Blurbex

“Do you have a lock on your gas cap?” asked my buddy Buck.

“No,” I replied.

“Well, you better get one,” he scolded. “When gas hits $4-a-gallon people are going to start stealing it.”

This was a few months back. I blew Buck off. Thought the odds of guys in ski masks running around siphoning gasoline out of cars with a garden hose was pretty slim.

But this morning I went for a walk around my SoHo neighborhood and spotted a black Mercedes sedan with its open fuel cap dangling in the wind — and had to wonder. Did someone suck the gas from the tank, or did the owner simply forget to put the cap back on after he hit the petro station?

Am I being paranoid or is Buck right about me needing to invest in a fuel cap lock?

Will endorse Obama on Saturday. And get down on her knees and beg for the VP gig, which, if she gets it, may or may not be a good thing for those of us who refuse to imagine another four years of GOP rule.

From the New York Times:

Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton will endorse Senator Barack Obama on Saturday, bringing a close to her 17-month campaign for the White House, aides said. Her decision came after Democrats urged her Wednesday to leave the race and allow the party to coalesce around Mr. Obama.

Howard Wolfson, one of Mrs. Clinton’s chief strategists, and other aides said she would express support for Mr. Obama and party unity at an event in Washington that day. One adviser said Mrs. Clinton would concede defeat, congratulate Mr. Obama and proclaim him the party’s nominee, while pledging to do what was needed to assure his victory in November.

Her decision came after a day of conversations with supporters on Capitol Hill about her future now that Mr. Obama had clinched the nomination. Mrs. Clinton had, in a speech after Tuesday night’s primaries, suggested she wanted to wait before deciding about her future, but in conversations Wednesday, her aides said, she was urged to step aside.

“We pledged to support her to the end,” Representative Charles B. Rangel, a New York Democrat who has been a patron of Mrs. Clinton since she first ran for the Senate, said in an interview. “Our problem is not being able to determine when the hell the end is.”

Mrs. Clinton’s decision came as some of her most prominent supporters — including former Vice President Walter F. Mondale — announced they were now backing Mr. Obama. “I was for Hillary — I wasn’t against Obama, who I think is very talented,” Mr. Mondale said. “I’m glad we made a decision and I hope we can unite our party and move forward.”

Click here to read entire NYT piece.

Cross-posted from TampaCalling.com:
She lost. Obama won. Read the score. That’s democracy. At least this country’s version. But Hillary “I’m your girl!” Clinton just can’t bring herself to concede, which is just wrong. If this gets too ugly the GOP will win again and that’s not gonna be good for anybody pulling down less than $100,000-per. Hillary, please, don’t be a b—-.

From the CNN.com story titled “Obama: I will be the Democratic nominee” (posted at 11:02 p.m. Tue.):

WASHINGTON (CNN) — In what he called a “defining moment for our nation,” Sen. Barack Obama on Tuesday became the first African-American to head the ticket of a major political party …

Sen. Barack Obama on Tuesday told supporters he will be the Democratic nominee. Obama’s steady stream of superdelegate endorsements, combined with the delegates he received from Tuesday’s primaries, put him past the 2,118 threshold, CNN projects …

Speaking in New York, Sen. Hillary Clinton, congratulated Obama for his campaign, but she did not concede the race nor discuss the possibility of running as vice president.

Click here to continue reading CNN.com story.

Top 10: songs for Hillary Clinton

10. “Loser,” Beck

9. “Easy Come, Easy Go,” George Strait

8. “It’s Over,” Roy Orbison

7. “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” Bob Dylan

6. “Goodbye,” Steve Earle

5. “I’m a Loser,” The Beatles

4. “Hit the Road Jack,” Ray Charles

3. “Walk Away,” James Gang

2. “It’s All Over But the Crying,” Hank Williams, Jr.

1. “Bitch,” The Rolling Stones

Just a few of the perks (pictured left).

“Wade, why do you like SoHo so much?” reads a comment posted by “Gigglecream” on a recent Bar Tab column. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the shallowness and douchebaggery.”

People love to hate on SoHo. Especially people who use words like “douchebaggery.” I’m not sure why.

Yeah, it sucks that I only make a fraction of the median South Tampa income. But domestic suds from SoHo bars like the Tiny Tap Tavern or fresh sandwiches from places such as Whaley’s are well within my price range. And it’s nice to be able to walk the streets at any hour and not be accosted — not even for spare change or an extra smoke. Plus, much of my leisure time is spent drinking on my back stairwell/patio with my apartment neighbors, who are all childless and in their 20s/early 30s. They’re people like me who enjoy living in a walking community; being able to park their car on a Friday and spend the rest of the weekend without moving it thanks to everything from a super market to a 24/7 drug store to a book store to a plethora of nightspots and eateries located within about a mile.

But there’s another perk to living in Soho. A secret perk … The swag. The loot. The amazing free stuff that the more fortunate leave out for us less fortunate. I walk about three miles around Hyde Park nearly every day and almost always on the weekends. On Sunday, I came across a residence on Rome, near Bayshore, with two cardboard boxes on the sidewalk with “free books” scribbled on the flaps. I grabbed three hardback Steinbeck’s (including The Grapes of Wrath), three hardback Saul Bellows and an 8-CD lecture on Benjamin Franklin. Basically, I grabbed all I could carry for the approximately mile walk back to my apartment. Later that day, I drove by the house and grabbed a few more selections, including a couple more 8-CD set lectures. Pretty nice haul.

(more…)

Cross-posted from TampaCalling:

I’m at the Grecian restaurant on Davis Islands gnoshing on smoked sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and white toast lathered with real butter and grape jelly. I peruse the several newspapers spread out on my table, soak up the still-tolerable sunshine and listen to the latest Bob Dylan hits collection, which is being played in its entirety on the sound system of the java shop next door. For me, this about as good as it gets. Who knew being awake at 9 a.m. on a Saturday could be so rewarding?

I run into my old pal, local music hero Ronny Elliott (the person who first introduced me to the Grecian years ago), and we discuss the upcoming Homemade music symposium, in which we’ll both be participating. He walks back to his Davis Islands home and I eavesdrop as a father at a nearby table explains the greatness of Bob Dylan to his two sons, who can’t be older than 9 or 10. The waitress refills my water glass the moment it empties. Everyone on Davis Boulevard appears to be in good spirits. Maybe I need to alter my lifestyle a bit and start making this a weekly ritual.

The last time I greeted a Saturday or Sunday before 10 a.m. was probably when I helped my parents move in October, unless you count pulling an all-nighter and facing the dawn during my latest New Orleans holiday. I usually don’t rise on the weekends until about noon. I owe this morning’s pleasure to Buck’s 3-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter.

(more…)

Frank Pavluk and Elaine Cloud Goller star in The Graduate.

1. Island Community Theatre kicks off a limited run of The Graduate in Gulfport.

2. HCC-Ybor’s School of Visual and Performing Arts opens its 34th Annual Juried Student Art Exhibition at [5]Art Ybor.

3. Drink wine, eat subs and get tax advice during Wine and Taxes at Vino 100.

4. Los Angeles indie rock quintet Woven plays New World Brewery.

5. Inkwood Books hosts a book launch with author James Sheehan. 

Comedian Thomas Brown

1. Tampa native comedian Thomas Brown kicks off a run of stand-up performances at Tampa Improv.

2. Enjoy Grape Crush happy hour wine samples and free appetizers at The Grape.

3. A huge assortment of noise bands converge in Tampa for the International Noise Conference at Flight 19.

4. Take a walk through John’s Pass Village and visit the National Comedy Hall of Fame Museum.

5. See White Light/Black Rain and Enemies of Happiness at University of Tampa’s International Film Fest this evening.

Tonight, the FloriMezzo chamber all-stars — among them, concertmaster Sarah Shellman (pictured) and principal cellist Fred Gratta — perform Made in the U.S.A.: Florimezzo Goes to the Heartland, a Palladium Encore series concert of songs with a focus on the American heartland. The program features Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring, Stephen Montague’s Thule Ultima, The Ragtime of Life (written for William Hough) by Vernon Taranto, Samuel Barber’s Knoxville Summer of 1915 (op. 24 for voice and orchestra), and Leonard Bernstein’s “Glitter and be Gay” from Candide. Mark Sforzini directs, soprano soloist Jennifer Sanchez provides guest vocals, and Creative Loafing’s own political editor and classical music enthusiast, Wayne Garcia, hosts a post-concert talkback (dessert included).  

Tuesday, April 1, 7:30 p.m., Palladium Theater, 253 Fifth Ave. N., St. Petersburg, $12-$17, 727-822-3590.

Here’s my account of Saturday’s Gasparilla Parade of Pirates. It will run as as a Bar Tab column in the Creative Loafing that hits newsstands Wednesday. Pictures taken at the event by a co-worker should appear here tomorrow.

Pictured left to right: Me, Lola and Lyndsay.

Just another day of debauchery.

There are few things more horrific than being in the midst of 400,000 drunks. Positioned near the corner of Bayshore Boulevard and Willow Avenue Saturday afternoon during the Gasparilla Parade of Pirates, I can’t help but think that this might be the closest many of us will ever come to entering a war zone. It’s chaos on a greater level than I can typically handle. Fortunately, I have achieved a perfectly calibrated buzz: It minimizes my claustrophobia and creates a sense of euphoria that allows me to tolerate the fat, beered-up beast who just bumped into me — again.

Tampa’s most depraved annual tradition, the Gasparilla day parade is an event so hedonistic and ugly that it should probably be banished to one of those backwoods clearings up in Zephyrhills where 98Rock formerly threw its equally wanton Livestock orgy — far away from the eyes of polite society.

Instead, for the past century, Tampa civic leaders have marched the swashbuckler-honoring bacchanal right through the city’s oldest, richest and most venerable neighborhood. And I like that. There’s something perversely appealing about witnessing the affluent members of South Tampa subjected to all manners of alcohol-fueled savagery. I also enjoy watching those pillars of the community who embrace the day of debauchery — the prosperous dirty old men who stumble and lurch across their roped-off Bayshore lawns, leer at the young gals in bikini tops walking past, and then when the old lady isn’t around, offer the loaded coeds sets of monster-sized beads in exchange for a quick flash of perky boob.

Gasparilla is an outing rife with madness and uncertainties — worsened by the poor cellphone reception most people experience there. Plans are inevitably broken. Groups get separated. That’s why you just gotta go with the flow: Attend whatever parties you can, stick with your ride home, and keep plenty of cash for a cab stuffed in sock or bra just in case you find yourself passed out on a stranger’s lawn at 3 a.m.

I also have come to understand after years of Gasparilla-going that if you’re hanging with a large contingent of women — or guys like my pal Sal who refuse to piss in the bushes — a substantial part of the day will be spent seeking out restroom facilities. That’s just the way it is.
Creative Loafing co-workers and members of our Street Team arrive at my South Tampa apartment around 10 a.m. Saturday. The back alleyway is already a lively block party thanks to my downstairs neighbors arranging a tent and tables lined with liquor and mixers — plus speakers blasting classic ’80s and funk jams like “Superfreak.” In fact, I’m pretty sure all eight units in my building threw their own respective Gasparilla celebrations that spilled out into the alleyway full-force by 11 a.m.

Shortly before noon, our CL crew of about a dozen leaves my apartment and joins the exodus of revelers marching down Howard Avenue toward Bayshore. My fifth beer kicks in at this point, causing the inevitable breaking of the seal. I have to piss — already. Not a good sign.

When we get under the Crosstown expressway, I find a couple of bushes and discreetly relieve myself. Our first stop is a house party on Watrous Avenue, where the Street Team stashed (with the homeowner’s permission) a shopping cart loaded with Creative Loafing beads and promo material. I down my sixth beer, and by the time we reach Bayshore I’m forced to make a risky stop under a tree within about 10 yards of a cop car. Luckily, after spending years drinking beers at outdoor events with few available restrooms — and knowing full well I have a bladder the size of a lima bean — I’m like a ninja when it comes to pissing in public.

All the same, finding a place to momentarily hide every 15 minutes is annoying. No more beer for a while. I unveil my 375ml flask of Canadian Club whiskey and take a healthy pull. Sal knocks some back, too. Lola puts it to her lips and nearly chokes.

“What the hell is that?” she complains.

Lola washes the whiskey down with another gulp from her giant sports bottle that was once filled with spiced rum and diet cola but now is almost empty. By midafternoon, Lola has reached a level of intoxication that makes her a bit pouty and surly. She waves her plastic pirate’s hook in the faces of passersby, amusing some while angering others. Before the parade even reaches our spot on Bayshore and Willow, my co-worker Jessica suggests we hang out on her friend’s boat.

Fine with me. I’ve never joined the mob and begged for a string of beads — and sure have no intention of starting that sorry practice this year. Fuck the floats, the krewe members, their plastic trinkets and the assholes who fight for ’em.

We head northwest toward Platt Street but Jessica, Lola, Lyndsay and Sal all have to pee (I’d been using the alleyways) so before we reach our waterfront destination we decide to pony up the $10 cover charge and enter Four Green Fields. No problem. We hang there with the large, older-yet-fun-loving crowd and end up staying for a couple hours.

By 8 p.m., most everyone has reconvened at my apartment, where we continue partying until way past midnight, toasting our great day of decadence. Walking, sightseeing, drinking, pissing and staying above the fray — that’s a good Gasparilla.

This email was sent to Creative Loafing earlier today:

I’m pasting below a list I received from a colleague-not-to-be-named–it’ll break in twenty minutes.  I don’t know if this is of any use or interest to you, but I believe it’s to be trusted.  (I also know you all don’t cover national sports with much regularity.)

In any case, if only for office gossip, I thought I’d include you in what is apparently the widespread premature dissemination of the list of big-name players, retired and active, whose use of steroids has been verified.

Partial “leaked” list due out at 2pm today.

“Brady Anderson, Manny Alexander, Rick Ankiel, Jeff Bagwell, Barry Bonds, Aaron Boone, Rafaeil Bettancourt, Bret Boone, Milton Bradley, David Bell, Dante Bichette, Albert Belle, Paul Byrd, Wil Cordero, Ken Caminiti, Mike Cameron, Ramon Castro, Jose and Ozzie Canseco, Roger Clemens, Paxton Crawford, Wilson Delgado, Lenny Dykstra, Johnny Damon, Carl Everett, Kyle Farnsoworth, Ryan Franklin, Troy Glaus, Rich Garces, Jason Grimsley, Troy Glaus, Juan Gonzalez, Eric Gagne, Nomar Garciaparra, Jason Giambi, Jeremy Giambi, Jose Guillen, Jay Gibbons, Juan Gonzalez, Clay Hensley, Jerry Hairston, Felix Heredia, Jr., Darren Holmes, Wally Joyner, Darryl Kile, Matt Lawton, Raul Mondesi, Mark McGwire, Guillermo Mota, Robert Machado, Damian Moss, Abraham Nunez, Trot Nixon, Jose Offerman, Andy Pettitte, Mark Prior, Neifi Perez, Rafael Palmiero, Albert Pujols, Brian Roberts, Juan Rincon, John Rocker, Pudge Rodriguez, Sammy Sosa, Scott Schoenweiis, David Segui, Alex Sanchez, Gary Sheffield, Miguel Tejada, Julian Tavarez,Fernando Tatis, Maurice Vaughn, Jason Varitek, Ismael Valdez, Matt Williams and Kerry Wood.”

Here’s some of the early obits:

“Norman Mailer, Outspoken Novelist, Dies at 84″ (New York Times)

“Author Norman Mailer dead at 84″ (Los Angeles Times)

“U.S. writer Norman Mailer dies aged 84″ (Reuters)

“Author Norman Mailer dies at 84″ (USA Today)

“Biographer: Norman Mailer dead at age 84″ (AP/Miami Herald)

Nothing yet [10:22 a.m.] from Village Voice, the free alt-weekly Mailer co-founded in 1955.

Creative Loafing Events Editor Leilani Polk is vacationing in Mexico. But that didn’t stop our Harry Potter-loving staffer from sending us her account of acquiring perhaps the most highly-anticipated book since the advent of the printing press.

BY LEILANI POLK
In my mind, it was easy: I’d arrive Barnes and Noble on Tyrone Boulevard in St. Petersburg at 12:15 a.m. the Saturday morning of its July 21 release and avoid the midnight masses (which I optimistically thought would be slight enough that almost everyone would be gone by the time I got there). I’d cruise right to the counter, snag my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, and return home. Five minutes tops.

Of course, I vastly underestimated the Harry Potter fan base. Yes, I’ve followed the story with great interest, even crying at the death of Professor Dumbledore – one of the book’s main heroes and Harry’s mentor/father figure. But I’m no fanatic. The only reason I was picking up my reserved copy at midnight was because I was taking an early flight to Mexico the following day. I could have waited to get the book but I wanted something long and compelling to read on my leisurely week-long vacation, which would include much lounging by the pool (or on the beach). But lounging, as great as it is, gets boring pretty quick. Since I wasn’t positive I could pick up a copy at the airport, I made the decision to drop by one of the midnight release parties.

I drove up to Barnes and Noble at the exact time I planned. Much to my chagrin, the parking lot was packed. A large crowd of Potter lovers – at least several hundred – spilled from the entrance. I trudged to the end of the very long line, passing by knots of tweens and teens, some chatting animatedly, others strangely quiet and serious.

It was controlled pandemonium. Some people were camped-out on fold-up chairs. Those waiting in line seemed resigned to a fate of standing around while the ones leaving the store – some with single copies, a few with bags or cases – were breathlessly exclaiming in their cell phones or to their companions, or holding their book tightly to their chest and heading to their car in a fast walk. Some people were already reading the first pages of the book while heading to their cars in a slow walk, all of them sharing the same self-satisfied expression that people wear when they’ve acquired the one thing they want most in the world. A carload of kids drove by, all shrieking, “We got it! We got it!” It was some surreal shit.

I waited in line outside for about 25 minutes before making it inside, where the mass of people had been scaled down to an orderly line that snaked all around the store and eventually ended at the registers. Which meant I did a lot of random reading to keep myself entertained: The Book of Illusions. 101 Ways to Cook Tofu. How to Understand a Woman through Her Cat.

A display of stuffed animals (characters from children’s books) caught my attention and I played with a tiny Chihuahua and Curious George on the final leg of the wait. By the time I reached the registers, it was 1 a.m. and I was ready to hightail it outta there. I handed the visibly weary but somehow still pleasant clerk my card, grabbed my book, and made my way wearily back to my car.

A huge display of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows greeted me at the airport book store the next day. I grumpily ignored it.

“Funny article, I’ve been to Elmer’s,” writes Eric Swanson in an email that refers to my recent Bar Tab column “Car bomb backfire.” “If you want a true car bomb go to The Dirty Shame in Ybor. Richard Boom’s (former owner of The Irish Pub) new pub. The proper car bomb has the Jameson in the Guinness and the Baileys in a shot glass.

“[The photo] is Richard Boom’s 56th Birthday,” Swanson continues. “And he lined up 56 car bombs on the bar and 56 people downed them together.”

I’ve sipped Jameson at The Dirty Shame a month or so ago and plan to return for a car bomb in the near future. Cheers.

Here are a couple of pics taken by CL Finance guru London Fajkus of the Weary Boys at New World Brewery in Ybor City last night. The highlight of the show, for me, was a tasty cover of the Hank Williams classic “Jambalaya,” which made the rustic courtyard feel like a Bayou juke joint.

from Dawn Morgan:

Noelle Price was coming through town from California, as she often does, to play bars and clubs and visit her friend Lara Cerri.

Lara asked her Parson Brown bandmate Ed Lehmann if he knew of any place they all could play together. Ed made some calls and came up with New World Brewery, adding local music staples Rebekah Pulley, Cat Cheshire, and Natty Moss-Bond to a bill he lovingly called Girls with Guitars. He would like it to be the first in a series.

When the show started at 7, there was about 35 people around the courtyard. Many more straggled into the bar throughout the night.

Jenny Lewis’ Rabbit Fut Coat played between sets and I recommended the Framboise to all the non-beer drinking ladies (and Ed).

Conversation tidbits heard throughout the night: from singing to books to the unfairness of paying tax on tampons.

Ed’s wife, Jennifer Hollowell, is host of the ND Hour on WMNF, and a full time “cookie baking” stay-at-home mom. She used to go with her friend Bev to Orlando or Atlanta at the drop of a hat. But she’s so tired by the end of the day, Jen says she only made it out tonight because the show started so early. “Most shows don’t start until 10. I’m in bed by then.”

Cat Cheshire (pictured left with friend Jaime Jensen), originally from Reading, England, came to the States 4 years ago after meeting Joe, an American, backpacking in Thailand. Cat had been living in Cardiff, Wales where she enjoyed “loads of music clubs, art and underground stuff. A very eclectic scene.” She misses the down-to-earth Welsh people and loves their music, but finds it comparable to Tampa and St. Pete.

Alas, she hasn’t been getting out much lately due to being “busy writing very bad songs.”

Carrie Waite, techie by day and some-time photographer for CL, was out supporting friend Natty Moss-Bond. They are apart of a group of girlfriends that periodically go out. “It started with Monday night facials and turned into 30 of us going out to the Garden.”

Natty performs every Thursday night (Ladies Night) at Dave’s Aqua Lounge, along with April Maxwell, Rebekah Pulley, and female allies Meyer Baron and Crash Mitchell. “All kinds of girls will join us,” Natty said. “Sometimes poet Lori Karpay. We play acoustic, just a couple of mics plugged into the P.A.”

Despite the line up of local all-stars, Natty says not many women make it out to the weekly event. It makes her think back 20 years, when she was just beginning to play rock ‘n’ roll in high school. “There wasn’t a single girl when I started playing. It was more acceptable for them to be in the church choir or in chorus.”

But Natty confirms that it’s changed by leaps and bounds. “The amount of women that play music has increased exponentially in every genre. Things really are changing, for the first time in history we’re getting to be even.”

However, she adds that some club owners still don’t give her the time of day, but will speak with her male band mates in an instant. “You have to be really stubborn in any industry. Banker, lawyer, reporter – just to get your foot in the door.”

Still, Natty is well known for being just plain nice. She cites the early band days when club owners would try to chump change the musicians after playing a gig. The guys in her band wouldn’t stand up to owners, instead sending Natty when it was time to collect.

“How could you be mean to this face?” Natty says, eyelashes aflutter. They’d hand over the money no problem.

The rumor we reported earlier has become official. It was announced today that Roger Waters will play the Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa on May 18. And, yes, he will be performing Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety. No word yet if The Wizard of Oz will be broadcast on the jumbo screens with the music synched to that third lion roar.
—Wade Tatangelo

WMNF was playing a folk performances that was sooo sincere it sounded like an SNL sketch. WUSF had already switched from NPR to classical music. So, while squinting to see through the fog this morning I flipped to 102.5 The Bone. The host, Cowhead, was talking to a Ford Amphitheatre/Live Nation honcho about the venue’s new wall of anti-sound, the Stevie Nicks show tonight and Roger Waters probably bringing Dark Side of the Moon to town in the near future. (What? No Wall performance in honor of the monolithic structure that — builders hope — stops the noise from bleeding across I-4?).

Pink Floyd/Waters doesn’t move me quite like it did when I was a wild teen. But witnessing Dark Side of the Moon performed live might be a gas, especially if they project Wizard of Oz on one of those jumbo screens. You know, and it get synched perfectly to that third lion roar.
—Wade Tatangelo