Tampa Bay Street Team

The Super Bowl is not a game. It’s a national holiday from moderation, offering sanctuary from dieting, sobriety, and sense. It’s a celebration of all the things foreigners despise, and secretly envy, about Americans: extravagance, overindulgence, consumerism, and idiocy. So, when you hoist your Natural Ice and Stuffed Jalapeno popper as a reality star sings the national anthem before kick off, you are saluting all those Americans who died so that you can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty about getting drunk mid-afternoon on a work night.

This past Super Bowl I was confronted with the difficulty of being surrounded by a group of friends unmotivated to drink beer and watch football. Considering that I didn’t have enough time to report these communists to homeland security agents, I had to motivate them. Some I was able to convince with promises of miniature Kegs of Coors Light, borracho nachos, and football shaped cakes. Others I had give up on as David-Beckham-loving-soccer-fan-bastards. And still others required something more, a themed Super Bowl party.
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You people looked good this week! Here are some photos from the Surge after party at Czar (part of the CLIP film festival) and also from the CL in Concert event at the State Theatre.

The next one is this Friday at The State Theatre in St. Petersburg and will feature Rachel Goodrich, Auto!Automatic!!, The Basiqs and Dynasty. Send MIXTAPE to 50618 to receive text updates and your chance to win tickets!

My Friday kicked off at a scholarship ceremony. Not that anyone would ever give me a scholarship, it’s just that I knew there would be food and my favorite kind of beer — free. It’s not that I’m cheap. It’s that I’m poor. The problem is that free beer inevitably leads to a field trip to the bars and then a wallet filled only with credit card receipts. So, while all the smart-asses were accepting their awards, I was promising myself that this night I would break off my pricey affair with alcohol, at least until I can afford to resume it.    

I did not make this resolution after waking from a long night of drinking to find that my bed was spinning like a merry-go-round. No, this was a sober decision brought on by another choice to finally end my equally expensive relationship with my shitty Korean car. Sure it was cheap in the beginning and reasonable with gas, but the time and money I’ve wasted on repairs inevitably drove me to end the relationship. I should have walked away from it the first time it gave up on me at a rest stop in the New Mexico desert, but I thought I could work it out. I thought that if I showed the car enough attention, it would give me the same kind of respect. I was wrong. What I’ve learned is that a shitty car will always be a shitty car.

In its place, I bought a ‘94 Ford Ranger to cart my ass across the bay every day. You may be wondering why I’d buy a truck if I was hurting for money. I thought the same thing until I realized the possibilities of the truck’s camper. Read the rest of this entry »

At the last Beer Club, we filmed some of our readers and staffers telling us why they think they’re the “Best of the Bay.” You can see the videos here. At this year’s Best of the Bay Awards ceremony, we’ll be showing some of these videos and we’re also asking our readers to submit their own.  The rules are easy: film yourself (nothing fancy), and upload the video to YouTube. Once it’s uploaded, e-mail us the URL. We’ll take a look, and if it’s chosen for the Best of the Bay Awards Show, we’ll let you know.  

But hurry, the deadline is Monday, September 8.

Dreaming of being a rock star is as American as dreaming about having sex with a rock star. I’ve read countless interviews with performers who describe how they were always putting on “shows” when they were younger. They use these anecdotes as evidence that performing is in their blood. What these talented, or just plain lucky, bastards don’t realize is that most every American kid puts on “shows” as a way to get attention. I used to chase my parents around the house while strumming a plastic guitar in my underwear and singing the same verse to “Old McDonald” repeatedly. And yes, I too won a talent contest for a rap I wrote and performed with a group of four white boys at camp.

You could say that being a rock star is in my blood. So why the hell am I not on TRL or dating Miley Cyrus. The problem is that though performing maybe in my blood, musical talent isn’t. I was born with an impaired sense of rhythm. Five separate times I attempted to teach myself the guitar and failed. When I was older, I attempted the bass thinking it would be easier to learn considering it only has four strings. My highlight from this venture was being asked to play bass on an intentionally horrendous, mock hard-rock song called “Sewer of Ass Piss.” Since playing an instrument was out of the question, I did what any talentless performer does: I decided to become a singer. I did in fact write and record a few songs with my sexually explicit boy band, 2 Sr. Real, but hearing my recorded voice was painful even for someone as self-obsessed as me.

The fact that I will never be a rock star has been particularly difficult to accept considering that I have so many other attributes that make me overqualified: I can switch leotards within a matter of seconds, play air guitar against the carefully formed bulge in my tight pants, and underage women eat me up. Unfortunately the world will never know my talents, and I will never seduce as many women as the grungiest of rock stars.  I am reminded of this sad fact every time I go to a rock show. I will never be a rock star and so my only hope is to try and sleep with one.  

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