What: Meet someone new
Where: Here
Must-Do? Says Who? 2,697,731 Tampa Bay residents
Casualties: Not a one.
Notable Quote: "So, do you come here often?"
When was the last time you invited two strangers to your house to nibble on shish-kebabs and listen to old blues recordings?
If your name is Sherri, and you were John Lee Hooker's personal assistant, and you hate Rick Baker, and you want St. Pete to offer curbside recycling, and you met two New Kids on the Bay one stormy Saturday afternoon at Mastry's, then the answer is not too long ago.
At the right time of day, with the appropriate weather and the stars in alignment, Mastry's is a splendid place for meeting new people. But you can meet new people everywhere, and if you want to become a local, you've got to hang with the locals.
Take, for instance, the Senator, the infamous, cross-dressing, sexy-dancing regular who has made a job out of flirting with girls at The Castle in Ybor. We had heard so much about this guy that meeting him was as special as if we had met, say, oh, Pauly Shore or RuPaul or some other questionable B-list celebrity.
"Listen, buddy — I party and I sleep," is what the Senator told Brian when asked what he does for a living, retrieving a wad of cash from the crotchal area of his pink thong.
Unemployed or not, this guy has cojones. We know because we saw them.
Although they may have more hetero-normative wardrobes, the locals who work at Tampa Bay establishments are just as interesting as those who frequent them. There's Patricia, the Mastry's bartendress who gave us a laundry list of things we had to do while we were down here and facilitated our acquaintance with Sherri and her shish-kebabs. Then there's Charlie at Fuma Bella — the place to get shots (make sure you have cash) before stumbling across the street for an obscure beer at New World Brewery — who in the course of 30 minutes will find a number of ingenious ways to imply that you are a stupid, a stinker, and/or a strumpet.
If your self-esteem can't handle Charlie, say hi to Paul, the hospitable owner of Cajun Café on the Bayou. This Brit from Bristol is an unlikely but stand-up Tampa Bay local, bringing exotic bands, brews and boudin to Pinellas Park. Paul doesn't just love beer — he respects it, just like he respects every customer that comes to slurp some gumbo and learn to dance zydeco.
There are musicians galore: the earnest Geri X, the gruff Blind Buddy Moody, the absurd and tightly leathered Flea Market performers Michael Jayne and Billy Leather, the professional karaoke-ist Rockin' Rich and that guy from the band in Animal House that we saw at Swigwam on the Fourth of July. There are pirates at the Pier, there are atheists at Ybor, there are diplomats at MacDill Air Force Base (the Coalition of the Willing), there are Rough Riders with their Teddy Bears, there are Scientologists with their engrams, there are nudists with their nudity.
Just the other day we met Shirley, a bartender at Caliente whose breasts we saw before we even knew her name. She danced with us that night, in the rain, her arms raised above her head, her eyes closed, her body swaying under the lightning. When we asked what she wanted to be, she smiled beatifically. "A gypsy. Always a gypsy."
She's called, and we're hoping to see her again. But our hours here are numbered. We're not sure what to do.
We know one thing, though. More than bars or beaches or restaurants or even museums, people are the best reasons to stay in a place or at the very least come back.
This article appears in Aug 22-28, 2007.
