Watch Your Mouths, Freaks

Last week, Wild 98.7 devoted a large portion of their morning show to a discussion of Mayor Iorio's plans to try to limit bar promotions.

Iorio wants to outlaw cut-rate alcohol sales and giveaways that she says encourage binge drinking and add to Ybor City image problems. To do so, she plans to join Gainesville officials in a push to change state law to give cities and counties more control over how local bars and restaurants do business . . . "Our goal is to get the bad businesses out of Ybor and allow the good businesses to flourish,'' Iorio said . . . Iorio said she does not want to end happy hour but would outlaw dollar shots, free drinks for women and other cut-rate drink promotions. Iorio plans to have city attorneys working on new alcohol sales rules that could be ready to go if the Legislature takes action.

Interestingly enough, the Freak Show thought it was relevant that we had a pub crawl the weekend before last. Their position, for which they used the Polar Bear Pub Crawl as an example, was that Mayor Iorio cannot target Ybor - where the station hosts free drinks for ladies until 1 AM on Friday nights at Skye - because she lets "rich people" drink for free all night during our pub crawl in SoHo, which the Freak Show called Hyde Park throughout the segment.

Well, for starters, nothing is free, ever, in addition to which, I don't actually have a real job. Just because I'm good at this, doesn't mean I'm getting paid, ahem, Mr Bill, so if the Freak Show is going to say that "poor people," who they imply visit Ybor at the exclusion of other districts, do need cut-rate liquor, and "rich people," who they flat-out said don't leave "Hyde Park" - though they meant SoHo - don't need the cut-rate liquor, then I do need cut-rate liquor because if I'm one or the other, I'm a poor person. But, wait, I hang out in SoHo! So I don't need the cut-rate liquor, right?

Perhaps you can see where these types of simplistic economics cater to a lowest common denominator, skew the reality of the situation, are misleading to the public, and are detrimental to the economic vibrancy of Tampa as a whole, right? Most importantly, when you follow it through as a logical proof, you end up with circular messes that prove, hmm, absolutely nothing. Not very fair, Freak Show. Not particularly demonstrative of any form of professional integrity, either.

And, since when does your tax bracket so drastically determine your eligibility to patronize places like Whiskey Park or Tiny Tap or The Rack, anyway? All of these are places that the average young worker bee (or carefully budgeted student recipient of family funds) can afford, and I regularly pay five to seven dollars for a drink in Ybor, the same way I do in SoHo. And, honestly, if you don't have any source of income, you don't need to be in bars, anyway, because you need to be looking for a job.

What the Freak Show is positing is that in SoHo and Hyde Park, though the Freak Show doesn't differentiate between the two, the drinking venues are considered classier, and most importantly, in the context of the Freak Show's ideas, are treated with more class respect. I think this is a simple matter of surface appearance, and therefore, not very relevant to the issue at hand. The people who patronize the SoHo bars look classier. And I don't mean the denizens of SoHo are spending thousands on YSL jackets and pumps or having personal shoppers track down original Pucci shortsuits. I'm talking about the fact that the majority of places on Howard are filled with people who could pass muster with any doorman in any major city and much of the substance is a result of personal bearing and careful presentation, rather than cash-n-flash. The exceptions to this rule are places that specifically espouse a casual, bar-room atmosphere, but that's not what Ybor's about anyway, so those places don't really matter for purposes of this discussion.

The point here is that the Freak Show told most of West Central Florida that in SoHo, we look right and we play our roles well. In the context of the polarizing comparison they were making about choice of recreation districts and elements of class, this would mean that in Ybor, people don't look right and don't act right. They didn't say it that way at all, and this is not necessarily my personal opinion. We're using our deductive reasoning here, as established by much greater thinkers than I, and besides, unfortunately, the Freak Show is actually right on all levels of this particular corollary, whether they took it that far or not. So, how is it unfair or surprising that the Mayor might think that what has essentially become a trash district on a Saturday night needs to be tightened up some? And what the h*ll does it have to do with SoHo, where nobody starts fights, children are supervised when present, and the general populace shows respect for business owners and other patrons?

Finally, the entire ridiculous, flawed, uninformed argument that the Freak Show promulgates as another reason to support a laissez-faire promotional policy in Ybor is one hundred percent irrelevant. Why? Because, until a tight locus that may allow the necessary legal devolution is discussed, state laws affect SoHo as much as Ybor. You didn't need to spend the last six months tunneling through law school (as I have) to figure that one out, but somehow the Freak Show missed it. What Iorio released is that city attorneys are working on the policy and language issues for such rules, and I'm quoting the same thing I did above, "that could be ready to go if the Legislature takes action." [emphasis added - r*] So we're jumping the gun, not to mention acting like uncouth, divisive assh*les, by trying to drag one neighborhood down just to protect the interests of another - or its broadcast-sponsored club nights, as the case may be.

I'll be getting on this issue for most of the week, from a different perspective each time, so please comment or email me with whatever you think. Some of what I say will be my opinion; some of it will be in the context of existing facts or the statemetns of others, and if I start to blur the lines, please call me out on it. I will mention that the email addresses of unidentified senders will be blocked, because I've been absolutely flooded with silliness and time-wasters this month, so please, just briefly let me know who you are. I am very interested in popular reaction to this one.

Note to Self

Next time multiple loved ones approach with their respective, time-pressured, complex issues, and they want you to solve them yesterday, smile beatifically and say, "No, thank you, I'm not interested. I hear Aquaman's a pretty spiffy hero, though."

Please go have a nice weekend, because you can't take care of others if you don't take care of yourself.

Talk the Talk

Next week, at 6 PM on March 5, The Carter G. Woodson Lecture Series brings Dr. John McWhorter, a PhD in Linguistics from the University of California, to the Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay for a discussion on the intersection of race matters and language change. The lecture is entitled "Politics for a New Black America: Hip-Hop vs Grassroots." Tickets are $75, black tie optional, and are on sale until February 28.

This sounds cool, doesn't it? Just as a concept or whatever, but the disclaimer under the ticket price announcement gave me pause. The funds will be "Benefitting a Florida African-American Educational Institution," and then at the bottom, in fine print, it turns out the institution is the Boule Internship Program, which provides "an intensive, hands-on approach to the mortgage industry."

Oh. Well, that's not as exciting, really. No reason not to enjoy the lecture, though, I suppose.

Paper, E, and DJ

I like to think of myself as some glamorous style arbiter and top-notch scenestress, so I have to mention briefly that you absolutely must go check out DJ Clips at Mangroves on Wednesdays and On the Rocks on Tuesdays.

The Tuesday deal is a new event, so get out there and check this boy. He is fabulous without being flashy, and knows his Golden Age hip-hop. I saw him last night at Mangroves, and was very impressed with his track selections and masterful deck skills. I haven't seen a DJ rock this particular style since the days of Sport 26 in Midtown, and that's talking I lived in the Dirty Jerz, and I was still a teenager because it was 1996, which really was a great year, so I am very happy indeed.

I'll Have the Scallion Pancakes, Please

The St. Pete Times obviously wore its Captain Obvious pajamas last night with an editorial urging progress on Central Park Housing Village. I'm not sure what the point of the editorial is, since of course something needs to be done about that scumlot. The problem is that every obstacle listed in the editorial still exists, and, ultimately, when you burn off the political residue, the core of the issue is that nobody wants to sink a bunch of money into knocking down and rebuilding public housing when downtown lot prices are skyrocketing.

So, what if we didn't have to? For starters, I don't particularly want a bunch of city and county funds poured into Central Park. The place is a sh*thole. I want it burnt to the ground and redeveloped as shiny condos. Further, the five hundred families that the editorial is so concerned with are also the genitors of rounded-up cirminals including over 60 drug dealers about two months ago and about 80 gunrunners back around Christmastime. Do the math here, people, both in absolutes and proportions. Look into the regulations about how families lose eligibility for public housing. That's a lot of undeserving m*therf*ckers living for free. No wonder HUD didn't want to cash out to us on that one.

I do understand, though, that poor people need to live somewhere, so I'm wondering why LISC hasn't stepped up to the plate. Isn't that the whole point of LISC? LISC just published their Winter 2004-5 Florida Update, too. I would suggest you take a look at that update, think about how much money is being spent in Jacksonville, Miami, and Tampa compared to actual housing need, and then read their investor's report. Doesn't it seem clear that LISC needs to develop a financial plan with the City, maybe go to bat for some cashola for us? This kind of sh*t seems so obvious to me that I'm thinking maybe there's some major fact I'm missing. Either that, or I need to be Mayor.

And in other charming Central Park news, at the NW corner of Nebraska and Henderson, a dilapidated Victorian sits waiting condemnation. Today, I noticed some enterprising family has come up with a way to offset all those fees for when they are finally hit with their walking papers. On the porch hangs a large cardboard sign: "Chan-Wah Chinese Food. Good for You. Apt. 2, Knock on Back Door." Oh yeah, I know where I'm having lunch tomorrow.

Climb Up and Rescue Me

I am continually surprised by how many people assume that if something is pretty, it must be fake. Like my hair. Some of you know this from seeing me, but for those of you that don't, I have really long hair. Recently, it's started getting caught in pen caps and bracelets, and winding its way around my wrists when I sleep, all things that mean it's time for a haircut.

Last night, I was discussing hair changes in general with the Stunner. "I've never been able to get down with hair dye," I said. "I worry about that soft spot in the back of your skull. The chemicals could seep into the blood vessels through the skin and then osmosisize through the soft spot into the gray matter of your brain, you know? That would be bad."

"Oh yeah," he mused. "That must be why women are so stupid."

So I finally went to the salon today. I don't ever, ever request a stylist at my salon, because everyone who works there is so fantastically unique and creative that I like to mix it up. This annoys the appointment girl because she's got to wage her own politics as to who gets the additional client, but I don't care. Everyone who works there has excellent, million-dollar hair, so I just can't choose. Styles range from the traditional South Tampa Flat-Iron to the Powdered Dame PinCurls all the way back to the Never North of Kennedy Stegosaurus Spikes. All of them, though, add special touches like tinted gel or pictograph parts. These hairstyles have nothing to do with the gender of the stylists, either, so, all in all, everything there is just great, and I will probably never go to another salon in my life.

Of course, though, the first thing that happened when I arrived was that the shampoo girl asked me if I had extensions. No, I smiled, it's all permanently attached to my skull. Then, the hairdresser did a double take. "Oh," he said. "I thought those were extensions." No - again - that's all mine. Then, at the cash register, some other stylist comes over.

"Wow, you've got great hair. You must spend forever taking care of it," he said.

I broke into a grin, feeling very satisfied to have found someone who could appreciate the effort that goes into a look that is both seamless and unsullied by falseness. I am fairly well covinced it would be easier to go for the red highlights and chemical straightening, but anybody can look good that way, and not everyone can look good with what grows by the grace of God, so I was all ready to gush at this intuitive stylist.

But, alas, no. He, too, worships at the altar of harvested strands.

"We could give you, like, a thousand bucks for it," he beamed. "It would make great extensions!"

Also, I bet if you can guess what salon I patronize, we can hook up some SoHo schwag for you. Hit the comments, please.

Pretend I'm a Bottle Rocket, You're the Book of Matches

This is your weekly reminder to GO BUY MY STORY!!

To recap, I wrote a short story. I put a lot of work into it. I sent it all over the place, hoping someone, anyone, would take an interest in it and publish it.

And then, somebody did. Thank you, Pindeldyboz! I am humbly grateful to be included in the next issue.

So, now you, loyal readership, need to buy it. I mean, you're here all the time. You obviously like my writing, and for the next couple of weeks, it's only ten bucks! Put the ten bucks out!

I am so entirely worth it.

Tell Me No Stories . . .

Sometimes, you just really appreciate your blog. Sure, a lot of it is egocentric stardust, but there's something super special about being able to put your ideas out into the universe. We could get into the maudlin cliches - you are your ideas; your voice is important - but I think it's simpler to say that your blog is always great because it's always about you.

The uniqueness of such a forum especially impacts me when I read stuff like this. Now, Doug, I'm not trying to bust your balls even a little bit. In fact, I think the majority of the conversations I've had with Mr. Van Sant have centered around something related to his job. The kid really loves what he does, sees real value in it, takes it seriously, devotes a huge amount of energy to it, and is always looking for ways to be better at it.

But, c'mon, I was at Amphitheatre for the Baby Anne set, and the night blew chunky grilled cheese. The kind with the half-penny hot dogs in it. Ew. This isn't Doug's fault, obviously, and since he writes these things in advance, he is continually taking a predictive risk. I can appreciate that. I just think that I would be really pissed off if I had written something in a professional capacity and generally expected people to take my word on nightlife matters, and then I found the night I pumped so hard was so much low-class trash.

The set itself was entirely undistinguishable. I never once got that shakety-shake dancing feeling, mostly because I was too busy trying to keep track of the people I was with. I went down on the dancefloor for a second to see if I could feel it, and some assh*le methhead pulled the snap on my bag strap, thereby loosening it for petty thievery.

"Don't f*cking touch that," I said, and the dude shrugged and gave me this half-assed smile, as if to indicate that you can't blame a man for tryin'.

"No, really," I said. "I will f*cking kill you."

"What?" the Stunner said, but Meth was already dancing away, so I just shook my head at him. We were both clearly having such a miserable time, that I couldn't see making things worse, and if he's reading, this is the first he's hearing of it.

That should give you an idea of what the evening was like.

That's also why I'm glad I have my very own blog and all the freedom it provides, because if Johnny Santoro was handing out miscellaneous allotments for this kind of writing, he'd be none too pleased with me. I also think there's a serious problem when you promulgate enthusiastic ideas as your own and then go home thinking that fur cleaning is a major hassle, your sheer, hand-embroidered tank did not get its opening night due, you haven't seen your boyfriend smile in hours, and you should have just gone to Hyde Park Cafe in the first place.

So, really, the blog keeps you honest. Isn't that nice?

I Wore Rubber Gloves and Jabbed a Spoon in It

Today I had to call the maintenance man in my complex because the handle on my dishwasher locked up. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal, but it was, because Lil Sis and I are desperately engrossed in an ongoing Kitchen War. Namely, she keeps it like a pig trough, and on the occassions she does trouble herself to run the dishwasher, she runs, like, two unrinsed coffee cups and an ashtray through it, which is an incredible waste of water and electricity and time. And it's kinda hard for me to play Dishwashing Gestapo if the dishwasher is broken, so this afternoon Manny came over to save the day.

Here's the thing about Manny, though: he's a jerk. He doesn't mean to be, I'm sure of it. He's just so surprisingly bored by things that seem very agitating and stimulating to me. He's also so completely oblivious to polite overtures that every time he comes over, I end up making crinkly eyebrows and kinda standing there feeling one-upped.

Such as when my hair dryer wouldn't work. I said, "Hi, Manny. The master bath outlet is busted, and there's no reset button on the plug. Can you come fix it?" Manny came over and stuck some plug-friendly gizmo into the outlet, and the thing beeped and turned red. He walked down to the kitchen, and started moving appliances around, and then he called me over.

"See this here?" he said.

His cheeks hung with condescension, and I nodded seriously.

"Next time you girls are curling your hair or whatever, you check back here for the reset before you call me."

Oh. Sorry, Manny.

Today, Manny opened the door to the dishwasher and sighed before looking up at me. He pulled out the top rack and put one of the plates on its face, closed everything back up, and flipped the knob with a strange clunk that managed to be perfunctory and doleful at once.

"Want some pizza?" I tried, but he didn't answer and just closed the door behind him.

Obviously, Lil Sis has some answering to do tonight.

My Mom Taught Me To Write Thank-You Notes

The Pub Crawl this weekend was a super success! Mr. Bill had estimated about 200 people would sign up, but we got more like 300, which was pretty awesome. Mostly, I hung out at Charlie's Wine Cellar where the estimable Dixon and Mike kept me company until the crowds arrived. Dixon poured me some fancy wine that I wouldn't have ever ordered on my own, and just as I was settling into a non-vodka mode, the place filled with people.

And, my God, are you people nice! Half of you didn't know what a blog was (but you do now!) and the other half of you didn't know of a better blog (and you never will!).

Many, many thanks, in no particular order, to the following people who either wanted me to plug their excellence or couldn't stop going on about mine: Austin from UT, the lovely young men who drove all the way from J-ville, Dr. Tony Villaplana and Ye Loyal Krewe of Samuel Bellamy, Heather Moloney, Ad Exec Extraordinaire, and her colleagues Jillian and Andrew from 93.3 FLZ, Russ and Alison from MA, Thomas Murray, Lounge Cat, Shawn who passed the bar without going to law school, and the fashionably late Number One Stunner who escorted me to Mangroves.

More than that, though, the evening would have been impossible without the participation of our wonderful nightlife venues: Tiny Tap, Ceviche, St. Bart's, Bella's, 42nd Street, Charlie's Wine Cellar, HoHo's, MacDinton's, The Dubliner, Sangria's, Po'Boys, The Deck, Mangroves, and The Rack.

Don't forget our one-year anniversary party is March 13!

Plan on Sleeping In Tomorrow

POLAR BEAR PUB CRAWL TONIGHT!!

Tiny Tap, Ceviche, St. Bart's, Charlie's Wine Cellar, HoHo's, MacDinton's, Sangria's, Po'Boys, The Deck, and Mangroves

We start at 6 pm, $15 a head.

See you there!

Full of Hot Air

Last night was kinda weird. I thought we were gonna go somewhere, but instead we watched a documentary about the Third Reich. I took this one class at UT about that sh*t that had a fancy pre-law name like The Earth-Shattering Importance of the Nuremburg Trials: How Robert Jackson Saved the World (or some such nonsense), but basically I ended up doing a lot of perverse research that made me feel kind of sick and gutted.

You know the maxim about behind every good man? Well, these motherf*ckers had some twisted ladies. I remember reading one article about how Hitler's girl liked to have blind, emaciated concentration campers dragged in to 'witness' her and the Fuhrer go at it. I remember my skin literally getting a crawly feeling reading about how Rudolph Hess (who did look kinda like a movie star) would get off on having a bunch of women up somewhere to watch them perform various acts of self-mutilation before copulation. There's actually lots more, but I don't see much value in recounting it.

Essentially, though, while I was waiting for my dearest to say something like, "My, sweetheart, you couldn't be more fetching if you tried. That must mean you're ready to go do all sorts of exciting nighttime activities," I really ended up with a head full of macabre cobwebs, which led to an enthusiastic discussion on the importance of cracking your knuckles so that when you get old and are about to die, you can still have graceful swan's wings for hands instead of scary dinosaur claws. It was around this point that the Stunner went to bed.

Once he was sleeping soundly, my mind drifted a little and I was concentrating on this balloon he got me, thinking it would have a sheep-counting effect. It didn't. Instead, still influenced by the dreary documentary, I started thinking about all the types of balloons nobody's ever bothered to make.

Like the blown-up cross with a St. Bridget's halo-like circle around it for funerals. Or a big green bill with a frowning Franklin for "Sorry you got canned." My eyes shot right open as I thought of the accordian-effect broken heart balloon, splitting open and closing again as you walked over to someone. Obviously, this one would mean, "It's not you, it's me." I really liked the handcuffs one for "Crap, you got arrested again?!" It could have a hole in the middle of it and a chain effect down by the string. There's the obvious novelty penis-shaped one, meaning "You're a d*ck," but the one that sent me reeling into bedtime giggles, and finally sleep, was the big yellow smiley face with a blood-spattered bullethole through the forehead. That one could mean anything from "Thanks for wrecking my day," to "I'm gonna kill your ass," to "Please don't commit suicide." That's the magic of it, I think. It would really appeal to a broad audience.

Pretty amazing what they can do with mylar these days.

Also, I think I'm gonna go to 42nd St. tonight. Maybe you think that's a good idea, too.

So Many Ways to Ride

For all their failures, public housing projects certainly make excellent short cuts, especially when traffic is at a dead standstill from Armenia to I-4. My favorites are barreling down Central Avenue through Robles Park (for when MLK makes me wanna shoot myself) and Main St. through North Boulevard Homes (for when all drivers on 275 or Kennedy need to be shot).

Today, though, I noticed something disturbing on Main St. The interior buildings of North Boulevard Homes are still their trademark turquoise replete with dangling paint chips and various other scars and graffiti, but as you pull up on North Boulevard itself, the buildings you can see from the main corridor have been repainted! They are now a calming peach tone with a deep seashell orange border at the bottom. The effect is very pretty.

Except it seems like a bunch of crap, doesn't it? Just because you wear cover-up doesn't mean you don't have those dark bags under your eyes. I have a hard time believing the residents of North Boulevard Homes are sitting out at the bus stops saying to one another, "Well, life is certainly looking up! We may have spotty electricity and our walls may be severely water-damaged - causing our babies to cough like mother's milk is the same as a pack of Newports - but, hey, that's a great paint color!"

No. Just no.

In other disappointing news, I was on the phone with Lil Sis at the corner of Kennedy and Dale Mabry when right next to me who should pull up but a gleaming, flexing cop on a motorcycle. He had skintight pants tucked into Frye boots, and shiny aviator glasses, and some of the baddest gloves I've ever seen, all black leather and strappy velcro with POLICE stamped in white across the knuckles. He had that perfect Florida boy tan, and he was totally rocking his bike, riding the seat with a perfect rhythm as the engine idled. Of course I had to end my conversation to take a picture of him. He caught me, and smiled winningly for the camera. Once he was captured, the light turned green and he hollered out, "Can't resist a shot like that, huh?" before vrooming off.

When I got on the bridge, I tried to check out the pic, but all I got was that sad broken picture icon. I guess that's what I get for objectifying our law enforcement professionals.

Hey, What's That on the Floor? Oh, Just Your Dignity.

Not that it's any surprise to my regular readership, but once again I have created havoc by going above and beyond the expectations of others. This time, though, it's not really so spectacular. I overloaded into an additional class at school. Big deal, right? Well, apparently so, since for the past week and a half now I have heard nothing but bullsh*t about it. Then, this morning, I get this sillysillysilly email, which inspired about eight other emails that, frankly, I don't have time to read - you know, what with my extra class and all.

News has spread that a few of our classmates have been permitted to take an extra class this semester. Stetson's policy is that Part-time students may not take an extra class during their first year . . . Finally, I'm working on the JD/Med Student Colloquium . . . (and it should be a great program).

For f*ck's sake, I hope at least a few people realize that this is only an issue in two circumstances: you're looking to overload or you think the Dean has abused her discretion. Otherwise, I think we can file this under classic old school Hatorade.

But, no, I realize, it's not very lawyerly of me to oversimplify, so let's pretend for a second that there's some validity to this hullaballoo. Maybe you wanna overload. I'm gonna recommend that you - watch out now! - ask. Or maybe you do indeed think the Dean abused her discretion. She didn't, but whatever, that's cool, we're just tossing ideas out, right? Well, here's one: you wanna kill the king, you better do it on the first try.

And what is that crapola about a student colloquium? Like I'm gonna have any interest in supporting anything attached to this fourth-grade whining. And, ahem, can we say ina-f*cking-ppropriate? Hawk your agenda on your own time, please.

Additionally, as I have told the 'Belt time and time again, my name is not a bad word, so if you're gonna write a bunch of useless crap that refers directly to me, let's actually refer directly to me. I deserve at least that, now, don't I?

Finally, I would like to mention that if the concerned individual here+ ever, ever does anything cool, I wouldn't try to stop her one little bit. I would see it as a step forward for the class as a whole, and despite my occassionally off-the-cuff, smart-ass remarks about student life in general, I know I've said multiple times that I wish someone at school would do something fabulous and sensational and exciting and noteworthy, so that I could get all worked up about it. That's, like, a genuine team-player emotion, you know.

Either way, I think I gotta hit my filing cabinet - that 'H' folder's got some new material.

+ I gave a lot of thought as to whether or not to use this person's name. I found the cloaked reference to me in her email ridiculous and babyish, but that email went only to people who knew who she meant anyway. This is an entirely distinct forum and it's open to the general public, so I decided I'd rather be a hypocrite than an mean, pushy, unfair jerk. You can say so if you disagree.

This Will Probably Never Happen Again

Usually I find myself incredibly frustrated by the general inefficiency, complacency, and startling lack of relevant knowledge of store clerks, but this week I have had nothing but good luck!

On Valentine's Day, at a Publix in the 'Burg, the deli kid told me I looked beautiful. He wondered, since it was 10 PM on a romantic holiday and I was ordering a turkey sandwich, if maybe I didn't have a date and so perhaps I wanted to go out with him when he finished his shift at 10:30. He put extra cheese on the sub at no charge.

On Tuesday, a middle-aged woman working the newly redesigned electronics section at Walmart actually walked me over to the product I needed, smiled continuously, didn't sigh exasperatedly at my retarded wiring questions, and then directed me to another department. All of this took place in about six minutes.

Today, I walked over to the stock boy at the Oceanic Grocery and asked him where I could find beer. He had two huge carts of unidentifiable Oriental produce behind him and was scooping it into bins at a breakneck speed. He stopped what he was doing, smiled, and walked about three steps to where I stood. The beer was right behind me. He still told me to have a nice day and thanked me for stopping in.

I have to go to Home Depot tonight. Let's see if this keeps up.

Downhill No Matter How You Grade It

I find the uproar over eliminating 0.4 acres of a city-owned park that no one uses in order to create more space for parking that would be used to be a funny sort of protest. Mainly, because it defies any notions of utilitarianism in land use, but more importantly, because I suspect that the arguments provide a thin facade for a much more pervasive problem than the removal of greenspace.

I think gentrification has soured on Davis Island. I don't really give a f*ck about arguments that the Island is a final stronghold of old school neighborliness what with it's faux downtown and work-a-day families. Nor am I impressed by the moralistic viewpoint that some American Dream style community should be protected from overdevelopment. The American Dream died with the Cold War, folks; anything else is either standing in the way of progress or denying reasonable solutions to real problems.

When a 25 year old real estate agent is paying $800 a month for a one-bedroom tower apartment in Tampa, we've got gentrification. When hurricanes wipe out docks and condo associations waive their supermajority provision to vote for replacements nearing a quarter million dollars, we've got gentrification. When a family whose parents are under 35, after ten years of saving, couldn't afford to buy a house on the Island until the wife became a freaking doctor, we've got gentrification.

I attended a first-quarter condo board meeting for One Adalia, and though the topic wasn't on the agenda, the President mentioned on the record that they would be writing - sans vote - a letter requested by the residents board of the Monte Carlo protesting overdevelopment in general and Bayshore One specifically. In return, the Monte Carlo peeps would write a letter saying they hated the plans for parking expansion at Tampa General. Guess what the President's rationale for this was: if parking is too readily available for Tampa General, it may recieve more traffic as a public hospital, and that would bring too many of the wrong kind of people to the Island.

Never mind that the Davis Island Bridge disconnects the hospital from the residential and commerical portions of the Island. Forget the fact that the shift in traffic is pretty unlikely anyway because poor people tend to live closer to St Joe's and University Community. Let's completely disregard the idea that increased federal funding to the Island might be a good thing when you think about how we might need to free up some cash for seawall issues soon. Nope, none of this is relevant because Davis Island might have to deal with the much more pressing concerns of (gasp!) poor people or minorities.

What a bunch of bullsh*t.

Equally worse, when my dad and his wife bought into the place, they were required to come down in person for an interview. My dad said they asked absolutely nothing that couldn't be asked over the phone despite his multiple requests from the Dirty Jerz that he conduct the interview remotely. When he confronted this woman about why he needed to come down in person, she replied chipperly, "Well, we like to see what you look like."

Don't worry, b*tch, he's white.

Bubbleheads and Drugs

Accentia, the muscle of which is located in Tampa, is getting ready to go public. I find this interesting for a few reasons. One is that I am secretly obsessed with the world of high finance. I know, that's really f*cking boring. That's why I don't talk about it too much, but it's somewhat unusual for a biopharm company to go public, especially after a pretty steady history of development.

The second reason you might want to know what's up here is because they're looking to raise $86 million on the IPO. That's a fair amount for a new trade, but not very much for the development of "medicines for chronic nasal infections and cancer." And when you try to look into Accentia's business development page and investor relations page, you don't get much info. I'm thinking that where a public offering is usually a sign of health and positive financial growth, in this instance, it looks like a last ditch measure to support research already underway.

The third reason this caught my eye is because last night I saw this f*cked up baby on TV, and all these frighteningly stoic Chinese doctors were harvesting bio-samples from it. The baby had a face tumor that bubbled up and shone under the camera lights, and the announcer gravely intoned that soon the baby would suffocate from the extra weight on its face. The whole thing was seriously disturbing and fascinatingly grotesque. "Oh my God," said the Stunner. "That thing needs to be shot." (And so cute the way he hasn't even noticed that he's picked up the Jerz accent for all his scornful proclamations.)

I Really Want To Put You On

I love Valentine's Day. I love everything about it. I'm not so impressed by the ostentatious, preconceived celebratory moves (although something like this would be exempt from that generalization), but a day that prioritizes some Mary J. Blige-style Real Love is a wonderful, enchanted thing.

Valentine's Day is about all that dreamy, mushy sh*t that floats around your head all year anyway, but you don't bother to say anything or act on it because you are too busy being jaded and hip. Here, I am thinking about big hearts, and balloons with curlicue ribbons, daisies with smiley faces, cotton candy, baby animals, fluffy clouds, ponies with braids in their manes, that thing you do with dandelions where it looks like they peed on you, dumb-ass ankle bracelets, sprinkly cookies, colored mascara, John Donne, and seashells.

And the lingerie. If you wear nothing but briefs and cotton underwires the rest of the year (which, honestly, is pretty stupid), you have to get into the lingerie on Valentine's Day.

So tell me the most romantic thing you ever did on Valentine's Day. Or tell me the sh*t you wish someone would do. Or maybe something you've always wanted to do, but never have. Whatever, the point is to feel the love.

Also, check out Faze 2's Strawberries & Cream this Saturday.

Features of Reigning Lustiness

Leslie Morgan of the University of Baltimore writes in a 2001 essay on sex and longevity that "the culture of the United States highly prizes romantic love - an idealized view of our partners and of the relationship - based on passion, erotic attraction, and media images of ever-growing ardor and tenderness." That's beautiful, isn't it? She makes it sound slightly empirical, but resolution can be sexy, too, and, besides, I can't say I'd be able to ask for more.

So what the f*ck is this Lust List the Weekly Planet put out? Basically, it's a compilation of OK-looking people who live around here and seem like generally decent people, and that's supposed to be enough for us to lust after them. That is whack, especially when you read the nominating quotes for the lusty seven. Seriously, I can skip my multi-vitamin today, because I got all the calcium I need off this cheese.

Where should I begin? Stormy deep blue eyes like the sea he tries to tame. The fish take one look at him and just want to leap into the boat! He is a hot, salty, perfectly tanned god. For the first year I knew him, I couldn't form words in his presence.

Captain Luke Palmer does actually have very attractive blue eyes, a natural, full smile, and soft-looking chest hair, but he also looks entirely normal and approachable and polite. So what's all this weirdness about not being able to form words? If I were Captain Luke, I might be kinda nervous about that.

All in all, the idea for the feature is nice enough, and I can see why they wouldn't want to pick local A-listers since Tampa Bay Metro just did essentially that about eight weeks ago, but these profiles really are lacking somehow. I think it's the questions. Partly, I want to assume that if you really are all that lustworthy, you could come up with snappier answers than what's been printed, but, on the other hand, these queries do not bring out the hotness.

Let's see how they stack up, and then maybe you'd like to hit the comments with your answers, too. When you're done, check if they make you sound as awesome as what you are.

Tony Danza or Tony Roma's? Neither
Angelina Jolie, Homewrecker or Co-Star? Who gives a f*ck?
When was the last time someone asked you out? Yesterday.
Did you say yes? No.
When did you realize you were so friggin' lusty? I am not 'so friggin' anything.
Describe your bedroom for us: A big fur-covered bed, a dresser, a full mirror, a lava lamp, a regular lamp, a fan, purple velvet curtains, and an unholy amount of shoe and clothing storage. The walls are psychotic torture-chamber white, but not on purpose.
What do you sleep in? The arms of a salty, tanned god. (I'm sorry, Capt. Luke, I don't mean you, but it was too easy.)
When you look in the mirror, do you say "Goddammit, I'm sexy?" Obviously.
What food would you like to roll around in? Chex mix, assh*le.

There are more, but they're terrible. So, how did you measure up?

Think Before You Speak

One of my professors usually opens class with a brief discussion of urban development topics. Last night, he showed a shot of Franklin Street from a million years ago when people still dug the downtown scene. His question for the evening was, "Why don't people in the area enjoy Tampa's downtown like they used to?"

Answers ranged thus: There's no sense of community. There's nothing to do down there. Everything closes too early. There's no parking. There's not enough young workers. The money's in the suburbs.

D*mn, people, you need to get out more, since, overall, it appears that's a large part of the problem. I don't wanna get into the Downtown Partnership's pocket-lining negative propaganda, the triangular animosity between the Sal, Food not Bombs, and our Mayor, the slipshod work of the City's neighborhood relations department, the apathy surrounding public transportation, the Chamber of Commerce's staunch unwillingness to support small businesses that are already functioning, and Rhonda Storms, but they are certainly all factors.

The point is most of the PR that results from those factors is false. Look into it a little, for real. And if you wanna get into it more, email me or leave something in the comments because I can't keep harping on the same freaking topic all by myself. It's just annoying when nobody seems to get what I'm on about, and it's incredibly frustrating that people run their mouths about something when they aren't fully informed.

On a less disgruntled note, however, I got an email today about an upcoming John Russell show at Transitions Gallery. If you hit it, keep an eye out for my pal Otis. His boy is a child skate wonder and looks like a 1980's Benetton model. It isn't really my scene, but that doesn't mean it can't be yours.

Now Somebody Send Me One About FL

This is pure self-indulgence:

New Jersey is the only state where all of its counties are classified as metropolitan areas.

North Jersey has the most shoppping malls in one area in the world - seven in a 25 mile radius!

New Jersey has more race horses than Kentucky.

New Jersey has more Cubans in Union City (1 sq mi.) than Havana, Cuba.

New Jersey has the densest system of highways and railroads in the US.

New Jersey has the highest cost of living in the nation.

New Jersey has the highest cost of auto insurance in the nation.

New Jersey has the highest property taxes in the nation.

New Jersey has the most diners in the world.

The Passaic River was the site of the first submarine ride by inventor John P. Holland.

New Jersey has the most stringent testing along our coastline for water quality control than any other seaboard state in the entire country.

New Jersey is a leading technology & industrial state and is the largest chemical producing state in the nation when you include pharmaceuticals.

New Jersey is the world leader in blueberry and cranberry production

In 1642, the first brewery in America, opened in Hoboken.

The famous Les Paul invented the first solid body electric guitar in Mahwah, in 1940.

New Jersey has the largest seaport in the US, located in Elizabeth. Nearly 80 percent of what our nation imports comes through Elizabeth Seaport first.

The light bulb, phonograph (record player), and motion picture projector, were invented by Thomas Edison in his Menlo Park, NJ, laboratory.

NJ has the first town ever lit by incandescent bulbs.

The first seaplane was built in Keyport, NJ.

The first airmail (to Chicago) was started from Keyport, NJ.

The first phonograph records were made in Camden, NJ.

The game Monopoly, played all over the world, named the streets on its playing board after the actual streets in Atlantic City.

Atlantic City has the longest boardwalk in the world.

The first Indian reservation was in New Jersey, in the Watchung Mountains.

New Jersey has the tallest water-tower in the world in Union.

New Jersey had the first medical center in Jersey City.

The Pulaski SkyWay, from Jersey City to Newark, was the first skyway in the nation.

NJ built the first tunnel under a river, the Holland which takes you into NY under the Hudson.

The first baseball game was played in Hoboken, NJ, which is also the birthplace of Frank Sinatra.

The first intercollegiate football game was played in New Brunswick in 1889 (Rutgers v Princeton).

The first drive-in movie theater was opened in Camden, NJ.

New Jersey is home to both of "NEW YORK'S" pro football teams!

The first radio station and broadcast was in Paterson, NJ.

And . . .

New Jersey has the largest petroleum containment area in the world outside the Middle East.

So, go ahead, set that on fire. (Many thanks to Patrick H.)

Whatever, Dad

"Well, sign those papers and send them back to me."

"OK. Give me an hour or so, all right?"

"Yeah, OK. Oh, [Step] had a pre-cancerous thing removed from her throat on Friday."

"F*ck. Why didn't you tell me last week?"

"You know . . . we didn't want to jinx our leverage."

"What leverage?"

"They shoved a laser down her throat. It could have cracked her teeth. You need a lot of painkillers for that kind of thing."

"Sooo . . .?"

"Yeah."

[Long pause]

" Ohhhh, OK . . . Um, tell her I said feel better."

"Oh, yeah. She does."

Change is Good

I updated the sidebar links today.

Scroll through at your leisure, but be sure to come back!

A Friendly Reminder

BUY THIS VERY SPECIAL LITERARY JOURNAL FEATURING WORK BY YOUR FAVORITE BLOGGER!!

NOW!!

And, yes, I have every intention of hounding you incessantly until you do.

Roll That Ball, Check What Shines

Recently, someone near and dear mentioned that anytime I point out a story in the paper, it's always something grim or violent. I think the word aimed at me was "morbid," so I thought today I would lighten the mood with a rousing commentary on the intersection of public policy and private donations. Specifically, I'm talking about the Tampa Museum of Art and plans for making it bigger and better.

Howard Troxler cautions against plowing into an ambitious overhaul, because he thinks that the city might do better to consider the growth patterns downtown and the major leap the Museum is going to have to make to get its collections on par with the cost of the project. I disagree.

Everybody's always yammering on about downtown being dead, about how boring-ass suburban-style entertainment complexes and specially designated recreation districts suck the life out of any attempt at a conglomeration of independent, economically successful nightlife ventures in a mixed-use area. So, yes, when Troxler gently reminds us that downtown doesn't have the right kind of traffic to justify sinking $43 million in private funds into a public project, he'd be right.

He's putting the cart before the horse, though. Tampa could use a little bit of publicly supported oomph to get things rolling. We've got a sh*tload of money here, too, so why can't we make a fuss? Shake things up on Ashley Drive? Get people downtown?!

I think there's a lot of great things downtown. Spain makes killer mojitos and has incredibly chic decor. The Hub will either turn your frown upside down or positively reinforce it with double shot vodkas for five bucks and a ladies room full of man-hating, lipstick-scrawled banter. Club XS plays an enormous variety of quality hip-hop acts that you wouldn't normally expect to visit the Bay area. Club 112 has a line around the corner every Friday and Saturday night. Underground just launched a breakbeats night two weeks ago. Chambers will re-open with an R&B focus halfway through the month. Hattricks has pool tables and features most major sports events. Gilligans has a decent weekday happy hour. Jerk Hut has an awesome Friday night calypso garage band. What the h*ll else could you want?

How about some public support? How about a Downtown Partnership that actually makes people feel comfortable? How about a mayor that recognizes that $43 million is a lot of f*cking money to raise, so maybe people actually want to see this accomplished?

I'd even settle for a halfway plan - maybe scratch the "urban canopy" idea, or allocate a certain amount of the cash for some pet genre of museum artifacts. I don't even care how it all plays out as long as something happens, because it is just ridiculous to have a wide array of nightspots, a burgeoning "creative class," a community investment in urban living, and then let $43 million dollars go to waste because, in the words of Petey Pablo and Pit Bull, "You actin' like a punk, you scared, you scared."

And speaking of something happening, the weekend was full of vibrant misadventures: Skye, HPC, International, Hyde Park Village, an art show (where the 'Belt wore a navy schoolboy sweater that showed off his blueberry eyes), HPC again, and the International Diamond Center. We capped it all off by getting my cherry topping an ice cream sundae before bed, but not until he had the opportunity to mention that my perfume smells like camphor and he thought my skirt was pleather, as if I would ever wear pleather. For Christ's sake, baby, check a diamond by its light, hmm?

Ooh, You Sexpot, You

Most times when I write whatever it is I write here, I am first and foremost amusing myself. I'm hoping other people dig it, too, but my primary motivation is to allow my own randomly tangled thoughts to stretch themselves out. I'm a narcissist at heart, and a blog is a narcissist's dreamland.

I'm sure, however, that you can imagine my shimmering delight upon noticing over the past few days the wonderful synchronicity in my rebuke to the Tampa Bay area as a whole and a charming trend storming through our neighborhoods. Suddenly, everyone's a f*cking stylehound. Hooray!

If I had been a little more on the ball, I might have noticed this at the beginning of the week when I was perusing through the online version of Tampa Bay Metro. I'm aware most people hate this magazine, but I think that's more quote-unquote hatin' than actual dislike. TBM has featured the same woman, Judy Tampa, in their style section forever. I have no idea why they show her so consistently, because her clothes are dowdy and affected, but I didn't actually know that for sure until this month, because they finally indicated where you can take a gander at them. (I had a pretty good idea from quotes like, " . . . because the fabric is crinkled, you can't tell when it's wrinkled," and "Her own preference is to pair a feminine, ruffled blouse with jeans," but whatever.) My point here is that I don't really care if Judy Tampa's line is a trite knock-off combo of Chico's and the early 2000's Juicy sweats. What interests me is that a major area publication is promulgating a specific style. Fabulous. Just what we need, for real. Not everyone has to like it, but, God, at least we're thinking now.

Also, this weekend kicks off Prana's Diva of the Month promotion. Normally, evenings like this are floorpackers and not much else. The girls like the drink specials, and the guys like the girls. If you've ever been to HPC's Goddess Night, you know what I'm talking about. The vibe there is excellent, but that's because HPC is excellent - it's got nothing to do with a specific promo.

Diva of the Month sounds pretty good, though. For starters, it's not based around a liquor company. That's always a good sign, because, somehow, I don't see where some oversweetened rum sh*t with a slightly sexual name is going to guarantee a high-class evening. Second, they want, in advance, to take pictures of the girls who wanna participate. This is also good, because there are few things less dignified than girls letting saccharine rum drinks trick them into dancing for attention when they need to be reapplying their eye makeup and looking for a breath mint. Finally, I did my undergrad with a kid who worked the door there, and he once shyly said to me, "I like working there. My girlfriend likes it, too, because everyone's real sweet instead of cheesy." And then he blushed, as if making his girlfriend happy was embarrassing. Aww . . . So glad, though, that a local venue is looking for girls to rock it like they got it instead of encouraging them to act like a bunch of low-rent hookers whose parents wouldn't teach them about condoms. This is why me and my candy bar had our first kiss at Prana, but Lil Sis and I call Hedo 'Club VD.'

The fun isn't over yet, though! Yesterday, an unassuming law student, who normally rocks a pretty predictable look, completely stepped up the gear. A distinctive green leather goes a long way. Please keep it up. The school's staff got in on the action, too, fussing over my own turquoise peep-toe butterfly heels. One of the librarians called them "f*ck me shoes," which shocked me to no end, and a professor shared a lovely story about how much fun she has shoe-shopping with her daughter on weekends. After class, the Stunner defied expectation, too, by rocking a promo T, which is normally so declasse, but even that was well-fitted and had a distinctive shoulder line and front graphic. (He is uncommonly handsome, too, which always helps.)

So, apparently, dear readers, you are listening to me. I asked you to please try to be sexy and you have. Cheers all around! Have a fabulous weekend with all your newfound hotness!

Modern Iconography

You'll notice what nabe is first. And how some of the other blurbs are sort of a stretch.

Someday, I'm gonna have to get that satin Loni Anderson jacket and emblazon "South TPA" on the back. Think "South" done in a flat-stitch embroidered arc across the top, and "TPA" in contrasting satin applique.

Until then, this one will have to suffice. Check it in turquoise, and then think about how I totally look like a Mafia wife when I wear it. Very nice indeed.

All the Wrong Places

I can see where after years of career service, a seasoned gentleman might begin to think he could just do whatever he wanted while on the job. Not in a callous, arrogant way, but in a confident, entitled way. Especially since his salary comes from local coffers, and Mayor Iorio and former Mayor Greco were guests at his wedding.

I can see where he might begin to think of his place of business as his second home, too. In my mind, fire stations are spare open expanses of concrete where chiseled men in red pants lounge around on daybeds waiting to protect you. They have friendly spotted dogs and long hoses and big, loud trucks, and the place just smells like testosterone sliding down a pole. Of course Al Suarez felt manly and in charge here.

And certainly, I wouldn't want to deny anyone their private time with the ladies, but in the firehouse? Who thought this was a good idea? I mean, obviously, it's a great idea, but on the other hand, it's a terrible idea. Bringing strippers into a county building and then bribing the other county employees to keep it low seems like a failure of a plan right off the bat. There is no possible way on earth to bring a bunch of girls up in a building, have them do enticing things with firefighting equipment, and then expect no one to want to talk about it.

The article's got some amusing elements beyond the scandal itself, too:

Naked photos of two strippers at a city fire station, including one wearing a bikini top and clutching a fire hose, cost a fire captain and former union president his job Wednesday.

That sentence sucks. I'm sure I don't need to tell you why.

And then, it looks like blogging, obviously an activity for only the very brave, tangled things up even further:

They also found an online diary from one of the strippers in which she wrote: "We went to this Fire Dept. and she took a reeeealy cute set of pics of me! It was a lot of fun, but there was a total
audience. There were like 5 guys (cute I might add) that were sitting in chairs gawking ... hehe!''

Aw, I can't even find it in me to ridicule that, especially since I can actually write, but that chick probably makes a sh*tload more money than I do, and she really does sound like she had a lot of fun.

What I do wanna know, however, is why didn't Suarez, with all his influential fireman's might, just drive the truck somewhere else for his photo shoot? I'm not mad at what he did, but how he did it was just dumb when you start thinking about how easy it would have been to have gone somewhere a little more discreet.

And speaking of discretion, I had a startling conversation this morning wherein I said something that I thought was just regular ol' bullsh*t with the Law School Brigade, only to realize that I had uttered a sparkling gem of truth.

"Well, let's see, you guys are clean, educated, financially secure, you take of yourselves in the gym everyday, you're about to have great jobs, you're property owners, and you always hold the door for me . . . but, no, why would any of the girls here want that?"

They both looked at me all gaped-mouthed for a second.

"So you understand our pain?!"

Wow, for a second there, I did. I'm over it now, but that one moment . . . use your feminine discretion wisely, ladies. It's a powerful tool (much like a fireman's hose).

Happy Birthday Fabian

Love,

Rachel*

Happy Black History Month!

I waited all day to see something pertaining to Black History Month. I read both local newspapers. I attended three hours of classes at a campus full of billboards. Obviously, this is still cracker country.

Then, I went 'Burgside and hit a few locals bars in the vicinity of the Snoop Dogg show, for which, sadly, I didn't get tickets. (Stupid, stupid, stupid!) At about eleven o'clock, the place where we were filled up with concert-goers, and a beautiful moment of Black History Month magic happened.

Everyone was talking black.

The first hint that it might be an epidemic was a young man behind me who crowed, "And you know we were all up in the cut!" I grinned immediately. The girl he was with threw her hands up in the air like she just don't care. On the way out, another young man turned to his friend as though he had a story to tell, and said, "Yo! This black dude came up to me and said, 'Why you all in my grill?!'"

I turned to the Stunner and said, "Baby! Look at that! It's a Black History moment! Snoop Dogg did that! They came out to their regular white people bars, but because they saw a black artist, they appreciate his scene! Even after everything was over!"

The Stunner smiled back and said, "Well, it's the after party and b*tches wanna f*ck."

Identify every hip-hop lyric in the comments and I'll send you something sweet.

And for the sake of posterity, the only line here that was doctored is the Stunner's response. In reality, he gave me that vague, sugary smile he has.