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

This article appears in Jan 23-29, 2008.