The Not Diet

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

Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL

Out of the Shadow of the Grapefruit

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


Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL

The Sublime and the Stupid

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


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