SING, DRINK AND BE HORNY
Pornaoke at the Pegasus
'The acrid smell hit me like a Viking hammer."
(Writer's note: This very apt opening line brought to you by Pegasus denizen Joe Murphy. And the letter X.)
There are no ringers at the Pegasus Lounge. Karaoke "professionals" do not come here to hone their chops. It's a tired-but-still-kicking bar (with full package service, no less) in north Tampa, the kind of place where the salt of the earth gather to drink unencumbered by the burden of the latest trends, be they in beer or bar wear. (Oddly enough, the Pegasus has been north Tampa's place for live music for the last couple years, second only to the Brass Mug. Guess the scenesters have adopted it.) I'd heard about Pornaoke from freelance Planet photographer Valerie Murphy, and was immediately and understandably intrigued. Being somewhat crippled by an inability to sing in public myself, and having not a wisp of longing for a spotlight of any kind, I've always been vaguely amazed/amused by karaoke fans. The depths to which their love for the activity runs has always struck me as somewhat peculiar, perhaps even desperate, like someone who eats fucked-up condiment combinations on a dare for a bit of attention. Why, then, would someone up the discomfort factor by choosing to sing songs they didn't write, in a voice they haven't perfected, in front of people they don't know, while drunk and with porn playing on a big screen behind them? The reason, it would seem, is both surprising and obvious: because it's fun.
The porn began at precisely 11:30 p.m. Soft-core, no-penetration-shots cable-variety (although Joe assured me he's seen hard-core from time to time). As with any karaoke event, the patrons thumbed through books of some 7,000-plus songs provided by the event's host, Lazer Ray, and gave him their selections on slips of paper. One by one they got onstage and did their thing. A chick going by the alias "Boobs" (yeah, she had a rack) did a not-so-bad version of Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle." Some guy butchered Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy" (as much as that song can be butchered) with a backdrop of chaste nipple kissing on the screen. Valerie bucked up for a rousing rendition of "That'll Be the Day," by Buddy Holly. The patrons cheered for each performer and, as with most karaoke nights, the same eight or so people seemed to be sharing the mic, selecting song after song for their amusement and the patrons' entertainment. Everyone was very respectful of each brave performer. And no one paid too much attention to the action on the screen. Maybe that was because the action was tamer than what has probably taken place in most bar parking lots. Maybe because karaoke fans don't need the frills. Or maybe it's because of the clientele itself, which inspired the following by Joe:
Barroom brawlers, lifetime squalors, in the depths of a whiskey binge/ Out at night, to start a fight, lifetime of memories in a jigger of sin.
Amen. And Sing on.
Pegasus Lounge, 10008 N. 30th St., Tampa (813-971-1679). Pornaoke takes place each Wednesday. Admission is free and drinks are cheap.
—Kelli K
PYROTECHNIC(AL)
Fireworks Hints and Tips
We all know somebody who lives to acquire those fireworks that the state of Florida has deemed either legal only for licensed and insured pyrotechnicians, or prohibited outright, in time for the Fourth. Hell, some of us might know several somebodies who've made it a family tradition — employing complicated underground smuggling operations, designing incredibly intricate launch sequences featuring unbelievably half-ass methods of ignition, and ultimately drinking far too much before staging their display in extremely conspicuous environs. (For some reason, most of these people never get caught or injured, while you will almost certainly be jailed for indecent exposure if you wander 50 yards down the beach from the spectacle to take a discreet leak.) There are those for whom the right to get drunk and aim Roman candles at one another ranks up there with keeping and bearing arms. And no county, state or federal government is gonna tell them they can't duct-tape a dozen bottle rockets (the exploding kind, naturally) together and fire 'em out of a Christmas wrapping-paper tube at Uncle Steve's keister while he's bent over, trying to figure out which red plastic keg-party cup is his. That is, after all, what America is all about.In the interest in reducing both serious burns and post-Fourth News of the Weird items about really embarrassing serious burns, we've compiled a short list of basic firework-safety Dos and Don'ts. If they seem fairly obvious and common sense-oriented to you, well, then, you've probably never experienced the thrill of dropping a lit M-80 into an empty beer can, then waiting for the perfect moment to toss it, so it'll explode in mid-air rather than returning back to Earth before sending gorgeous aluminum shrapnel in every direction.
On Making Your Own
DO: Realize that a water balloon full of Everclear is not a homemade firework. Neither is a can of hairspray and a lighter. Think about it — you can do that stuff anytime; this is a national holiday we're talking about, dude. Show some respect.
DON'T: Really, just don't. It's fairly difficult to find saltpeter (potassium nitrate, one of gunpowder's three ingredients), short of buying in bulk online or spelunking after your own bat guano. And anyway, hit enough drugstores, whole food emporiums and chemical shops asking for it, in these troubled times and as a distinctly American holiday approaches, and you might find yourself explaining to a politely intense man in a suit that you weren't planning on manufacturing "explosives," but rather just dicking around with making some explosives.
On Getting the Stuff
DO: Avoid Georgia, one of the few southeastern states with a strictly enforced prohibition of any and all fireworks, entirely.
DON'T: Sidle up to the guy at the local FIREWORKS! stand, make a big show of checking out the merchandise, and then quietly ask about "stuff in the back" or "anything a little crazier" while winking and waggling your eyebrows. Unless, of course, you want to buy some pot.
On Throwing the Party
DO: Schedule your light show for about the same time as a nearby authorized one. Some of your thunder may be stolen, but it will divert a lot of unwanted outside attention. Also, it ensures that there's a fire truck and ambulance within two minutes of wherever you and your idiot friends are absolutely begging for a skin graft.
DON'T: Have this conversation: "Hey man, you sure you want to do this here? You've got a lot of trees around your pad." "Oh, yeah, you're right. Thanks. Tell you what, when it's time to light this shit up, remind me to take everything out into the middle of the street." "Cool."
On Trajectory
DO: Remember that what goes up, must come down. You can't shoot fireworks straight up into the air and be completely safe, like you can with bullets.
DON'T: Give in to the almost overwhelming urge to make it an audience-participation thing. You can't shoot fireworks straight into a crowd or at a buddy, like you can with bullets.
On First Aid
DO: Keep a bucket of icy water on hand to douse flames or burns.
DON'T: Forget to take the Pabsts out of the bucket before you dump it on somebody.
—Scott Harrell
SHIRTS AND SKINS
Pickup Soccer
In cities throughout South America, Africa, Europe — basically everywhere in the world except the United States — you don't have to go far to find an open game of soccer. Informal matches start up in empty lots, on streets, on the beach, wherever there's a relatively level playing surface and a minimum of things that might harm feet, be they bare or in cleats.Locally, unless you're part of a league, it's tough just to find people who understand soccer, let alone people fit enough to play for an hour and who enjoy the game enough to play in the heat of summer.
A number of regular pickup games do exist, however, and it's no wonder they're filled largely by foreign students and immigrants. This is good and bad, in that the games naturally take on the personalities of whoever's playing, and people who play soccer abroad take the game seriously — even pickup games. So before you set foot on the pitch at any of these spots, you'll want to determine the nature of the game. Your teammates and opponents might look like a ragtag crew, but once the game starts they just might play like pros, or at least very talented demons.
13420 S. Village Drive, Tampa This Carrollwood neighborhood soccer complex consists of three fields with full-size nets and goals, fenced in with a gravel parking lot and two Port-o-lets. The games out here get going most weeknights at around 5:30 p.m. and run all afternoon and evening on weekends. There are a lot of white-collar guys who played in high school or college and are shaking loose the rust that comes with sedentary office jobs. And this is sort of the unofficial soccer field of Tampa's old Greek men, swarthy dudes who limp on the field and then somehow play like men half their age, checking one another, running down loose balls, finding space and cursing a good-natured blue streak over every little thing. This is a great setting for someone who's looking to kick around, run some and just have fun.
USF Athletic Fields, Sycamore and Elm drives, Tampa These fields, especially the one the football team scrimmages on, are as lush and trim as a fairway. There are paved parking lots alongside the fields that require a parking permit, but they are rarely policed. Games begin around 5 p.m. and bring out guys from area club teams who prefer playing to practicing. Depending on the number of people who show up, there may be one bloated game or several small games divided up by skill level. Most of the guys out here can dribble in traffic and pass the ball to a guy on a run 30 yards away without causing him to break stride. And while nobody's going to slide tackle you, this is a physical game and unkind words get exchanged over fouls and blown plays. These guys always come to play.
UT Athletic Fields, Brevard and North B streets, Tampa The stadium field and its neighboring practice field are fenced in and locked most of the time, but there's a well-worn hole in the north fence of the practice field, and students have free rein over it when it's not in use by the school's soccer team. Games are sporadic on the weekdays, but regular games take place most weekend afternoons and Sunday nights. Yes, at night, i.e., when it's cool. The well-maintained field has lights, and most of the students who play soccer here know where the switch is. The games are good, as most everyone who shows up is in shape, and nobody out here loses their cool over an unintentional foul or a defensive mistake. The added bonus: good-looking onlookers walking to and from adjacent coed dorms.
—Cooper Cruz
UP THE DOWN WATER SLIDE
Kiddie Water-Toy Olympics
I'll come right out and admit it — I haven't participated in the Kiddie Water-Toy Olympics as an athlete in a while. I didn't ride the inflatable alligator down the Slip 'N' Slide, off the roof of the house and into the pool this year. My intimate knowledge of the subject has come from a more, er, custodial point of view in recent years.The Kiddie Water-Toy Olympics aren't for the experienced, anyway. For us, they're the ultimate instigator's spectator sport, a Machiavellian plot to be set into motion at just the right moment. And the right moment almost always comes, provided you're at any kind of wet, informal summer gathering.
You'll probably encounter a few false starts; at least once, somebody's going to sneer at you and tell you you're crazy. But trust me — it will happen. You'll be out on your buddy's patio, watching his buddies ham it up in the pool. And one of them will go down the slide standing up, or perform some other such stupidity. And after the laughter dies down a bit, you'll say, nonchalantly: "Hey, I bet you can't go up the slide, from in the pool, without using your hands."
He might call your bluff, and give it a shot. He might agree with you and admit he can't. If he does the latter, however, someone else will almost certainly give it a try.
So, either way, the Kiddie Water-Toy Olympics are under way.
It's your job to keep the crowd entertained by playing ringmaster, and upping the ante — not a terribly difficult job, as the law of inertia tends to take over. Climbing up the slide no-handed inevitably becomes climbing up the slide no-handed, catching a tossed Super Soaker, shooting at a thrown water-wing, and diving back into the pool through a floating inner tube.
As things build, it's amazing who'll volunteer to try catching the upside-down Frisbee filled with burning lighter fluid, before jumping into the deep end to chug a beer poured down a hollow Pool Noodle from the surface. It seems participating in the Kiddie Water-Toy Olympics doesn't require endless, regimented preparation. In fact, quite the opposite is true: It takes a lifetime of training to know not to go out for it.
—Scott Harrell
QUICK DUNKS
Touring Urban Beaches
They will never make it onto postcards or chamber of commerce brochures. They are the runt beaches of Tampa Bay, the ones you drive by and wonder, "Why would someone go there instead of Indian Rocks or Pass-a-Grille or Sand Key?" These patches of sand do not provide lovely vistas of the gulf. They are not rimmed by the kind of water that makes you want to take a refreshing dip. Sometimes they don't smell so good. The most notorious of them are Ben T. Davis Beach and Davis Islands Beach in Tampa (sometimes affectionately known as "Beer Can Beach"), Spa Beach near The Pier in downtown St. Pete, and the strip along Gandy Boulevard west of the bridge.
Before we begin a little travelogue of these getaways, let's first examine their appeal. The most obvious draw is proximity. Let's say you live in the Old Northeast section of St. Pete and you have an instant craving to get sand between your toes; Spa Beach is just around the corner. No need to pack up the SUV. Also, runt beaches are usually less crowded. On a blustery weekday afternoon in April, a couple lying on a blanket at Beer Can Beach could have enjoyed some discreet coitus — if not for me.
Additionally, runt beaches are not as body conscious. On a lovely Thursday morning in April, I saw a woman nearing the end of a pregnancy dressed in a tiny bikini top and well-worn gray gym shorts. Most folks would be a tad uncomfortable sporting that on fashion-conscious Clearwater Beach.
Of the four runt beaches I visited, I found Spa Beach the most aesthetically pleasing. It affords a view of The Pier and some boats on the water. The sand is white and soft, and the volleyball nets appear to be in good shape. But I've been on Spa Beach in the summer, and it's usually a breezeless sweatbox. The water can be laced with the aroma of dead fish, although I've never found it to be gag-inducing.
Ben T. Davis Beach sits on the Tampa side of the Courtney Campbell Causeway. The problem here is din. Although it provides several concrete picnic areas with grills, they're located within spitting distance of the causeway. Somehow the bratwursts don't taste as good accompanied by the deafening whoosh of an 18-wheeler. People have complained about the water quality of Davis Beach for decades, but this year the Florida Department of Health has rated it "Good" in the category of Fecal Coliform (except the sample on Jan. 20 which earned a "Moderate").
Beer Can Beach earned an across-the-board "Good" in terms of Fecal Coliform, but there are no statistics on excess aluminum or carbohydrates. It's a half-moon-shaped sliver of sand next to the David Islands Yacht Club, near Peter O. Knight Airport. One side overlooks a small harbor where dozens of sailboats are moored; the other provides a view of smokestacks, large piles of dirt and heavy machinery.
Of those in our survey, Gandy Beach is the one most defined by the people it attracts. Sometimes referred to as Tampa Bay's little slice of "Redneck Riviera," it's a strip where folks enjoy flying the Confederate next to their hibachis, beach chairs and coolers full of Busch.
—Eric Snider
ALL FUN, NO MORTGAGE
Rent a Pool Home
So my friend Marsha and I decided to surprise our boyfriends with some Kissimmee-style fun for Valentine's weekend. Marsha, being the experienced discount hotel-finder she is, hopped online to check out our 5-million Orlando-area options. Five minutes later she came through: "How do you feel about renting a pool home?"We were looking for a suite anyway, something with two bedrooms and a living room area. We fully realized that we'd likely be shelling out at least a hundred bucks per night. Marsha had found a two-bedroom house, complete with garage and screened-in pool, for $125 a night. Too good to pass up?
Hell yeah!
The house was actually located in a subdivision full of similar rentals just outside of Celebration. Close enough. After a quick stop at the rental offices to pick up the keys (significant others: "We're staying in an office building for the weekend?"), we were soon pulling into what may be the only pool home any of us will ever live in, even if only for a weekend. Marsha's boat-size Impala barely fit in the garage (she had to slide across the hood to reach the door leading into the kitchen), but that minor upset was forgotten after we began the inspection of our new digs.
Someone opened the first door we came to: "Damn, two singles. Someone's gonna have to push some beds together."
Second door: "This one's got a queen."
Third door: "Hey! Here's two more singles! I thought this was a two-bedroom?"
Fourth door, other side of the house: "Man, another queen!"
Fifth door: "Damn, it's another frickin' bedroom!"
In all, we ended up in a six-bedroom pool home, with a recommended maximum occupancy of 14. Luck? Generous booking agent? Slow weekend at the rent-a-home shop? Who knows. But at a mere 10 minutes from the tourist-trappy fun that is Kissimmee, we'll be back. With 10 or so of our closest friends.
*(The writer of this story and her companions wish to apologize to the property cleaning crew for the dozens of plastic BB's and little green army men left floating in the pool. It was too cold to swim, but we didn't want it to go to waste.)
Families First Vacation Homes, 215 Celebration Place, Celebration (800-393-8800, www.familiesfirst.com). Two- to seven-bedroom condos and homes start at $99 per night. Cleaning fees apply; pool heating optional.
—Kelli K
KNOW WHEN TO FOLD EM
St. Pete Hold Em
Maybe this has happened to you: You never had much interest in cards, especially poker, 'cause to you it was just a way to lose money. You sucked at poker, and besides, the game was dull, long and really just a matter of dumb luck. Then you ran across Texas Hold 'Em on cable, and damned if you didn't stop and watch for a few minutes, and then an hour. And then more and more hours. The game was intriguing, intricate, cagey and full of skill — skill you didn't possess, but suddenly thought was attainable. So you broke out a deck and started fooling around. You went on the Internet and saw just how tough it is to get good at Texas Hold 'Em; you finally understood how one could be a great poker player, that it wasn't just the luck of the draw. And you thought: Maybe I can become a good poker player too. Next thing you know — impossible as it may have seemed just a few months ago — you're putting together poker nights to show off your newfound cardsharkery.
But you just want to keep it fun — among friends. All that math shit you need to win online and at the casinos is not for you.
This is how we do it: We get together a few couples at someone's home and make sure plenty of alcohol is on hand. Everyone buys $10 worth of chips and, unlike the TV tournaments, can buy more chips to stay in. With a touch of civic pride, we call our game St. Pete Hold 'Em. It's different from the Texas game because the dealer can pick wild cards. We limit them: one-eyed jacks, black queens, red fives, the ace of clubs, like that.
As the game goes and the booze flows, the wild cards get wilder. Sometimes it goes beyond cards. One time, Billy called "tits and asses wild," which meant that a woman could pick a wild card by flashing her breasts and a guy could do the same by dropping trou. No one did, but there will be plenty more get-togethers. (Another peculiarity to our game: we don't sweat what we consider the little rules — "posting the blinds," "burning" cards — 'cause, man, that shit's too hard to keep track of.)
During my nascent poker days, I've realized that — for all my watching of TV Hold 'Em tournaments — I still basically suck. I make dumb moves. I make really dumb moves. (I once bet the hell out of an inside straight and proudly revealed my cards, only to have Jenna say, "Where's the Jack?" Nine, 10, Queen, King, Ace is not a straight. Funny thing is, if she hadn't noticed, I probably would've picked up the pot.)
I've also come to realize that bluffing doesn't work when your opponent is a shitfaced idiot who only stands to lose a five-dollar pot. (That fucker Billy will call your bluff every time.)
So Texas and St. Pete Hold 'Em are different games. The latter, though there ain't much money in it, is a fun way to kill a slow weekend night.
There are countless websites devoted to poker. www.texasholdem-poker.com offers a strong overview: rules, strategies, odds, etc.
—ERIC SNIDER
ROLLING ON
THE OCKLAWAHA
River Cruise
Yes, Virginia, there really are wild monkeys in Florida. You can see them on the Ocklawaha River. Not everyone who lives in Florida can or should own a boat. But not owning one is no reason to miss some of the most beautiful scenery and abundant wildlife in the state. Florida's rivers offer glimpses of what this peninsula must have been like hundreds, even thousands of years ago, before Europeans set about despoiling the continent. You could rent a canoe or kayak if you want to work that hard. In some places, you can go tubing if you don't mind butt-numbing temperatures and being at eye level with snakes and alligators that make the neighbor's murderous rottweilers look like playful puppies. But if you like the shade of a canopy and the comfort of dry, padded seats; if you want to bring your camera, binoculars, field guides to flora and fauna and your copy of Bartram's Travels; and coolers filled with food and drink, then a charter is for you. I recommend Captain Tom's in Silver Springs. Featuring comfy 24-foot pontoon boats and captains who know and care about the natural environment, Captain Tom's provides an enjoyable and enlightening experience. We saw herons, egrets, cormorants, ibis, alligators, turtles and, yes, even rhesus monkeys. Cap'n Erika told us that the Silver Springs tourist attraction imported them and put them on an island, not realizing they were good swimmers. They promptly escaped and populated the surrounding countryside. The young 'uns chase each other up and down trees, swing from vines and generally act like monkeys, while the elders take up sentry positions around them in the woods and on the river bank. You can book Captain Tom's for a fishing trip, a moonlight cruise or whatever else you want (within reason). They'll take you on the Silver or Ocklawaha rivers, Salt Springs or Lake Kerr for approximately $12 to $32 per person, depending on the length of trip you want (three to eight hours) and number of people you bring. For an extra $20, they'll take you on the Rainbow, Withlacoochee, St. Johns, Homossassa or Crystal rivers, Harris chain of lakes, Lake Weir, Orange Lake or Cross Creek, among others.For more information or to book a tour, call 352-546-4823 or 352-236-0872 or write P.O. Box 1836, Silver Springs, FL 34489.
—Susan F. Edwards
INTO THE MILD BLUE YONDER
Parasailing
Here's the way I figured it: True, the week before, two girls had their towline break while parasailing on John's Pass, then flew around in a panic until a bunch of hale and hearty folks on the beach reeled them to safety. Now was the time to parasail, I reckoned, 'cause you knew everyone would be extra careful and safety conscious. So off I went to St. Pete Beach on a cloudless, breezy Friday afternoon to get a little gliding in. Captain Mike's Water Sports is headquartered in a pink tiki hut directly behind the Dolphin Beach Resort. Donnie signed me up, and I was joined by a couple from suburban Detroit, Scott and Amy Rzeppa, who were on vacation — all of us first-time parasailers.
I brought a towel. I didn't need to. Parasailing is a dry activity. After a 10-minute boat road into the gulf, we were ready. Scott and Amy did a tandem ride, then it was my turn. Lance outfitted me with something that looked like a life vest (why would I need that, I wondered) and a harness that I stepped into. He directed me to a platform on the back of the boat where he hooked me up to the parachute and a towline, all fastened with industrial-strength clasps.
"OK, sit down," Lance said, and the next thing I knew I was gliding upward from the boat. "Relax, and have a nice ride."
The harness formed a seat, and I grabbed hold of the straps beside me, just like you see skydivers do. The 1,000 feet of line rolled me outward and upward gradually; I watched the boat get smaller.
I expected to get bounced around a little, but I only experienced a couple of little jolts. I hate to admit it, but I experienced a couple of miniscule adrenaline rushes early on when something in the apparatus creaked. And I did spend about 30 seconds staring at the towline, making sure it was well tied.
Stop being an idiot, I told myself — enjoy the ride. I gazed out at St. Pete Beach, got a good view of the Don Cesar, the Skyway Bridge and the downtown St. Petersburg skyline. A plane buzzed by, missing me by about 20 feet. (Kidding, kidding.)
The whole experience was quite tame, really, and relaxing. I expected it to be whooshy up there, 600 or 700 feet up, but it was actually nice and quiet.
I felt them start to reel me in, and the boat got bigger and bigger. I whisked onto the boat platform, landed on two feet with nary a stumble.
The ride lasted about 10 minutes, 10 peaceful, Zen-like minutes.
Captain Mike's Water Sports, 4900 Gulf Blvd., St Pete Beach, 727-360-1053 (call for reservations). Open year-round; sign-up starts around 8 a.m. daily. Other parasail companies include Flying High Parasail, 5300 Gulf Blvd., St Pete Beach, 727-367-7144; and John's Pass Parasail, 110 Johns Passage Boardwalk, Madeira Beach, 727-391-7738.
—Eric Snider
CRUDE MISSILES
Balloon-Launching Undergarments
In a culture ever more given to nuisance litigation, refusal to let kids be kids, and a dislike of embarrassing surprises, it can be tough for the Google-ignorant to get their mischievous hands on a quality water-balloon launcher. (Thanks for nothing, Shady Villa Retirement Home vs. The Rooftop Three.) Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again: Nobody ever died, got badly hurt, or lost the ability to earn income as a result of getting hit by an incredibly thin latex orb full of H2O. OK, except for that one guy driving the convertible who got smashed in the face on his way to work, suffered a detached retina, plowed into an old lady at a bus stop, and committed suicide after losing his job when the accident made him late for work.But, really, what are the odds?
The point is, America's youth are going to launch something. It's in their genes. This nation has put more useless crap into space than the Big Bang. Society can provide them with safe, amusing launching options, or it can leave them to go straight to launching the dangerous stuff: bottle rockets, missiles and 1,000 ships all come to mind.
When I recently felt a yen to reconnect with my stranger-splashing past, I found good water-balloon launchers (not to mention certified instructors) unavailable without a credit card number and four to six weeks. Fortunately, however, a half-remembered episode of Friends provided an intriguing option, by way of Joey's recalling how he and Chandler used one of Rachel's bras to, as the Brits say, "hoist a bit of the old squishy."
It doesn't work. Or rather, it doesn't work very well. After ransacking our drawers for drawers, my partner in crime and I gave several different undergarments a shot, in several different and increasingly silly configurations. We managed to soak one of the cars — it was all of 8 feet from the deck — but we were never going to douse those fucking pterodactyls (no shit, that's what they sound like) that nest directly across the street.
It was fun trying, however. The boxer-short experiments were a total washout, pun definitely intended, but employing a bra in a one-handed David-and-Goliath sort of sling capacity yielded nominal distance and arc; I highly recommend it if your quarry is, say, a wheelchair-bound senior citizen nearsighted enough to let you get within a couple of sidewalk squares.
—Scott 'Super-Soaker" Harrell
FORGET THE CASTLES
Guerilla Sand Sculpture
Yeah, yeah, we know — it's a cliché as old as tourism itself, beachside recreation generally eschewed by all but those who really, really love their kids and lonely, anal-retentive competitors obviously in denial over their own undiagnosed OCD.Sand castles. Sheesh.
But who says it's gotta be castles, or mermaids or sea turtles?
For that matter, who says it's gotta be done at the beach?
Context is often the key factor in determining a work of art's impact. Juxtaposition heightens the effect of any project, providing an entrancing sense of the surreal. Why is Central Park so enchanting? Because it's in the middle of New York freakin' City, an impossible oasis of green amid a tangle of concrete, iron and steel.
And, if you think about it, there's sand everywhere around here.
A cheap mask and a little corn syrup mixed with food coloring render some neighborhood kid's sandbox mysterious and profoundly disturbing. (Oh, to see the look on little Katie's face when she scampers outside to discover her grainy playpen has been transformed into a well of souls, agonized faces emerging from its depths.) Golf course bunkers provide an opportunity to inject a little tension-breaking humor into a frustrating game taken too seriously by too many —- what linksman wouldn't laugh at discovering the word "CHOKE" etched into the face of a particularly steep greenside lip? Leave a little something for the construction crew installing new water mains down the street, in the sand piled by the wayside; a few outsized ersatz bear turds, perhaps, or maybe a pyramid of sand-baseballs, inviting a little lunch-break mayhem.
They're putting in a pool at the house behind mine. New pipes are going in, which means a buildup of dunes adjacent to a well-traveled alley. The footprints of neighborhood dogs and cats caught my attention, and soon, workmen were huddled over some large, indistinct and unsettling tracks in the sand. Watching through my bathroom window, I could imagine the conversation they were having, asking each other what kind of urban animal had a foot nine inches long, with four toes and a two-inch claw sticking out of its heel?
—Scott Harrell
CHIVALRY RULES
Medieval Times
Ah, the Middle Ages: Maidens fair. Shiny knights. Great feasts, tournaments and battles. Eating with your hands. Sounds romantic, don't it? Wouldn't it be cool if we could cruise back in time and witness the bravery of the age first hand? Well, Lords and Ladies of Florida, we can. For across the fertile hills of I-4 lies a magical land called Kissimmee, and there awaits all the Middle Ages adventure you can stand, minus the Black Death. It's Medieval Times, folks, and boy howdy, is it fun. No, really. Once you get past the fact that you've got a paper crown on your head (they're quite liberating, actually) and you're sitting THIS CLOSE to your dining partners, you can feel free to whoop and holler like a peasant at a public beheading. For slightly less than the cost of a Disney ticket, guests are seated at loooong rows of benches and tables surrounding an arena. While the serving-wench plies you with soup, chicken, bread, etc. — that you eat with your hands, thank God for ye olde Wet-Naps — agile "knights" show off their jousting, swordplay and equestrian abilities. There's a story line involved, of course, but it's rather trite and definitely incidental in the face of a crowd full of waving flags and lances shattering on impact. As expected, the staff hits you up for more money with cheesy, Photoshopped pictures of you and your friends, family or whoever with your heads superimposed on medieval-garbed bodies. But you can ignore all that, swill the free beer and cheer your section's designated knight on to victory. Beats hearing "It's a Small World After All" 28 times every hour. Medieval Times, 4510 W. Irlo Bronson Highway, Kissimmee (1-888-WE-JOUST or www.medievaltimes.com). Show times: 8:30 p.m. Mon.-Thurs., 6:15 and 8:30 p.m. Fri.-Sun. Tickets: $46.95 adults, $30.95 ages 3-11. A Royalty Package Upgrade — including preferred seating, banner and commemorative program — costs an additional $7.49 per ticket.
—Dame Kelli K
BEAUTEOUS MAXIMUS
Metrosexual pampering
Jesus did his loaves-and-fishes thing, the U.S. hockey team beat the Soviets in '80 and "Afternoon Delight" was a hit record, yet still there are some miracles that seem out of reach. One such miracle would be beautifying my toenails. To call them toenails would be a stretch. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that years of regular athletics with my feet inside well-fastened sneakers have caused my toenails to fall off, leaving in their place something else. So when I arrived at Sharmaine's Salon & Day Spa on Clearwater Beach to sample a couple of procedures associated with the metrosexual trend — I also got a hot stone massage (more on that in a sec) — I came with a metaphysical question of sorts:
If a pedicure is performed on a person who possesses no actual toenails, is it actually a pedicure? The nice women at Sharmaine's assured me that it would be and that, no, prettying up my piggies was not a completely lost cause.
My pedicurist, Nichole McHenry, insisted she had worked on worse, and she looked me straight in the eyes when she said it. Again, I'll spare you the details. While I sat on a vibrating massage chair, I dropped my feet into a small whirlpool tub of hot water. She did not wretch as she clipped and filed my, uh the stuff where my toenails used to be. She did not even flinch.
Nichole told me, a first-time pedicuree, to relax my feet. She applied some cream, pushed back the cuticles with a small tool, then clipped them. She sanded down some calluses with a pumice bar, and finished by massaging my feet with peppermint lotion. (Most men skip the polish.) It all took about 45 minutes and was quite pleasurable.
Was she a miracle worker? Not really. More like an ace pedicurist. My toes did look much better, but, without using a full set of acrylics, the poor gal only had so much to work with. Also, I have not been completely truthful. I actually possess three toenails — one on each little toe, and one on the second toe of my right foot. Those nails, people, looked absolutely fabulous.
Then it was on to the hot stone massage — massage being much more my speed. Dena (pronounced D'Nay) Dahlquist did the honors, and I told her if she felt the urge to do some deep-tissue work on my bad lower back, by all means feel free.
I expected a tame, relaxation-type treatment. It was better than that. Dena started by placing a series of the smooth, heated stones (special ones from Arizona) on the table. I lay face up and felt their warmth radiate into my lumbar region. Dena worked with deliberate assuredness. Occasionally she retrieved more stones from a warmer, which she moved in slow, sweeping motions around different parts of my body. She even put hot pebbles between my toes. Some of the details about my massage are a little foggy, because after about 15 minutes I was in a blissed-out, drooling stupor. When I flipped over on my stomach, it got even better. I reminded Dena of her green light to do more aggressive massage, so she obliged with some artful pressure-point work on a few spots.
I lost track of time, but the massage was easily more than an hour. After slowly rousing and dressing, I felt limber and relaxed doesn't quite do the sensation justice.
I did not want to leave Sharmaine's. I wanted more treatments, more pampering. Alas, the Planet would pay for only the sampler, so I was left wondering what it might be like to get the deep-cleansing facial with the hydrating mask, the eyebrow shaping wax, the peppermint sea twist body contouring wrap or the honey and almond exfoliation. I offered to sweep up around the place. The women smiled politely. I walked to my car, wearing sandals with my jeans (a prior no-no), and drove right into a crushing traffic jam on Gulf-to-Bay. I floated through the whole honking mess.
Sharmaine's Salon & Day Spa, 483 Mandalay Ave., Suite 206, Clearwater Beach (above Outback Steakhouse), 727-447-2025 or www.sharmaines.com. Other places to experience metrosexual pampering: The Difference (men only), 4029 Henderson Blvd., Tampa (813-282-8260 or www.thedifferenceformen.com); Janet Mittendorf's Skin Care Plus, 8850 Fourth St. N., St. Petersburg (727-577-0980 or www.janetmittendorf.com).
—Eric Snider
CANCER-FREE COLOR
Fake Tan Tryouts
Most of us trot from one air-conditioned place to another during summer, avoiding the 'fro effect of humidity and those gargantuan 'pit stains that no amount of antiperspirant can ward off. What are UV-fearing Floridians who want a tan to do? There's cancer in them thar rays, not to mention the kind of wrinkles that even Botox runs screaming from. We could just give up on tanning and gradually look more and more like that albino kid in Powder. Fortunately we've got plenty of options. Tanning beds and mists are popular, but who's got the money for all that upkeep? Then there are self-tanning lotions, which, I'm told, have vastly improved since the early '80s, when a lotion devotee was easily spotted thanks to a vibrant, Oompah Loompah-ish orange glow. In the interest of science, I took it upon myself to test four of the more readily available lotions on the market (read: the ones cheap enough to expense to the company). So grab your bikinis and get ready for a mad dash to the drug store — the results are in:
RIGHT ARM: Bain de Soleil Radiance Eternelle (Medium Dark). Used a liiiiittle too much. The beige-color tanner makes it easy to see where you've applied, and the white lotion dispensed simultaneously helps the cream slide easily over the skin. Result: a slightly copper-colored tan after one application. Nice.
LEFT ARM: Banana Boat Sunless Tanning Creme (Soft Medium Blend). Light-brown color makes application brainless. Stinkiest of the bunch. Result: Barely noticeable after one application, but the color that is visible is a nice, light brown. The cheapest, and possibly best, of the bunch.
RIGHT LEG: Neutrogena Instant Bronze (Deep). A little does NOT go a long way with this chocolate-colored cream. Dries fast, hardly any smell, and the color appears more quickly than most. Result: Streaks abound. Who'da thunk it, since it was so easy to see while applying. And they weren't kidding with the "deep" part; not recommended for fair skin.
LEFT LEG: L'Oréal Sublime Bronze (Deep). The white, creamy lotion is easy to apply. Dries extremely fast. Result: Easily the most splotchy of the bunch. And the brightest in color. Charlie Brown, I do believe I've found Linus' mythical Great Pumpkin.
All tanners used for this column can be found at your nearest Eckerd, Walgreens or CVS.
—Kelli 'Albino" K
THE BIG GAMBLE
Slots at Hard Rock Casino
There's Poker. Can't do it. Haven't got the face. And Bingo. Nah not ready to turn into my mother yet. So that leaves slots. Not the dollar slots, mind you. I'm not willing to part with that much cash. So I copped a squat in front of a 25-cent machine and fed it a 20 spot. The bandits at Hard Rock have no arms. They're all touch-screens, which already takes away some of the fun. So I started touching. And immediately started losing money. The machine I chose through a highly involved process (i.e., the closest to the door) allowed players to win via multiple combinations on three horizontal lines. Possessing neither the skill nor patience to spot winning combinations quickly, I just kept touching the screen, betting the same amount each time (10 quarters, i.e., $2.50). I kept losing, and all the while remained perplexed by some sort of bingo option that plays simultaneously with each spin of the "wheel." (My boyfriend noted that I never won on the slots unless I also won on the bingo card. I hadn't noticed.) Finally down to a buck, I had to cash out (the machine's minimum bet is $1.25). But where's the cash? Where's the lovely cascade of shiny quarters? Where's the satisfying, heavy clinking sound that accompanies change as it falls into the metal basket below the screen? No such thing at Hard Rock. A ticket printed with your winnings pops out of the machine. I slid the ticket into a nickel machine and lost the buck in less than 30 seconds. So let's recap: There's no arm to pull, no wheels that turn, no change pouring out of the machine. I could have done this at home with a keyboard, a mouse, and a lot less smoke. The bar that sits in the middle of the gaming room is nice, and while I enjoyed a cold soda, I watched other gamers from the bar's raised vantage point. I didn't see a single winner in 20 minutes. Maybe it's time to invest in a nice, macramé bingo bag.Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, 5223 Orient Road, Tampa (813-627-7625 or http://tampa.seminolehardrock.com). Casino is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
—Kelli K
THE BIG BLOW
Hurricane Preparedness
Every year, newspapers and television anchors tell us how to prepare for hurricanes. You know the drill: stock up on water, batteries, prescriptions and food you don't have to microwave; gas up the car; tape up the windows; get the hell out of low-lying areas; yada yada. And most people ignore the advice until a big 'un is already blowing the lawn chairs into the pool. Then they converge on the local stores, clawing their way through the crowds, and pick the shelves clean. Why not try something different this year? Each time you go to the store this summer, buy one or two items for your hurricane stash. If you do it right, you won't end up fighting your best friend for that last fistful of dry cake mix or paying $50 for a jug of sludgy water. In fact, if you have to evacuate, and you've got the goods, you won't have to sleep on the gym floor with your wallet stuffed in your underpants for safekeeping. You'll be welcome at any house on high ground where that freezer full of Healthy Choice frozen dinners is already starting to stink. Here's how to prepare: First, do I even have to tell you that water is the most important thing to have? Buy an extra jug and stash it every time you go to the store. Also buy: Lots of cookies, crackers, chips and dried fruit. Unopened bags stay fresh for months and can be used for bartering. Peanut butter, jelly, olive oil, vinegar, and canned tuna, beans and veggies that taste OK cold, like beets and corn. (Don't forget a hand-powered can opener.) Couscous, used by desert nomads for ease of preparation, is a pasta that you only have to add hot water to and cover for five minutes. Lots of red wine, whiskey and rum, all of which taste good warm. Since there's no electricity, you probably can't work, so you might as well kick back. Wooden matches, candles, charcoal and lighter fluid, and a Sterno stove with Sterno. Extra ammo. If things get really bad, you might have to defend your stash against roving bands of hungry suburbanites or snag a squirrel for Sunday dinner.Right around the middle of November, if the storms have passed you by, you can donate the stuff to the food bank, have a party or quit your hated job and live off your stash till you find decent employment.
—Susan 'Survivor" Edwards
LUSH SLUSH
Frozen Drink Competition
Cold beer is the nectar of summer. But even cold beer can get old (no, really, it occasionally can), and you can't walk around on a broiling afternoon with a bottle of rum in one hand and a shot glass in the other. Not because it makes you look like the world's lamest pirate wannabe, but because you'll get dehydrated, silly. What you need is some fruity goodness to go along with that diversion from chilled cans and bottles, and the minimal nourishment such accoutrements provide.Why go for the usual margaritas, rum runners, hurricanes and daiquiris? You're a creative person. An idea person. Sure, that whole vodka/Jagermeister/grape juice concoction didn't go over too well when you thought it up back in college, but that's no reason not to get back on the horse. Remember: Finely chopped ice forgives all miscalculations.
(DISCLAIMER: Finely chopped ice does NOT forgive all miscalculations, but then again, even 16-year-olds and morons know that Scotch, iced tea, tangerine juice and Goldschlager will, when pureed together, taste like a dirty ashtray full of poop.)
One day after work, get some friends and their blenders together for a cool, refreshing girlie drink-off. This being an alt-weekly, the Planet's editorial staff didn't have to wait until after work — we could've done it after the company-wide wake-and-bake and before the chant circle/effigy burning — but we did, anyway, for authenticity's sake.
Kelli K's Peachy Keen (by the way, you've just gotta name your poison) mixed ice cream, vodka, peach schnapps and banana liqueur to produce sweetness with a discernible bite. Ed's Hot Mamacita burned nicely, thanks to the tequila, and a ring of salt with her homemade pepper seasoning around the rim of the glass. Jim's enigmatic Jim-Jim took two rounds to perfect, but the resulting Jolly Rancher-esque blend of rum, fruit juices and obscure peach liqueur was well worth it. My own Sour Apple Slushee showcased the results of years of mixing drinks badly whilst blending frozen water to a flawless consistency, and David's Evil Dewar's was completely devoid of Dewar's — he thought the name up unconfined by his alcoholic purchases — instead bringing vodka and a pungent Remy Martin liqueur together to produce, in the words of one editor, "quite a nose."
So who won?
I don't remember.
And who cares, anyway?
—Scott Harrell
SKIMMING THE SURFACE
Kayak Fishing
It's a gorgeous weekend morning and you want to go fishing on the water. So you drop your powerboat, if you have one, into the canal, or you call ahead to the high-and-dry marina and have them lower it in, or you tow it to a launch spot. You stock the boat, start it up, maybe stop for gas. Then you head out and fish. Or you can throw a kayak on a roof rack, carry it to water's edge, stock it, rig it, slide it in the water, row out and fish.
Kayaks are not just for paddling anymore.
Paddle fishing is a growing movement in Tampa Bay. Less muss, less fuss. Kayaks don't stall. You can mix in some real exercise. It's — ahhhhh — quiet. And dare we mention that the sport is environmentally friendly?
Dave Loger, who runs a one-man operation called Suncoast Kayak Fishing, took us out on a postcard-gorgeous Sunday morning in March. He custom-rigs his kayaks for fishing, with rod holders and other amenities. Dave's kayaks, made by Heritage, are the sit-on-top variety. Fishing in shallow water off Tierra Verde, we hopped off (not squirmed out of) our boats to wade fish and to stroll around Shell Island. The kayaks glided across the calm water, requiring little paddling effort (although if we put our arms and shoulders into it, we could get them moving along pretty fast).
Now, I'm not by nature a fisherman. The few times I've fought big fish, it was great fun, and if fishing was nothing but that for two hours, hell, I'd be an avid angler. It's the waiting that bugs me. I just can't tap into that out-on-the-water Zen thing. When I've gone fishing with friends on their powerboats, I usually ended up kicking back and poppin' cold ones.
My kayak fishing experience just felt more fulfilling. Healthier. I didn't catch a fish, but that was OK. I paddled around the islands, floated idly, soaked up the sun, and threw in a line when I felt like it. We were looking to catch redfish. The culture of paddle fishing calls for the use of artificial bait. I cast my lure into the water and tried to tease the fish by making the shiny thing hop and dart as I reeled it in. The fish were not interested, or I wasn't a very good tease.
We paddled up to four other folks — two in kayaks, two in canoes — and they were having a much better time of it. One guy proudly held up an impressive snook. This guy was going to take the snook home and eat it, although most paddle fishing is catch-photo-and-release.
My excursion wasn't without its mishaps. Stacy — we'll call her Dave's assistant guide — told me to lean right when I wanted to turn left. This I did — and flipped the boat into the drink. Oh well, I was getting a little toasty anyhow. When I stood up and (effortlessly) righted the kayak, my three rods were safely in their holders. Ready for more fishing, even if the fish weren't ready to be caught.
Suncoast Kayak Fishing offers a variety of charters at different prices. Check out their website at www.suncoastkayakfishing.com, call 727-505-4019 or e-mail [email protected].
—ERIC SNIDER