Tampa Bay Street Team

For dudes that have a dudette, Valentine’s Day often means an empty wallet or a girlfriend crying about how her guy has lost his passion. The problem is rooted in grammar school. Boys grow up thinking February 14 is like a second Halloween – simply a chance to score some candy. For girls, the day teaches them to equate romance with how many cards and chocolates they got. Boyfriends and husbands can’t get away with buying sweets and renting a romantic comedy, because this is what plenty of girls do when they are lonely and single – add to that a wad of Kleenexes to soak up the tears and melted ice cream.

My point is this. Sitting at home moping will only make you fat and lonelier. If you want romance, go out and find it. On Valentine’s Day, the single women are so drunk off the perfumed stench of romance, that even a jackass like myself can come away looking like Don Juan.

 

I took my search to Push Ultra Lounge, where THX MGMT was debuting its Thursday night live music series. Lively couples and strings of singles came out to enjoy the three separate bars (one for each floor — including the roof) and to listen to Life of Pi and The Beauvilles. It was the perfect spot for women seeking a spontaneous tryst — one that would make their friends in tired relationships jealous. All a guy had to do was whip out a flower at the right moment, or in my case, a pair of tickets to David Mamet’s Boston Marriage, at Tampa’s Jobsite Theater.

Since couples received a reduced cover, a few of the single ladies pretended to be in relationships with each other. Being the thorough doormen that they are, the bouncers asked girls like E, a local barista, and her friend to prove that they were together. It was a win-win situation. Both single girls got a Valentine’s Day kiss, and the doormen didn’t feel so lonely standing out in the cold.

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

“I’m partial to the abstract nudes,” I told St. Pete scenester Brent Bruns Saturday at Nova 535 Art Lounge. 

“They’re also the most pornographic,” Brent said. “You think there’s a correlation?” 

I’d be lying if I said I just liked artist Lisa Scholder’s use of color. But that’s the beauty of a place like Nova. People who know what they’re looking at can give qualified opinions about the works in the gallery while people like me can disguise our artistic-handicaps while munching hors d’oeuvres, bouncing between one of several bars and rubbing elbows with Bay Area trend setters.     

 

The 7,000-square-foot warehouse space hosted more than a thousand people Saturday for its red carpet opening. Inside, unfinished floors accentuated the loud art hung over brick walls. San Francisco’s DJ Zeph spun, somehow making hip-hop tracks swanky. Patrons elbowed for room as they roamed between the bars and tables loaded with sweets and the crumbled remains of cheese and crackers. It was overwhelming, even for my camera, which literally fried its archaic circuits trying to capture the madness.   

The crowd was so large I kept losing Trini, though this may have been her intent. She had taken a particular interest in the inordinate proportion of attractive men in attendance. Not only was most everyone more attractive than me, they all dressed like they were in a fashion show. The women, most of whom were also taller than me, wore provocative dresses, which I learned could be as short as they wanted and still be considered classy so long as they cost more than my monthly rent. Guys wore suits, but not business-class black and gray, but suits built to accommodate color. I felt like I had stepped into Eyes Wide Shut or a New York warehouse party.  
(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

Peeped the REAX MySpace this morning:

“Shelter from the Alternative?”
Artfully Designed Distribution Boxes?
A Call for Street Team Members?
“REAX.TV?”

We must be doing something right.

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

“I read your stuff when I’m using the bathroom,” Bobby Sellarole told me. “You look taller in print.”

At that moment I knew the fame-bus had arrived to pick me up. My writing had risen from crude jokes written on stall walls to genuine bathroom literature. Next thing you know kidnappers will be clipping my articles to compose ransom notes.

Ego aside, I had a job to do at Skipper’s Smokehouse, which in my estimation was to document the action and meet a few women.

“I can’t believe you asked to take a picture of the only girl in here without a bra while she hula-hooped,” Emma said, criticizing my journalistic ethic.

I wasn’t the only one at Skipper’s with an eye out for what I liked.

“The dirtier the better,” Chrissy Auger said, explaining the appeal of Skipper’s and the neo-hippies it attracts.

This isn’t to say that Skipper’s is exclusively a gypsy outpost. All kinds came out to hear Tim Reynolds & TR3. The dancing deck was flooded with people waggling around like octopuses on land — albeit stoned octopuses.

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

I knew I had created something special when women kept approaching me at Gasparilla to touch the bulge popping out of my size 3 (girls) gold pants; I had artfully enhanced my pants with what looked like a squirrel nesting on my leg.

 

I was inspired to cram together my artistic package the night before at Contain It! where artists set up installations in PODS storage units outside the Dunedin Fine Arts Center. Each POD was like an apartment in an alternate world. Shane Hoffman’s POD contained a human-sized bird giving birth, and Maira Licodo created a futuristic shrine centered around a circuit-board mosaic of hundreds of mind-altering pills. The only artist who worked outside his box was John Kilduff of “Let’s Paint TV.” At speeds approaching five miles and hour, John Kilduff jogged on his treadmill through the “Fat Burn Zone” while simultaneously igniting his canvas with splashes of paint, blending drinks, and answering questions on creativity. The point of Kilduff’s performance was understandably a bit fractious, but I took his message to be something like, “Just do it.”

I repeated this slogan Saturday morning as I engorged my gold trousers before embarking on a mile long march to the Gasparilla festivities. At each block Kelly and I were sidetracked by house parties where partygoers offered drinks in exchange for the beads contained in the giant boxes we wheeled around. I found myself in a chugging contest or two, but I justified drinking on the job the same way I justified my outfit; I couldn’t deal with the 400,000 or so lunatics that showed up each year for Gasparilla if I didn’t disguise myself as one of them.

This friendly foreplay didn’t last. The moment we got to Bayshore Blvd., bandits started diving into our boxes for beads. I kept the cart moving to shake off those drunks too impaired to keep up, but my escape was quickly blocked by the thickening crowd. Ruffians young and old attacked the boxes from all sides like mindless zombies ravenous for plastic beads. Within minutes our boxes were empty and I needed to change trousers - my golden crotch had busted its zipper.

Our lack of plastic beads did nothing to abate the insanity assaulting us from all sides. It wasn’t the place for agoraphobics, or anyone that has hang-ups about rubbing shoulders with a sea of sweaty pirates of every degree: pirates with cardboard hats and inflatable parrots, some with genuine leather costumes and sabers, others with polo shirts and fraternity tattoos. Wenches walked the streets in the most couture of pirate fashion. (Bustiers and fishnets do wonders for forty year old bodies). Booty puns flowed like grog. Fights broke out and brawlers were dragged off by mounted police. Boobs came out of their upholstery for no good reason at all. I held conversations with multiple guys who were peeing in shrubs, lawns, or on the walls of waterfront mansions. Gasparilla is a rebellion against any traditional sense of order and civility, but an uprising which you have to think twice about disavowing or joining.

E-Mail Alfie - shawn.alff@creativeloafing.com

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

There I was, stone sober and faced with a moral crisis. How can I be expected to host a Beer Club meeting, accurately cover the event, or even do a suitable job of representing the drunks employed by Creative Loafing if I don’t partake in sampling this month’s beers? I don’t want to be a charlatan or mistaken for a creeper who doesn’t like beer. More importantly, how can I be asked to abandon the one tenet of my personal credo: never pass up free beer, especially free premium beer?

I turned these questions over as Trini and I stood at the entrance to Fly Bar, IDing people as they lined up to sample Penn Brewery’s St. Nikolaus Bock, Never Summer Ale, Stoudt’s Winter Ale, and Rogue Santa’s Private Reserve Ale.

“Four cocktails and you’ll be fine,” advised Cindy Marquez after asking why I wasn’t drinking.

Four cocktails and I’d be illiterate, and possibly shirtless. I asked Cindy and her friend Lisette Bellizzi what the hell kind of jobs they had for which they could put down four cocktails and be fine.

“We’re professionals,” Lisette said.

I didn’t know if she meant they were paid to drink or they were paid well enough that they could afford to build up a four-cocktail tolerance. The two were full of professional advice. They suggested that I write a story about single Tampa women. It was a good idea, but in a way I cover that story every week (which is not to say I’m bored with the subject). Beer Club was loaded with more than a few ladies who fit the profile.

Tien Pham was surrounded by no less than four groupies at all times. I knew first hand about her charm. After a double fisted bum-grab a few months ago, my cheeks still clenched every time she passed.

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

“I love shit-to-do papers,” Kevin Thompson said Friday. “Creative Loafing tells me what to do and where to go, and I go.”

He wasn’t the only one who had heeded the paper’s advice. I couldn’t move through Dunedin Brewery without blocking someone’s view of The Sugar Oaks onstage or stumbling into a conversation.

Bar-side, Travis Kriger repeatedly offered to serve me free drinks while Shannon Butler asked if I wanted to take a picture of her jugs (and I thought I was the only one fond of juvenile double entendres). I felt like they had mistaken me for someone important, someone like a bar critic, but I suspect they treated all the patrons with such courtesy. It was harder than usual to say no to the free beer. This wasn’t tin-can swill but hearty microbrews on tap: Beach Tale Brown Ale, Redhead Red, Apricot Wheat Ale, Raspberry Wheat Ale, Celtic Gold Ale and Piper’s Pale Ale. These were the kind of drinks that listed their impressive alcohol content beside their price. The argument could be made, at least in my mind, that a few beers would enhance my work performance, given that my job entails finding something in common to discuss with drunk strangers. Then again, with a crowd as easygoing as the
Dunedin crowd, I didn’t have to be too bold.

After she finished playing, I introduced myself to singer Katherine Kelly on the excuse that a friend suggested that Katherine was the female version of me.

“It’s the eyes,” Katherine said. “We both have tired eyes.”

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

I lined up the perfect double date for New Years, but this was before my brother decided to fall in love. Instead of getting sauced in downtown Austin he wanted to spend the evening with his new girlfriend’s parents. Luckily I am such a charming fellow that our dates didn’t mind going out with just me, or maybe they just didn’t have time to come up with an alternate plan.

“You’re like a man, only cuter,” Penny said when she picked me up.

Suddenly I was having doubts about my top hat (that costume store hussy told me it looked fetching). Penny drove back to her parents’ house so she could finish getting ready and so I could share a half hour on the couch with her father. Instead of attempting conversation, we shared a bowl of Gold Fish crackers and shots of Jack Daniels.

Penny’s equally blonde friend Kristin picked us up (or rather her parents picked us up) in their minivan. There was a time when I would’ve considered this un-cool. But what could be more suave than having parents chauffeur you around town so you can do some serious drinking with their daughter?

Kristin’s father dropped us off at his favorite bar. We promptly hiked down 4th Street in search of a rowdier setting. Whereas 6th Street is famed for dance clubs, wild bars, and music venues, 4th hosts the swankier side of the city’s nightlife: horse drawn carriages, speakeasies with hidden entrances, and restaurant menus filled with foreign words and specialized martinis.

We ended up at P.F. Chang’s. Having worked at the restaurant years ago, I was a bit apprehensive about running into old acquaintances and having to explain just what I’ve been doing. Right off I narrowly avoided an ex-girlfriend’s ex-best friend and soon found a friendlier face at the bar. Josh had graduated from the ranks of waiter to manager. Another guy I used to work with was now an operating partner. I tried not to be rattled by the fact that these guys were making enough money to buy houses while I lived in a garage. Life’s a series of tradeoffs, I assured myself. They were here working at well-paying jobs while I was out on New Year’s Eve with two lovely ladies.

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites

I felt 18 again the moment I arrived at my parents’ house in Austin, Texas. While I raided the fridge, which only housed a fruit cake and a mysterious Christmas log, my parents grilled me about why I needed to borrow the car. 

“I’m going to a party,” I said. “And yes there will be alcohol present, and possibly a few floosies.” 

The party was hosted by a coffee bar named Spider House, a local Mecca for hipsters, artists and musicians like my best friend Travis. In a town filled to the brim with coffee houses, Spider House is the cat’s meow. On the same block, the owners of Spider House also operate an environmentally friendly laundry mat, Ecowash, an eccentric video store called I Luv Video and an art gallery/music venue (all businesses in the city double as music venues).  

This year’s employee party was held in the unfinished gallery, The United States Art Authority. Travis originally reserved his +1 invitation for his girlfriend, but as he was in the process of trading her in for a mysterious online girlfriend, I was Travis’s date for the night. Wall-sized art pieces divided the space into a room big enough to be a roller derby arena and a bar with Lone Star on tap. (Yes Lone Star is a shitty beer, but it’s cheap, it tastes at least as good as Bud Light, and it’s billed as the national beer of Texas). A table was also set up with piles of fajita-beef strips, tortillas and several different severities of salsa. I finally felt at home.                

It was an unwashed kind of art party: tangled hair, dark rimmed glasses, guys in tight pants, girls in black tights, and beards. Not quite hippie but at least as disheveled as an early ’90s grunge rock show. Fitting most people’s impression of Texas, there were plenty of cowboy hats, boots and belt buckles, but these accessories were more products of Rock-a-billy than rodeos. There was also a fair share of people who were doing their part to “Keep Austin Weird.” Two separate people claimed their name was Pony.  

(more…)

Bookmark to:

Hide Sites