The Family That Motors Together
…Dirtbiking
About 30 minutes north of Tampa on I-75, the Withlacoochee State Forest sprawls east of Brooksville. You know the drill. Canopied campgrounds. Lazily flowing river water. Abundant wildlife, most of which is tiny, six-legged and intent upon eating you alive.And, of course, the roar of hundreds of small internal-combustion engines endlessly zipping in and out of earshot.
The Withlacoochee is home to Croom Motorcycle Area, a 2,600-acre playground dedicated to off-road dirt bike and ATV enthusiasts. First established in 1973, the CMA offers miles of trails of wildly varying degrees of difficulty, along with camping amenities and access to other, quieter outdoor recreation. As the only state property in Florida set aside for dirt bikes and quads, the CMA has become a favorite weekend destination for gearheads of all ages, from all over the state.
Once inside the entrance gate – where yearly passes must be purchased for all riders, and renewed each July – it's just a short, bumpy ride up to the Sand Hill area, where most patrons unload their vehicles and start their adventure. Sand Hill is exactly what it sounds like, a vast, banked expanse of dry dirt with a tendency to turn into a muddy ocean of wet dirt during the rainy season. Hilly trails surround the central basin, offering enough different terrain for some. There's plenty more, however, and another short, bumpy trip north to the other parking lots reveals another interesting labyrinth of trails; adventurers can camp for an entire weekend and still fail to ride every combination of the various off-road tracks. And contrary to the popular conception of off-road culture, CMA is perfectly family-friendly. It's not uncommon to see parents instructing their children on the finer points of four-wheeling, or to glimpse two or even three generations careening by through the trees.
The entrance to Croom Motorcyle Area is located at 6420 La Rose Road, just off the intersection of State Road 50 and I-75. It is open to non-camping traffic from 8 a.m.-5 p.m. Mon.-Thurs., and 8 a.m.-6 p.m. on weekends. Annual passes cost $50 starting July 1; the price drops $5 every three months during the year, but all passes must be renewed after June 30. For more information, call 352-754-6896, or check out www.fl-dof.com.
-Scott Harrell
Hey, Batter Batter… Swing!
Baseball Camp
I played baseball, badly, as a kid. I could field alright and throw pretty well, but I was an absolutely atrocious hitter. I don't know if I was scared of the ball, or whether I just couldn't see it, but I was bad. Hitting-ninth bad. What if I'd had some real coaching, instead of a friend's dad who wanted to get out of work early twice a week? What if I'd been pushed, been forced to work on my game day and night until I was a veritable hitting machine? What if I'd gone to IMG?
The IMG Academies in Bradenton are world-renowned for turning young athletes into great ones. With programs in tennis, golf, soccer, basketball and baseball, IMG allows kids to focus on their sport with an intensity they just can't find on the sixth grade intramural gym team.
IMG has its own school, Pendleton, which players attend for three to four hours a day. But it's the state-of-the-art facilities, where the athletes train five days a week for as much as six hours a day, that draw the kids – and their parents' checkbooks.
In addition to the full-time students, and the pros routinely found working out at the complex, regular folks – not just the super-athletes and the super-rich – can get the IMG experience firsthand during the summer.
The baseball camps run from June until August, and periodically throughout the rest of the year. There was no camp on the day I showed up at IMG, but the coaches let me go through a practice with Pendleton's JV team. Me and 20 high-schoolers, most under 16, took the field at 1:30 p.m. The kids clearly had a passion for the game, and each one of them played with the rarefied ease of a big leaguer.
I did OK in the outfield, snagging the lazy fly balls an assistant coach popped my way. It was calm out there, shagging flies in the afternoon sun. If I blocked out the idle male teenage chatter – "You're gay!" "No, you're gay!" – it was almost Zen-like.
But then I moved to the batting cage, where baseball academy director Ken Bolek pitched to me. Even though he was taking it easy, I could barely make contact, and hit the same weak dribblers I did as a kid.
Dink. Whiff. Dink.
In the cage next to me, a pudgy kid no older than 12 was hitting the shit out of the ball. And here I was, a pudgy 24-year-old man, barely getting it back to Bolek.
He glanced up at me with a pained look on his face. "Is this guy worth the energy?" he seemed to be asking himself. He decided I was.
"OK," he said. "We're going to teach you how to hit."
After a few quick words about my stance (more weight on the back foot) and my swing (move the hands and pivot at the same time), Bolek moved behind the plate and underhanded me a few pitches, forcing me to keep my weight back. Each time I swung, I got closer to getting a good piece of the ball.
Bolek informed me that, after about two minutes of instruction, I was ready. "Remember," he said as he got back to his position to pitch. "Your hands and your foot move at the same time."
His pitch came in right down the middle, just like the ones I had nicked before. Hands and foot. Hands and foot.
WHAP!
I smacked the thing, hit it straight back at Bolek like a rocket. "So that's what it's like," I said under my breath.
"Yup," Bolek deadpanned, looking down at the bucket of balls by his feet. "You've never hit a baseball that hard."
It wasn't the first time one of his students had heard that.
The Baseball Academy at IMG offers several programs this summer, including week-long camps from June 6-Aug. 26. For more information, call 941-727-0303, or visit www.imgacademies.com.
-Max Linsky
Feel My Feet
Ashiatsu Massage
"You can't really have nasty, barnacled, bunion-encrusted feet to do this kind of work, can you?" I asked Amy. She was walking on my back. Well, not exactly walking. She was using her size 6.5s to massage my spine and its attendant musculature. She was holding onto wooden dowels attached to the ceiling – so she wouldn't put all of her 113 pounds on me, and so she wouldn't slide off and fall onto the floor."No, you can't have nasty feet," Amy replied. Even though my face was smashed into that donut thingy, I could tell she was smiling and rolling her eyes. As feet go, Amy's are nice. She keeps them pedicured, moisturized. She loofahs daily.
I was in the midst of an Ashiatsu massage, a marvelous deep-tissue technique that combines the ancient Eastern art of barefoot massage and Swedish methods to loosen up that aching back. And legs. And shoulders. And whatever else. It's been Americanized and trademarked as Ashiatsu Oriental Bar TherapyTM. The dowels on the ceiling were the innovation of a Colorado woman named Ruthie Piper Hardee, who gives seminars around the country.
One of her instructors, Karen Lay, operates Studio Massage and Bodyworks in St. Pete and teaches workshops here and in other cities. She laid out some of the benefits of Ashiatsu ("ashi" means "foot" and "atsu" means "pressure").
Foremost, the technique permits a deeper massage. Practitioners can use their body weight to increase the intensity. They use the bars to balance themselves and adjust the amount of force. Some moves use one foot, others use two. Ashiatsu is also good for the masseuses. They aren't as prone to fatigue and repetitive stress injuries as those who do traditional hand massage.
This is good stuff, people. The strokes are mostly long and slow, and you can feel the muscles loosening with each pass. It's not a groan-and-grimace experience, either (although the masseuse could probably make it that way if you requested it). Karen Lay has one male client who is a muscular 6-foot-5, 290 pounds, and she puts her full weight on him with both feet. If she only used her hands, she could barely make a dent in the guy.
Lay confirmed that Ashiatsu classes are becoming increasingly popular with licensed massage therapists. Most practitioners are women, because the recommended weight limit is 135 pounds. It appears as if Ashiatsu is gaining a real foothold.
Studio Massage & Bodyworks, 1500 Dr. Martin Luther King St. N., St. Petersburg, 727-824-0999; Rachel's Day Spa, 4011 Henderson Blvd., Tampa, 813-207-5051; Amy Purkey, my first Ashiatsu therapist, has, sadly, relocated to Chicago.
-Eric Snider
I Scream, You Scream
Ice Cream Parlors
On a sultry July afternoon, there's nothing more satisfying than a cold, tasty ice cream treat sliding down your throat. Despite the fact that Tampa Bay has been overrun with every ice cream franchise and corporately-owned chain imaginable, there are still some thriving mom-and-pop shops that bring hope to the future of local ice cream. Here's a select handful that we heartily recommend. Most folks living in northeast St. Petersburg have probably passed Ali-Oop's Superscoops' two-story pink building at one point or another. If you've never actually stopped to visit, you're definitely missing out on homemade ice cream extravagance and the chance to marvel at a rather huge mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. (2531 Fourth St. N, St. Petersburg, 727-896-2827)
Right up the way is Dick & Jane's Old Tyme Ice Cream Parlor, a nostalgia ride complete with red-and-white-striped awning over the long wooden bar, a 30-year-old leftover from the days of Larry's Ice Cream. Old 45s and pictures of Elvis decorate the walls, along with lots of other colorful '50s accents. The waffle cones are made fresh in the store, and the scent is a mouth-watering reminder of your first time – eating ice cream, that is. (3157 Fourth St. N., St. Petersburg, 727-894-3195)
The creamiest of ice cream is served at It's Custard Mon. And yes, frozen custard really is ice cream – they just add 1.4 percent egg yolk and 10 percent butterfat, mix it with a tiny bit of air and, voila, a rich, velvety and very delicious dessert. The vibe is tropical – the walls are decorated with reasonably priced Caribbean art, two "doorways" look out onto sun-drenched beaches, a partial (but very real) tiki hut serves as the order/cash register area, and the self-proclaimed Frozen Custard Diva (owner Diane Bird) will sometimes bust out dreadlock hats and rose-tinted glasses so you can picture yourself far from home.
(3739 49th St. N., St. Petersburg, 727-520-8608)
On the Hillsborough side, there's everybody's favorite walk-or-drive-up-and-waste-no-time-dallying spot, Bo's Ice Cream. Bo's is unquestionably one of the best places around to get soft-serve ice cream for a reasonable price. It's been a Tampa institution for more than 50 years. Bo's isn't fancy – the white, nondescript building is enhanced only by a slightly faded blue awning. The sign could very well be as old as the business. A word of caution – Bo is retiring and selling the shop, so grab your cones while you still can before someone less reliably great takes over.
(7101 N. Florida Ave., Tampa, 813-234-3870).
-Leilani Polk
The Horror
Ghost Tours
Tired of the living? Fleshy bustle, inane conversation and the ceaseless sound of breathing got you down? Take some time off from the mortal coil to commune with the spirits that (apparently) abound in southern Pinellas County. Tampa Bay Ghost Tours, a new company affiliated with the long-loved Friendly Fisherman Restaurant out on John's Pass, has hunted up enough St. Pete ghosts to fill four tours' worth of scary stories, haunted spots and local history."Maritime Mysteries & Pirates of the Pass," the business' original flagship tour, concerns the specters haunting the Boardwalk and Beach of John's Pass. Two other tours, "Haunted Halls & Horrifying Hermits" (which centers on The Don CeSar Hotel and Pass-A-Grille) and "Gulfport Guys & Ghouls," are currently up and running; a fourth, the downtown-St. Pete affair called "The Dark Side of the Sunshine City," will commence aptly on Fri., May 13th.
I took the John's Pass tour on a perfect Saturday afternoon, complete with unsettling winds and a nasty storm building to the east. Arachnia, the 600-year-old spider woman from Transylvania who helped launch the business and personally conducts a majority of the tours, led us from the touristy Boardwalk under the bridge to the beach and back again, regaling a rapt crowd of exactly one Planet staffer with tales of doomed pirates, broken-hearted Indian maidens, drowned little girls, desecrated burial mounds and assorted other ghastly stories. The whole thing was quite enjoyably campy, and Arachnia, a history buff whose accent leads one to suspect she spent a few of those 600 years in Minnesota, fills her creative, plausible tales with lots of interesting historical truth. It's not The X-Files, but it's definitely a fun way to kill a couple of hours, and learn some neat facts about the area along the way.
The John's Pass tour runs every day at 1:30 p.m. and 7 p.m. Other tours run on different days throughout the week, but all tours run on weekends. All tours cost $14; reservations are required. Call 727-398-5200 or log on to www.allthebesthaunts.com for more information.
-Scott Harrell
Blog Thy Neighbor
Web Surfing
When hiding indoors from summer swelter, surfing local blogs is a great way to peek into the lives of your fellow Bay area dwellers. While many blogs are poorly maintained, rarely updated or just plain boring, the documentation of minutiae on a grand scale can be interesting. Some blogs try to rise above the pap, while others are interesting exactly for how ordinary they are. Tampa Bay, meet your neighbors.A good place to start is Tampablogs (http://tampablogs.blogspot.com/). While the site is rarely updated (a drawback to many promising blogs), it was the only one I found that attempted to catalog as many blogs originating from Tampa as possible. With dozens of blogs listed, it's a jumping-off point for finding out who's posting and what they're talking about.
It turns out people are talking about their children. Continuously. Tampa Bay DotMoms (http://dotmoms.typepad.com/dotmoms/) is a prime example. Designed to be "a weblog that features smart, fun, and focused writing about motherhood from many perspectives," the site offers a great diversity of voice. The Tampa DotMomers represent only the local face, and the blog links to a community that extends far outside the Bay area. I also enjoyed Dis Iz Erica (http://disize.blogspot.com/), which details the life of a married 25-year-old woman with a small child. The blog is well-written and has a great tagline – "One day your life will flash before your eyes … make it worth watching."
Believe it or not, guys with kids like to blog as well. I especially enjoy McG's site (http://mcgibfried.blogspot.com/). Parenting from an immature-guy perspective (check a recent post on his kids' projectile vomiting), McGibfried also hits tech and culture notes, and the blog is constantly updated. Once again, great links as well. It's enough to almost make me want children.
Switching from the future of the human race to the future of Tampa's urban infrastructure, turn to Bayciti (http://www.bayciti.net/). This page has information on building projects in Tampa and St. Petersburg, and tries to offer a history of the area (including some cool then-and-now skyline photos). There is also information on what's going up and what's coming down in the area, and lots of useful links to official government Web pages.
For a more arty insights, check out The Legend Of Mark Michaels.com (http://blogs.salon.com/0002916/). Perhaps more legend online than in reality, Mark is a Bay area artist who plasters his mug to unused billboards. His blog details a recent stunt in Orlando and plans for a future installation in Atlanta or Miami.
The author likes to blog as well. Check it out at joebardi.blogspot.com.
-Joe Bardi
Hooked
Overnight Fishing
Sometimes it gets so hot around here that not even getting on or in the water for a few hours of fishing refreshes. And veteran Bay area anglers know that the midday doldrums can make some sought-after gamefish sluggish and unwilling to bite; you might as well stay home, fill your bathtub up with hot water, and stand in it. The hours from dusk 'til dawn offer much more comfortable, and in many cases more productive, fishing options for those who enjoy the sport enough to forgo sleep and sanitary bathroom conditions.If you've got a boat – or a friend with a boat – then you can specifically target any number of species given to nocturnal feeding. Head offshore to shallow wrecks and rubble piles to pull up bigger mangrove snapper than you've ever seen. Quietly cruise the Intercoastal Waterway and other residence-lined Hillsborough and Pinellas creeks, inlets and bayous to wrestle big snook and trout out from under lighted wooden docks. Or just pull up to either side of the Sunshine Skyway's shipping channel, drop anchor – and as much bloody chum as you can stomach handling – and wait for the sharks to come to you.
Those without proper aqua-transport have some choices, as well. While after-dark wade-fishing isn't really recommended (though some find it particularly thrilling, and worth betting against the odds of stepping on a stingray or into an unseen hole), earthbound fisherman can still get to their share of lighted docks via waterfront parks, condos and marinas; some canny angling addicts will go so far as to cruise seaside neighborhoods by daylight, in search of unoccupied properties with a "FOR SALE" sign out front and a dock out back.
Plenty of fishing piers, such as Tampa's Ballast Point, Gulfport's Williams Pier and both of Fort DeSoto's structures, allow access 24 hours a day. And diehards (and insomniacs) might want to undertake the all-night tide-chase, in which a group of friends starts at either the Sunshine Skyway Fishing Piers or the Courtney Campbell Causeway – depending upon whether it's low tide or high – and follows the rising or falling water from one to the other throughout the course of the tidal cycle, making stops at points like the Gandy Bridge and St. Petersburg Pier.
-Scott Harrell
The Whiff Beneath Their Wings
Birdwatching at the Dump
There's an unavoidable irony to birdwatching at the county dump. It's an unnatural venue for participating in something that is, or at least should be, wholly natural. But that's exactly what I woke up to do at 6 a.m. one recent morning. The whole day, I wore my distinction like a badge of pride: I'm going to watch birds wallow around in trash.Before you let any preconceived notions of diaper-pecking eagles and beercan-scrounging storks enter your head, know this – the Sarasota County landfill, located on the outskirts of Venice, is one of the more pristine places around. Yes, there is that giant gash in the earth that holds our collective detritus, but maybe that's why so many people stay away, thereby allowing Mother Nature to do her thing.
Bill Havill, a retired electrician who lives down the road from the landfill, was my tour guide. He's a friendly old guy with a wealth of knowledge about local birds. Pointing to a baby bald eagle roosting in a treetop, he notes that Florida has the largest concentration of bald eagles outside of Alaska. The anhinga, a bird you'd normally see drying out its wings near marshes (for lack of natural oils in its feathers), is also known as the snakebird. Cattle egrets are known for following around cows, which stir up the soil and therefore make finding bugs easier.
You get the idea. But that doesn't fully explain why landfill birdwatching is popular (so much so that the local chapter of the Audubon Society conducts tours there).
"We go wherever the birds are," says Havill, making the explanation seem self-evident. "It really is a funny place to go, though."
On the way to the dump in Havill's minivan, our conversation was frequently interrupted by bird sightings. A meadowlark here, an ibis there – Havill was obviously more interested in seeing feathered friends than talking with me. It created a meditative environment that made talking about birds seem almost insignificant, especially compared with seeing them.
And yes, we did eventually get to the landfill, though it was located at the top of an (apparently man-made) hill, which we weren't allowed to climb. That was fine. As fruitful as the birdwatching was, the smell was horrific. I imagined all the discarded pizza crusts, old car batteries and socks with no matches decomposing atop that big mound.
Which explain the most ubiquitous bird at the dump: the humble vulture.
Sarasota Country Landfill, 4000 Knights Trail, Venice.
-Mark Sanders
Digital x´s & o´s
Madden Football
Planning to spend a lot of time inside this summer, like every other sane person in Tampa Bay? Some advice: steer clear of the TV – that shit will rot your brain. Same goes for reading. The best – nay, the only – way to spend several hours on end indoors is to play video games. John Madden Football, to be exact. But before you embark upon a Madden Marathon you should know:
• The game has evolved since 1931, or whenever it came out. No longer can you call one play for the entire game and score 812 points. The computer is smart now – smarter than you.
• Get a friend to duel with. Play more than two games by yourself and you'll start questioning your personal worth.
• If that friend is much, much better than you, talk him into letting you create players.
That's what I did against Joe, a fellow staffer and Madden aficionado. For days leading up to our battle royal – we played an entire season in one sitting – Joe was talking a significant amount of shit.
To even out the playing field, I created two seven-foot, 300-pound monsters. Diogenes Mendelsohn was my quarterback, Fatty McGee my middle linebacker. Even in the digitized world of Madden, these two were imposing.
But Joe was still confident he could take me.
Sucker.
I played with the Patriots, replacing real-life stars Tom Brady and Tedi Bruschi with Mendelsohn and McGee. They were all over the place, sprinting down the sideline, walloping feeble running backs with the swat of a hand, chucking the ball 60 yards on the run. It was a beautiful thing.
And Joe was fucked.
But he's a good sport, and he stuck it out as my team romped its way to a mutant-fueled Super Bowl victory. There were some bumps along the way – a two-game losing streak in the middle of the season gave Joe a much-needed break from my smirk, and I needed a last-second field goal to get through the first round of the playoffs – but the most severe challenge was fatigue. Seven straight hours of video games will do that to you.
In fact, I'm not even sure I'd suggest it.
Unless you can create mutants and beat up on the guy you work next to.
That makes it totally worth it.
-Max Linsky
Taking Steps
Salsa Dance Lessons
I can shake it. I really can. Put on some James Brown or P-Funk and I'll get ants in my pants and need to dance. I'm not shy. Long ago I conquered the last hurdle of white male rug-cutting: moving those hips.But I've never felt the need to learn specific dances. Why move in patterns when you can just let go with crazy legs and happy feet? Sure, not knowing how to foxtrot might've shamed me at cotillions and debutante balls, but I was never invited to those functions anyway.
Still, I wanted to see how my mind and body would react to learning specific dance steps, so I arranged a salsa lesson at Librero's School and Dance Club on Davis Islands.
My instructor, Rebecca Crigler, she of the irrepressible smile and enthusiasm, showed me into a room with wooden floors and mirrors, exactly as you'd expect a dance studio to look.
Salsa steps take place on a series of three counts, and right away I got into trouble. (I guess I'm a 4/4 funk kinda guy.) The basic sequence of simple forward and backward steps got me all tangled up. Instead of flowing to the music, I was counting in my head, looking at my feet. It took about 10 minutes – 10 minutes – to get this basic step down.
I lost some of my swagger. Rebecca encouraged me. She broke down the movements and demonstrated them in different configurations. Most of all, she stayed upbeat. I started to breathe hard, started perspiring although the room was amply air-conditioned. Was this from mere exertion, or was it also a case of flop sweats?
I picked up the side-to-side step much quicker, and was surprised to learn the third movement, which involved a step out and a hip swivel, pretty quickly. Most of the time, Rebecca was counting out loud for me. Near the end of a 45-minute lesson, I actually could start to feel myself moving to the lively Latin music. It was as if there'd been this sudden breakthrough, where my mind stopped thinking the dance and my body took over. Just as I'd hit a flow, though, I'd lose it on the basic step and have to find my spot again.
When I got back to the office, I found that I could demonstrate the three basic steps. I guess that means I can salsa. Rebecca said I should hit a club, and let the real fun begin.
Librero's School & Dance Club, 150 E. Davis Blvd., Tampa, 813-253-0644. Prices for dance lessons vary.
-Eric Snider
A Day for Play
Busch Gardens
Traveling alone can be a dicey undertaking. There are the obvious upsides – time alone with your thoughts, no annoying friends you have to see, full rein to start drinking as early as you want. But on a long enough solo voyage, each of those advantages will eventually sour. You'll start thinking like Camus, you'll pay anything for an afternoon with the kid you hated in high school, and the drinking, well, the drinking inevitably becomes a problem. The trick is to shorten your excursion – to cut off the trip well before anything can go wrong. Instead of a week, try an afternoon. But where in Tampa Bay can you get away – where can you feel like you've been dropped into a whole other world – and still make it home for dinner?
Busch Gardens.
Yup, the BG has it all.
Depressed elephants? Check.
Sun-stroked tourists? Check.
Free beer? Crap-yourself rollercoasters? Garbage cans that sing tribal African music? Check. Check. Check.
One afternoon in the middle of a work week, with my boss' blessing, I played hooky at Busch Gardens. Perhaps my tourist experience was enhanced by the fact that I'd never been to a bona fide theme park before, but from the minute I stepped through the gates (and threw down my 60 bucks), I felt good. Like I was on a mini-vacation.
Over the course of four hours, I packed in about as much as I could. I rode my first 'coaster, The Montu, and set a new record for amount of profanity screamed while sitting next to a 5-year-old girl. I got sprayed with lukewarm water in a movie theater that held 400 of the sweatiest, smelliest, happiest people I've ever met. I saw a grown woman – an adult- shake a stuffed animal gorilla at a real gorilla, and I watched her be disappointed when the gorilla, which was sleeping, didn't respond.
I paid 25 cents to shoot water at passersby, paid another $3.75 for Dippin' Dots (there's something scary about those things) and 50 cents to put my bag in a locker before getting flipped upside down on the Kumba.
I did not, however, get free beer.
I'd never been to Busch Gardens before, and none of my coworkers had thought to tell me that such a beautiful thing as complimentary brew existed (bastards). Somehow, I spent four hours walking around the place and didn't find the free beer. I must have done something very bad in a past life.
It's at about the three-hour mark that the wonder of traveling alone starts to turn. That's when I started taking depressing pictures of myself with elephants in the background and staring longingly at bickering families from Alabama, wishing I too had someone to yell at.
Somehow, I lasted another hour, but knew it was time to go when I started striking up a conversation with the ring-toss guy.
Sometimes, you just need to get home.
Two-day passes are $67.95 for adults, and $57.95 for kids. Busch Gardens, 1-888-800-5447. 3000 E Busch Blvd., Tampa. For more information, go to www.buschgardens.com.
-Max Linsky
Go with the Flow
Body Pump/Body Flow
Weight trainers know about the rut. Stack the plates on, grunt through three sets of chest or back or bi's; come back the next day and do some different body parts. And so on and so on. Only the most dedicated lifters constantly freshen their regimens. For the rest of us, the repetitiveness of it all can quickly become a drag. Looking for new exercise trends, I contacted Lifestyles Family Fitness in St. Pete. A staffer told me about two complementary workouts: Body Pump and Body Flow, both marketed by Body Training Systems of Atlanta and available in hundreds of fitness clubs around the country. Body Pump brings a group vibe to weightlifting. Body Flow, also done in a group with an instructor, combines t'ai chi, Pilates and yoga.
If building pecs like boulders and arms like jackhammers is your goal, these are not the programs for you. They're geared for overall muscle fitness, toning, flexibility and weight loss.
I went to a few sessions led by Lisa Bailey, regional group fitness coordinator for Lifestyles, at the 4th Street location in St. Pete.
Let's start with Body Pump. It's designed to work every muscle group in a fast-paced one-hour session. With an instructor leading the class, each body part gets one song's worth of exercise set to a beat. (Don't let the grating health-club techno music bum you out; just concentrate on the groove.)
You might end up doing 100 squats in time with the thump-thump-thump, but you use light weights so the muscle exhaustion comes on slower. Brief respites are built into the program, mostly to allow stretching or changing weights on the light bar. It takes a couple of visits to find the proper amount of weight to use, but the idea is to push the muscles hard enough so that you have to stop briefly during each sequence.
I found Body Pump fun and rut-reducing. Work hard and you can also get a pretty good incidental aerobic workout. (I also had significant muscle soreness in the legs and butt.) Unfortunately, it appears that most of the gym's male members have Body Pump pegged as a chick thing, because I was the only man in the class. This is dumb. Unless building pure muscle mass is the aim, Body Pump is great for carving up that body some, dropping a few pounds and alleviating the mind-numbing routine of stacking plates day after day.
I found Body Flow, although it's less strenuous, more of a challenge. You start with some t'ai chi movements to warm up and calm the mind, then move into a series of Pilates-inspired exercises that work core muscles and an array of yoga-based maneuvers and poses that stretch and strengthen. Hardest for me were the balance sequences – swan-style poses, for instance, where you hold yourself up on one leg. I glanced around and nearly all of the women glided through this (I was the only man), while I was teetering.
I did not leave the Body Flow session exhausted, but I was definitely relaxed. And there's more exercise in this than you'd expect. Lisa said that once she started teaching Body Flow, she began to see muscle definition she'd never been able to attain before.
In Tampa Bay, Body Pump and Body Flow are taught exclusively at Lifestyles Family Fitness Centers at various locations throughout the area. Go to www.lff.com for location info.
-Eric Snider
Whoa Big Fella!
Horseback Riding
Equus Meadow Inn is a genuine suburban oasis. Located at the end of George Road and along the eastern edge of Town "N Country Greenway Park, the Victorian-inspired bed-and-breakfast/ranch in the city is casually majestic and the perfect place to spend a peaceful summer weekend. Flanked on one side by the Carriage House Cottage-Suite, and on the other by a stable and corral, the inn is not your average hanging-out-with-strangers-type accommodation. While owner Sandy Rousse is in the process of adding a room on the third floor of the inn, at present she accepts guests to stay in the cottage one party at a time, making it a singularly private experience.
The quaint space is tastefully decorated in Victorian, French and equestrian accents; throw rugs, embroidered doilies and freshly cut flowers emphasize the cottage's cozy ambiance while two dressmaker's dummies in Civil War-era costumes add a whimsical touch. Breakfast is served in the elegant formal dining room of the main house, or outside on the back veranda, which comes complete with rocking chairs, lace-adorned tables and a porch swing, and looks out onto Equus Meadow Pond, a picturesque, spring-fed pool surrounded by huge oaks and wispy Egyptian papyrus reeds.
This lovely retreat reflects the hard work and dedication of Rousse and partner Ken Boyung, who – in addition to assisting Rousse with any necessary construction, cleanup and property maintenance – also gives horseback riding lessons and leads leisurely rides down nearby wooded trails.
Lessons and trail rides are open to the public. Anyone can make a reservation, and because there are no group outings – you ride alone or with your party only – it's more relaxed than if you were riding with folks you didn't know.
The horses are striking animals with gleaming coats and clear, alert eyes. They are mannerly, quick to respond to a subtle squeeze of the heels, and ready to stop whenever you are. Of course, the good behavior probably has something to do with the fact that they're well-rested; Boyung limits the number of times a day that he takes out the five horses and pony so as to avoid straining them.
The horses are attentive to Boyung's voice, eager heads poking out of stalls to meet his roughly affectionate touch. He has stories about all of them – how this one was born, how that one was saved at auction, how another got a scar on its nose – and he tells them like a dad, unabashed and charmingly straightforward.
Both Rousse and Boyung are self-confessed animal lovers. Aside from the equine population, there are chickens, guinea hens, cats, ducks and some escaped cockatiels that have blissfully surrendered themselves to Rousse's care. (Dogs aren't welcome because they hunt and kill everything else; Rousse knows this from experience with the neighborhood hounds.)
Equus Meadow Inn and all of its residents are truly unique; paying them a visit will surely make your day, if not your year.
Horseback riding is $25 per person, per hour for trail rides; $30 per person, per hour for lessons; and $15 per child, per 1/2 hour for pony rides. Room rates are $129 per night Mon.-Thurs. (two night minimum + tax) and $149 per night Fri.-Sun. (two night minimum + tax); a single night's lodging is accepted when availability permits at $149 per night Mon.-Thurs., and $169 per night Fri.-Sun. Special weekend packages are also available. Equus Meadow Inn, 6812 George Rd., Tampa, 813-806-5566 or www.equusmeadowinn.com.
-Leilani Polk
The Mural Of The Story
Wall Decorating
Since Mickey and I moved into our new home, I have had an itch to cover one lonely, blank wall with an indoor mural. Florida's scorching summers make this an opportune project: Take in the frosty AC while watching the neighbors bake in the sweltering sunshine.But a mural of what? A fancy cigar box would look marvelous on my wall. The green, the white and the gold would be beautiful, plus it would be a constant reminder of my Tampa heritage. There's one problem: I've never painted a mural before.
So for this project I enlisted the help of the Vitale Bros., a business that specializes in painting murals both outdoors and indoors. I asked the eldest Vitale, John, about the step-by-step process of painting an indoor mural. Here's what he said.
• First, decide what you want to paint. Then you can generally perform an image search on Google.com to find what you're looking for.
• Get your image and make a transparency of it. Numerous companies offer inexpensive projector rentals, so shop around and find a good deal. It is useful to do this so that you can have a better feel for your mural before you actually paint it.
• Purchase water-based paints from an art supply store. As a rule, you should have four tubes of each color you plan to use on the mural, plus a few tubes of black and white for darkening and lightening colors. Vitale said that Sureline rollers with trays come in handy when painting a mural. You should also purchase a natural sea sponge for painting background colors, available from Home Depot or from the sponge docks in Tarpon Springs.
• Use blue tape to square off the area you plan to paint, in order to avoid getting paint on parts of the wall where it wasn't intended.
• Paint the background colors. Vitale recommends doing these colors in washes using the sponge.
• After the background is completed, Vitale advises painting the darker colors on the mural. The darker colors can allow for more natural-looking shading and shadows on the painting once the lighter colors go on.
• Add a water-based clear coat only if the mural is in a spot where it might sustain water damage, such as a kitchen or a bathroom. If the clear coat is not oil-based, then you run the risk of turning the entire mural yellow overnight.
• If all this sounds like a little bit too much to take on, then you could have the Vitale Bros. paint it for you instead while you drink lemonade in front of your TV.
-Whitney Mears
Bend It Like Bardi
Yoga On The Beach
On a gorgeous April Tuesday I raced to a beautiful stretch of Indian Rocks Beach to take a Yoga On The Beach class. A good test of the reported soothing power of yoga is to take a class located across town at rush hour. Sixty minutes of battling the snarl of Tampa-St. Pete's nastiest traffic can leave a guy pretty frazzled, and as I arrived right at the 6 p.m. start, I hurried into position unprepared for the physical rigors to follow.This particular yoga class is taught by Tom Meagher, an ex-marathon runner who turned to yoga after a doctor told him the only way he would end a string of nagging injuries was to loosen up. His took his first yoga class 10 years ago, and his life has never been the same. Tom has an easy style, his steady voice serving as a guide to each new position. Occasionally circulating through the class, Tom straightens legs and repositions arms, helping students achieve proper form.
It was during the "Warrior" pose that I knew I was in trouble. To execute the "Warrior" pose, one stands squat, legs apart, torso twisted sideways, arms outstretched like you're hangin' 10. The pose is held, and then held some more. As I stood surveying the crowd of mostly middle-aged women, I noticed that they were having no trouble with this exercise at all. On the contrary, they seemed to be using this moment to gather strength. In stark contrast to my serene compatriots, my legs quivered, my arms shook and my assessment of my physical health diminished by the minute.
Yoga requires a focused mind. Unfortunately, I posses a chattering mind which refuses to shut the fuck up. A few moments after the "Warrior" pose, during a group circle exercise in which everyone supports a neighbor and stretches Busby Berkley-style, I dropped an older woman onto the sand. One moment I had her, our legs outstretched into the air successfully, the next minute she was lounging atop a dune insisting to anyone who would listen that she was fine.
Embarrassment overwhelming me, I didn't even try to help her up, allowing other class members to scoop the poor woman from the ground while I whistled and stared at the clouds. At a second circle, the woman evaded me entirely, a horrified look on her face.
Despite throwing around my classmates and straining muscles unused since the days of Reagan, by the end of the class I was much more relaxed and, dare I say it, centered. I asked Tom how I did, and he whipped some "That's Western thought, only you know if you were successful" jargon at me, which I took to mean, "That was awful!" Still, he encouraged me to come back and try it again, and I just might – once the muscles and the pride heal up entirely.
Yoga On The Beach is located right off 15th Avenue on Indian Rocks Beach. A $6 donation is appreciated. Call Tom at 727-595-5944 for more information.
-Joe Bardi
Fighting Fire With Fire
Driveway Anthill Burning
There's a book out called Astonish Yourself! 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life, and despite its bookish title, it's a poignant (and damn funny) read. Exercise #31, for example, is titled "Watch Dust in the Sun." It takes about 15 minutes, and all you need is sunlight and a room. The resulting effect – "Reassuring."Killing fire ants on the driveway isn't among the 101 exercises listed in the book, though if it was, the resulting effect might be "Empowering." That's at least the feeling I have when torching the little bastards, however futile my efforts may ultimately be.
But see, that's part of it too – the eternality of the struggle of Man vs. Insect. Over the past few months, I've killed many, but they somehow always come back for more. Yes, I know there are ant-eradicating pesticides out there, but really, when it comes to blowing off steam, isn't it better to start a fire?
The process is pretty self-explanatory, but just for kicks, here's a primer: First, identify the anthills. They resemble dark little perforated sand palaces occupied by fire ants – hereafter referred to as "the enemy" – who meander about, unaware of the impending doom about to rain down upon them. Douse said hill in gasoline, while avoiding the anklebiters scurrying away from their soon-to-be-leveled city. If you get bitten, don't worry; the enemy will soon witness a fate far worse than the burning little spot he just inflicted on your toes.
The enemy's lair sops up gasoline like a biscuit does gravy. Revel in this feeling as you imagine 10,000 little ant orphans screaming "Mommy mommy mommy!!!" while their parents squeal in gas-soaked agony. Witnessing this is like savoring a nice cognac: Its velvety goodness is only enhanced by the flame.
Light a match. Toss it on the anthill. Step back. Have a beer.
Done in a straight line, the flames resemble the tracks left by Michael J. Fox's Delorean in those Back to the Future movies. (The fact that this mass homicide's taking place in the driveway only adds to that image).
But perhaps what's better than burning the anthill in a straight line is something a friend calls the "Ring of Fire." This method's particularly cruel: set a small fire on the anthill, then spill gas around it. When the ants come out, set fire to the circle. They have nowhere to run.
By the time the flames have died down, witness the post-apocalyptic landscape once known as the enemy's lair. Charred bodies litter the ground like little post-Vesuvius Pompeians, while the survivors search among the dead for anything of value – a piece of potato chip, or maybe some gnawed grass – while you tower above them with a sense of empowerment that comes only from winning.
-Mark Sanders
Hot Flash On Comfort
Staying Cool
As the molasses-thick heat of summer envelops the Bay area, and its residents hunt for ways to stay cool, I always think of my Grandpa Phil and his hot flashes. In the fall of 2003, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, for which he underwent 39 radiation treatments. That cleared up the cancer, and he continues with hormone therapy in the form of a shot every three months. Now 86 years old, his PSA is a non-existent 0.0 (down from a 6 when he was diagnosed) and he's in ridiculously good shape – except for those hot flashes. Five or six times a day, the man lights up like a forest fire. "I feel hot and you can tell by my face," he says. "I sweat like hell." For my grandfather, a man who despises heat like Bush hates bin Laden, this was a nasty turn of events.
Phil has adapted, though, and is now an expert on keeping himself cool. Initially, he tried a technological solution to the problem – using some high-tech gadgetry from The Sharper Image that fit around his neck and was supposed to help him chill. According to Grandpa, "It didn't work and it was a waste of money."
However, he hung onto a little blue fan that came with the gadget. "You gotta watch your fingers," he says with a smile as I nick my middle digit, the flimsy plastic blades generating a significant amount of wind. The fan also doubles as a flashlight, which is handy, and sits next to him at all times. "No, I haven't used any mechanical tool, except that fan."
My grandfather's best advice on how to stay cool this summer: Keep two dish towels in the freezer. He has a blue and a green one ready to go at all times. When the hot flash arrives, he wraps the towel around his neck for instant cooling. "I always keep one in reserve because when I finish with the one maybe in 15 or 20 minutes it comes up again," he says. "I even take one to sleep with me at night."
The personal cooling towel: a new trend for Tampa Bay? You heard it here first.
-Joe Bardi
Ready, Aim…
Trap Shooting
Up until the time that I shot trap at the Silver Dollar Shooters Club, my only experience wielding a shotgun was at a drunken after-party in South Tampa. It was my birthday – which one I can't recall – and my friend Tom walked out onto the deck of his house, cocked the gun, handed it to me, threw a beer can on his lawn and said, "Fire away, dude." It felt like the blast from a howitzer. Deafening. The kick hammered my shoulder. After we'd each vaporized a couple of cans, we squirreled the shotgun away to avoid a visit from the local constabulary. A true Hunter Thompson moment.
So when I signed on for trap shooting at the Silver Dollar in Odessa, it was not without a smidge of trepidation. As I approached the range, I honestly thought it would be an enormous achievement if I were to destroy just one or two of those clay plates. I had images of sore shoulders and ringing ears.
A friendly old-timer pointed me to the office. His name was Don Van Elsen, and his craggy mug reminded me of Levon Helm. He would end up my coach. I rented a basic 12-gauge at the office and bought 25 shells. Don took me to the far station and gave me pointers.
A round involves five shots at five different spots on the platform. A bunker stands about 25 feet in front, where an unseen person unleashes a clay plate at the shooter's command. You yell "Pull!" and out she flies – away from you, straight or at various angles. Then it's your job to blast the thing.
I wanted to take a practice shot first, just to reacquaint myself with a shotgun, but Don said, "You might as well shoot at something." Fair enough. I hollered "Pull." The target zipped outward, I quickly pointed and pulled the trigger. The disc fell to the ground unharmed. I was relieved, though, because the kick was minimal and, with earplugs in, the shot sounded more like a crack than a KABLAM. This gun was clearly a different breed than Tom's.
I took a breath. Got in shooting position.
"Pull." … Crack.
Damn if the plate didn't break apart. I yelped like a kid who'd just hit his first double in Little League. I hit another to go 2 for 5 on the first station. I can only break it down like this: shooting trap is just not as hard as it looks. But it's like anything else – it's really hard to get really good. Brimming with confidence, I moved through the stations, with Don offering tips and adjustments.
I hit 14 out of 25, and went 5 for 5 at one spot. I was pleased and surprised. Don said I did pretty damn good for a first-timer.
To put my 14-for-25 in perspective, though, it's common for a top trap shooter to hit 100 or more in a row. I don't think I'll be joining the tournament circuit any time soon.
Silver Dollar Shooters Club, 17202 Target Way, Odessa, 813-920-3231. Open Mon./Wed./Fri., 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Gun rental: $2; 25 shells: $7.05; trap ticket: $5.75.
-Eric Snider
Get Lost
Hiking
Before you climb the 74-foot, sturdy wooden tower, be sure to grab a fistful of quarters. Without them, you'll have no way to work the viewfinder, and you'll be left with just your own unaugmented eyes to view the vast and impressive ecosystems of the Myakka River State Park. Either way – with or without telescope – the trip up the tower and to the surrounding park is worthwhile.And close.
This 58-square-mile park was sculpted by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s and today remains bisected by 12 miles of the 66-mile Myakka River. It features 38 miles of walking trails and seven different ecosystems to support such rarities as burrowing owls, sandhill cranes and caracaras, crested birds about the size of an osprey. It's a short day trip for those in the Suncoast; the area has fishing, boating and camping, all for a $5 entrance fee.
As you enter the park, you pass the tower and its attached canopy walkway. As the nearby sign readily admits, this walkway is nowhere near the world's largest in Iquitos, Peru, which is roughly one-third of a mile. But the Myakka version still lets you traverse a bouncing, Indiana Jones-like walkway made of wood and cables, and gives you the sense of nature from up high. What's more, it's the only one of its kind in the state.
To get there, head east on State Road 72 from Interstate 75 in Sarasota. It's about nine miles out, and you'll come upon it sooner than you think. The park is big enough to get lost in, yet not so remote that you won't see fellow humans – walkers, birders, butterfly catchers and other nature buffs.
We made the trip from our house in Sarasota in barely 30 minutes. It was our first excursion there, and my partner Erin and I had drinking water ready and compass in hand to follow along with the park-provided map. We stayed only half the day, but next time we might make a day, or even a weekend, of it.
The Myakka River State Park is nine miles east of Interstate 75 at 13207 State Road 72. (941) 361-6511.
-Allyson Gonzalez
Liquid Liberation
Swimming
Fourteen years ago three guys from Charlotte County had a lofty idea. They weren't athletes, but they were anxious to celebrate the Fourth of July in a physical way. They toyed with the prospect of a triathlon, one that would have them swimming across Charlotte Harbor. Then the threesome – property appraiser Frank Desguin, attorney Michael Haymans and Punta Gorda resident Sandy MacGibbon – thought again and decided to bag the running and biking and just make a fun, non-competitive swimming event. "We just decided to swim," says Desguin, and on July 4, 1991, the 1.5-mile Freedom Swim was born. As a result, the three Charlotte County residents began what's perhaps the area's best July 4th event. Today, this informal, go-at-your-own-pace, whatever-you-like swim has become a Charlotte County tradition – and one that's open to all. This year, more than 200 swimmers are expected.
Led by a twin-mast sailboat that helps guide folks across the expansive waters, the participants set off from the northwest corner of the Gilchrest Bridge and head south. Some use kick boards, scuba diving fins, floating devices, neon-colored "noodles" and hand paddles – you name it, anything that allows you to self-propel across the Charlotte Harbor. Others, like many high school swimmers, push forward with ease.
"You're free to swim it the way you want," says Desguin, who still bounds the waters every year.
In a matter of 40 minutes to four hours later – depending on each person's speed – everyone, or almost everyone, arrives at the other end of the bridge, specifically at Harpoon Harry's Lounge & Raw Bar at Fishermen's Village in Punta Gorda. (Respite along the way comes in the form of hundreds of small boats, kayaks and canoes that circumnavigate the swimmers, offering water to drink or a complete bail-out, a ride south.)
"We have no intention of speed," says Desguin. Well, at least he doesn't. He prides himself in bringing up the rear. His all-time slowest record is 4 1/2 hours. During his swims he's braved the worst, particularly the shifting tides.
Most swimmers cross the harbor – where the Peace River meets the Gulf of Mexico – in just over two hours. In fact, about 10 years ago, Desguin's own 16-month-old nephew Jordan managed the trip, after being propelled on a raft with a life preserver by his father Joel. The oldest-ever swimmer was a man in his early 80s. Compared to yet another painful outdoor concert or summer "get-together," this annual swim wins hands down.
For more information, call Desguin at 941-639-6746 or Haymans at 941-639-7002.
-Allyson Gonzalez
Friends Of The Groom?
Wedding Crashing
It's tacky. It's dishonest. It's disrespectful. But we prefer to think of it as harmless mischief, and if you've got a decent suit and an excess of chutzpah, it can be an unpredictable way to kill an otherwise monotonous late afternoon/early evening. Plus, there's a Vince Vaughn movie about just this sort of thing premiering in July; here's your chance to get ahead of both the trend curve and the heightened awareness of crashing (and security measures) that are sure to follow.Back in early spring, the Planet sent out a pair of crack infiltration agents clad in their Sunday best, telling them not to report back until they'd at least enjoyed a drink on the father of some bride, any bride. The information they received about an afternoon reception at favored Tampa Bay wedding spot The Davis Islands Garden Club turned out to be flawed, so they cruised out to favored Tampa Bay dream-wedding spot The Don Cesar, took a seat at the bar, and awaited their opportunity. The dynamic duo never crashed a post-nuptial reception, but they did manage to nonchalantly ooze their way into an actual ceremony in the courtyard, where they enjoyed a string trio, had a couple of glasses of champagne, were offered strawberries topped with cream cheese, and got one of the friendly uniformed greeter/servers to snap several pictures of them impersonating gay uncles.
Here's what they learned:
Plan ahead. Our intrepid troops did not, and wasted valuable gas, time and sport coat newness scurrying to accomplish their goal. Watch the papers. Call some beachside resorts. Hit up your friends who work part time as bartenders and caterers for info.
Start late. We, uh, I mean they, couldn't find a wedding that didn't start before 6 p.m.; the outdoor shindigs, in particular, aim to take advantage of both cooler evening hours and a romantic sunset. Plus, you don't really want to be in on the ceremony itself – chill out, have some Dutch courage and make a perfectly timed arrival just as the reception really gets rolling.
Hang with the help. Photographers, bartenders and servers don't know who the hell is or isn't supposed to be there. Chat 'em up, and find out what they do know – the names of the families involved, for instance – without giving away the fact that you don't know.
Have a story. It could be simple ("Uh, this isn't the Anderson wedding?"). It could be complex ("No, no, Nick's sister's accountant, Steve, invited me, because his wife couldn't make it. But then her ride from the airport dropped out on her, and Steve had to do it himself. He'll be here in a little while, though."). Chances are, you won't have to use it, and it won't be believed if you do have to use it. But what the hell? You're already a trespasser and a freeloader. Why not spin a yarn while you're at it?
-Scott Harrell
Act Hungry
Dinner Theaters
I like dinner theaters. So sue me. I don't seek them out for the food, though it's often pretty decent. I don't go looking for Shaw or Mamet-quality plays. I don't plan on holing up in a coffeehouse afterward, arguing the work's meaning with my date until the wee hours, and I don't expect the acting to be much more (or less) than over-the-top. But I do expect a lot of laughs. I expect that when I go with a group of friends, we can be loud and boisterous much of the time, and in a casual atmosphere. And I expect the actors to be having the time of their lives up on that stage. I expect everyone in the entire place to be having FUN. And in Tampa Bay, that's what you get from both the Early Bird Dinner Theatre and The Detective Dinner Theater.If the name isn't a giveaway, Early Bird caters to a large number of seniors, at matinee and early evening shows, and has been doing so for 15 years. Patrons enjoy the pre-show entertainment by singer/guitarist Mark Atcher – performing songs like "It Had to Be You" and "All of Me" – as much as the show itself, and they're friendly and talkative as you move slowly together through the buffet line, helping yourself to German standards like wiener schnitzel, sausages and sauerkraut.
As for the actors, with shows four to six days a week, this is their main gig, and they take it seriously. Many of the same thespians have performed together in various combinations in multiple shows. The recent production of Anybody for Murder (a laugh-a-minute show that the cast obviously had a ball performing) included actors from past shows like No Sex Please, We're British and A Bedfull of Foreigners. A look at the playbill shows some of the players' names under the titles of Production Assistant and Set Designers. Together with producer Ed Fletcher and director Robin New, they're one big, happy, play-producing family.
At the other end of Clearwater's Fort Harrison Avenue sits the shabby-chic (soon to be vaporized) Belleview Biltmore, where The Detective Dinner Theater entertains guests every Saturday in whatever ballroom is available. Perhaps owing to the venue – the Ramada it ain't – a DDT show will cost more than triple what you'll pay at the Early Bird. And if the hotel itself doesn't make it quite worth the price, the food and the fun will.
Executive producer and stage manager Charla Garrison also wrote and directed DDT's latest production, Bon Voyage Mrs. Shivitz… Forever! Throughout the interactive experience, the actors make the entire room their stage, mingling at tables between scenes to allow guests to "bribe" them with fake money for additional clues.
Each scene is followed by a dinner course prepared by the Biltmore's chef, who whips up items like fresh fruit salad, beef tenderloin and pecan-crusted chicken. If you're lucky enough to figure out "whodunit" after the final course, you might even go home with a prize.
Dinner theater isn't Shakespeare, but who wants to digest heavy material on a full stomach anyway? The next time you're in the mood for supper and a show, are on a first date, or just want something the whole family can enjoy, give Early Bird or Detective Dinner Theater a try. And drag your "serious theater" friends along; they need to loosen up.
Early Bird Dinner Theatre, at Bill Irle's Banquet Hall, 1411 Fort Harrison Ave., Clearwater (727-446-5898 or www.earlybirddinnertheatre.com). Park Your Car in Harvard Yard continues through June 19; Under the Yum Yum Tree takes place July 28-Sept. 11. $14.95 per person.
The Detective Dinner Theater, at the Belleview Biltmore Resort & Spa, 25 Belleview Blvd., Clearwater (727-446-8569 or www.detectivedinner.com). Bon Voyage Mrs. Shivitz… Forever continues through July 16. For upcoming shows, call or visit the website. $49.95 per person.
-Kelli K
Where To Check For Fleas
Bargain Hunting
A flea market is nothing if not a convergence of many different guilty pleasures housed under a roof, shed, tarp or God's blue sky. The inner cheapskate is allowed to run wild in a way that's not normally permissible, indulging in one's passions on a budget. All manner of items are on sale, (I picked up 12 Sharpies for a buck!) and the unusual is always just past the next fruit stand, book stop or Red Bull machine. The Oldsmar Flea Market declares itself to be the "mightiest in the South!" While it's hard to measure the market's brute strength, where else can a vintage-porn-collecting nunchuk aficionado get a haircut in air-conditioned comfort while enjoying a beer and a corndog? Dusty alleyways of capitalism at its basest stretch in all directions.
Mounds of tube socks compete with lawn statues and out-of-date textbooks for the eye of the shopper. It's a white trash Wild West – the type of place where a loudspeaker announcement requesting that patrons not badger the vendors for charging Florida sales tax can only be followed by the announcement of lingerie selling at 75 percent off.
(180 Race Track Road, Tampa, 813-855-2587. Open Fri.-Sun. 8 a.m.-5 p.m.)
By comparison, Pinellas Park's Wagon Wheel Flea Market is more swap meet than Western shantytown. Large open-air pavilions house table after table of collectibles, clothing, books and junk. Lots and lots of junk. You have to love a place that positions the Buddha concession next to the guy selling knives and medieval weaponry out of his van. Wagon Wheel goes the extra mile, providing a beer garden and a selection of food that manages to find space for both "Mexican wings" and something called "Thai flavor." Yum.
(7801 Park Blvd., Pinellas Park, 727-544-5319. Open Sat. & Sun. 8 a.m.-4 p.m.)
Tampa's Big Top Flea Market positions its food court in a central barn-like pyramid under an enormous American flag. The last place in the world where VHS is still king, Big Top is a technological playground trapped in the 1980s. It's where old Nintendo games do battle with their Sega rivals at one-tenth the original price, dust-covered computer motherboards sit stacked in a store window, and a vintage Atari system gets the place of honor on the top shelf of the game stand.
Big Top also has puppies for sale (Visa or MasterCard accepted, of course), diamond jewelry at reasonable prices and the best selection of bongs that I saw at any of the flea markets I visited.
(9250 E. Fowler Ave., Tampa, 813-986-4004. Open weekly 9 a.m.-5 p.m.)
Happy hunting.
-Joe Bardi
Stroke! Stroke! I´m having a…
Margarita Sunset Paddle
I was not expecting the chill wind when I stepped outside the morning of my kayaking trip. But there it was, pushing against my clothes and sweeping my hair into a gnarled, stringy mess, a taunt or perhaps a challenge from Mother Nature, who apparently knew I was about to brave her tempestuous waters. Or, it was just an abnormally cool and windy day due to some sort of front that I apparently didn't know about? Either way, my plans were set and I wasn't bailing on a promising adventure just because of a little breeze. Mad Paddlers, a Bay area kayak and surf shop, regularly offers an array of fun and affordable kayak excursions. I made arrangements to go on the Margarita Sunset Paddle, a one-mile jaunt from Pop Stansel Park in Palm Harbor across St. Joseph Sound to a small, shady plot of land nicknamed "Party Island" for its casual atmosphere and rustic terrain that's mercifully free of the usual beach-lovin' crowd. I'd also heard that it was the perfect place to watch the sun set over Honeymoon Island.The chill lingered throughout the day and was still hanging in the air as we paddled away from the park at 6 p.m. that evening. It soon became obvious that the waves were not getting smaller and with the wind hitting us from the right, I started to wonder whether or not I was going to enjoy this challenge. (And I admit, I am out of shape, but at least I didn't join the few who discreetly paddled away to some closer destination.)
I tried to complain as little as possible while in my head I chanted to myself, "You are She-Ra, the fucking princess of power, you are a strong, healthy, gutsy woman, you can do this because you are INDOMITABLE!" (I should add that I was riding tandem with my boyfriend, who was all pep talks and positive energy when I grumbled about the speed, wind and salty, regular splashes of water that would've been refreshing had it been 10 degrees warmer outside.)
By the time we made it to the island about 45 minutes later, most of the group had already arrived, including our Mad guide, Bobby, who was searching for fallen brush and branches to nurse a small fire. Shortly after, he cracked open a huge water cooler filled with ice cold margaritas, produced a makeshift table, and laid out salt, plastic cups, Sam's Club salsa and tortilla chips.
Soon everyone began letting down their guards, enjoying each other's company as much as the idyllic setting. At some point, a small group of us hiked to the tip of the island and watched the sun set (or, rather, attempted to catch sight of it before it slid away). Then, we spent the rest of the time by the fire, warming up and preparing for the journey back.
While the return jaunt was difficult (the wind blew against us the entire way), the sense of accomplishment and the surge of adrenaline that came at the end when my kayak touched the beach made it all worthwhile. And even though I woke up the following day with more aches and pains than I'd like to admit, I was deeply satisfied with the experience and how I handled it. My inner She-Ra really stepped up.
Mad Paddlers will offer monthly Margarita Paddles this summer. Additionally, there are other excursions to places like Rainbow River, Caladesi Island, Weeki Wachi and Homossasa Springs. For more information, call 813-243-5737 or visit www.madpaddlers.com.
-Leilani Polk
Go Clubbing
Par 3 Golf
It wasn't until the third hole that the wheels came off.It had been about five years since I'd held a golf club, and here I found myself in a pitched battle against three of my friends and colleagues at the nine-hole Par 3 Cypress Links course in St. Pete. Nothing was on the line – nothing except my honor, my pride, my right to show my face around these guys ever again.
Not really. We were just out on the course fucking around, relaxing, digging the crisp, sunny afternoon and hackin' away as best we could. We walked the course – Bardi, Linsky, Harrell and I – each with just one club and a putter.
Two-club par 3 is the perfect game for duffers on a late weekday afternoon. No bag to carry. And with daylight savings, you could start past 7 and still finish. (Our winner shot 14 over par and we still got back to our cars in about 90 minutes.) The Cypress Links course is full of wide-open expanses, with minimal traps and water. I actually played with the same ball the entire nine. The beautiful thing is that you can have fun, and actually be reasonably competent, if you're a non-golfer.
With no warm-up, I was astonished to hit the ball with my 9 iron straight and high off the tee on the first two holes, notching a five and a glorious par 3. My third tee shot was similarly acceptable, and then a fatal mistake. About 40 yards away, I should've used the putter and just pushed it up on the green. Instead, I borrowed Linsky's wedge. Bad idea. My first shot was a mealy thing that went about 12 yards; then I topped the ball and sent it flat and hard over the green, where it hit a fence with a sickening thud.
Harrell was having similar problems. "Sit, ball. DAMN." Clank. He hit the fence, too. Harrell made a decent save to notch a 5. I, on the other hand, did that thing where you yo-yo the ball back and forth over the green a few times and then putt like a blind man. I asked the guys what they thought my score was, and one of them said, "Eight. Let's not go any higher than 8." Fortunately, amazingly, for me, it was my only horrendous hole. I actually managed another par. That's saying something for a fellow who is categorically not a golfer.
Linsky hit the ball farthest, but low even with a wedge. Harrell made the most breathtaking saves, including the highlight of the day: a chip out of the mud that sailed about 40 yards and stopped a few feet from the hole. (Of course, you have to first hit bad shots in order to make saves.) Bardi lofted the prettiest balls, but melted down with his putter. Me, I hit most of my tee shots high and straight, but short, always short (except for the eighth hole, which was just 85 yards).
There was some disagreement about the final score, but for the record it went like this: Linsky, 41, Harrell, 42, Bardi and Snider, 43.
There is already talk of a rematch.
Cypress Links, 875 62nd Ave. NE, St. Petersburg, 727-551-3333. Price per round $7.49 to walk, $11.77 with cart (but, c'mon, don't use a cart).
-Eric Snider
Kid Sit
Babysitting Class
Channel your 12-year-old self, the one that spent as much time picking its nose as it did constructing complete sentences. You probably babysat some back then, and chances are the gig worked out fine. You got some free food, the kids got a night of R-rated movies, and you got paid at the end. But, at least according to the Red Cross, that's not all babysitting is about.
Did you know how to treat an unconscious choking infant when you were 12? How about the number of rescue breaths you need to perform when a kid over 8 passes out? How to scan the house for potential health hazards?
I didn't think so.
I babysat when I was 12, and I didn't know any of the answers until I took the Red Cross' babysitting class. A seven-hour Saturday extravaganza, the classes cover everything from decision-making to Heimlich-maneuvering. The seminar is not always thrilling – the detailed hand-washing section got a bit redundant (apparently, rinsing is important) – and it is centered around very unlikely, very difficult-to-navigate emergency situations. But for the eight pre-teen girls in my class who had traded half their weekend to earn a babysitting certificate, there was a lot to learn.
Same went for the 24-year-old male reporter.
After going through some situational exercises (what do you do if 2-year-old Tim can't stop pissing on his parents' bed?), we were given baby dolls to practice holding. I picked it up quickly (the holding technique, not the baby), and within minutes I was transitioning from shoulder hold to cradle hold like Mary Poppins.
But then we started changing diapers. Before I even had a chance to fumble the diapering (which I later did), I pulled my poor baby's leg straight out of the socket. All I was trying to do was get him out of his onesie. Half the girls laughed, the other half looked shocked – probably a little scared of what their future husbands would do to their future children.
Babysitting Rule #1: No amputation.
Babysitting Rule #2: Be prepared.
The Red Cross class is a little over the top. By the time you leave, it's tough not to think all kids do these days is choke, drown, cry, scream, shit and/or break multiple bones. But that's the point – to get babysitters-to-be ready for the worst-case scenario.
Babysitting classes may not be the hippest thing to do on a Saturday – the ADD-friendly training video makes DeGrassi High look like Kids. But if you want your youngster to make a little extra money, and not get sued when the toddler they're watching accidentally bakes himself in the oven, send them over to the Red Cross.
They'll learn how to keep a baby in one piece. And they'll get a certificate, too.
The Red Cross conducts a variety of classes, most of which are open to people over 15. Babysitting classes, which cost $40 but occasionally are free, are held on Saturdays at different locations around Tampa Bay. For more information call 813-348-4820 x850 or go to www.redcrosstbc.org.
-Max Linsky
This article appears in May 12-18, 2005.