Tampa Bay Street Team

Someone made the mistake of giving me VIP credentials for the Skatepark of Tampa’s 2008 Pro Party Saturday, but I’m not one to complain. Other than bucket-loads of free Redbull and Vodka, and the absence of a bathroom, the VIP section was just a smaller version of the Cuban Club’s courtyard: an alternative crowd buzzing around the bar and huddled under umbrellas against the rain.

The only way I could tell it was VIP was because our cameraman Joey kept pointing to guys in hoodies and whispering vaguely familiar names. I recognized a few names, like Eric Koston and Reese Forbes, from the copies of Thrasher I used to cut up and tape to my walls during my era of skating, but their identities were always masked behind the tricks they were turning. Paul Rodriguez explained how the majority of pro skaters were rarely recognized outside of skateparks or contests. This was a bit surreal coming from a guy who had his own signature brand of Nike shoes (which Joey happened to be wearing). Most of them just looked like the skater kids in every high school, except their diamonds were real and their skate brand clothes were free. I was surprised how eager many were to be interviewed. Of course, they may have mistaken me for an obscure TV personality who hosted a show in some place like Australia. 

“We’re astronauts” a scruffy man named Casey said grabbing his buddy in a matching plaid blazer who he called The Captain. The previous day I caught the pair skating in the VIP street tournament in blue jumps suits that looked suspiciously like janitors’ outfits ornamented with iron-on NASA patches. It turned out they host a program on Fuel TV called The Captain and Casey Show that’s a cross between Wayne’s World and a skate video. Of course, being the thorough, and relatively snockered, interviewer that I was, I just assumed I was talking with two lunatics who seriously thought they were astronauts. Regardless of who they were, the interview covered several pressing issues regarding space travel: the ethics of sex with aliens, the secret to training for zero-gravity (beer) and the pairs’ involvement in a revolutionary scientific study regarding condoms in space.

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I doubt Palehorse president and designer, Chris Parks, knew what he was in for when he asked local artists to submit apocalyptic-themed works for the grand re-opening of The Pale Horse Graphic Design Studio & Gallery (formerly Blackout Creations). The gallery, which sits on the crosshairs of Central and MLK in downtown St. Pete, was filled beyond capacity with a tattooed crew dressed in the height of art-school fashion, drinking beer and eating cupcakes.

  

The 2nd Coming art show took its name from the Bible’s Revelations, but many of the darkly comic works seemed to have more in common with Dr. Strangelove. There were plenty of sickles and demonic figures, but most were grinning like deviant comic book heroes. Like Revelations, the works were jam-packed with abstract, obscure and pop-culture symbolism, but with a modern twist. Instead of the doomsday beast being marked 666 in reference to Nero, Chris Park’s henchman rode a horse branded with oil company logos. Instead of a demonic horse, Erik Jones’ sinisterly sexy apocalyptic rider straddled a wicked motorcycle. The cloven hooves were severed pigs’ feet in mason jars, hand-tattooed by Allen Hampton with colorful sailor images.

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Czar was flooded with intoxicating art, people and drinks Saturday for the Heart Show. A DJ spun in every room. Hair models mixed with the crowd, smearing body paint on all they touched. Roman centurions and Greek goddesses styled by Tribeca Salon struggled to stay secured in their togas. A few Derby Darlins skated around the dance floor in neon afros, pulling business cards from bras. Dance groups and musical performers like Bronze wandered around wearing outfits that they’d probably never find a more appropriate setting for. Jay Giroux drew eyes to his canvas with a live painting. Ladies in sparkly clothes danced above the crowd on a catwalk. In a word, the place was happening.

  

The problem was that neither Emma’s nor my name appeared on any of the four door lists being circulated. By my calculations this makes us, at best, F-listers, which might have been a painful realization if my ego wasn’t the size of Mount Rushmore. Situations like this usually occur when my boss speaks to one of several event organizers who have a broad philosophy of who gets into a show for free. These good natured organizers often forget to relay such key information as our names to the infinitely more scrupulous door keepers who deal with jerks like me every five minutes, all claiming they’re on the list. If only I were talented enough to draw the can of Aqua Net carefully holstered in my man purse and expertly swirl Emma’s hair into a coiffure resembling what I imagine Prince’s pubic hair to look like, then we’d have no problem passing as stylist and model. But, like any good F-lister, we stood our ground on the unfortunate side of the velvet ropes until two event organizers escorted us in, having mistaken us for serious CL photographers and journalists. (more…)

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