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
December 11, 2007
How the Grinch Sold Christmas
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
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
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
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
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
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
October 18, 2007
Your Mother Was Right: Don't Skip Breakfast
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.
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
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.”
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
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.
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.
August 18, 2007
A Fort to Be Reckoned With
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
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
August 8, 2007
Are We This Sick?
Is Her Blood On the Wall?
New Report Has Cops Worried
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
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
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
July 17, 2007
Harry Potter and the Order of the VIP Seating
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
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
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
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
June 17, 2007
Well, I've Got to Put in My Two Cents
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?
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
Anyone who knows me, knows how much I like games. Board games, video games, word games, card games – you name it, I’ll play it. And, while I may not be an athlete (you’d probably have to blackmail me into playing flag football), my favorite games are of the more active variety. I love badminton, croquet, ping pong, and have even built my own ladder golf set out of PVC.
(To anyone who might be unfamiliar with ladder golf, I command you to stop reading this and go look it up right now. It’s oh so much cooler than horseshoes.)
I tell you all of this not to give you an idea of what my personals ad might look like, but to explain why it’s so very weird that it took me this long to discover St. Pete Shuffle.
Well, “discover” is probably an overly generous verb, here. I’ve actually known about this shuffleboard event for over a year. I have been invited – nay, implored – to try it out half a dozen times. Why did I decline? What took me so long?
I’d never played shuffleboard for the very same reason that many of you are reading this with incredulity: shuffleboard is for old people.
As all Floridians know, shuffleboard is the patron sport of the geriatric set. It is synonymous with buffet specials and leisure suits. It is as obsolete as the foxtrot, just one step away from the Long Shadow Inn.
When I actually turned down a party invitation last Friday to go to the Shuffle, my friends said, “What are you, eighty?”
But you know what? I have never been happier to miss a party.
People, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t expect to be saying this, but shuffleboard is the coolest game ever! And the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle is the coolest place to play it.
The Mirror Lake recreation area (559 Mirror Lake Drive, Downtown) is home to some of St. Petersburg’s oldest buildings. Though many of them are a little worse for the wear, the shuffleboard courts are in excellent condition. Stepping into the hexblock courtyard is like stepping back in time – it’s like finding yourself in an old Florida postcard.
The playing starts at 7pm every Friday, weather permitting, and when I showed up around 7:15, Chris Kelly, the current head of the St. Pete Shuffleboard Club, was just patching his iPod into the court’s PA system. Once a month, I’m told, live bands play, but Chris’ music mix was mellow and hip enough to please just about everybody. Otis Reading’s “These Arms of Mine” created a surreal time warp – I felt like I was in the Florida version of Dirty Dancing. Being a big history geek, I was nearly giddy with this retro glimpse of old St. Pete.
When the sun goes down, white Christmas lights illuminate the courts, and play goes on until 11pm. Club members, who pay just $20 annually, can play later, if they like.
The St. Pete Shuffleboard Club was established in 1924, and the first Clubhouse was built in 1927. I’m sure the place has seen its ups and downs, but the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle started about two years ago, and is well on its way to reviving the game. Is it still a senior pastime? You betcha. But the folks at the Shuffle are far from geriatric, and there’s an equal amount of families and college kids – all shuffling happily, side-by-side.
As for the main attraction – the game – it’s easy enough to keep you from getting discouraged and challenging enough to be fun. Friday night Shuffle is free (which is a whole lot cheaper than miniature golf) and open to everyone, so bring friends or even the kids. You can play by yourself, but it’s obviously more fun with an opponent or a group of four. I had the privilege of being heartily defeated by St. Pete Councilmember Jeff Danner, and his teammate - the master himself - Chris Kelly.
But, lest you think I’m some kind of slouch, I should warn you: I annihilated the Gabber’s own Cathy Salustri in my very first attempt at shuffleboard, 87-31.
And, I reserved all bragging rights.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/21/07
(To anyone who might be unfamiliar with ladder golf, I command you to stop reading this and go look it up right now. It’s oh so much cooler than horseshoes.)
I tell you all of this not to give you an idea of what my personals ad might look like, but to explain why it’s so very weird that it took me this long to discover St. Pete Shuffle.
Well, “discover” is probably an overly generous verb, here. I’ve actually known about this shuffleboard event for over a year. I have been invited – nay, implored – to try it out half a dozen times. Why did I decline? What took me so long?
I’d never played shuffleboard for the very same reason that many of you are reading this with incredulity: shuffleboard is for old people.
As all Floridians know, shuffleboard is the patron sport of the geriatric set. It is synonymous with buffet specials and leisure suits. It is as obsolete as the foxtrot, just one step away from the Long Shadow Inn.
When I actually turned down a party invitation last Friday to go to the Shuffle, my friends said, “What are you, eighty?”
But you know what? I have never been happier to miss a party.
People, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t expect to be saying this, but shuffleboard is the coolest game ever! And the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle is the coolest place to play it.
The Mirror Lake recreation area (559 Mirror Lake Drive, Downtown) is home to some of St. Petersburg’s oldest buildings. Though many of them are a little worse for the wear, the shuffleboard courts are in excellent condition. Stepping into the hexblock courtyard is like stepping back in time – it’s like finding yourself in an old Florida postcard.
The playing starts at 7pm every Friday, weather permitting, and when I showed up around 7:15, Chris Kelly, the current head of the St. Pete Shuffleboard Club, was just patching his iPod into the court’s PA system. Once a month, I’m told, live bands play, but Chris’ music mix was mellow and hip enough to please just about everybody. Otis Reading’s “These Arms of Mine” created a surreal time warp – I felt like I was in the Florida version of Dirty Dancing. Being a big history geek, I was nearly giddy with this retro glimpse of old St. Pete.
When the sun goes down, white Christmas lights illuminate the courts, and play goes on until 11pm. Club members, who pay just $20 annually, can play later, if they like.
The St. Pete Shuffleboard Club was established in 1924, and the first Clubhouse was built in 1927. I’m sure the place has seen its ups and downs, but the Friday night St. Pete Shuffle started about two years ago, and is well on its way to reviving the game. Is it still a senior pastime? You betcha. But the folks at the Shuffle are far from geriatric, and there’s an equal amount of families and college kids – all shuffling happily, side-by-side.
As for the main attraction – the game – it’s easy enough to keep you from getting discouraged and challenging enough to be fun. Friday night Shuffle is free (which is a whole lot cheaper than miniature golf) and open to everyone, so bring friends or even the kids. You can play by yourself, but it’s obviously more fun with an opponent or a group of four. I had the privilege of being heartily defeated by St. Pete Councilmember Jeff Danner, and his teammate - the master himself - Chris Kelly.
But, lest you think I’m some kind of slouch, I should warn you: I annihilated the Gabber’s own Cathy Salustri in my very first attempt at shuffleboard, 87-31.
And, I reserved all bragging rights.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/21/07
Hot Dogs in Paradise
Well, here I am again, mired in schoolwork. Yes, there are times when even my life is truly uneventful. But, a few hours chained to my computer, or pouring over the surprisingly uninteresting details of witchcraft in early modern Europe, are nothing compared to the soul-crushing boredom that my dog Mango endures while I am attempting to be a student.
In all honesty, sometimes a short walk is the highlight of both of our days. But hey, St. Petersburg was made for walkin’ – at least that’s what Mango tells me.
Now, I know you’re all grumbling right now. A walk? In Florida? In June?! But I can assure you that I am not crazy; I hate the heat as much as anybody, and possibly more than most. But, dogs don’t need less exercise in the summer, and frankly, neither do we, so I am going to share with you my secrets for a happy life with your dog as we enter into the brain-frying months ahead.
Firstly, there are pockets of this town that stay relatively cool. (Of course, by relative, I mean that the alert levels for heatstroke are downgraded from red to orange. But, without a membership to a dog-friendly gym, that’s as good as it gets.)
My old favorite is Crescent Lake. One of the finest parks in St. Petersburg, Crescent Lake offers tennis courts and a playground (for you crazy kids), and over a mile of paved, lakeside foot path. The lake is really more of a pond – okay, a retention pond – but it’s clean enough to fish, apparently, and allows for a righteous breeze to keep you from passing out. Mango’s favorite part, of course, is the dog park, which is a decent size, and attracts a good crowd of mutts in the evening. When you’re pooped from your walk, you can sit in the shade while your dog socializes.
If you’re into this kind of thing, dog owners are fairly sociable creatures themselves. They never tire of relating their puppy’s wacky antics, useful house-training tips, or salacious dog park gossip. A recent trip provided this little gem (and I am actually not making this up): “Yeah, that German Shephard’s always got diarrhea…I don’t know what they feed her, but I wouldn’t let your dog get too close.” Fascinating.
Personally, I like to turn up my iPod and look anti-social, but that’s just me.
The Vinoy Park/ Northshore/ Spa Beach area is probably one of the most beautiful places in St. Pete – it’s certainly, in my opinion, the finest thing about downtown. We like to stroll along the water, admiring the view and contemplating just how lucky we are to live here, and Mango likes to play “tight-rope” with the sea wall. So far, no Coast Guard rescues, but we take a cell phone just in case.
When Mango’s really wound up, though, we take her to the dog park there – which is absolutely enormous. The dogs at the Northshore park seem younger, hipper somehow- a little more cosmopolitan, if you will. I guess that’s city dogs for you. There’s also a fair helping of show-quality Weimaraners and Vizslas from Old Northeast, but they don’t seem to mind rubbing paws with slobs like Mango and me.
Of course, even Mango likes to get out of the city now and then, so my number one secret for staying cool with your dog (and really, if you haven’t heard of it by now, shame on you) is Fort DeSoto’s Dog Park.
Mango actually starts heaving and salivating if I drive even vaguely in the vicinity of this place. All of her training is left on the mainland – all bets are off at the beach. Only a small section of the beach is open to off-leash dogs, but as it turns out, most dogs can’t read. Mango, in particular, has no love for the boundary markers. Non-dog people take note: If you don’t want a big ol’ mess of sandy, wet and stinky slobber spraying onto your family picnic, it is best to avoid this area – by at least a mile or two.
But for dog owners, Fort Desoto is really the saving grace of summer. If you’ve got a “runner,” like Mango, you can actually still enjoy all the glory of the beach breeze and salty air at the adjacent fenced-in park. There’s even a shower, which I’ve found comes in handy, and can save you money on your water bill. Hey, why not get some leverage out of those property taxes?
So, do not despair, Floridians, in the dog days of summer (groan). There’s still plenty of fun to be had. Just drink lots of water, get out to the parks, and move your mutt.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/7/07
In all honesty, sometimes a short walk is the highlight of both of our days. But hey, St. Petersburg was made for walkin’ – at least that’s what Mango tells me.
Now, I know you’re all grumbling right now. A walk? In Florida? In June?! But I can assure you that I am not crazy; I hate the heat as much as anybody, and possibly more than most. But, dogs don’t need less exercise in the summer, and frankly, neither do we, so I am going to share with you my secrets for a happy life with your dog as we enter into the brain-frying months ahead.
Firstly, there are pockets of this town that stay relatively cool. (Of course, by relative, I mean that the alert levels for heatstroke are downgraded from red to orange. But, without a membership to a dog-friendly gym, that’s as good as it gets.)
My old favorite is Crescent Lake. One of the finest parks in St. Petersburg, Crescent Lake offers tennis courts and a playground (for you crazy kids), and over a mile of paved, lakeside foot path. The lake is really more of a pond – okay, a retention pond – but it’s clean enough to fish, apparently, and allows for a righteous breeze to keep you from passing out. Mango’s favorite part, of course, is the dog park, which is a decent size, and attracts a good crowd of mutts in the evening. When you’re pooped from your walk, you can sit in the shade while your dog socializes.
If you’re into this kind of thing, dog owners are fairly sociable creatures themselves. They never tire of relating their puppy’s wacky antics, useful house-training tips, or salacious dog park gossip. A recent trip provided this little gem (and I am actually not making this up): “Yeah, that German Shephard’s always got diarrhea…I don’t know what they feed her, but I wouldn’t let your dog get too close.” Fascinating.
Personally, I like to turn up my iPod and look anti-social, but that’s just me.
The Vinoy Park/ Northshore/ Spa Beach area is probably one of the most beautiful places in St. Pete – it’s certainly, in my opinion, the finest thing about downtown. We like to stroll along the water, admiring the view and contemplating just how lucky we are to live here, and Mango likes to play “tight-rope” with the sea wall. So far, no Coast Guard rescues, but we take a cell phone just in case.
When Mango’s really wound up, though, we take her to the dog park there – which is absolutely enormous. The dogs at the Northshore park seem younger, hipper somehow- a little more cosmopolitan, if you will. I guess that’s city dogs for you. There’s also a fair helping of show-quality Weimaraners and Vizslas from Old Northeast, but they don’t seem to mind rubbing paws with slobs like Mango and me.
Of course, even Mango likes to get out of the city now and then, so my number one secret for staying cool with your dog (and really, if you haven’t heard of it by now, shame on you) is Fort DeSoto’s Dog Park.
Mango actually starts heaving and salivating if I drive even vaguely in the vicinity of this place. All of her training is left on the mainland – all bets are off at the beach. Only a small section of the beach is open to off-leash dogs, but as it turns out, most dogs can’t read. Mango, in particular, has no love for the boundary markers. Non-dog people take note: If you don’t want a big ol’ mess of sandy, wet and stinky slobber spraying onto your family picnic, it is best to avoid this area – by at least a mile or two.
But for dog owners, Fort Desoto is really the saving grace of summer. If you’ve got a “runner,” like Mango, you can actually still enjoy all the glory of the beach breeze and salty air at the adjacent fenced-in park. There’s even a shower, which I’ve found comes in handy, and can save you money on your water bill. Hey, why not get some leverage out of those property taxes?
So, do not despair, Floridians, in the dog days of summer (groan). There’s still plenty of fun to be had. Just drink lots of water, get out to the parks, and move your mutt.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 6/7/07
Distractions of the Caribbean
In general, this column is a mirror of local color and adventure – a place for me to remind us all about what great stuff there is to do right here at home. And, while there is seemingly no end to the parks, restaurants, bars, festivals and outdoor fun in the St. Petersburg area, it serves, on occasion, to get the heck out of town. So today I bring you a distraction of a different sort.
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07
The St. Pete Sampras Tennis Fan Club
Being a bit of a homebody, I don’t often get across the bridge. Tampa is a dirty word in my house. But, every once in a while, a friend or relative will acquire tickets to something really cool, and I am obliged to leave my little corner of St. Petersburg. Just such an occasion presented itself the other weekend when I was invited to watch Pete Sampras play in the Mercedes-Benz Classic at the St. Pete Times Forum.
Now, before I tell you how incredible it was to watch Pete Sampras play, I realize I need to explain to half of you just who the heck he is.
The thought that there might be somebody out there who has not heard of Pete Sampras would have been incredible to me a week ago. I mean, I never watch basketball, but I know who Michael Jordan is. However, when I pitched this column idea to my colleagues – with a huge “you-are-going-to-be-so-jealous” smile on my face - they simply stared blankly. The clock ticked awkwardly for what seemed like an entire minute before one finally asked, “Who?”
Who?! “Pistol” Pete Sampras – the “King of Swing” – is arguably the greatest men’s tennis player to ever pick up a racquet. He retired from tennis in 2002 after winning his fifth US Open. But, I guess winning 14 Grand Slam titles – including a record seven at Wimbledon - doesn’t mean much to some people. I suppose 286 weeks (that’s six years) as the number one men’s tennis player in the world is no big deal.
Well, fine. I probably wouldn’t be interested in a column about Wayne Gretzky. But for you tennis fans – this one is for you.
Pete Sampras retired from competition with nearly every title tennis could afford, and an insane $43 million in career prize money. But he couldn’t stay away. The Mercedes-Benz Classic – an exhibition charity event for Courier’s Kids – was his first foray back into the world of tennis. Judging by the rock-star-worthy screams he inspired - in what I have now dubbed the St. Pete Sampras Times Forum - fans couldn’t be happier.
At the age of 35 – nearly ancient by tennis standards – Pete will be competing at “seniors” events. No, he won’t be smashing it out with Roger Federer (though wouldn’t we love to see it), but he will be back – a little greyer, a little balder – and, judging by his play the other night, no less a champion.
Pete won his best-of-three match against Tampa's own Mardy Fish (7-6, 6-4), ending on an ace, and I would like to believe that maybe it was yours-truly who got him through the tight spots. Just before his monstrous serve on match-point, I shouted “C’mon Pete!” And Pete Sampras – Mr. Wimbledon, that living legend – definitely heard me.
I am a huge tennis fan, if I haven’t made that clear. I am actually something of a geek about it. When the Grand Slams are on, I have been known to sit up until 4 am just to watch live coverage from the Australian Open. Being a June baby, I spent more than one happy birthday morning having “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” I have longed to go to Paris – not to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa – but to cheer in the red-clay-romp that is Roland Garros – the French Open.
But, why do I love tennis? Because unlike so many sports, tennis is a one-on-one drama. It is personality, guts and pure desire that drive players on a grueling year-round tour of tournaments. There is no “season” or draft. There are no team politics. For a tennis player, it’s you against the world and, more poignantly, you against yourself.
Of course, I’m not talking about me against myself. As anyone who has ever seen me can easily tell, I am no athlete. My idea of competition is to see how many M&Ms I can pick up with a pair of chopsticks. I did “make” the tennis team in high school, but that’s really just because they took anyone who tried out. I think I played one match – a doubles match – and lost because I couldn’t get a single serve over the net.
That fact, however, only makes me love tennis all the more. How do they do it? Andy Roddick is on record with a 155mph serve. Some cars won’t even go that fast, people.
Polo may be the sport of kings, and baseball might be America’s past-time, but tennis is the truest test of will, a spectacle of spirit. Just when you think that a player can’t give any more, he digs deep and comes up with the grit to pull through. And, maybe that’s why I admire it so much: it’s a little bit like life. Only, without the big fat prize money.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper 5/10/07
Now, before I tell you how incredible it was to watch Pete Sampras play, I realize I need to explain to half of you just who the heck he is.
The thought that there might be somebody out there who has not heard of Pete Sampras would have been incredible to me a week ago. I mean, I never watch basketball, but I know who Michael Jordan is. However, when I pitched this column idea to my colleagues – with a huge “you-are-going-to-be-so-jealous” smile on my face - they simply stared blankly. The clock ticked awkwardly for what seemed like an entire minute before one finally asked, “Who?”
Who?! “Pistol” Pete Sampras – the “King of Swing” – is arguably the greatest men’s tennis player to ever pick up a racquet. He retired from tennis in 2002 after winning his fifth US Open. But, I guess winning 14 Grand Slam titles – including a record seven at Wimbledon - doesn’t mean much to some people. I suppose 286 weeks (that’s six years) as the number one men’s tennis player in the world is no big deal.
Well, fine. I probably wouldn’t be interested in a column about Wayne Gretzky. But for you tennis fans – this one is for you.
Pete Sampras retired from competition with nearly every title tennis could afford, and an insane $43 million in career prize money. But he couldn’t stay away. The Mercedes-Benz Classic – an exhibition charity event for Courier’s Kids – was his first foray back into the world of tennis. Judging by the rock-star-worthy screams he inspired - in what I have now dubbed the St. Pete Sampras Times Forum - fans couldn’t be happier.
At the age of 35 – nearly ancient by tennis standards – Pete will be competing at “seniors” events. No, he won’t be smashing it out with Roger Federer (though wouldn’t we love to see it), but he will be back – a little greyer, a little balder – and, judging by his play the other night, no less a champion.
Pete won his best-of-three match against Tampa's own Mardy Fish (7-6, 6-4), ending on an ace, and I would like to believe that maybe it was yours-truly who got him through the tight spots. Just before his monstrous serve on match-point, I shouted “C’mon Pete!” And Pete Sampras – Mr. Wimbledon, that living legend – definitely heard me.
I am a huge tennis fan, if I haven’t made that clear. I am actually something of a geek about it. When the Grand Slams are on, I have been known to sit up until 4 am just to watch live coverage from the Australian Open. Being a June baby, I spent more than one happy birthday morning having “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” I have longed to go to Paris – not to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa – but to cheer in the red-clay-romp that is Roland Garros – the French Open.
But, why do I love tennis? Because unlike so many sports, tennis is a one-on-one drama. It is personality, guts and pure desire that drive players on a grueling year-round tour of tournaments. There is no “season” or draft. There are no team politics. For a tennis player, it’s you against the world and, more poignantly, you against yourself.
Of course, I’m not talking about me against myself. As anyone who has ever seen me can easily tell, I am no athlete. My idea of competition is to see how many M&Ms I can pick up with a pair of chopsticks. I did “make” the tennis team in high school, but that’s really just because they took anyone who tried out. I think I played one match – a doubles match – and lost because I couldn’t get a single serve over the net.
That fact, however, only makes me love tennis all the more. How do they do it? Andy Roddick is on record with a 155mph serve. Some cars won’t even go that fast, people.
Polo may be the sport of kings, and baseball might be America’s past-time, but tennis is the truest test of will, a spectacle of spirit. Just when you think that a player can’t give any more, he digs deep and comes up with the grit to pull through. And, maybe that’s why I admire it so much: it’s a little bit like life. Only, without the big fat prize money.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper 5/10/07
Landlubbers Take Note
Ah, Florida. It’s no secret why I live here. I had no choice. My parents forced me to move here from my beloved California when I was only eight.
Twenty-two years later, though, I have forgiven them. I now consider Florida – if not my native home – my chosen home. I actually love everything about it, with the exception of one tiny detail: the paralyzing and insufferable sauna that is summer.
But hey, who’s thinking about that this time of year? I’m thinking about street fairs and festivals, about backyard barbeques on my new, water-sucking sod and, well, just about anything that gets me outdoors. It is, as Mayor Baker says, another great day in St. Petersburg.
Know what else is great about St. Petersburg and, oh, I guess most everywhere in Florida? The coast, the water, the beach!
Everyone who knows me is now laughing hysterically. I am absolutely famous – infamous really - for my intense dislike of the beach. This is largely due to my skin’s propensity to fry like a conch fritter in the sun and my absurdly irrational fear of marine life in general – sharks in particular.
I know, I know. I just need to put on some sunscreen and suck it up. There’s 1200 miles of coastline to explore, some of it not even obscured by mangroves! Well, that’s fine, but I have better idea.
My buddy Dan – a guy so strapping and handy, he makes all of his friends feel like amoebas – has a boat. And, it’s not just any boat – it’s a 28 foot sailboat with all kinds of thingies and doodads and other impressive nautical business on board. He keeps it at the St. Petersburg Municipal Marina downtown, where I recently had a chance to come aboard. At night.
Despite the fact that my head was reeling with visions of Jaws IV, The Revenge (you know, that scene in the beginning? In a marina? At night?...of course you don’t, because I’m the only person who would ever see that movie), I was actually delighted to accept Dan’s invitation.
The Marina is a pretty happenin’ place. There is a secure boat house with showers, laundry and a communal space – complete with a TV and dart board. Fresco’s, the marina-side restaurant, even provides the distant wail of karaoke tunes for the lonely live-aboards.
Apparently, and according to Dan, who knows everything, there is a two-year waiting list to get a slip. Most folks circumvent that by simply buying a boat already in one of those sweet spots. That’s what his “neighbor” Matthew did with his new boat “Free Willy” (I’m sure Matthew would like me to note, for the record, that he did not come up with that designation).
It’s a lot less hassle to have a friend with a boat, though, than to go get one of your own. If you don’t have a boat-buddy, they’re not hard to find. The live-aboards are friendly folk, and they’re always ready to tell you about some impressive nautical doodad they’ve hooked up. Just hang around down by the marina and one is sure to ask you to check out it out. There is nothing like sitting on a boat, on a cool night, kicking back a couple of beers and pretending to understand mariner-speak.
Mariner-speak, I now know, is similar to car-fixing-speak and lawn-gadgetry-speak. It’s a kind of boat lingo that only official “mariners” use involving bizarre and, clearly, made-up words like “bilge” and “keel.” Its sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to instill awe and humility in “landlubbers” like myself.
I daresay that trick would have worked on me the other night, had I not been listening intently for the slightest rumbling of tubas and large fins in the water.
For the future, though, I am looking to shed these silly fears of skin blisters and feeding frenzies. As part of my recovery, Dan has promised to take me “out” in the boat. Apparently these things are designed for actual “sailing.” He says that if the wind is right, we might even get to “bury the rail.” Whatever that means.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/26/07
Twenty-two years later, though, I have forgiven them. I now consider Florida – if not my native home – my chosen home. I actually love everything about it, with the exception of one tiny detail: the paralyzing and insufferable sauna that is summer.
But hey, who’s thinking about that this time of year? I’m thinking about street fairs and festivals, about backyard barbeques on my new, water-sucking sod and, well, just about anything that gets me outdoors. It is, as Mayor Baker says, another great day in St. Petersburg.
Know what else is great about St. Petersburg and, oh, I guess most everywhere in Florida? The coast, the water, the beach!
Everyone who knows me is now laughing hysterically. I am absolutely famous – infamous really - for my intense dislike of the beach. This is largely due to my skin’s propensity to fry like a conch fritter in the sun and my absurdly irrational fear of marine life in general – sharks in particular.
I know, I know. I just need to put on some sunscreen and suck it up. There’s 1200 miles of coastline to explore, some of it not even obscured by mangroves! Well, that’s fine, but I have better idea.
My buddy Dan – a guy so strapping and handy, he makes all of his friends feel like amoebas – has a boat. And, it’s not just any boat – it’s a 28 foot sailboat with all kinds of thingies and doodads and other impressive nautical business on board. He keeps it at the St. Petersburg Municipal Marina downtown, where I recently had a chance to come aboard. At night.
Despite the fact that my head was reeling with visions of Jaws IV, The Revenge (you know, that scene in the beginning? In a marina? At night?...of course you don’t, because I’m the only person who would ever see that movie), I was actually delighted to accept Dan’s invitation.
The Marina is a pretty happenin’ place. There is a secure boat house with showers, laundry and a communal space – complete with a TV and dart board. Fresco’s, the marina-side restaurant, even provides the distant wail of karaoke tunes for the lonely live-aboards.
Apparently, and according to Dan, who knows everything, there is a two-year waiting list to get a slip. Most folks circumvent that by simply buying a boat already in one of those sweet spots. That’s what his “neighbor” Matthew did with his new boat “Free Willy” (I’m sure Matthew would like me to note, for the record, that he did not come up with that designation).
It’s a lot less hassle to have a friend with a boat, though, than to go get one of your own. If you don’t have a boat-buddy, they’re not hard to find. The live-aboards are friendly folk, and they’re always ready to tell you about some impressive nautical doodad they’ve hooked up. Just hang around down by the marina and one is sure to ask you to check out it out. There is nothing like sitting on a boat, on a cool night, kicking back a couple of beers and pretending to understand mariner-speak.
Mariner-speak, I now know, is similar to car-fixing-speak and lawn-gadgetry-speak. It’s a kind of boat lingo that only official “mariners” use involving bizarre and, clearly, made-up words like “bilge” and “keel.” Its sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to instill awe and humility in “landlubbers” like myself.
I daresay that trick would have worked on me the other night, had I not been listening intently for the slightest rumbling of tubas and large fins in the water.
For the future, though, I am looking to shed these silly fears of skin blisters and feeding frenzies. As part of my recovery, Dan has promised to take me “out” in the boat. Apparently these things are designed for actual “sailing.” He says that if the wind is right, we might even get to “bury the rail.” Whatever that means.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/26/07
Poetry for the People
When I was in college the first time around, I decided to major in journalism. It wasn’t, as you might suspect, because I had this burning desire to be a hard-hitting reporter. I’m no Carl Bernstein. But, I thought perhaps a journalism degree would allow me to do what I love – write – and actually make a living.
However, now that I’m back in school I’ve decided to study what I always wanted to study: creative writing. And, while that might seem impractical, I think that people should pursue what makes them happy in this life.
Recently, though, I’ve found that there is something I enjoy just as equally as fiction – poetry.
Now I know, I know. Poetry? Who the heck is going to pay me for that? Well, probably no one. I’m certainly not going to quit my day job. But, I have discovered this whole other aspect of myself, largely due to my new favorite class, Intro to Poetry.
My professor is an adorable Italian from Brooklyn who is – gasp – younger than me. But he’s also a brilliant poet, and has challenged us to write things I never would have tried on my own. This week we’re trying our hands at terza rima, the form Dante invented and used throughout his insanely long Divine Comedy.
I’m sure many of you would rather go to the symphony than sit through a lesson on fourteenth century verse. I wouldn’t do that to you, because the truth is that poetry can be a whole lot cooler than that. And you don’t have to write it to totally dig it.
There are actually lots of ways to enjoy poetry, many of them involving attractive people and adult beverages, if you like that sort of thing. And, as this is National Poetry Month (seriously) it only makes sense that I highlight a couple of local events to start you on your own personal poetry journey. Or, to just go have fun. Whatever.
Recently I went to Poetry Resurrection!, a spoken word event at The Lobby, upstairs from the Garden Restaurant in the 200 block of Central Avenue. My friend Alicia was performing, and I initially went simply to watch her piece.
Soon, I became enamored with these brave performers, trudging up to the mic to bare their souls for a bar crowd. Not all of the performers were veterans, and some of them weren’t that great but, the many who were simply blew me away. They mixed the personal with the political and beyond for a room full of people in every color, class and creed.
Who knew such passion and talent was hiding in our bay area? If this is what poetry reading is all about, I know I’m hooked. Luckily, the Lobby event is a regular Wednesday night occurrence, and usually starts around 10:30 pm. Get there early for a good seat.
If the coffeehouse scene is more to your liking though, you can check out The Globe in the 500 block of 1st Avenue North. Many of you may be familiar with owner JoEllen Schielke, the long-time host of Friday afternoon’s WMNF radio show, Art in Your Ear. Her little coffee shop is probably one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. There’s a great mix of folks at The Globe, along with homemade eats and the funkiest décor in town.
Now, I admit I haven’t yet been able to check out The Globe’s occasional poetry events, but there’s one coming up that I don’t want to miss. On May 18th, at 6pm, The Globe is putting on one of their Sunday School Confessions in Poetry showcases, “S.O.S. The May Day Session” which promises to be a darn good time, if nothing else. What more do you want?
Okay, maybe there are poetry purists amongst us. Well, fine. For you there are several upcoming events hosted at USF-St. Petersburg. April 18th, the Tampa Bay Writers Network, a USF St. Pete organization designed to bring more literary culture into our lives, will host an Evening of Poetry. The event will feature Lizz Straight, a spoken word poet and fellow WMNF-er. Poets from around the community are invited, and can even share their work. You do need to audition for them, but I’m pretty sure that means just sending them a tape. Oh, and if you need a little more motivation, I believe there are cash prizes involved.
The Tampa Bay Writers Network has also been hosting a Wednesday Writers Series to highlight local writers in various genres. Last week they featured Martha Serpas a poet and professor from the University of Tampa and Gianmarc Manzione, my aforementioned professor. TBWN will host one more event this semester, and you can get more info at www.stpt.usf.edu/tbwn/
Well, enough of the shameless plug for my beloved little school. But, you’re lucky you have me to keep you updated on all this cool stuff, because yeah, poetry is cool.
However, for those of you who are easily offended, poetry events are not necessarily for you. They are almost always R-rated, can be radical, political, and even sexual. But they are an incredibly rewarding and uniquely casual way to engage in other people’s perspectives.
Verse is considered the oldest literary art form. It has documented, painted, and projected every inch of the human experience and still finds ways to evolve. You might never look at the world the same way again after seeing it through the words of a poet.
Don’t be afraid to get out there. All it takes is an open ear and an open mind.
Published in the Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/12/07
However, now that I’m back in school I’ve decided to study what I always wanted to study: creative writing. And, while that might seem impractical, I think that people should pursue what makes them happy in this life.
Recently, though, I’ve found that there is something I enjoy just as equally as fiction – poetry.
Now I know, I know. Poetry? Who the heck is going to pay me for that? Well, probably no one. I’m certainly not going to quit my day job. But, I have discovered this whole other aspect of myself, largely due to my new favorite class, Intro to Poetry.
My professor is an adorable Italian from Brooklyn who is – gasp – younger than me. But he’s also a brilliant poet, and has challenged us to write things I never would have tried on my own. This week we’re trying our hands at terza rima, the form Dante invented and used throughout his insanely long Divine Comedy.
I’m sure many of you would rather go to the symphony than sit through a lesson on fourteenth century verse. I wouldn’t do that to you, because the truth is that poetry can be a whole lot cooler than that. And you don’t have to write it to totally dig it.
There are actually lots of ways to enjoy poetry, many of them involving attractive people and adult beverages, if you like that sort of thing. And, as this is National Poetry Month (seriously) it only makes sense that I highlight a couple of local events to start you on your own personal poetry journey. Or, to just go have fun. Whatever.
Recently I went to Poetry Resurrection!, a spoken word event at The Lobby, upstairs from the Garden Restaurant in the 200 block of Central Avenue. My friend Alicia was performing, and I initially went simply to watch her piece.
Soon, I became enamored with these brave performers, trudging up to the mic to bare their souls for a bar crowd. Not all of the performers were veterans, and some of them weren’t that great but, the many who were simply blew me away. They mixed the personal with the political and beyond for a room full of people in every color, class and creed.
Who knew such passion and talent was hiding in our bay area? If this is what poetry reading is all about, I know I’m hooked. Luckily, the Lobby event is a regular Wednesday night occurrence, and usually starts around 10:30 pm. Get there early for a good seat.
If the coffeehouse scene is more to your liking though, you can check out The Globe in the 500 block of 1st Avenue North. Many of you may be familiar with owner JoEllen Schielke, the long-time host of Friday afternoon’s WMNF radio show, Art in Your Ear. Her little coffee shop is probably one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. There’s a great mix of folks at The Globe, along with homemade eats and the funkiest décor in town.
Now, I admit I haven’t yet been able to check out The Globe’s occasional poetry events, but there’s one coming up that I don’t want to miss. On May 18th, at 6pm, The Globe is putting on one of their Sunday School Confessions in Poetry showcases, “S.O.S. The May Day Session” which promises to be a darn good time, if nothing else. What more do you want?
Okay, maybe there are poetry purists amongst us. Well, fine. For you there are several upcoming events hosted at USF-St. Petersburg. April 18th, the Tampa Bay Writers Network, a USF St. Pete organization designed to bring more literary culture into our lives, will host an Evening of Poetry. The event will feature Lizz Straight, a spoken word poet and fellow WMNF-er. Poets from around the community are invited, and can even share their work. You do need to audition for them, but I’m pretty sure that means just sending them a tape. Oh, and if you need a little more motivation, I believe there are cash prizes involved.
The Tampa Bay Writers Network has also been hosting a Wednesday Writers Series to highlight local writers in various genres. Last week they featured Martha Serpas a poet and professor from the University of Tampa and Gianmarc Manzione, my aforementioned professor. TBWN will host one more event this semester, and you can get more info at www.stpt.usf.edu/tbwn/
Well, enough of the shameless plug for my beloved little school. But, you’re lucky you have me to keep you updated on all this cool stuff, because yeah, poetry is cool.
However, for those of you who are easily offended, poetry events are not necessarily for you. They are almost always R-rated, can be radical, political, and even sexual. But they are an incredibly rewarding and uniquely casual way to engage in other people’s perspectives.
Verse is considered the oldest literary art form. It has documented, painted, and projected every inch of the human experience and still finds ways to evolve. You might never look at the world the same way again after seeing it through the words of a poet.
Don’t be afraid to get out there. All it takes is an open ear and an open mind.
Published in the Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/12/07
I’d Like to Buy the World Symphony Tickets
Lest you think that all I do is lounge in coffee shops by day and booze away at night, I will tell you that I am also an enthusiastic patron of the symphony. That’s right people, high culture.
Well, “enthusiastic patron” might be a little excessive. Okay, so maybe I’ve only been to one show this year. But, what I lack in attendance I make up for with sincerity. I actually own a CD of Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony – the very same piece the Florida Orchestra performed on the night in question. Also featured that evening was Vivaldi, who I have definitely, actually heard of.
Now I know I lost some of you at the very mention of Beethoven. Or perhaps it was Vivaldi that got you. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Lot’s of folks are scared of classical music. One look around the Mahaffey Theater the other night would tell you that just about everyone under the age of seventy had something better to do.
But frankly, I’m hoping to change all that.
People, the symphony is awesome! I’m totally serious. The Florida Orchestra may not be St. Martin in the Fields, but they’re pretty darn good for all the support they don’t get. And, in spite of our neglect, they’re ours. These world-class musicians schlep themselves from the Mahaffey to Ruth Eckerd to the Performing Arts Center over 150 times a year. They are warriors, I tell you.
So, for you yet uninitiated: what’s so great about the symphony? You don’t even have to love classical music to enjoy it. Really. Aside from the fact that all of the venues I just mentioned do have cash bars (you lushes), the Mahaffey Theater has just undergone a gorgeous, $20 million facelift. She’s been updated – dressed up in a more sophisticated style as befits a lady of her age. So, if you like architecture, there you go.
But wait – there’s more…
Apart from the Beethoven on the schedule, I mentioned a piece by Vivaldi - a duet between an oboe and bassoon. Now don’t freak out if you have no idea what those instruments are all about. They are woodwinds (the non-shiny, horn things - like that clarinet your parents made you play). They create melodious duck noises of varying pitch, and are honestly quite pleasant.
Also on stage was a wild-looking harpsichord (like a piano, only it’s skinnier and sounds like a toy) with a wild woman at the keys. Oh, she may have looked like your run-of-the-mill, middle-aged-librarian type, but once Vivaldi kicked it up a notch, she got to bopping her head and tapping her feet like the harpsichord was going out of style.
On the bassoon was none other than Mark Sforzini, a regular with the Florida Orchestra for some 14 years. But don’t let that fool you. This guy is a rock star. He was jammin’ like the Hendrix of the bassoon world – heck, of the whole woodwind world.
I admit, my feet were doing the tap-a-long.
But when I say you don’t have to love classical – or know a darn thing about it – I mean it. You do have to like it, though. Or at least be willing to give it a go. For those who think classical music is just background noise at Panera, you’ve got to see it live. You’ve got to see these virtuosos with their syncopated bows and fingers flying, the gong and drum guys wailing, and that rock-star bassoonist – it’s an incredible dance set to music that has stood up to two, three, sometimes even four hundred years of judgment. Who are we to thumb our noses?
If you don’t ever make it, it won’t be the end of the world. There will always be another crop of old folks ready to (sort of) fill the seats. But personally, I like to think of the symphony as bungee jumping for your ears. These days, it’s pretty radical. And, at the very least, you want to know what you’re missing.
So, lest you think me a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that I’ve already got a seat for next weekend. Mozart’s going to be rockin’ the house, and I can hardly wait.
You know, there might even be a few tickets left…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/29/07
Well, “enthusiastic patron” might be a little excessive. Okay, so maybe I’ve only been to one show this year. But, what I lack in attendance I make up for with sincerity. I actually own a CD of Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony – the very same piece the Florida Orchestra performed on the night in question. Also featured that evening was Vivaldi, who I have definitely, actually heard of.
Now I know I lost some of you at the very mention of Beethoven. Or perhaps it was Vivaldi that got you. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Lot’s of folks are scared of classical music. One look around the Mahaffey Theater the other night would tell you that just about everyone under the age of seventy had something better to do.
But frankly, I’m hoping to change all that.
People, the symphony is awesome! I’m totally serious. The Florida Orchestra may not be St. Martin in the Fields, but they’re pretty darn good for all the support they don’t get. And, in spite of our neglect, they’re ours. These world-class musicians schlep themselves from the Mahaffey to Ruth Eckerd to the Performing Arts Center over 150 times a year. They are warriors, I tell you.
So, for you yet uninitiated: what’s so great about the symphony? You don’t even have to love classical music to enjoy it. Really. Aside from the fact that all of the venues I just mentioned do have cash bars (you lushes), the Mahaffey Theater has just undergone a gorgeous, $20 million facelift. She’s been updated – dressed up in a more sophisticated style as befits a lady of her age. So, if you like architecture, there you go.
But wait – there’s more…
Apart from the Beethoven on the schedule, I mentioned a piece by Vivaldi - a duet between an oboe and bassoon. Now don’t freak out if you have no idea what those instruments are all about. They are woodwinds (the non-shiny, horn things - like that clarinet your parents made you play). They create melodious duck noises of varying pitch, and are honestly quite pleasant.
Also on stage was a wild-looking harpsichord (like a piano, only it’s skinnier and sounds like a toy) with a wild woman at the keys. Oh, she may have looked like your run-of-the-mill, middle-aged-librarian type, but once Vivaldi kicked it up a notch, she got to bopping her head and tapping her feet like the harpsichord was going out of style.
On the bassoon was none other than Mark Sforzini, a regular with the Florida Orchestra for some 14 years. But don’t let that fool you. This guy is a rock star. He was jammin’ like the Hendrix of the bassoon world – heck, of the whole woodwind world.
I admit, my feet were doing the tap-a-long.
But when I say you don’t have to love classical – or know a darn thing about it – I mean it. You do have to like it, though. Or at least be willing to give it a go. For those who think classical music is just background noise at Panera, you’ve got to see it live. You’ve got to see these virtuosos with their syncopated bows and fingers flying, the gong and drum guys wailing, and that rock-star bassoonist – it’s an incredible dance set to music that has stood up to two, three, sometimes even four hundred years of judgment. Who are we to thumb our noses?
If you don’t ever make it, it won’t be the end of the world. There will always be another crop of old folks ready to (sort of) fill the seats. But personally, I like to think of the symphony as bungee jumping for your ears. These days, it’s pretty radical. And, at the very least, you want to know what you’re missing.
So, lest you think me a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that I’ve already got a seat for next weekend. Mozart’s going to be rockin’ the house, and I can hardly wait.
You know, there might even be a few tickets left…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/29/07
Bar-hopping the Night Away
I used to party. Seriously party. I didn’t even get ready to go out until 11 pm, and then I’d drive all the way to Ybor to join the debauchery. Those days had a time and place in my life, but I don’t miss them.
Even though I’m technically a “college kid,” my weekend bedtime is not far from my school-night bedtime. A glass of wine and a rousing game of Scrabble are a good Friday night.
However, I do still have friends who have not succumbed to a life of quiet domesticity, and sometimes these friends successfully lure me out on the pretense of having “a few drinks.” Last Friday was just such a night.
I got the call, as usual, late in the evening. My friend Bryan and his band, Hey There, Battleship were playing at the Emerald Bar downtown. Did we want to go?
I said yes for several reasons, but the most important one being: I do not want to grow old before my time, a shriveled shell of my former cool self (if such a thing ever existed).
Unfortunately, I forgot to check my calendar.
As many of you know, last Friday was First Friday. In Gulfport that means Art Walk - a chilled out stroll amongst the shops and mellow bands, sipping wine and coffee until the wee hours of 10 pm. St. Pete celebrates the first Friday of the month a little differently.
What I have always called First Friday in St. Pete is actually and officially known as (I am not making this up) “Get Downtown.” As in Get down, town! Groovy, baby.
But, while the name might be a little out of style, apparently everyone and their cousin loves this chaotic block party situated between 2nd and 3rd Streets on Central Avenue. I mean, there must be a million people there. And, while the party is supposed to peter out around 10, the kids in St. Pete are just getting started.
If this sounds like your cup-o-tea, check it out. But, I warn you: parking becomes an Olympic event and you could wait up to a decade for a drink sandwiched in between Paris Hilton wannabes and their cologne-drenched counterparts.
It’s an event I usually skip, if you want to know the truth. I prefer my downtown on the down low. However, Bryan’s band was tuning up around 11, and it’s important to support local music – especially if it’s your friends.
The Emerald is a dive bar on Central Avenue, round about 6th Street. Their profile on AOL’s City Guide (which was apparently written in 1965) sums it up as a hangout for “war vets, musicians, artists, divorcees and other sundry misfits and hipsters.”
That might be true, but here’s my take on it: The Emerald is a raucous smoke den about the size of my first apartment in Boston. It’s one of the last remaining places in St. Petersburg where you don’t have to be something you’re not. When the BayWalk crowd starts to bug you, check out the Emerald.
So there I was, sipping a beer and enjoying the din after Hey There, Battleship attacked the crowd with their three-piece funk. Suddenly I found myself at one of those pivotal points in a night: should I stay or should I go now?
The answer was to go…to the Bishop Tavern on First Avenue North.
When I tell you that Get Downtown was still gettin’ down, I mean it had whipped itself into a dervish-style frenzy and apparently the Bishop was its center point. Under normal conditions, I like the Bishop. It’s comfortable with a hint of 1920s speak-easy style that makes you feel as though a much larger and older city waits outside. However, on the weekends it suddenly turns into a sardine can - only slightly less smelly. There’s even a velvet rope at the entrance which, next to St. Petersburg’s still-small town disposition simply reeks of pretension.
After a twenty minute conversation in line for the bathroom, I booked it over to Don Leoncio’s Cigar Lounge about a block up the avenue.
Ah, the smell of good cigars, big leather couches, lots of imported beer – these are a few of my favorite things, and Don Leoncio’s has them all. The place opened up maybe six months ago, and I have often felt that it’s still searching for its niche. For the record, I don’t think thumping techno and rave kids is it, but maybe Don Leo’s was just trying something new Friday night. Personally, I’d love to see a live salsa band, but that’s just me.
For the last drink of the evening, my friends and I settled into the street seating out front. With the techno a few decibels lower, I was actually able to talk with an old friend I’ve hardly seen since high school. That’s what life in the little-big city is all about.
And for the record, I didn’t hit the sack until 2:30. True story.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/15/07
Even though I’m technically a “college kid,” my weekend bedtime is not far from my school-night bedtime. A glass of wine and a rousing game of Scrabble are a good Friday night.
However, I do still have friends who have not succumbed to a life of quiet domesticity, and sometimes these friends successfully lure me out on the pretense of having “a few drinks.” Last Friday was just such a night.
I got the call, as usual, late in the evening. My friend Bryan and his band, Hey There, Battleship were playing at the Emerald Bar downtown. Did we want to go?
I said yes for several reasons, but the most important one being: I do not want to grow old before my time, a shriveled shell of my former cool self (if such a thing ever existed).
Unfortunately, I forgot to check my calendar.
As many of you know, last Friday was First Friday. In Gulfport that means Art Walk - a chilled out stroll amongst the shops and mellow bands, sipping wine and coffee until the wee hours of 10 pm. St. Pete celebrates the first Friday of the month a little differently.
What I have always called First Friday in St. Pete is actually and officially known as (I am not making this up) “Get Downtown.” As in Get down, town! Groovy, baby.
But, while the name might be a little out of style, apparently everyone and their cousin loves this chaotic block party situated between 2nd and 3rd Streets on Central Avenue. I mean, there must be a million people there. And, while the party is supposed to peter out around 10, the kids in St. Pete are just getting started.
If this sounds like your cup-o-tea, check it out. But, I warn you: parking becomes an Olympic event and you could wait up to a decade for a drink sandwiched in between Paris Hilton wannabes and their cologne-drenched counterparts.
It’s an event I usually skip, if you want to know the truth. I prefer my downtown on the down low. However, Bryan’s band was tuning up around 11, and it’s important to support local music – especially if it’s your friends.
The Emerald is a dive bar on Central Avenue, round about 6th Street. Their profile on AOL’s City Guide (which was apparently written in 1965) sums it up as a hangout for “war vets, musicians, artists, divorcees and other sundry misfits and hipsters.”
That might be true, but here’s my take on it: The Emerald is a raucous smoke den about the size of my first apartment in Boston. It’s one of the last remaining places in St. Petersburg where you don’t have to be something you’re not. When the BayWalk crowd starts to bug you, check out the Emerald.
So there I was, sipping a beer and enjoying the din after Hey There, Battleship attacked the crowd with their three-piece funk. Suddenly I found myself at one of those pivotal points in a night: should I stay or should I go now?
The answer was to go…to the Bishop Tavern on First Avenue North.
When I tell you that Get Downtown was still gettin’ down, I mean it had whipped itself into a dervish-style frenzy and apparently the Bishop was its center point. Under normal conditions, I like the Bishop. It’s comfortable with a hint of 1920s speak-easy style that makes you feel as though a much larger and older city waits outside. However, on the weekends it suddenly turns into a sardine can - only slightly less smelly. There’s even a velvet rope at the entrance which, next to St. Petersburg’s still-small town disposition simply reeks of pretension.
After a twenty minute conversation in line for the bathroom, I booked it over to Don Leoncio’s Cigar Lounge about a block up the avenue.
Ah, the smell of good cigars, big leather couches, lots of imported beer – these are a few of my favorite things, and Don Leoncio’s has them all. The place opened up maybe six months ago, and I have often felt that it’s still searching for its niche. For the record, I don’t think thumping techno and rave kids is it, but maybe Don Leo’s was just trying something new Friday night. Personally, I’d love to see a live salsa band, but that’s just me.
For the last drink of the evening, my friends and I settled into the street seating out front. With the techno a few decibels lower, I was actually able to talk with an old friend I’ve hardly seen since high school. That’s what life in the little-big city is all about.
And for the record, I didn’t hit the sack until 2:30. True story.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/15/07
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