. This is about as cool as it gets.

_

Language Barrier

2010-02-09T00:25:00.003+01:00

So I started my Danish language class tonight. Intensive lessons. The pretty blonde woman who interviewed me said that, if I apply myself, I'll be fluent by the end of the year. Fluent. In Danish. A language spoken by like .008 percent of the world population.

(I'm going to stop bitching about that. Really. Would it be nice to learn French or Spanish instead? Sure. Will that help me living in Denmark? Not even a little bit.)

The class is free. And, at the moment, I have nothing better to do. So, tonight I shlepped myself over the icy sidewalks, through the immigrant and working-class neighborhood to my own little culture club. Of the ten students, I am the only native English speaker. This, I think, gives me a leg up as the lessons are initially in English.

But then I realize this means I am also the only monolingual student. That I speak only one language is something that separates me from literally every single person I know in Denmark. How lame.

At home, I know only a tiny handful of people who speak another language. One of these people is my girlfriend. They all grew up somewhere else, of course. Middle class, public school Americans don't do languages.

But I am. I'm going to learn Danish--glottal stops and 87 vowel sounds be damned. I'm going to read Hans Christian Andersen in the original, and when you come to visit, I will wow you with my ability to order from the sausage wagon.

Until the sausage guy realizes I'm not Danish. And immediately switches to English. Because everyone here speaks English. Perfectly.

January 22

2010-01-26T16:38:00.003+01:00

I got my only tattoo when I was 18. I was in Boston for the first time, celebrating New Year's Eve in the North End. It was crazy cold, and we were crazy drunk. Liz, my amazonian friend--who would one day wear bright red dreadlocks and become incapacitated by my gravity bong--convinced me that this was a good idea. A tattoo. She knew what she wanted, was going the next day to get it. Would I come?

So there we were on the northern border of Massachusetts, just far enough into New Hampshire to get legally inked. I picked a design off the wall. It felt like a bee stinging. We walked through the snow giggling, back to a car that would leave us stranded for six hours.

The beginning and the end. That's what I chose. A chinese character in black on the back of my neck. One symbol, two words, everything included.

What I liked about the idea of a tattoo was that it could be an outward sign of inner hurt. I have a four-inch scar on my arm to remind me that I climbed a barbed wire fence. I have dents in my mouth where they took my wisdom teeth. I didn't have anything to mark the day my mother left.

For a long time, I drank margaritas on her birthday. For years I took the day off, the day she died, to ride horses. Because that's what she loved to do. But I've long since stopped celebrating her birthday. And this year, I forgot the day she died.

We had fondue with friends, went to a movie. We came home and drank and listened to classical music. Because that's what we love to do.

When I put my fingers to it, I can feel the faintest rise of the beginning and end on my neck. "They cancel each other out," I used to say. Cancel each other out, as in zero. As in a blank page. Grief can be such a selfish thing that forgetting feels like a triumph. Just another day.

Homecoming

2010-01-14T12:12:00.004+01:00

I don't think of Denmark as home. The same way I didn't think of my college town as home, or Boston in the year that I lived there.

But after three weeks away, there was a sense of relief coming back here. Settling. Like an old house. It feels good to settle, to hunker down. I feel, if not at home, more and more entrenched here. I have a residency permit, now. Official permission to reside. They will (hopefully) heal me if I am sick; they will (attempt to) teach me their language. Doors are opening. And like a benevolent, but slightly weary, parent, Denmark is telling me to get a job. Socialism doesn't grow on trees, you know.

But, the impending slog that is jobseeking aside, I am happy to be here. Content, at least, because here there are a lot of very kind people, people I like very much, and in whom I have very little invested. There is no one here whose happiness I agonize about. There is no one here who agonizes over mine.

Release. The burden of love is often too great to shoulder. And I realize that this is rather like a gorgeous women complaining that no one asks for her opinion, but honestly, I need this detachment. I craved it. Distance dulls the pain of the hurts at home; allows me to throw up my hands and say, however little I may have done there, "Well, there's nothing I can do from here."

Peace. The way you can believe peace is possible if you live in Topeka, Kansas rather than, say, Kabul. A very selfish peace. When in doubt, we take the next small step. I need to go to the post office. Practice yoga. Take a walk in the sun.

Sophisticate

2009-12-03T12:44:00.008+01:00

Most of the people I have met here are fairly worldly. Often they are foreign nationals, they have gone to school abroad, they work for the UN, they spend their summers researching in Africa... it's easy to forget the other half. It's very easy to forget that some of my neighbors have never been so far away as the airport.

Yesterday, I stop into a convenience store. When I space out, as I often do, on the debit card machine, the young man behind the counter asks me where I'm from. I get this a lot. When I say the US, his eyes light up.

"The US!" he says with heavy accent. "I want to go to New York!"
I nod. "New York is great."
"I hear it is big--much bigger than even Copenhagen."
I almost laugh. How would you compare the endless urban landscape of the five boroughs to tiny, genteel Copenhagen? There are more people in New York City than in all of Denmark. "It is bigger, yes."
"I hear that the trains in New York," he continues, making excited gestures now, "travel underground, on top of each other." His tone and expression turn skeptical, so I nod again. "Yes, that's true."
"And they built the tallest building in the 1930s..." I realize he means the Empire State building, which is now, again, the tallest building in NYC.
"Yes."
"Amazing..."

He looks wistfully at some midpoint near the Dorritos, and for all my world-weary condescension, I suddenly remember a 20-year-old me in New York for the first time... I remember how I felt: humbled, scared, exhilarated. I realize that I still feel that way.

"It's very big and very exciting. You should go if you ever have the chance," I say, sad because he probably won't. I turn to leave.
"Yes," he agrees. "Yes, I want to go to New York. And to Detroit City!"

"Um.." Okay, sure. Rock on.

The weird thing is that I have more in common with the guy behind the counter than I do with most of the people I know here. I've been starstruck by Europe. Much like my first trip to New York, I walk around amazed. So different... so old... so beautiful.

I can just imagine this kid hopping up and down in front of the Statue of Liberty, because if I ever get to see the Eiffel Tower, I'm going to pee my pants.

Barackstar

2009-11-24T14:20:00.002+01:00

I was walking by the lakes the other day, and I saw this boy playing with his friends. They were all maybe about 12 or 13. Now that's an age where what your friends think of you matters. That's an age where--particularly here, it seems--kids start claiming a sense of style highly influenced by their peers. So what was this boy wearing?

An Obama t-shirt. Specifically the ubiquitous "Hope"/Fairey image, which we could argue is losing all meaning and impact based on its now-iconic status--much like Che Guevara--but that's a post for another day.

The point is, when was the last time you saw a teenager wearing the face of a US president in a non-ironic way? In Europe, he's crazy popular. In Denmark, his name is spray painted on buildings. Not "Suck it Obama," but honest to God... just "Obama."

That there is a collective sigh of relief in Europe over Obama's election is hardly news. And I'm probably the 40 billionth blogger to say it, but I understand how deeply reviled Bush must have been here when I see things like this:

And this:

I know that Barack Obama isn't the Second Coming--there can be no such thing in politics--but gosh it's nice to have him there... especially while I'm over here.

Bright Blessed Day

2009-11-17T15:22:00.004+01:00

I was thinking about Maslow's hierarchy of needs, today--you know air, water, food, shelter. And then farther on down the list, things like companionship, confidence, creative outlets... essentially all of the reasons that self-help programs are so popular. But you know what's not on the pyramid? Not anywhere? Not even in the highest levels (and therefore lowest priority)?

Sunlight. It's just not there. And you can't piggyback it with something like homeostasis. That's simply a catch-all for the fact that we need to be generally not ill or, say, stuck in a walk-in freezer.

We are not algae or bacteria. On a very technical level--even if you take in the whole vitamin D business--sunlight isn't a requirement. Isn't that odd?

Today, I went for a walk and took this picture. This is high noon in Scandinavia.

While I was trying to get a shot light enough, I realized that this strange woman was speaking to me.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said," she repeated in English, pointing to the sky, "that it's beautiful isn't it?"

And even though I took this picture because I knew you all would be incredulous--even though it was a weak, watery sun behind our traditional blanket of grey--I couldn't help but agree.

"It is," I said. "It really is."

Voyeur

2009-11-15T21:07:00.004+01:00

The view from our apartment, from all three windows of our apartment, is... other apartments. Other people, other rooms, other candles flickering over other lives. I cannot tell you how seductive this is, how very much I want to look.

From the sink, as I wash dishes, there are two or three lives that specifically draw my attention. There's the family across and below--the baby there just graduated to a "big kid" bed. They have colorful dishes, which the father always washes in a separate dish pan. I wonder why.

There is the couple down to the right. He wears boxer shorts; she is small and pretty and dark. They don't often cook, but they entertain friends now and then, congregating in their kitchen with beer in bottles--never cans. And then there is the young woman above them, whose bedroom is also visible. She likes espresso, and has no qualms about being naked in front of her open windows.

They all have one thing in common: they never look back. Is this part of the Danish "mind your own business" personality? I suppose I'm being terribly rude. I suppose I should keep my eyes on the sink, on the cars in the street. But how human is that?

Maricris, who probably doesn't look much herself, tells me that if we were in Puerto Rico, everyone would look. You couldn't stop them; grandmothers would be swapping stories about how the people in the adjacent apartment probably couldn't afford that big screen TV... how if they spent less time in front of it, they might have a baby or two by now...

Honestly, I can't believe the Danes don't look. They must. They must look up from their sinks every so often and wonder about the strange girl who sits at her computer so much of the day. The girl with the crazy hair and the Polo shirts. "Bet she's not Danish," they say. "I wonder why she never looks back..."

It's Oh So Quiet...

2009-11-09T01:50:00.011+01:00

Riding my bike home from a friend's apartment tonight, I could hear only one thing: my own breath.

Okay, so maybe I'm not so fit. Maybe I do sound a little like a hyperventilating walrus when I pedal through the city center. I'll concede that. But the fact is that Copenhagen is revealing many sides of herself to me, and the most profound of these is that she is silent.

I mean silent like worship. I mean soft as snow. Muffled. Hushed. Riding my bike this evening, it was me, my walrus breathing, and the sound of this city -- the wind, the crystalline, almost gothic, cackle of leaves over cold streets... the nothing.

When I am in my apartment -- on the third floor -- I can hear the clip of a kick stand across the street. I can hear a car over cobblestones three blocks away. At three in the afternoon, I hear the children laughing as they come home from school; I hear church bells at six. In short, I can hear everything -- and nothing.

The peace is immense, almost painful, but this is not to say that nothing is happening. This is not the quiet of a small town on a Sunday evening. This is not the quiet of desertion. It's the quiet of Denmark. Of the Danes.

Copenhagen is a city packed with people, with bars and gatherings and a hundred thousand bicycles. And there are children -- so many tiny children! At the risk of seeming trite, they are undoubtably the happiest, most contented, quietest children I have ever seen. They put something in the water here; even the dogs are reticent and mild-mannered. I've yet to hear one bark.

But this is the funny thing. In a city where babies sleep noiselessly outside of genteel restaurants, a city where I might hear a petal plucked from the garden on my street, I am somehow ten times louder. I am American, hear me talk!

And talk. A lot. I can't seem to shut up. Whenever I meet someone new -- and this city is full of someones new -- even I am embarrassed as my lips move. I am helpless to stop them. What is it? Is it the fact that I am often alone? Is it that I don't speak the language, and am all too happy to exercise my own? Is it the very Danish silence that burdens me to break it?

I've been criticized for talking too much -- perhaps from the time I could talk. It's not so sad a quality of itself. I do it because it's sociable; I despise the awkward lull. I do it because I want you to feel comfortable. And I do it because I want you to understand.

But I've come to find that, with all of these words, I'm not saying much. I'm not saying all the things I thought I was saying. I am reverb; I am white noise. I am the sonic equivalent of a porno mag: all reveal and no revelation.

Then so, among the many lessons this city would teach me, perhaps I am listening. I'm getting that what I say is not the same as what I do. I get that what I do prevents me from learning who you are. And the revelation -- as sound as a breath over silent streets -- is that I very much want to hear it.

I want to hear it all.

.

Time Change

2009-10-26T17:57:00.005+01:00

I have been consoling myself lately with Ecclesiastes 3, the famous passage from the Bible that says "To every thing, there is a season..." Sure, it made a groovy song in the 60s, but this is also just profound advice. There is a time for every purpose, great and small, wise or wicked. However set those times may be, however, it seems governments the world over are not content. It seems that even Denmark is not immune to the idiocy of "Daylight Savings."

I realize there is a history and yes, sort of kind of, a purpose for the time change. The only thing it has ever meant to me, however, is that we lose an hour of evening light in winter. Of course, in Florida, that doesn't mean much, particularly when every single winter day brings a glorious gift of sunshine so abundant and clear and brilliant, that each morning fills with bird song and squirrels help you tie your apron into place...

The descent into the winter season here in Copenhagen -- whose nearest neighbors are countries like Sweden, Russia, Norway -- is a little more profound. By my calculations, we've lost something like six hours of light in four months. It's amazing, actually. It makes me wonder exactly what sort of position we're in, here. Where, exactly, are we in relation to the sun?

That's a picture taken by the "lakes" here in Copenhagen, around 2 pm. These days the sun doesn't get up much higher than that. It comes up over the buildings, and then slides along sideways for a few hours before dipping back below them. And it's only October.

Aside from the sadness of losing the sun -- of feeling guilt prickle over the years of light and heat I often complained about -- I find this whole process somewhat fascinating. And just a little bit ominous. People here talk about "winter" as if it were an animal, a beast to guard against. "Be careful..." they say; "Just wait."

Theoretically, I'm going to learn a lesson, here. To everything there is a season, indeed. A time for light and a time for dark; a time to get, a time to lose. A time for plane tickets to Florida, and a time to gather your flip flops together.

My Polo Shirts Give Me Away

2009-10-20T10:38:00.006+02:00

I am known in certain circles as a trendsetter. I brought wool socks to Florida. I single-handedly popularized safari hats for everyday wear, and I have extended the appeal of flannel shirts well beyond their normal life span.

Still, it was a small surprise when, speaking with a new Danish friend recently, I learned the full extent of my otherness.

"I suppose people here can tell I'm not Scandinavian pretty quickly," I admitted, considering my outgoing personality and general doofiness on a bicycle.
"Yes," she said. "It's mostly the Polo shirts."

Really? Polo shirts? Since when are Polo shirts not cool?

Okay, you see, trend-setting status aside, the style genre I am generally most comfortable with would fit somewhere in the mid 1990s. I'm talking preppie GAP-cum-wannabe grunge. I like plaid. I like Army/Navy stuff. I like layering long-sleeve shirts under skater t-shirts. I like Doc Martins.

This look is the antithesis of now. Particularly now in Scandinavia. The look here is (and I am surprised to find, has been for some time) skinny jeans. Aptly named because you do need to be skinny to look good in them. Lacking that, there is even a revival of what I'm hoping is an "ironic" tight-roll. Exhibit A:

Those socks and shoes are totally rad, too, apparently. (In my world, grunge rockers and riot grrls beat the crap out of dudes like this.)

So, fine. Scandinavia is all big scarves and long sweaters and leggings and leg warmers. So what? I rocked the eighties once already. I think once is enough. I'm just going to stay right here in my boot-cut GAP classics until they come back around again. By my calculations, it could be any day now.

All the Little Steps

2009-10-14T10:58:00.008+02:00

A year! It's impossible that it's been a year. It can't possibly have been a year since I last wrote.

Let's see... we were just thinking about selling the house... painting... getting ready. It wasn't real until the furniture started to go, piecemeal--the porch stuff to Cathy, the sofa to Karen, the bistro table to Amber and Eve. It will be so strange to come across those pieces again, I think. Like ex-lovers to whom you were once given every permission.

And then the house was sold. And then it was emptied. And then it was cleaned. We left two beer caps under the eaves on the porch, a bottle of champaign in the fridge. Done. All the loose ends tied up so well, it seemed as though they were cauterized...

There's no point in dwelling on them because now I am here. We are here together, in Denmark, and that was the whole point. I didn't really think too much about life beyond that. But one of my favorite mottos says when you are in doubt, take the next small step.

So, I got a bike. Disregarding Maricris's advice, I got a cushy, brown city bike--the bike I always wanted. Which is so heavy, so cumbersome in this city's staggering wind, we call her La Vaca.

I thought about working... in a cafe, maybe. Or the newspaper. The language is an issue; the paperwork is an issue. I don't want to believe that disinformation and discouragement could be Immigration's MO, but, as in their personal lives, the Danes do seem to have all the people they need, thank you.

But, because it looks like, optimistically, many of my future posts will be about life in Copenhagen -- and I don't want anyone to think I'm not excited about that -- here's a quick list of what I like about this place:

• After thousands of years of Scandinavian weather, it's understandable that people here place great importance on warmth and comfort. If you've read anything about Denmark, you've heard of the term "hygge," which is not so much a word to be defined as an experience. It's what you want your guests to feel when they visit your home, and I think the bars and cafes -- and the few Danes I've visited -- do a nice job of achieving it.

• While I really haven't met many Danes -- they're so reticent, it seems -- I have met a lot of folks from elsewhere. Brits, Germans, Australians,Turks, Spaniards, Canadians, South Americans... and quite often Norwegians and Swedes, of course. It seems everyone here is from somewhere else, which is at once delightful and encouraging, even if it means my paperwork may take that much longer.

• It's a beautiful city. Copenhagen makes good use of its water- and lakefronts, and (for the most part) rather seamlessly incorporates the new with the old. It's easy to navigate by foot, bike or bus, with very little car traffic. Coming from the US, I underestimated how great a relief that would be.

• Lastly, it's in Europe. I've wanted to go to Europe all my life and now I live here. So it's not exactly Spain or Tuscany... but I am relatively close to many of Northern Europe's finer cities. I'm looking forward to Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels, London and, of course, Paris.

So there's the year, more or less. One thing leads to another out of habit; I find myself amazed how I manage to do so much without really trying at all... baby steps through the hallway... baby steps down the stairs... baby steps out to the bike...

I'm going to Copenhagen

2008-10-04T16:31:00.003+02:00

As in Denmark. As in Europe. To live there.

No, that's not a joke. My girlfriend got a scholarship for three years to do her Ph.D. in Copenhagen. We're selling the house and going.

What the hell can I say about that? Aside from a fairly disastrous three years in Gainesville, and a short fling in Boston just for the hell of it, I've never lived far from home. I'm a cancer. We're home-bound folks.

Not that I've never wanted to broaden my horizons. Not that I haven't fancied myself a Henry James or an Ernest Hemingway, living abroad, having adventures, and then writing in a slightly more cynical, world-weary tone about it all. I'm a fairly romantic girl; I've always thought about it.

But now, of course, I'm scared. Soiling my pants terrified, actually. Denmark is so very foreign. I think I have ancestors from Scandinavia. I certainly will look like I fit in. (Save for my Americanized sense of style, which can't be helped for now.) But honestly, it's a bit surreal.

Here's what I know about Denmark: They are fairly friendly, tolerant people. They have decent socialized health care that I will likely have access to. Their language is impossible (I'm still trying to figure out the basics of Spanish), but thankfully, 80% of the country speaks English far better than I speak anything else. The weather is abysmal. The bars stay open until 5am. They have an affinity for pickled fish products that I do not quite understand. They like to ride bikes. A lot. And they leave their babies outside. No, really.

I know a bit more. I have books; I've been studying. But all of the studying in the world is not going to make me feel any less anxious. See, I confuse excitement with anxiety. I always have. Particularly when that excitement is about moving a zillion miles from home.

Oh, God. I don't even have a passport.

The Internets

2008-09-19T20:48:00.005+02:00

I can't believe I ever lived without the Internet.

I remember the first day I heard of this thing, this World Wide Web. It was 11th grade, English. Mr--oh, excuse me--Dr Eliason's class. (I didn't care for the man. He told me I was a Republican because I thought -- and still do -- that Henry David Thoreau was an ass.)

But, Eliason exposed us to the Internet. (Or, if you're our president, the "Internets.") This was 1994, the infancy of mass, public web usage. I was, suitably, impressed. This was something that made (or would make) every other reference obsolete! Door-to-door encyclopedia salesman committed mass suicide. I would never have to go to the library again!

Well, naturally, that was overstating the facts a bit. I didn't even register an email account until I was in my twenties. My early college work was done on a dos-based word processor, and I did, indeed many times over, have to go to the library.

But today, all of that is like a bad acid trip. Today, I amuse myself for hours--days!--at the keyboard. There is nothing I can't know! Or, more often, there is no tiny lull in the real world that I cannot fill with cyberamusement. Is there a better way to spend 15 minutes than by watching European commercials on YouTube?

But when, inevitably, there is something I can't discover about the world via the wire in the wall (or the phone in my pocket), my brain waves begin to stutter. Much as city-dwellers have lost the ability to care for themselves without 24-hour drugstores and Starbucks, I have, apparently, lost the ability to think for myself.

As evidence, I submit to you a list of things I've recently had the impulse to Google:

What kind of present does Ken want for his birthday?
Recipe for my (dead) mother's spaghetti.
Name of the town my grandmother was born in.
Picture of the house we lived in when I was seven.
List of the music studied in my Into to World Music class circa 1996.
The name of a plant I have a picture of.
The last chapter of a book I forgot to bring to work with me.
What I need to buy at the grocery store.

Can I find, in a round-about way, the answers to some of these questions by typing queries into a search engine? Maybe. I could probably find a forum to post the plant picture, and wait a week. Or scan random plant pictures until I die of dehydration. I might be able to find my grandmother's family--for a small fee. I can certainly get ideas for presents, but the point is, I have to actually use my own powers of deduction to find suitable gifts. What kind of guy is Ken? What does Ken like? On that, I am afraid, the web is silent.

Alas, the Internet is also silent about the contents of my refrigerator. About my whereabouts at age seven. About my ancient college courses. These are the details of a life that have no quantitative equal.

I suppose, though, we should all be grateful for that. Maybe Thoreau was right all along. Asshole.

From the Back Lines

2008-09-17T20:46:00.004+02:00

So, I have this great effing job.

It's wild, actually. I'm making almost twice the amount of money I was before I finished school. Which, of course, was the whole point. I can wear what I want; I have my own sweet office; I have practically unlimited freedom to come and go--and all I have to do is put out a few medical articles that basically write themselves.

The problem? Well, of course there's a problem. No one who has life so great can ever be content. The problem is that I'm simply never going to give a flying fig about this place. Never. I could work here for twenty years and still feel completely apathetic.

See, my last job--for the little, mom-and-pop-owned newspaper--was a labor of love. I loved the people; I loved the town; I loved the community. I lived for the goofy, Hiaasen-esque stories and characters that would drift in and out of my life. There was constant movement, interaction, joking, work, and... love, actually. There were no doors to close; every bit of news, from the personal to the political, was passionately spread out over the proof table like so much birthday cake, blue chips and garlic salsa.

But I couldn't support myself. I did quadruple duty as a sales rep/copyeditor/layout artist/writer, and there was just no way to make it work.

And now, I'm here. I'm blogging this from my office. There are nine articles waiting to be cranked out--on anything from facelifts to carpal tunnel syndrome--and I'm blogging.

It's an election year. My girlfriend may have to move to Copenhagen. There's a thunderstorm brewing outside. Still, my door is closed.

The Next Lap

2008-08-08T03:44:00.004+02:00

Life's kind of funny. It's a little like a long road trip. You look out the window for hours, watching the scenery go by without really noticing that it's slowly changing. One day, you're in the scrub forests of Florida and the next thing you know, you're smack in the middle of the Smokey Mountain foothills.

So it is with me. As I gazed out the window, believing I had left school for a career in copyediting (the hallmark of an unsuccessful fiction writer), I found myself in the foothills of a new job. I am now a staff writer for a medical marketing publication. I have a ridiculously long commute, but great hours. I know more about laparoscopic surgery than some doctors, but I make a bunch of money.

It's the money thing that really changes your trip, though. It lulls me, like wind through an open car window, into believing that this is good. This cushy back seat, this bag of Cheetos, this seemingly endless landscape--these are good.

I haven't thought about graduate school in months. I haven't written a single thing that doesn't have to do with endoscopy or mitral valve replacement. I haven't even logged on to this site. Alas, I have forgotten the destination.

And I know. I know. The journey is the destination. But what happens when you become so comfortable in the back seat, that you forget you know how to drive?

If anyone reads this, remind me: I'm not scared of driving. I drive like a bat out of hell. And, really, I've never liked an automatic.

Requiem for Editors

2008-05-19T22:00:00.005+02:00

Being an editor has ruined me.

Apart from being doomed in my career, being an editor has destroyed my ability to enjoy most forms of print entertainment.

Currently, I am reading a widely respected historical text on the life of Elizabeth I. I bought the book because it seemed quite scholarly and well researched, despite its “bestseller” status, and I thought it would be informative without being terribly dull.

Well, it certainly has been informative, and kept me preoccupied on a number of levels. Particularly, it has apprised me of the fact that no one actually employs editors anymore.

Apart from its staggering redundancies (honestly, I sometimes feel like I’m reading the same chapter over and over), this book is full of copy errors. Of course, it’s written by a Brit, in the standard British style, so I realize that the rules of punctuation are slightly different. That’s fine. I’m not obsessing over these things; I generally have ignored most of what, to me, seems illogical or erroneous.

But not fifty pages into the book, I've come across double commas (wrong in any style), typos, various misplaced modifiers, and unclear pronouns. Sheesh, I mean, even basic programs will correct—or at least alert—an author to these issues. No editor needed!

But, that’s just the problem. Nobody actually uses editors anymore. The advent of online media has made traditionally tight deadlines impossible. The universal deadline seems to always be “right now.”

I accept lazy copy in online content. I’ll overlook misspellings and punctuation issues on just about any website, including the big guns like CNN or People. After all, they are under constant pressure to get ever-new content up as quickly as possible. It’s not that they don’t want editors; they simply can’t wait for them.

But, you know what? There is far little excuse for a book put out by a large and, hopefully resourceful, publishing house. Perhaps an error or two is only natural—hey, we’re all human.

Yet, after one page of The Other Boleyn Girl, I dropped the thing in disgust. The comma splice, not even four paragraphs into the story, was unforgivable. It’s just lazy.

I am not, however, ranting without solutions. I’m not trying to be part of the problem here. I have a perfectly good remedy for any conscientious publisher who finds their copy fraught with errors: hire an editor, any editor.

Better yet, hire me.

Road Tripping

2008-05-19T21:59:00.000+02:00

Last weekend, I blew everything off. I took a pause in my grueling job search, I failed to water the lawn, and I left all of my writing commitments in the capable—if somewhat annoyed—hands of my Gabber colleagues. And why, you ask?
For the most liberating and singularly satisfying activity that any American can participate in: the spontaneous road trip.
Now, I say “American” because, apart from the fact that I have no idea what folks do in other countries (no, really, I’m internationally challenged, people), we live in a ginormous country united by little more than our insistence that “football” involves touchdowns, and by thousands upon thousands of miles of open road.
The road trip is something of a national pastime. I am certain that a great many of you, Gabber readers, can remember spending your summers in the backseat of a station wagon— poking at your siblings and avoiding the backward swing of your parents’ attempts at discipline—as you barreled down a hot, boring stretch of road toward your relatives’ house in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps you recall your jaunts in college to some remote beach or wilderness destination, fueled by little more than junk food and the high of a new love. (Or, maybe it was some other kind of high. Hey, I’m not here to judge you.)
The point is, as Americans, we all have memories—possibly somewhat romanticized—of extended periods of time spent in a car bound for a holiday. And, if you are like me, the thought of rekindling these memories in the form of an impromptu adventure is all that it takes for you to say “yes” to a weekend in West Palm Beach.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t really that far away, but you know what? It’s far enough. Because, in case it’s been a while since you indulged in a road trip, let me remind you that the glamour wears off after about four hours. And, fortunately, that’s about how long it takes to get to West Palm Beach. If you’re not me.
Maria and I (although one of us was in the dark about the real reason for our trip) were headed to the East coast to meet up with her brother and his girlfriend, both newly graduated from veterinarian school in Philadelphia. We loaded up the car with munchies and maps and music and all of the accoutrements for a proper road trip. And—again thinking it would be a good idea—we brought the dog.
Having traveled with dogs before, I thought this would be a piece of cake. I once drove from Florida to Massachusetts with a Labrador who could hardly be bothered to get out and relieve herself. Surely Mango would sleep soundly once she realized we were not headed to the dog park.
But, clearly, Mango had not been briefed on the etiquette of road tripping, as she spent the entire ride panting and slobbering all over our drinks and munchies, and probably thinking that we were headed to the doggie equivalent of Disney for all of her excitement. We stopped no fewer than 85 times to clean the drool.
Well that, I suppose, is a lesson for the future: Mango’s first and last road trip.
But this was not my first or last. And, frankly, I should have known better. But, the last time I planned to hop into a car for more than an hour, I woke to a flat tire; surely, surely, it could not happen again. Indeed, how blinded we are by the romantic notion of road tripping.
So, add another half dozen stops—and a strangely oriented side mirror—to monitor the ever-decreasing pressure in our back right tire, and you can imagine why it took us nearly seven days to reach West Palm Beach. No, really. We just unpacked the car.
But, it was all worth it in the end, right? I mean, what’s a drooling dog and a flat tire compared to all the fun we would have with family members who—after four years of a sadistic curriculum—were ready to party like they’ve just been released from prison?
So we arrived, finally, at Maria’s family condo in West Palm. I scurried around cleaning while Maria procured refreshments and enough chicken to feed Puerto Rico, but ultimately we settled into a semi-conscious relaxation and awaited our guests.
And they came. And we ate, and drank, and made merry until the cows came home. (Assuming, of course, cows come home around midnight.) Then we slept in big, comfy beds thinking all was right with the world.
The next morning I sat on the porch, leisurely taking in the West Palm humidity and a zucchini muffin before asking—in that lazy and innocent way that people on holiday do—what plans were to be made for the day.
“Well,” our guests responded, “All we really need to do today is unpack the moving van at the storage unit, and then return the van, and then get the rental car.”
I had been hoodwinked. This, as everyone but myself seemed to know—and I’m even suspicious of Mango at this point—was no impromptu road trip. This was no weekend meant for revelry. This was a business trip for Maria’s brother and his girlfriend, who were relocating to Florida for their residencies.
Many hot and sweaty hours later—and, indeed it was hours, as absolutely nothing in the sprawling, stripmall wilderness of southeastern Florida is convenient—we found ourselves back at the condo, weary and disillusioned. Maria’s brother and his girlfriend had plans to party with friends in Miami for the rest of the weekend, so after many thanks, they left us to our own devices.
The next morning, Maria and I cleaned the apartment once again, packed up the car, and headed home through the desolate back roads of south-central Florida. For hours, neither of us said a word; the radio was switched off. Mango finally went to sleep, and we drifted into a trance as little towns and sugar fields and orange groves passed by our windows and into the rearview mirror.
I do not know what Maria thinks about on road trips, as she never seems to recall when I ask. Perhaps, like me, she is lulled by the sensation of four, nearly-inflated wheels closing the distance between here and there. Perhaps, like me, she wonders at how big this country is—how varied and beautiful and limitless it seems.
And, after all—after all of the stopping and the slobber and aggravation—I was again taken by the adventure of road tripping. I was again reminded—by the singular freedom that is a car and an open road—it’s not the destination, but the journey.

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/15/08

The Not Diet

2008-05-19T21:58:00.000+02:00

Let’s examine one of the peculiarities of the human brain, shall we? It seems easy enough to dismiss our desires and cravings with the glib “You always want what you can’t have.” But, seriously, has anyone ever conducted sound scientific research on the subject? I mean, why?
Why, oh why do I want to walk the dog only when it’s raining? Why have I always pined for straight hair? Why do I need to use the bathroom the minute I’m buckled into the car, merging onto a highway? Why do I dream of a strong Democratic candidate for the presidency and then curse the gods when I get two?
Some might call this “Murphey’s Law,” but really, what is the scientific, evolutionary purpose for desiring what you do not—or cannot—have? Is there some sort of productive, biological importance to perpetual discontent?
Okay, before I start sounding like Carrie “Rhetorical Question” Bradshaw from Sex and the City, let me get to the point: I am on a diet. Ugh. The very mention of that word sends me lunging for the nearest deep-dish pizza and a pint of beer.
But, really, maybe this one’s not so hard; diets, after all, suck. I guess there are very sound evolutionary reasons for not wanting to starve. The body is very clear on this subject. But why, instead of a filling and sensible plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, does my stomach scream for ice cream?
I guess, for me, the best way to avoid this conflict is to trick my body. If I tell myself that I’m quitting smoking, my brain immediately triggers a chain of unfortunate—and completely uncontrollable—events that result in me holding a cashier hostage until he has delivered all of the cartons in the stock room.
So, I cannot “tell” myself I am quitting smoking. I must simply say that we, dear body, are “waiting” a few minutes longer to have a puff. Similarly, I cannot “tell” myself that I am on a diet. We, dear body, are just delaying the gratification of a calorie bonanza. I promise you, it will come.
In order to prove this very point—and because you can only lie to yourself for so long before your “self” becomes suspicious—I took my body to Ceviché in downtown St. Pete last weekend. Okay, fine. I suppose taking a fat person to Ceviché is like taking a sailor on shore-leave to the red light district, but what better way to prove to your “self” that no, we are not on a diet. See? Just look at the crème brulee!
The jury is still out on whether my new slim-down strategy is working, but in the meantime, why don’t we discuss my dining experience? Because, as the Beach Boys once, so wisely, sang, “You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it. But, let’s talk about it.”
Okay, so you know what I like best about Ceviché? It’s tappas. Tappas is Spanish for “Food for people who are easily bored.” It entails lots of little plates of this and that, melty cheeses and garlic sauces and shrimp and sausages and crusty bread to dip into it all. It is a meal devoid of planning in which you sit around a table with a bunch of your friends, tick off a laundry list of whatever sounds good, and then sit back and watch all of those little plates roll in. It’s perfect, actually, for dieting, because this time the body tricks the brain. “See?” it says. “We’ve only had one bite from each plate. How could we possibly gain weight from that?”
The brain wisely agrees, at which point it takes the body downstairs to Ceviché’s Flamenco Bar for many beers as a reward for being so sensible. I’m telling you, people: this is the new fad in dieting. I’m calling it the Not Diet, and I see a huge, New York Times bestseller in my future.

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL

Out of the Shadow of the Grapefruit

2008-05-19T21:56:00.000+02:00

We all know that the United States is pretty young, as countries go. And what do the young do? They imitate. It’s no surprise that quite a bit of our culture is borrowed or adapted from other, older cultures. And, before you go about calling me un-American, let us examine some basic facts: hamburgers and “French” fries are not ours. We did not come up with democracy or television. We didn’t invent the automobile or football. Heck, even some of our most revered, patriotic hymns are rip-offs. People, there’s a reason why Great Britain’s national anthem sounds so familiar.
But, there is one thing we can be proud of. There is one thing that was ours—first, last and always. No, I’m not talking about rock ‘n’ roll, or motion pictures (though, as far as cultural contributions go, those are pretty cool). I am talking about our national pastime. I am talking about baseball.
Oh, sure, some historians trace baseball back to cricket and other such games played with a stick. I’m sure, if we look hard enough, we could find evidence of cave men swatting at rocks with tree branches for sport. It’s not a sophisticated concept, really. But, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”? Louisville Sluggers? Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Babe Ruth? Ours, ours, ours.
And, though we may not live in the lands of legend like New York, Chicago and Boston, humble St. Petersburg has written its own significant part in the story of baseball in America.
After taking in one of the Rays’ final spring training games at Al Lang Stadium a few weeks ago, my dad and I decided to investigate St. Petersburg’s baseball past by strolling down Central Avenue’s “Baseball Boulevard.” Maybe some of you have seen, or stumbled over, those plaques commemorating teams you’ve never heard of (the St. Louis Browns, anyone?), in times so bygone that your grandparents can’t remember them. Perhaps you’ve nodded thoughtfully on your way to Mastry’s Bar: “Hmm, Babe Ruth was a Boston Brave?” Chances are, however, you’ve looked upon those plaques and the history behind them with the same sort of apathy that most residents—and, it seems, the baseball world in general—view the state of the game in St. Petersburg.
But all of that’s about to change, right? I mean, have you seen the plans for the new waterfront stadium? The Rays will be the envy of the country! Er, okay, perhaps that’s going a bit far, but can you imagine it? Taking in a baseball game the way nature intended? In an actual, honest-to-goodness, open-air park?
Yeah, I know. Nothing’s official yet. Just recently, a study by the Rays showed that there was “plenty” of parking downtown to fill the needs of baseball fans heading to a 35,000 seat park. Um, sure, if you say so. I think anyone who’s been late for a movie at Baywalk on a Friday night might beg to differ, but I’m not going to let that spoil my dream.
People, the Trop has to go. There is nothing about that monstrosity of a dome that says “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” There is nothing about that “field” that has anything to do with baseball. If there’s anything that my little excursion to Al Lang taught me, it’s that America’s pastime is about sunshine and grass and dirt. How can you celebrate “The Boys of Summer” in a windowless, frigid bubble?
After years of being the big league’s training ground, we finally got our own team. And, maybe that’s why it took us so long: baseball has really always had a place in St. Petersburg. From Babe Ruth’s exploits, to Joe Dimaggio and Marylin Monroe on the beach, the Grapefruit League has brought us our share of legends. But now, I say it’s time to step up to the plate. I say it’s time to bring a little of the American Dream to America’s pastime, right here in our hometown. I’m going to root for that semi-covered, air-conditioned, open-air ballpark until the last man is out. Even if I have to walk two miles from the parking lot to get there.

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL

The Sublime and the Stupid

2008-03-24T19:54:00.001+01:00

As you all know, Friday nights in my world were made for Scrabble and porch-sitting. Last Friday, as sheets of rain fell sideways on my windows—and many house plants threatened to bail off of the railings—I contemplated the perfection of remaining, for all eternity, inside my cozy home with Maria and the Parker Brothers.
But it was not to be. Just as I was dreaming this scenario, our friends Preston and Stacey were floating up to the house for Friday fun. Outside. In the hurricane.
Days before we knew what the weather would be like, Maria and I had committed to joining the weekend fray for Alejandro Escovedo at The Palladium downtown. Now, I have seen Alejandro—an artist I am sure will be quite familiar to you WMNFers out there—on several occasions. These occasions, too, were inclement. Perhaps Alejandro, like a wild summer storm, only blows into our fair city when climatic conditions are just right.
Well, so be it. I, and many others, will brave most any weather to see Alejandro’s brand of latin-style-roots-rock-meets-poetic-supplication just about any day. Even if I don’t own a raincoat.
Oh, did I mention that it was raining? Yeah, like ginormous bands of red radar nastiness, with the kind of street flooding that makes you wonder if a duck-tour boat might not have been more appropriate transportation.
So, we ran for the car, and did that sort of giggly, oh-my-God driving (so fun with three backseat-drivers) through the alleyways to find the closest parking spot—the flamboyant driving that only a group of good friends who have just been sharing several pre-night-out drinks find hysterical—and finally arrived (absolutely Gatorade-bucket, pouring-water-out-of-our-shoes drenched) at the grotto-like lobby that is the lovely Palladium Theater.
Some had brought umbrellas. Some had brought raincoats. Some were not shredding handfuls of paper towels in the bathroom to milk the torrents of rain from their hair. Those people were not us. But, we did not melt. Plus, we had beers, and a night of music that we knew would not disappoint.
Actually, to say that Alejandro Escovedo does not disappoint is like saying that the war in Iraq is a bit of a pickle. If they give out awards for understatements, these two are in the top five. Alejandro, usually accompanied by a band of some sort, armed himself last Friday with only two microphones and lead guitarist David Pulkingham. I do not, in any sense, exaggerate when I say the Rolling Stone simply had never heard of this man when they wrote their “Best Guitarists of All Time” list a few years ago. Forget the storm; this virtuoso is enough of a force of nature to put out a large-craft advisory.
Alejandro and David held us—yes, soaked as we were—spellbound inside the frigid auditorium, their incredible harmonies and wild, acoustic collaborations breathing transcendent promises into old Alejandro favorites like “Castanets,” and “Rosalie.” Flawless as the acoustics in The Palladium are, the duo even stepped away from the mics once or twice to enchant us with non-electric bliss. It was perfection.
Except, of course, for the unbelievably obnoxious people sitting in front of us.
People, come on. Why, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, would you shell out fifty bucks for a show and then talk—loudly and without any sense of impropriety—throughout the entire performance? They even—and I am so not making this up but oh, dear Gabber readers, I wish I were—went out (to their car, I presume) to recover a book and read passages (quite audibly!) to one another during a few of Alejandro’s more sublime offerings. No, really. I assure you that this is true; I have witnesses. The book was Jon Katz’s Sign Off, a tome that Amazon.com tells us is an “absorbing, well-paced debut” novel from Mr. Katz, “a former producer for CBS Morning News” and it “instructs on the inner workings of a television news division.” Apparently it’s quite compelling, indeed. Maybe you’d like to read it—out load—during a quiet, sit-down occasion of your choice. Only, let me know ahead of time, so that I can skip it.
Okay, but despite the impudent halfwits—and I did finally overcome my inner fear of conflict to ask them to shut it for the last song—the show was, as Preston says, glorious. Worth every single penny. And, frankly, if they’d passed around a collection plate, I would have shelled out more. Musicians of this caliber must be supported. Thank God for people, like those at WMNF, who see the importance of investing in art over the almighty dollar.
Even if the idiots in front of you have no idea.

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/20/08

The Meaning of Art and Other Shiny Objects

2008-03-04T03:45:00.001+01:00

My friend Leah, who I would generally describe as a worldly and educated woman, was recently in a modern art museum in Paris. As she wandered through halls of sculpture, paintings and collages so obscure that a three-year-old might have created them, she tried to keep an open mind. She gamely persisted to understand the deeper, existential purpose of eyeball mobiles and patterned wallpaper, and she might have succeeded had she not turned a corner and come face-to-face with the patent cliché of the modern art world: three blank canvases.
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08

Golfing With Grandma

2008-03-04T03:42:00.001+01:00

A couple of years ago, my grandparents did something unexpected: they moved north to retire. Of course, by “north” I mean North Carolina, but after more than 20 years in Florida, they have become snowbirds. They built, as my grandfather has always done, their own house in a community in the mountains.
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08

Holiday Travel Tips

2008-01-05T21:36:00.000+01:00

Every year, Maria goes home to Puerto Rico for the Holidays, and every year she waits until the very last minute to book the flight, paying the equivalent of first-class to Istanbul in the process. I’ve given up on trying to change that habit; apparently her whole family does it, too. Instead, I have decided to become the official household ticket-purchaser, and in my family, we buy tickets practically a year in advance.
Travel Tip #1: Don’t buy your tickets too far in advance.
So, I booked Maria a good, cheap flight out of Orlando many months ago. This would be fine, I thought. For the money we saved, I wouldn’t mind driving an hour and a half out of the way to drop her off and pick her up.
But then, of course, our plans changed. I decided to go to Puerto Rico for Christmas, too.
Had I considered this possibility, I would have booked Maria out of Tampa like any normal, sane person. But now, we had a problem. How were we going to get there? How do we get home? I wasn’t about to spend all of the money we saved flying out of Orlando on long-term parking or, God forbid, an airport shuttle. And so, because being a good person means sometimes having to drive many miles to distant airports for cheap friends, I sent an email to everyone I know looking for a ride.
Tip #2: Don’t forget the toll money.
Ever since I stopped waiting tables, I have never had more than about five bucks on me. That’s when I’m feeling rich. And while our neighbor Eve, in her usual “morning person” humor, did not seem to mind shelling out half a week’s paycheck to cover the nearly criminal number of booths en route to the Orlando airport, we still felt like schmucks. This, of course, on top of the steak dinner we felt we owed her just for the ride.
Travel Tip #3: Don’t forget your cell phone.
Of all of the things I could forget—my toothbrush, my underwear, my nicotine gum—nothing was more sorely missed than my cell phone. Long after Eve had probably squealed onto I-4, I realized that it was there, tucked into the door of her SUV. Since Maria and I were actually on separate flights (courtesy of my maniacal need to buy tickets so far in advance), it was really a lousy thing to forget. And, guess what practically doesn’t exist anymore? Payphones. That’s right. The best I could find in the Orlando airport (the airport!) was an obscure hallway with three phones, two of which worked. Now I understand why I see people in jalopies held together with chicken wire talking on RAZRs: They have no choice. I know it’s crazy considering that only ten years ago most people barely had a computer, much less a cell phone, but I cannot tell you how isolated and, well, almost panicked I felt without being constantly connected to the world. Come to think of it, that’s pretty sad.
Travel Tip #4: Don’t buy water.
Yet another hallmark of our “modern society” is the fact that you can now purchase bottled water on every street corner and every vending machine. Landfills overflowing with plastic debris aside, I love this. And, I know that I’m risking nomination for the Neurosis Hall of Fame, but water is my safety blanket. If I have to wait in some insanely long airport line, listening to screaming children and the complaints of Holiday travelers, at least I can content myself with the fact that I will not die of dehydration.
It seems, however, that the Department of Homeland Security is out to strip us of even this consolation. Apparently as security measures tightened, some brilliant bureaucrat decided that terrorists might be trying to smuggle nitroglycerine in plain view in a bottle of Aquafina. People, I have seen enough movies to know one very sure thing: If I am swigging and swinging a bottle of clear liquid, it most certainly is not nitroglycerine. I mean, if you even breathe on that stuff it’s like Chinese New Year, right? I think asking someone to take a big gulp of whatever beverage they happen to be carrying should be good enough. Can we please dispense with this idiotic “security measure”?
Forgetting this rule, I purchased no fewer than three bottles of water, all of which had to be abandoned barely opened. My stupid mistake, I know, but don’t you find it disconcerting that when I handed the security guy my lighter, he said, “Oh, you can keep that”?
Travel Tip #5: Airlines don’t care about you.
Yes, I know. Big revelation, Shelly. We’ve all seen air travel degrade, even before 2001. Long gone are the days of polite and well-trained attendants offering you a pillow or a refill beverage, but apparently even the beverages and pillows have gone by the wayside. Spirit Air, the unfortunate carrier I flew with, is clearly shorthand for “In the Spirit of Ripping You Off Air.” Free baggage check? Nope. Free soda? Nope. Free bag of seven gnarly airline peanuts? Not a chance. Forget electronic check-in. Forget the movie. Forget the four stupid in-flight radio stations; there’s not even a jack in the seat. Oh, and for some bizarre reason, all window shades must be up at take off and landing. Huh? If the pilot needs to see out of my window in order to safely maneuver the plane, perhaps we should speak to the engineers…
Travel Tip #6: Puerto Ricans know when you’re not one of them.
Even before I open my mouth, they know I’m a gringo. I dress funny, I have nuclear holocaust pale skin, and I don’t wear a bathing suit. That’s no big deal when I’m on the island because, well, I’m on a tropical frickin’ island, and I actually really like Puerto Ricans. But apply these details to the airport, and it’s annoying.
Anytime you’re waiting for a plane to arrive from Puerto Rico (as I was for a full four hours), it’s not hard to tell what gate they’re coming from. Puerto Ricans love to wait for people at the airport. They dance and sing and ignore their screaming children—it’s quite entertaining. Except when I want to ask them a question. They look at me with some mixture of suspicion and disgust, as if to say, “Why on Earth would some white little gringa like you be meeting someone from our plane?” I had to ask five people before I figured out that, yes, this was the 7pm flight from San Juan, and no, they hadn’t come out yet.
Travel Tip #7: Remember where you parked.
In Tampa, the honest-to-God best airport in the world, I have never lost my car. That is because their system is ingenious, designed for even the biggest moron to easily find their vehicle. Orlando, it seems, has a different approach. Remember the “characters” system of the Disney parking lots? Well, Orlando has pigs and cows and other cartoonish barnyard animals that correspond to each level of their parking garage. That’s about where the organization ends. See, my friend (who shall remain nameless to protect her deficiencies) forgot to catalogue exactly where in the approximately 9,000 spaces of the “pig” level she had left her car. Thus began a Griswoldian search through the rows of towering SUVs for my friend’s tiny VW. If I hadn’t been trying to talk myself down from a panic attack, it would have been funny.
Travel Tip #8: Remember your house keys.
This is a very easy thing to forget when someone else is driving you to and from the airport. Actually, we didn’t forget ours—this time. Although I still give a little chuckle over the fact that once, after a very long trip from California, we had to scramble around our house to find a window to pop open. Ah, good times.
But this time, we finally made it in the door, appreciating our dilapidated little house in a whole new way—as only those who have navigated the gauntlet of Christmas travel can. I was reunited with my cell phone, and can now consume as much bottled water as I want. I even know where the car is. Mostly, though, I have learned—as perhaps any Holiday traveler will tell you—that it’s probably better if you just stay home. Really. Your family will understand.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, 1/10/2008

Pizza to Impress the Neighbors

2007-12-11T05:08:00.000+01:00

Several months ago, after over a year of staring at an empty house, somebody finally moved in across the street. Our new neighbors are a fun couple, Amber and Eve (I did not make that up), who hail from parts outside of Florida. Now, considering that I’ve only met three people who were verifiably born in the Sunshine State, that’s really no surprise. However, when people (and by people, I mean Eve), who have lived their entire lives in Chicago want to take me out for “good pizza and beer,” I start to panic.
Florida may be known for many things—its weather, its beaches, its dizzying array of outlet malls—but “pizza capital of the country” it is not. Heck, we’re not even the pizza capital of the South (a distinction that, I would wager, belongs to Atlanta). But you know what? I can’t figure it out. I mean, all of these people—pizza-making people—come from places like New York, Boston, Chicago. These are the pizza capitals of the country; places that practically run on pizza. So why is it that when my neighbor wants to know where we can get some good pizza and beer, I’m clueless?
All right, I know. I’m being a bit hard on our metro area. The fact is, there are some pretty great pizza joints around here. When we get delivery, Maria and I call Joey Brooklyn’s downtown and have reveled many times in their yummy, doughy crust and fresh toppings. Central Pizza and Subs, on the “Pasadena side” of Central, puts together a decent pie, too. But these places (Joey Brooklyn’s few tables notwithstanding) are truly delivery-only. There’s no ambiance; there’s no beer.
So, the other night I wanted to take my new neighbor somewhere that could hold its head up against Chicago (okay, well maybe just Atlanta). You see, as a lifetime resident of the Windy City, Eve is under the impression that Chicago does everything better. She’s still in that new-to-Florida stage where northern transplants complain about our lack of seasons, our inconvenient store hours, our “I-don’t-care-if-we-ever-get-there” driving habits. That’s cool. I’ve seen enough of them come in my lifetime to know that this time next year, she’ll be warming her feet by the fireplace in two sweaters, swearing that “these tourists” are just crazy to go to the beach.
But back to the pizza. Our hunt began with the block and a half walk to the Grand Central District’s Roman Gardens Ristorante & Pizzeria. Nice little place; great ambiance. They must have some pretty good food, too, because the dining room was packed. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about their pizza. On a Saturday night, they had only one server who frantically informed us that we were welcome to sit down, but she seemed to have no idea when we would eat. Not good enough for our hungry crew.
So, we set out in the direction of downtown, vacillating between Fortunato’s in the Janus Landing block, or Dal’Italia on 4th Street and 22nd North. Now, Maria and I have ordered out from Dal’Italia on many occasions, and I’ve eaten at the place at least a couple of times. I can tell you that they do have decent pizzeria ambiance, and the service has always been efficient. Dal’Italia also stocks good beer (imported anything, if you’re wondering what my standards are), many of which are on tap, but honestly, I don’t love the pizza. A lot of folks really dig it, but I find that their toppings are just too, well, big. They don’t dice the onions or peppers, and the result is a slippery, stringy piece of topping that kind of sticks in my throat. Oh, and they use canned mushrooms, which I am especially not fond of.
That in mind, I pushed for Fortunato’s on Central. I have had so many butter-dripping garlic rolls and hearty slices at this deli-style eatery, I was sure we’d find something to appease the hungry neighbors. The inside is all fluorescent lights and cafeteria-line service, but they have breezy table seating on the sidewalk, totally available on an early Saturday evening. Mind you, I have only ever been to Fortunato’s during the lunch hours, so I’ve never really bothered with what kind of beer they offer. A quick check of their icy tub revealed an unfortunate variety of domestics—mostly light, tasteless brews. Strike two.
Appetites mounting, we stood out on the street while I silently cursed the disaster that is St. Petersburg’s pizza-and-beer situation. Of course, if we’d been in Chicago, we’d already be patting our bellies and sipping our Peroni’s at some quaint, 50 year old pizzeria famous for its delectable deep dish. How could I salvage this night? I cast about the street for some sign of redemption, and then I saw it.
Now, CitySearch.com bills this place as a four-star restaurant, which I’m certain is a mistake, but Jojo’s in Citta was voted “Best of the Bay 2007” (though for what, exactly, I don’t know). Here’s what I do know about the place: great service, great outdoor seating, and an exemplary beer selection (no less than three honest-to-God Italian brews!). I’d been to Jojo’s a million years ago, and was not impressed, but clearly the place is under new management. (At my request, one of the waiters even took pains to find out when the Bucs’ game started on Sunday.) They don’t do “full-sized” pizzas, but the personal sizes we ordered—one “custom” with pepperoni, tomato and basil, and one “Special” with just about everything you can throw on a pizza—were more than enough, and incredibly tasty. Also, if you go, do not miss their bruschetta: little toasted breads with garlic heaven on top.
So, in the end I (or rather, Jojo’s) somewhat redeemed St. Petersburg. It’s not every day that you can take a “Chicago girl through-and-through” out for some decent pie in Florida. But, let this be a call to all of you northern transplants: Bring us your pizzerias! I’ve got to impress the neighbors.

First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 12/13/2007

How the Grinch Sold Christmas

2007-12-11T05:06:00.000+01:00

My mother loved to shop. As a child, I was toted to every department store, discount store, outlet store and garage sale within 30 miles of our house. Needless to say, Tyrone Square Mall was our second home. Frankly, some of my earliest memories involve me hiding inside racks of clothing, trying to entertain myself with safety pins while my mother spent countless hours examining every possible outfit and shoe combination.
Now, I don’t begrudge the woman. We hardly ever had any money in those days, so my mom’s excursions were usually just fodder for her wish list. But I don’t mind telling you that as a kid—as a teenager, and even as an adult—I have despised shopping. For me, getting new clothes is right up there with a visit to the gynecologist. About the closest I come to shopping is perusing the wine list at a restaurant or browsing the stacks at my local bookstore. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my mother and I were ever related.
All of this is to say that I, like so many other people who loathe shopping, am in a quandary this time of year. Put aside my personal opinions about how commerce has stolen anything that was ever sacred about the holidays; put aside how it infuriates me that families with no religious inclination whatsoever will put themselves into a yearlong debt just to keep up with their neighbors.
The truth is, I have long wanted to tell my family that I have donated all of the money I would spend on their presents to some deserving charity. But really, how do you tell a little kid that their gift is the knowledge that some homeless person will sleep in a warm bed tonight?
I know, I know. In that way I have succumbed to all of the marketing and commercial come-ons that saturate our holidays. But, two days after Halloween I visited a Walgreens and found myself face-to-face with a giant, inflatable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (itself an entirely commercial character, created to entice Christmas shoppers in the mid-twentieth century). Alas, with so much marketing stacked against us and our wallets, how can we possibly resist?
Undoubtedly the commodification of Christmas (or the “Holidays” if you want to get a piece of everyone’s money) has become an indispensable part of our economy. There are plenty of businesses that would fade into the sunset without their November-December sales figures. And, while I miss the Charlie-Brown-Christmases of my youth, I cannot deny that once the holidays are upon us, the manifest from society is “Go forth and spend.”
So, gentle Gabber reader, that is why this year I am extolling the virtues of the small business.
I mean, really. Why should Macy’s and Penny’s and Best Buy get most of your “good will”? In my opinion, giving all of your hard-earned money away to these holiday profiteers is just one step away from selling your soul. For yourself and for your giftees, I say: You can do better.
Remember the Art District? Yeah, that’s not just a quaint promenade for you to stroll twice a month. These are (tiny, community supported) businesses with way cool items for sale—items that would make a very fine (and interesting) contribution to the extravaganza under your tree. Anyone can walk into Circuit City and get a flat-screen TV or some yuppie HD radio, but c’mon. If you can afford that stuff, chances are your family can as well! Let them get the impersonal, big-ticket items.
Local businesses are what make our communities such fine places to live. They’re what we’re built on. Think about it: Why not make your loved-one happy AND contribute to the local economy? As Martha Stewart—the First Lady of creative gifts—would say: It’s a good thing.
I am not here to endorse any one business over another, or any one district over another. (Though, for that matter, the Grand Central District in St. Pete is the perfect place for you to pick up some enchanted item for that finicky gift-receiver.) All I’m saying is that if you, like me, are crippled by the expectations of the gift-giving season—if the thought of setting foot in a mall makes you break out in hives—there are alternatives.
Personally, I’m still pulling for the real spirit of Christmas. And I’m hoping that this year, my family will not be too outraged by a wee fewer presents under the tree. What I mean to say is that you see, little Susie…your gift this year will be the satisfaction of knowing that Aunt Shelly is spending Christmas under a palm tree in Puerto Rico.

First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/27/2007

The Performance is the Thing

2007-12-11T05:04:00.001+01:00

When I was seven years old, I made my theatrical debut as Thomas Jefferson in Bear Creek Elementary School’s version of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. It was heavy stuff; I wore a cotton ball wig and delivered my one line with all of the gravity fitting a venerable founding father: “We hold these truths to be self-evident…”
Of course, I had no idea what I was saying. But, my parents – and maybe even a few other parents – thought I was brilliant. I have the pictures to prove it.
Clearly, the public cannot get enough of me, as I have been called, once again, to try my hand at the craft. Required in not one, but two of my current courses, is a public performance, upon which my grades tentatively rest. Of course, by “public,” I mean a handful of classmates, and by “performance,” I mean squeaking out a few memorized lines, but the bile rises in my throat even as I think about it.
I do not consider myself a shy person but, like all “normal” people, I have a healthy fear of public speaking. On a scale of one to ten (one being an agoraphobe, ten being a circus clown), I am probably somewhere around a four. I have no problem speaking my mind, but performance – be it in a job interview or the recitation of poetry – makes my face feel funny and sweat run down my back.
So, good little nerd that I am, I have been doing my homework. Perhaps, if I can prepare myself enough, if I can really “get into” my roles, then the fear will go away. I have been reading about the fine “art” that is acting; I have been digging into my characters’ motivations. And, uncultured though I may be, I have even gone to the theater.
Last Saturday, I attended the Studio@620’s production of Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire. Admittedly, my reason for attending had less to do with “preparation,” and more to do with the fact that there were extra credit points involved, but never has homework been less of a chore.
The Studio@620 is a “creative home for the visual and performing arts” with an eye for integrating the various disciplines of the artistic community. The Studio is a fantastic addition to the blossoming culture of downtown: They put on (largely) contemporary plays, host poetry readings, screen films and provide a space for public forums and events, among other things. Oh, and at many events, they serve a considerable selection of adult beverages and gnoshing items for a small donation…but I digress.
Hamlet: The Unforgettable Fire was directed by Bob Devin Jones, one of The Studio’s founders and something of a giant in the arts/theater community. However, set to the music of U2, with a modern set and costuming, this was not your typical Hamlet. Now, with my limited study of Shakespeare, and my nonexistent knowledge of theater, I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to critique the play. I usually, and quite stupidly, figure that a play is good if the price of the ticket forces me to break out a credit card. What really interested me, however, was how these performers do what they do.
If you think Shakespeare is tough to read, try “being” Hamlet for a group of 50 or more strangers. Trying to remember those endless lines must be daunting enough, but, unlike my third grade performance, these actors have got to actually know what they mean. My Modern Drama professor, Dr. Jon Conlon (Polonius in 620’s production), says that some Shakespearean performers do not have a clue what they’re saying. And, while this is sad, it was clearly not the case Saturday night. These actors were so compelling that even I sometimes knew what was going on.
Once, when I asked my grandmother why she loved tennis so much, she explained that she didn’t love it until she tried to play it. A few weeks of lessons soon taught my grandmother what the professionals already know: Tennis is hard
And so, actors, as I try to calm my pre-performance jitters in the coming weeks, I take my hat off to you. Acting is hard. Sucking up the stage fright, remembering your lines and then…making us believe? It’s beyond me. It might just be the toughest job in the world.

First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 11/15/2007

A Place to Soothe the Snobby Entourage

2007-12-11T04:59:00.000+01:00

I am blessed to have a sort of extended family of friends around me. I don’t really have acquaintances.
Okay, that’s probably not true. I guess everybody has them – the neighbor next door, the girl you sit next to in class, the guy you keep bumping into at the bar – but on the whole, my social world is filled with people who would probably notice if I fell off the face of the earth.
My point, other than to say, “Hey, I’m so popular!” is that I know a fair group of people, from all different walks of life. And, I feel that I can safely tell you: These people are a bunch of weirdos. Aside from a rather dry sense of humor, and a gift for sarcasm, we have very little in common with each other. Although, in one way, I’m the oddball. You see, my friends – each and every one of them – all do share one more particular quality: An intense and absurdly critical opinion of food.
I myself am not a “foodie.” I do not care if my steak is overdone or if there are a few extra bites in my amuse buche. Heck, I didn’t even know what an “amuse buche” was until Maria made me watch Top Chef last season. When it comes to food, I really have only a few requirements: that it be edible and entirely free of anything that will make me spend the next few days on the toilet. Okay, well that, and that my pasta be al dente (jargon, once again, courtesy of Top Chef). I hate mushy pasta.
Anyway, as you can imagine, this creates quite a gulf between my friends and I when it comes time to pick a restaurant. You see, I don’t really give two lobster tails about where we go to eat, so long as it’s casual. I want a place where the “proper attire” is flip flops and cut-off shorts. I want a place where the music isn’t too loud and the beers are from a country I can’t find on a map. I want a place that provides outdoor seating and a decent, happy helping of a little thing I like to call “ambience.”
Yeah, I know it’s a French word, but don’t let that scare you. Ambiance is what it means when you walk into a place, with your three or sixteen friends in tow, and say “Hey! I can definitely see us sitting here into the next millennium and leaving with a bar tab big enough to fund a presidential campaign!”
This, my friends, is about the only thing I look for in a restaurant. I am an ambiance snob. And, there are very few places in the Bay area (though, admittedly, I have not been to every place in the Bay area) that conform to my high standards. Moon Under Water comes to mind. I am a huge fan of New World Brewery in Tampa (though, that’s really just a bar). Perhaps Ceviche – over the bridge and here in the ‘Burg. – and The Garden downtown (though, I will admit, even to a non-foodie, their cuisine has slipped a few notches below edible).
But there’s one more place that ranks high on my list, and even incorporates my love of urban history: The Chattaway in Bartlett Park (corner of 4th Street South and 22nd Avenue). Oh, I know, I know. Our paper has printed not-so-nice articles about Bartlett Park. Hey, I’ll admit, the neighborhood can be a little…unnerving. But, I’ve been to The Chattaway (sometimes called Chattaway’s or just Chattaway), at least half-a-dozen times, and I can guarantee you that my car has never been broken into.
Still not making you head for the door? Okay, fine. But just remember: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And there is a lot to gain at this historic restaurant.
Tacked together over fifty years ago, with what I can only assume was cinder block and plywood, The Chattaway passes my ambiance test with flying colors. On the huge outdoor patio, shaded by Jacaranda, Rubber Tree and Ficus (and the only place to sit, in my opinion, though I am told they have indoor dining with a “proper” tea room), you will find a rag-tag assortment of accommodations for your rear end, including diner-style booths and a fiber optic picnic table detailing the solar system on it’s eating surface. Really, if that’s not enough to convince you, I don’t know what will.
But, there’s more. Check out the “babbling brook,” complete with live fish, garden statuary (pink flamingos included!), or the myriad bird houses and lush, Florida style landscaping. My personal favorite is the sign over the restrooms: Beware of pickpockets and loose women.
As one friend recently quipped, “It’s like Key West. Only, Key West isn’t this low-class anymore.” Who could ask for a finer compliment?
Bring your dog. Bring your appetite. Oh, and bring cash. I think the Chattaway is angling for a “Last Cash-Only Establishment in the Known Universe” designation with the folks over at Guinness.
But, speaking of appetite, the Chattaway is really no slouch in the food department. Given what I have just revealed about myself, I would understand if you don’t believe me, but know this: The Chattaway is consistently voted “Best Burger in the Bay Area” by the various publications which judge such things.
And if that’s not enough for you, be reassured by the fact that almost all of my friends will agree to meet me there.

First published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL, 10/25/2007

Your Mother Was Right: Don't Skip Breakfast

2007-10-18T04:57:00.000+02:00

I am busy. I am busier than I ever remember being, frankly, and it’s only getting worse. Barely two months into my first semester as a senior at USF, I feel like I don’t have time to breathe. I just can’t wait for exams week.
I’d be a fool to complain, though. I spend every day discussing Shakespeare’s plays, learning a new language (Spanish – it’s going muy bien, gracias), and inventing or dissecting fiction. The very best part? My classes don’t even start until 2 p.m. What a life.
Of course, the majority of my “free” time is devoted to homework. The standard rule here is that, for every hour you spend in class, you should be spending three hours in “preparation” for that class. For me, this would equal approximately 60 hours a week.
People, I didn’t work that hard when I was getting paid.
Basically, my social life is over. I mean it. I haven’t been out since Bush’s approval rating was in the 40s. Besides drinking beer on my front porch, there’s only one real joy left to me in this world: breakfast.
That’s right, you heard me. Breakfast – the most abused and forgotten meal of the day. Of course, for me, breakfast is usually fruit and oatmeal. Or the occasional fried egg. But when the weekend rolls around, look out, world! It’s party time.
Now, as anybody who knows my partner, Maria, will tell you, she’s an incredible cook. I am spoiled in the food department (and ruined in the waistline department, but I digress). But, who wants to get up first thing on Saturday and cook me a three course breakfast? (Please send a sample of your cooking for review. Serious inquiries only.)
So, Maria and I have cultivated something of a weekend tradition. Our big event is now scouring the downtown area for sweet breakfast sites. And, so that my hard work will not go to waste I will share them with you, in no particular order.
Okay, so our favorite stop used to be Gold Coffee Shop on 1st Avenue North, across from the bus line at Williams Park. The service was great (unless you got the senile old woman who never, ever remembered a thing you said), and the simple eggs-and-homefries cooking was always perfect to soak up last night’s beer run. Alas, Gold’s dynasty was not to be. Turns out they had been renting the space all these many years from a discrete little organization known as the Church of Scientology. The Hubbard-lovers have since reclaimed their prime downtown real estate, and so Gold is gone.
Do not despair, greasy spoon seekers. As Yoda once said, “There is another.” If any of you long for Gold (or just a good hangover cure), then you’ve got to check out Central Coffee Shop (530 Central Avenue). It’s not nearly as big as Gold was, but it is my personal opinion that the food is much better. There are even nudie pictures of Marilyn Monroe on the wall. What could possibly go better with a western omelet? Get there wicked early, or closer to lunch, if you want a seat on the weekend.
But, if you don’t get a seat at Central, you can always walk across the street to The Dome Grill. Pros: You don’t have to move your car. Cons: Everything else. No offense to the very nice folks at The Dome (yes, they really are nice. It’s a family-run deal, I think), but the set up is just not what I’m in the mood for first thing in the morning. The Dome is sort of cafeteria-style, and you’ve got to stand in a line to order. Then, you’ve got to wait, perched with a ticket, ready to jump up and get your grub. It’s a very no-nonsense, DIY kind of scene. But, the prices are decent, the food’s pretty good, and if you’re lucky, you can sit outside and watch the diverse and always-entertaining throng that is downtown’s weekend crowd.
Now finally (and when I said “in no particular order,” I lied), my very favorite breakfast stop – and, when I say “favorite,” I mean I love this place so much, I want to weep for joy just thinking about it – is Ceviche’s new little sister restaurant, Pincho y Pincho (10 Beach Drive). Now, the name of this place is something of a joke between Maria and I because “pincho” means “I pinch” in Spanish. However, my resident Spanish expert also informs me that “pincho” is a toothpick, and thus the word Northern Spaniards use for tapas. The idea here is that they serve little bites of food, tapas-style. This is something of a misnomer, in my opinion, because Pincho y Pincho serves fairly large plates of breakfast fare. But this is no greasy spoon, my friend.
I have had their ginormous egg-manchego-croissant with apple-smoked (or something like that) bacon. I have had their tortilla Espanola with some yummy pink sauce and fresh-squeezed OJ. Clearly, I’m no restaurant critic, but I just love the fact that there’s a place in St. Pete where I can find “non-traditional,” and rather sophisticated breakfast items for (and I am not even making this up) about the amount of change I can scrape out of my couch. Unlike her pricey sister, Pincho y Pincho rivals Gold for cheap eats.
Oh, and it’s so cute, really. Inside the tiny, 400 square foot restaurant – all dark wood, Spanish tile and real Serrano hams hanging from the walls – you will find three tables and a bar which seats about 10 people, elbow to elbow. There are bistro seats outside, too, and despite the fact that this place serves the best breakfast in town, I have never had to wait to sit down. Not that I have any idea really, but I swear, it feels just like Spain.
Okay, so there you go. You no longer have an excuse to miss breakfast – at least not on the weekends. On the other hand, I clearly can no longer use Maria as an excuse for my big fat lard butt.

An American Dreamcicle

2007-10-18T04:56:00.000+02:00

I would never call myself a fair-weather fan. Hey, I cheered the Bucs in their dreamcicle days, when it seemed that “Bucco Bruce” was the best thing going for us. I went to games when you could actually walk up to the gate and buy a ticket. Frankly, I almost took pride in how much we stunk, as if we were fulfilling some sort of obligation. The Bucs were supposed to lose. We did. And we did it well.
But fast-forward to the Dungy days of red and pewter – like a little girl on the first day of school, we had a new outfit and a new attitude. I began to believe. We started having winning seasons. The Bucs…winning seasons! The Bucs…in the playoffs! I believed and believed – through the robbery of “the catch” and the ousting of Shaun King (who I think would have made a great, long-term quarterback and I’m not just saying that because we went to middle school together), and a bunch of other junk that told me that our time was almost – just any minute – going to come.
And then….Hooray! We are the Champions! Finally.
I mean, I think that’s how it went. I can barely remember, now, it’s been so long. Didn’t we think John Gruden was the best thing since sliced bread? I mean, didn’t we all just know that somehow, “Pound the Rock” was the answer to all our prayers?
The truth is, I really miss Tony Dungy. I mean, I miss him like I miss my skinny, twenty-one-year-old body. I miss him like I miss Bill Clinton. But, oh well. Turns out Gruden really did win with Dungy’s team. Lord knows, his version of the Bucs seems to be destined to go down with the dreamcicles.
But, getting back to my point (and I do have one): the Bucs are our team. Sure, I miss Mike Alstott and John Lynch and Martin Gramatica – aw, heck, I even miss Warren Sapp and Keyshawn. But that’s ancient history. We’ve got to support the guys we’ve got. Hey, some metropolitan areas don’t even have a team!
My job, gentle Gabber reader, is not to belabor the issue about Gruden’s ineffectual coaching and bizarre personnel decisions. No. My job here is to tell you my favorite places where you can enjoy such ineptitudes.
Now, obviously, I love football season. It’s the closest thing we have in Florida to tell us when it might be time to unpack the “winter” clothes (or, at the least, to take out the Halloween decorations). It’s the thing that truly sets Americans apart from all of those other soccer-loving countries. Football is the real “National Pastime,” if you ask me.
Naturally, when I plopped down to this season’s stinker (I mean, “opener”), I did it in the fashion that all red-blooded Americans prefer: on the couch, with a frosty beer and the sweet smell of grilled burgers wafting through the air.
But what if, on occasion, you crave a little more excitement in your football-viewing experience? What if you want to pound on a bar while you shout, “Pass interference, for chrissakes! Good God, are they blind?” Well, in that case, you’ve got to go to Limey’s Pub on 4th Street in St. Pete.
Oh, I know, I know. There are far better sports bars to catch the game action. In fact, Limey’s isn’t even a sports bar. It’s not even close. (They’ve only got two TVs!) But it is, without a doubt, my favorite place to watch a sporting event of any kind, and I’ll tell you why.
First, and foremost, I know most of the waitstaff. Okay – still not impressed? (Well, they do, sometimes – and I’m not naming any names – slip me a drink or two on the house…).
Secondly, they have all manner of cool beers, an extremely laid-back atmosphere, and the most unbelievable broccoli bites I’ve ever had. (Okay, the only broccoli bites I’ve ever had, but get them with the honey mustard dressing. You’ll thank me.) Oh, and most of the bar is open to the outdoors, which is so Florida, in my opinion.
Third and finally – and this is really my favorite part – head down on any afternoon, and you will be absolutely certain to encounter a lively (if sometimes toothless and drunken) gathering of old Bucs fans around the bar who are more than happy to commiserate (or argue until a lack of oxygen makes them stop) about the fate of our team.
People, this is what football is all about: emotion, passion and the plain, stupid love for a group of men in leggings, slapping butts and doing impromptu MC Hammer moves in the end zone.
We are a civilized society. We no longer pack up a picnic for public hangings. We don’t admit to rubber-necking at crash scenes. We have evolved. But, we still have football – and glorious, open-air bars in which to proclaim these oh-so-important grievances about the worthiness of our head coach.
This year, I’m pulling for Gruden. Last week, we slaughtered the Saints, so things are looking up. And, maybe “Pound the Rock” has gone the way of all ancient war cries – into the overly-dramatized land of Time Life Sports retrospective videos. But, we will always have “Pound the Bar.”

Labor Day Loser

2007-10-18T04:54:00.000+02:00

About three weeks ago, my partner Maria came up with a plan: we would spend Labor Day weekend camping and canoeing. This, I though, was brilliant, with one possible exception: it’s four thousand degrees outside.
Now Maria, the native Puerto Rican, is not one to be dissuaded by our summer heat. She actually wears several layers of clothing, including a stand-by sweater, to combat the air-conditioning in her office building. I mean, compared to San Juan, we’re practically shoveling snow up here.
But I digress.
Because this is the sort of thing you do for your partner, I agreed to this insane camping proposal on one condition: we go to one of Florida’s cool, clear springs as far north as a day-trip could take us.
So we began researching. Owing to the fact that Florida is pretty much a giant, floating blob of sand, there are no less than a zillion or so “ground-fed” water sources in our state. Many of these springs are small, uncharted for the casual tourist, or so remote you’d need a GPS locator and a machete to find them. Then, of course, there are the bigger ones which are so popular – particularly on a hot, holiday weekend – that you could barely dip your toe in the 72 degree water without smacking up against a flotilla of blow-up alligator rafts.
After careful consideration of these facts, we settled on Manatee Springs, about an hour and a half north of Tampa. There was really no reason for this except that the pictures looked pretty. And also they allow dogs, which seemed like a good idea at the time. So, Manatee Springs it was. We had made our decision.
Fast forward to about a week later. We have invited friends. A crew of four was now ready to hit the springs and discover “real” Florida. Only, our new traveling companions were not so excited about the camping part. Great, I say, barely concealing my relief, we could stay in a nice little bed & breakfast on Cedar Key, a marvelous fishing town about an hour west of Manatee Springs. Applause all around: I am the Labor Day weekend genius.
Then, a funny thing happened. I started a new semester at school and forgot all about the dang trip. Well, the plans were made, right? What could possibly be left to do?
If you’ve ever been outside of your house on a holiday weekend – I mean, to even so much as a picnic area – you know what I forgot to do. I forgot to make reservations.
Of course, by “forget,” I mean that I just didn’t do it.
Turns out we weren’t the only Floridians who wanted to hit the old canoe trail for Labor Day. Apparently, all of the rest of you did as well. Maybe you could drop me a line and let me know how it went, because, well, by the time I did make some phone calls (last Saturday morning), there was nary a canoe, kayak or floating vessel to be had in the entire state. And, needless to say, there were no rooms left at the inns.
Well, when life hands you lemons, you know what they say. I decided to go with Plan B. My dad owns a perfectly beautiful canoe, and there are certainly enough watering holes in the Bay area to dip it in, so I made one last phone call.
Would you believe that Dad’s canoe was booked too? Of course. He was practically on his way out the door with it.
It is amazing how fast you can go from Labor Day genius to Labor Day loser. I was in trouble now. My friends, sensing blood in the water, backed away from the whole deal. Maria was no longer speaking to me. What could I do?
There was only one trick left in my bag. An old friend of mine lives on the pink streets down by the Skyway, and I had heard a rumor that there was an ancient canoe in her garage. Well, it would be no spring-fed wonderland, but I supposed we could paddle around the docks down there. We could even bring our dog, Mango.
So we loaded up the truck with snacks and towels, sunscreen, and a couple of cans of Heineken. Twenty minutes later we were standing in my friend’s garage, struggling with this decrepit, thousand pound boat that probably hadn’t been in the water since Nixon left office.
But it was a canoe. Just fifty yards from the Gulf. And, even though I didn’t deserve it – even though I hadn’t made a single reservation – we had the best day.
Right up until Mango lunged for a bird and flipped the boat.

A Fort to Be Reckoned With

2007-08-18T00:36:00.000+02:00

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a lazy bastard. Oh, I know I talk a big game about getting out and enjoying the Florida sunshine, but you’re far more likely to find me in my natural habitat: the cool, dark recesses of a restaurant or bar. Particularly at this time of the year it seems I am eternally making outrageous excuses for my indolence and near-phobic aversion to the heat. (“Er, sorry…can’t play volleyball today…still nursing that jammed finger from junior high…”)
So, I’m certain that it will come as a bit of a surprise that my topic of choice in this very muggy month of August is none other that that playground for the uber-active, Fort DeSoto Park.
Anybody who knows anything about the Tampa Bay area has heard of Fort DeSoto. I’m sure I needn’t fill you in but, for the uninitiated – and it seems there are always a few of you – here is the requisite info: Fort DeSoto is the jewel of the Pinellas County Park’s system located at the very southern tip of the county and is home to some of the finest beaches, campsites, boating and fishing in the land. The park is also the “gateway site” for the Great Florida Birding Trail (who knew?).
According to Pinellas County’s website, the park property was first purchased from the federal government in 1938 for $12,500. In 1941 the property was sold back to the federal government for $18,404 to be used as a gunnery and bombing range during World War II. The property was repurchased from the feds in 1948 for $26,500. This clearly illustrates either some extremely poor real estate investing on the part of the county or, simply the fact that property values were skyrocketing even then.
Oh well. What matters is that we have it now. And what, exactly, did we get for all that dough? Well, nothing that Florida wasn’t full of at the time: untainted, mosquito-ridden waterfront property. Oh, and a big, fat fort.
Of course, we folks in the know like to call the whole park “the Fort.” As in, “Hey, big cookout at the Fort!” and “Didya hear about the shark attack at the Fort?” (Actually, nobody calls it “the Fort,” but wouldn’t it be cool if we all did? Let’s start a fun new trend, people!)
Anyway, there really is a fort at Fort DeSoto, which puts us in very cool company alongside St. Augustine and San Juan in Puerto Rico, though ours is not nearly as old. According to fortdesoto.com (NOT the official website for the park), construction on the fort began in 1898, but it “was never the site of any major battle, and the weapons of Fort De Soto…were never fired in anger at an enemy.” Perhaps in a moment of irritation, then.
Well, the fort is cool, nonetheless. And, occasionally, mock civil war battles are fought there (so you can either grab your confederate cap or go make fun, whatever floats your boat). But, what makes the park stand out (and, as a person only marginally more active than a tree sloth, I’m putting myself out on a limb, here) is all the cool stuff you can do there!
Torpidity aside, I, the human pet rock, have actually walked the Fort’s nature trails, steered my bike along its paved paths, and fallen – in countless unflattering positions – onto its sandspurs with rollerblades still attached to my feet. But that’s just for starters.
You can now rent a kayak or canoe and paddle the Fort’s canoe trails (or find uncharted territories of your own, potentially ambushing nude beach proponents). This happens to be my favorite Fort activity as it requires far less inertia and far greater rewards, from stingray sightings to the possibility of mangrove crabs jumping in your boat.
I have eaten fresh fish caught from the Fort area, and can say that they’re as fine as any tilapia (ahem, I mean grouper) in our Bay area. And, while I’m not a fan of terrorizing animals for my own amusement (sorry, sport fishers), I’m sure there’s plenty of fun to be had in that department as well. Boaters and fisherfolk alike (though I’m sure they already know), the Fort is your friend.
Add to all this outdoor abandon tons of great picnic sites, goofy carriage bicycles, vast undeveloped beaches, and a smattering of concessions stands, and I think you’ll get my drift when I say that the Fort totally rocks. It’s no coincidence that you’ve got to call, like, a bazillion months in advance to reserve a campsite (I hear they’re now taking names for Christmas 2012).
I’m telling you, as soon as I can get off the couch, I am so there.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 8/23/07

Are We This Sick?

2007-08-08T05:40:00.000+02:00

Is Her Blood On the Wall?
New Report Has Cops Worried

SEE HOW HER PARENTS REACT

This is the current headline on AOL regarding the little girl, Madeline, who disappeared in Portugal recently.

There are few words to express - as a journalist and a human being - how repulsive this is to me. Have we become so anaesthetised that we are thirsty for this kind of "news"?

I don't want to see how her parents react. I've seen enough of grief to know - and I don't need it bandied about as entertainment. Or worse, news.

It is NOT news that these parents are living the biggest nightmare of their lives. It is not news that they are pleading against reason for the life of their little girl.
I don't want to live in a society that can not control its own fetish for voyeurism. Yet, I am overcome with this hopeless realization: we will never evolve past mindless brutality. We are simply too fascinated by the pain of others and betrayed by our own carnal lust to see it.

What hypocrites we are.

Condo Complex

2007-08-08T05:35:00.000+02:00

I may have mentioned this before, but I’m really a bit of a history geek. I’m not talking about a bunch of boring dates and wars – the kind of enormously uninteresting history they like to teach you in school. What excites me is the common stuff – the kinds of things that make you feel like you could actually step into another time – like photos, journals, and clothing. (It doesn’t even have to be that old, really. I’ve been known to dork out over an original Rubik’s Cube or a Rolling Stone from 1975.) I dig old cars especially, but my true love has to be architecture.
I’ve never been abroad, but I think I might fall into ecstatic convulsions if I could lay my own eyes on the Tower of London or, God help me, the Coliseum in Rome. As it is, I live in a 1925 bungalow that I am in love with for its sheer, decrepit oldness. (I also want to rip out my hair over its sheer, decrepit oldness, but that’s another story.)
In Florida – a handful of Spanish forts notwithstanding – my house is one of the oldest things around. Let’s face it, until the marvel of air conditioning (and serious mosquito control), Florida real estate was undesirable, if not practically uninhabitable.
Naturally, St. Petersburg is not exactly a mecca for historic architecture, but we do have a smattering of old buildings – some of which are actually cared for and maintained. Others, like the woeful YMCA building downtown, have been left to languish. Of course, there’s always hope: the Vinoy – that gloriously restored, carnation pink feather in St. Pete’s cap – was a pathetic, abandoned heap for nearly twenty years until its 93 million dollar salvation.
Big money restorations are a rare thing, however, particularly in a city where “historic” is a very relative designation. Who wants to spend loads of money on a “fixer-upper” when they could just demolish a whole city block and start from scratch? The bread-and-butter of Florida real estate has always been new construction and, by the looks of downtown, high-rise condos have at last taken over.
Have you seen these monsters? How could you miss them, really? And you can’t walk three blocks without coming up against a plastic construction barrier advertising some attractive, happy (and clearly, very rich) people lounging in a mock-up of a soon-to-be-built penthouse suite. Since 2005, no less than 14 condominium towers (not including Progress Energy’s new office high-rise) have been planned or completed in the downtown area. People are actually talking about a St. Petersburg “skyline.”
Well, no, it’s hardly Chicago or NYC. And, thanks to Albert Whitted Airport and FAA restrictions, we’ll never have a behemoth like the Chrysler building. But, from a distance, it certainly seems that there may soon be more to characterize St. Petersburg than the Bank of America “tower” and the featureless white lump of Tropicana Field.
While St. Petersburg is getting a skyline that may one day be worthy of etching on a Starbuck’s mug, the most interesting changes are actually happening on the ground. You see, if developers want to attract big-spending residents who can actually afford these condos, they’ve got to throw in better amenities than a pool and a view. Who wants to drop that kind of dough when the coolest neighborhood feature is The Pier? (No offense to The Pier, but honestly, we’ve all done enough novelty hat shopping and fudge eating to last us until the in-laws come back in town.)
This is where we – the lowly majority of area residents who will probably never even know these condo types, let alone afford one of their flats – get thrown a bone. You see, these proliferating towers have now mutated into entire communities. Where once we might find only a foreboding and lavishly guarded front entrance, we now find welcoming (if pricey) retail stores. Remember when Beach Drive was little more than a couple of jewelry shops and the kind of art galleries your grandmother would like?
In one block alone, under the colossal shadow of the new Parkshore Plaza (where, according to the condo association’s website, residents enjoy “unparalleled service and sophisticated, indulgent, urban living”), we common folk can now experience reasonably-priced, decent dining at the (brilliantly-named) Parkshore Grill, a dizzying array of herbal beverages at The Hooker Tea Company, or (and, I think this is what the Parkshore people mean when they say “indulgent”) the “Italian Gelato Renaissance” in Paciugo Caffe.
There are dozens more condo-shops where these came from, either opening their doors, or in the works. I have no doubt that in the next few years you will be able to shop Baby Gap, enjoy Seattle’s Best coffee, and register at Crate & Barrel – all within view of the downtown waterfront. I never thought I’d see the day, but St. Petersburg is fast evolving from “God’s Waiting Room” to “Yuppie Playground.”
I have to admit that the part of me that wonders about the days of the green benches is a little bit heartbroken. That part of me that, ten years ago reveled in the gritty debauchery of Club Detroit (itself a reincarnation of St. Pete’s first hotel, the Detroit) is sad to see an era come to its end. In a few years, there will be condos clamoring for space next to the State Theater (if the State can survive) and I’m sure that even Janus Landing’s days are numbered.
As Florida’s thirst for new construction outstrips its respect for the old, I will simply have to satisfy myself with the few salvaged pieces of our past. Who knows? Maybe somebody will restore the YMCA building.
But, after all, you can’t stand in the way of progress. And, until I can set foot in the Sistine Chapel, I can at least stick a spoon in some awesome gelato.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 8/2/07

Harry Potter and the Order of the VIP Seating

2007-07-17T06:09:00.000+02:00

In the annals of cultural milestones, this will go down as a particularly historic year. And I, for one, believe that we are privileged to be a part of it. Yes folks, July 2007 will be one for the record books.
No, no. I promise, this has nothing to do with tennis. This is a much rarer event – one of those singular moments that you will recall to your wide-eyed great-grandchildren: “Yes, little Billy. Your nana was actually there.”
I am talking, of course, about the crescendo of Pottermania.
Now, all you cynics can keep your grunts and guffaws to yourselves. I am right about this: J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series is as an absolute classic - required reading material for the adolescent set, and a fine way to pass the time for anyone else. Meditating on Rowling’s genius, I am moved to educe only one other series that has made such an indelible impact on our culture: A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh. (If anyone disagrees with me on that point, I will simply say that Milne’s original book was on the New York Times Bestseller List in 1960 in – get this – Latin. Yes, that’s right. Nearly forty years after its publication, The Bear of Very Little Brain was so enormously popular that he was a best seller in a dead language.)
Perhaps (other than revealing my obvious and somewhat fanatical love for the Boy Wizard) you are wondering where I’m going with all of this. I shall tell you: I am going to the movies.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, but I am prepared to defend myself. While it’s true that I revere the literary Potter far above the celluloid version, the seventh and final book will not be out until Saturday and I have succumbed to the mania. I simply had to get my fix.
I went to see the fifth in the Potter movie series, The Order of the Phoenix, last Sunday afternoon.
Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I don’t get to the movies all that often. I actually have no excuse for this except that I am inherently phobic of places like the mall, Baywalk, Channelside and the like. I’m talking about places so mind numbing that children, teenagers, and adults who should know better are lulled into believing that they are having a cultivated experience. The trendy newness of it all makes me shudder.
Why is it that movie theaters are now housed in these Disney-fied cultural vacuums?
Even the old Beach Theater on St. Pete Beach – one of the last remaining venues for independent and arthouse films – has “updated” its features. They are currently showing Transformers. I am not kidding.
Ah, well. Clearly I’m not one to judge. Harry Potter is a far cry from Il Postino. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I went to an independent film. Cultural suckage aside, the Baywalks and Channelsides of the world are pretty great places to see a movie.
It’s crazy to be nostalgic about the theaters of yore when you’ve got big cushy chairs, gourmet candy and Dolby surround sound with which to stupefy yourself. Remember when having an armrest cup holder was a big deal? And, I can romanticize the drive-in all I want, but the truth is – if you actually went there to see the movie – those places were crummy.
So, Sunday I went to the Baywalkiest, Channelsidiest of all of the Tampa Bay area’s theaters - the Muvico 20 in Centro Ybor. Oh, and not just the Muvico – I went to the way cool, VIP, 21 and over Premier Theater.
Oh, people. This is the awesomest modern movie theater in the land. It really is VIP. It says so right there on the free, VIP popcorn coupons that come with the ticket. Of course, the ticket can only be purchased with the title to your home or your first-born child (whichever comes first), but really, it is so worth it. You have to wind past all the riff-raffy theaters to get there (through the Disney-fied “grotto” alley that is the lobby) and then, like the mythical village of Brigadoon, it appears magically before you.
Inside the lobby there is bistro seating, that delectable free popcorn, and a full bar. A full bar! Now, I went to see Harry Potter in the middle of the day, but I’m not ashamed to tell you that I kicked back in my ginormous leather theater seat with an “oil drum” of Fosters lager – just because I could. And really, the best part is – no kids. Not one single text-messaging, gum smacking, candy throwing teenager in sight. (I apologize to all of the considerate, responsible movie-going teenagers – I know that there are one or two of you out there.) Holy gravy train, Batman - this is what movie-watching was meant to be.
So, maybe it is a cultural vacuum. Maybe it is in Tampa. And maybe (okay, clearly) I no longer have the right to be sanctimonious about my movie-watching predilections. But, next time I head out for a date with the silver screen, I’m pretty sure it will be in VIP style.
Hey, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is only a year away.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 7/19/07

A Room of One’s Own

2007-07-17T06:06:00.000+02:00

Today I’m going to tell you about my new favorite place in St. Petersburg. And though my globetrotting has basically been relegated to one continent, I venture to say this might be my most favorite place in the world.
This is no natural wonder or chic hotspot, but it is fairly exclusive. And, though many of you may have heard of this place, it can be hard to find. It may take a while to get there, but bear with me.
Firstly, several factors have conspired to keep me in a state of hermitude lately (not the least of which is, apparently, making up words). One of these factors is an annual and unavoidable tradition: Wimbledon.
Now, I have already gone over the finer points of my tennis obsession with you all so I will simply sum up this particular distraction as, well, distracting. ESPN is actually covering this event at decent hours of the day (read: working hours) and so I have been obliged to cut back the hours at my own hard job: doing super fun stuff and writing about it.
I realize that this may not garner a whole lot of sympathy from you poor folks who are away from the television during prime, All-England Club match time, but stay with me.
The second reason that I have been stuck at home is the ever-present home improvement project. I know many of you are familiar with this generic chore – you can substitute your own Home Depot horror story here. But, this time it was not the re-bracing of my collapsing ceiling. Or the replacing of my leaking toilet. (Ah, the joys of homeownership.) This past week, I have spent whole days of my life trying to organize the terrifying nuclear fallout that is my “home office.”
Now, I know I’m lucky enough to actually have an entire room for that designation. But the sad truth is, this room is so small, dark and hot – and while these might all be great qualities for a South American pinup girl - it is virtually useless to me. Throw in the fact that nearly every bit of mail or otherwise annoying artifact from our days is literally thrown in there ten minutes before dinner party guests arrive (this has been standard operating procedure at our house since day one), and you have some idea of the conditions I have been laboring under.
People, there are Christmas cards in there from 2002, many now with the added bonus of a calcified and neatly pressed insect carcass inside. There are piles upon piles of magazines and papers I have never laid eyes on, not to mention scraps of poetry and long-abandoned journals – all of which have to be meticulously read for both filing purposes and for comic relief. (Apparently, and inexplicably, at one point during my high school career, I felt the urge to document the finer points and relative distinctions between the Backstreet Boys and their predecessors the New Kids on the Block.) Why on Earth do we hold onto these things?
Well, we all have our junk drawers, tables, closets, rooms – what have you – into which the endless tide of crap that makes up a life overflows. We all have secret stashes of love letters from affairs we can’t remember and exercise equipment collecting yet more laundry and dust. Perhaps a more pressing question would be: why am I torturing myself by trying to organize it?
I’m glad you asked. You see, Saturday was my thirtieth birthday. I am now officially three decades old. Gone forever are the carefree, proudly disorganized days of my twenties. (And, I know that this is true because last year I got an iPod. This year, my gifts were generally inspiring, life-affirming books – the kind my grandmother likes to read.) Admittedly, as many of my friends have pointed out and recognized from their own bout with the big 3-0, I have the undeniable urge to get my act together – to grow up and get down to business.
And so - in the spirit of Bill Murray’s “baby steps” - that business seems to be currently centered in my office. Or at least it will be once I’ve cleared away the cobwebs and overcome the creepy feeling I get just walking past the door.
I want a space where I can write – away from the draws of the television and the various distractions and mosquitoes of my front porch. I want a room with maps on the wall of places I have never been, with a laptop, a printer and no internet connection. And so, this is my birthday present to myself.
I nearly finished it this weekend, and it is undoubtedly my new favorite place. I have a groovy lava lamp (and yes, that is the only adjective you can legally use to describe a lava lamp) and a soothing little clock that ticks along steadily, metronome-like next to the erratic percussion of my keyboard. I have a semi-comfortable chair, a hurricane-force fan, and a single goal: to clear my mind as I have this space so that I can begin my next thirty years with far fewer excuses.
I’m sorry you can’t come, but I promise you can make your own space just like it. You don’t have to be thirty. You don’t have to be a writer. Just clear away the dust bunnies and make a little place for yourself and whatever it is you like to do.
I hear that Home Depot is having a sale on some fabulous organizational products.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 7/5/07

Well, I've Got to Put in My Two Cents

2007-06-17T05:00:00.001+02:00

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?

It’s Your Turn to Shuffle

2007-06-17T00:40:00.001+02:00

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

Hot Dogs in Paradise

2007-06-17T00:39:00.001+02:00

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

Distractions of the Caribbean

2007-06-17T00:38:00.000+02:00

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

The St. Pete Sampras Tennis Fan Club

2007-06-17T00:37:00.002+02:00

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

Landlubbers Take Note

2007-06-17T00:37:00.001+02:00

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

Poetry for the People

2007-06-17T00:36:00.001+02:00

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

I’d Like to Buy the World Symphony Tickets

2007-06-17T00:35:00.001+02:00

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

Bar-hopping the Night Away

2007-06-17T00:34:00.000+02:00

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

The Luckiest Coffee Shop in Town

2007-06-17T00:33:00.000+02:00

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

So you want to be a columnist...

2007-01-20T20:48:00.000+01:00

I've just left my job at the Gabber, and am now about a week away from flat broke. Because my people back at the paper still love me, they have offered me this column. Not because, I suspect, they believe that I will greatly increase readership with my musings, but because they fear for my impending lack of beer money. So here goes my first shot...

Greetings from the College Kid

As many of you may know, I recently decided to leave my position at the paper in order to concentrate on my education. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, and I can tell you that two weeks into my semester at the University of South Florida, I am already missing my Gabber family.
However, I have been putting off my bachelor’s degree long enough. We don’t get any other shot at life, and when I left the University of Florida at the wizened age of twenty, I thought I would have no regrets. Turns out I was wrong.
But fear not, Gabber readers. While embarking on this new adventure – a goal I am finally realizing – I will be keeping in touch. In this column I will not only endeavor to keep you abreast of my life as a second-chance college kid, but also of the myriad of diversions that my new, flexible schedule now affords.
These first few weeks as a full-time student have been overwhelming. Many of you who have made the similar decision to go back to school will know what I mean. The truth is, you can’t go back.
As I said, when I left school ten years ago, I thought I didn’t need college. After all, I was the same age as my peers who were doing just fine at their restaurant and retail jobs. But now my friends have master’s degrees and doctorates, and I am in classes with significantly younger folks.
That’s okay, I tell myself. I am significantly wiser than many of them. My priorities are more grounded. This should be a piece of cake!
However, half-way into Dante’s Inferno and the five different versions of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, I began to doubt myself.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with doubt. Doubt keeps you humble. But it also opens the door for a number of diversions. And by diversions I mean, of course, distractions. Chief among those distractions for me these past few weeks has been the Tavern at Bayboro on the USF St. Pete campus.
People, my college campus has a bar! Not fifty yards from my beginning Spanish classroom, there are students, professors and all manner of academics sipping Newcastle Ales, discussing philosophy, reading poetry and grooving to the occasional live bands! I am in heaven.
Not so good for Dante, but perfect for the aged college student who has long been old enough to sip an adult beverage.
Now, this little Tavern (formerly known as Tavern on the Green until the original – you know, the one in Central Park – got wind of it) is not just for college folks. But it is one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. Combine that with some tasty sandwich selections and the adjoining Bayboro Books, it beats Dante’s Paradiso any day.
I have friends at the US Geological Survey (USGS) just two blocks away who consider this spot their second office. Of course, that’s government work for you. But after plugging away at the office or, in my case Chaucer, it’s incredible to look out at the water, sipping a fine imported brew and drinking in Florida’s “winter” sunshine.
Of course, there are a lot of places to do that in our fair metro area, but few of them are ten feet from my poetry class.
Now, don’t you worry. I’m still getting in plenty of studying. But going to school at this small, beautiful campus has some amazing perks. And, I imagine I’ll probably have a lot more fun in downtown St. Petersburg that I ever did in Gainesville.
I intend to make the most of it and, just in case you are not discovering your second childhood as I am, I will tell you all about it.
I’m sure the Gabber office will get along just fine without me. The Gabber is an unsinkable ship, as the boss likes to say. But if you get the urge, you can always stop over for a visit. I’ll be down at the Tavern, and who knows where else…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 2/15/07

Resurrecting The Dying Game

2007-01-20T20:26:00.000+01:00

I used to play this game with my mother: Which would you rather…? It basically consisted of me thinking up the most morbid, horrible ways you could die and asking her which she would prefer. I remember playing this game on car rides, always just me and her. Funny that I only played this game with her, because she never answered me, really. “Mom, which would you rather do: be burned at the stake or be disemboweled?” To which she would usually respond, “Aargh! Shelly! Neither!” Which, of course, I found tremendously unsatisfying and would proceed with something even more gruesome. I vaguely recall her thinking hot pokers in the eyes would be better than something…
I can see why my mom didn’t want to play that game, now. As a child, you feel so far away from death, it’s as if you’re talking about a fairy tale. I surely would not be burned at the stake or have hot pokers drilled into my eye sockets. I’m sure my mom didn’t think she would either. But, the older you get the more real death becomes. And talking about it - writing about it, even – is tempting it. Those superstitions – as old as human experience – come creeping in.
Throwing caution to the wind, I’ll say that obviously the very best way to go is quietly in your sleep after a long, eventful and remorseless life. Blissfull. Perhaps after a nice bottle of wine and an orgasm. We can’t all go that way, you know.
Second best would be quickly. At any point. Just as long as it was very, very quickly. Like a piano falling on you while you’re walking through a nice urban market. Or, getting hit by a car you never saw coming, thinking about an erotic moment you had with your lover. Or maybe a plane crash with somebody beautiful and famous, lighting up a cigarette and toasting your demise with a free mimosa.
There are good ways to go, I suppose.
But, surely, there are many more infinitely sucky ways to die. Those would probably be different for all of us, but long, painful illness and disembowelment come to mind. Death is death, and the moment it comes can’t be too long, I suppose. So, I think the absolute worst way to go would involve something grotesquely embarrassing. It’s a good thing that Elvis had a brilliant career to be remembered for, because dying on the john, trying to take a crap ranks right up there with the suckiest of all time.
Anyway, I digress. The Dying Game is fun and simple. Don't worry about tempting fate. Just be creative and go with it. Here, I'll help you. Which would you rather: be flayed alive or drown in your own puke? Have fun!

A Beach House Might Save Me...

2006-04-21T04:11:00.000+02:00

My everyday job - the one that "pays the bills" - is to sell advertising for a small newspaper. The actual pay is...not fabulous. If I had the same job anywhere else, I'd probably be making more money. On commission.
The problem is, I am what some of the older generations might call "lazy." I don't do so well with commission. So, I supplement my income by writing for the same paper.
We are not talking about Pulitzer Prize-winning pieces here. No. In fact, I wrote an article a while back (about which my friends still mercilessly tease me) titled "Baking a Difference." It was about a bake sale for charity at a local hair salon. While I'll leave you to mull over the unsavory details of exposed baked goods resting on the countertops of the local beauty parlor, I must admit, the title was pure brilliance. It neatly encompassed every value of the publication I am privileged to submit material to: local business, charity, and a smattering of hokiness.
I'm sure you can't imagine why I often consider throwing it all away for the cushy life of an institution.
Pardon the drama, but the truth is, "Baking a Difference" was one of my more serious journalistic endeavors. What I mostly write are something we in the newspaper industry call "Business Features" - or, euphemistically referred to at my particular paper as "Advertorials." Cute, huh?
Advertorials are simply advertisements. Got a pet shop or a convenience store you think does it better? Perhaps you are the proprietor of a travel agency or a hair salon who needs to "tell your story." Well, I'm the girl for you.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love the paper I work for. You could not find a more hilarious, devoted gang of freaks such as we. But, I find myself restless - perhaps in the midst of the proverbial existential crisis that is the right-of-passage for my generation. There's got to be something more to my life than Little League features and advertisements for portable bidet systems.
So, I spend much of my free time here, on what our president likes to call "the internets," checking celebrity gossip and searching for the perfect Puerto Rican beach house.
Oh, and researching how to make millions writing children's literature.
I hear some lady in London did very well with that genre.
I haven't got a clue how to write children's literature. But, I bought the "Idiot's Guide" and I have a great storyline involving my fish Raul.
Don't confuse my entry for some ignorant, bourgeois rant. I know I'm a lucky son-of-a-bitch. I know I could be pissing in a hole in Cambodia, waiting for 24 grains of rice promised by my rebel leader sugar daddy. Hey, you've got to be somebody's bitch...
But, I live in the wealthiest country in the world. Angelina Jolie is not going to build a nature preserve in my backyard and make me one of her adopted "chosen ones."
Basically, I have to find a way to pay my mortgage, keep my girlfriend happy, and keep myself out of the padded room.
Puerto Rico looks pretty good.

Hemingway had Doubt too

2006-01-30T23:19:00.001+01:00

Doubt is such a strange bedfellow. One day you're up; you have direction. Then she creeps in. Like a bad love you can't let go.

I am currently courting this ex-love of mine. Doubt. She has kept me from evolving. She has tied my hands and forced me to ask, "What's so bad about the way things are?"

I think anyone who pursues creative endeavors has shared this lover. Is it only those strong enough to resist her sweet temptations - to kick her to the curb, and get on with their lives - who have succeeded?

Currently, I am wanting to pursue the only interest that has ever stuck with me; the only thing that I have ever shown a marketable talent for.

But, every time I read - be it Hemingway, Harry Potter or someone's random blog entry - Doubt comes back. As my Grandmother says, She chases you until you catch her.

Tonight, she's come calling again. Instead of writing the Great American Novel, I am whoring myself out for this damn newspaper. Anybody want cheap diabetic testing supplies? Well, maybe you will after you read my next masterpiece in the latest edition.

(Instead of wine and flowers, Doubt brings a certain amount of cynicism to our date...)

Damnit. Here's to the end of all the lovers bent on mastering and destroying. Here's to the end of Doubt. Really. It's not me - it's you.

So, now I am thinking of the Desiderata, and all it's simple wisdom. The one part I've always remembered comes into my head:

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

But, I wonder, who's greater than Hemingway?