Sticks of Fire: a Tampa blog

We agree to meet at MacDinton’s, since that’s pretty much THE place to watch a big-time soccer match in Tampa — and for a Chelsea-bred Brit, her soccer-loving Yank husband, and me (who dabbled in high school footy a bit) the debut of David Beckham in the United States is as big-time as it gets in a non-World Cup year. I mean, this is Becks. They made a movie with his name in it that didn’t even have anything to do with him. He’s married to that lamp pole with basketballs strapped to it.

Mac’s is sparsely populated with skinny girls in bikini tops and skirts surrounded by guys wearing very expensive sunglasses. They regard me with… they don’t really regard me at all. We settle in at the outside bar with our pints only to find the televisions all switched to boxing at 8:00. This event is precluding me from watching soccer. We inquire with the manager; he informs us they’re not showing the soccer match, because they’re showing the boxing match. On all the TVs? Is that really necessary? “They all have to be the same,” he says. Everything has to be the same, he says, and it’s South Tampa, all over again, as we gulp our pints, leave, and walk past the Taqueria (which is always, always playing music from the early 90’s, every time; tonight it’s CeCe Peniston’s “Finally”) to the Dubliner, where they’re happy to put the soccer match on, and the Devil Rays’ slaughter by the Yankees right next to it for good measure.

Friends arrive. Beer flows. A band starts playing inside the bar, but it’s not a band, really; it’s a dude with a guitar who sings and his buddy who taps a 16-key synthesizer, emulating a drumset. It’s artificial, but expensive, and it’s South Tampa all over again. I talk to a blonde woman with a ponytail, waiting in line for the bathroom, a Kate Spade bag over her shoulder. Her responses are incongruous and scattered; it is as if her brain fluid has been replaced by tonic water (with quinine). Perhaps she drives a Jetta.

The match ends. The Brit, the Yank, the other Brit, and the other Yank agree to head out to the Hard Rock for a Basic Rock Outfit show, and on the way to my car a man stops me about my “OHIO” t-shirt. “Go Buckeyes!” he says. “No, go Bobcats,” I reply. This causes a point of contention, as he was kicked out of Ohio for grades and forced to graduate from the lesser, and younger, institution in Columbus. Furthermore, the man is a big fan of OSU-founded band O.A.R. whom once played (badly) in my backyard in Athens during Palmerfest. He pronounced their name like the boating tool, and I responded back “More like ‘Oarrible.” His friend had to restrain him from punching me in the face; on south Howard, your favorite band is as sacred as your momma. And then, a phone call: the Yank’s car was towed, and they need a ride downtown to get it. It’s South Tampa all over again.

(to be continued)

The Three Coins restaurant in Seminole Heights recently went to a 24 hour a day format. With few other late-night options in Central Tampa, third shift cops are taking their coffee breaks at the Three Coins. Of course, the pros and johns don’t want to be seen by any cops, so they are making themselves scarce.

Which leads to an obvious question. How far away were these cops driving out of the neighborhood to take a break in the past?

Utah “Dawn” Offers Bitter History Lesson

September Dawn

(R for violence; 111 minutes)

Before 2001, the most heinous September 11 in American history must have been in 1857. That’s when an army of Utah settlers massacred some 120 westward travelers for the crime of passing through their turf without following their religion.

At least, that’s the way it goes down in “September Dawn,” a rugged Western (shot in Alberta, Canada) that’s terrifying in its narrative yet mystifying because of its huge, unanswerable question: Why would anyone do that to a bunch of harmless families seeking a better life?

If you reply that this might relate to modern instances of homicidal religious zealotry, you’re getting to a point that the filmmakers clearly want to make.

The film is fiction — a stark dramatization of a little-known event, clouded by 150 years of controversy and imagination.

The controversy continues today because the killers were a Mormon militia. And while the church doesn’t exactly deny the shameful moment occurred, it’s not pleased to have the matter brought up in a way that casts it in such dark light.

Director Chris Cain – who explored a more prominent bit of history with “Young Guns” — wrote the script with Carole Whang Schutter, based on her novel. The tale of brutal murder is wound into a Romeo-Juliet subplot involving the son of the resident firebrand preacher (Jon Voight at his menacing, bearded best) and a girl from the doomed wagon train. Terence Stamp intensifies the sense of menace as Brigham Young, the stern Mormon leader, still angry about how his people were treated back East.

With its splendid scenery, gruff characters and modern inferences, “September Dawn” is sad, disturbing yet hard to turn away from. It’s a welcome alternative to typical summer fluff — one that you won’t forget on your way through the cineplex parking lot.

We give it a B.

Rock Report: JJ Grey and Mofro @ Skipper’s Smokehouse

Cross posted from ninebullets.net

In Florida, August nights are hot and I don’t mean wear a pair of shorts hot. I’m talking wear as little clothes as possible and you’re still gonna sweat hot. It’s a fact that we’ve come to live with. Rain offers no solace, instead it adds to the stifling humidity. This is Florida and these are our August nights. The Mofro boys come from Jacksonville and they know this. This particular Friday night was not an unfamiliar site for Floridians. Afternoon thunderstorms turned into night mug. We had a hurricane out in the Caribbean projected to come just close enough to the Gulf to allow the weathermen to practice their hunkerdown speeches and Mofro playing under the ol’ Oak trees that cover the Skipperdome. Sweat, affordable beer, fried foods and a swampy soulful blues band from J-ville following the hyper-sweaty dirty blues outfit that is Tampa’s own Nervous Turkey made this seem like a perfect Florida storm. A Florigasm if you will.

As I said last week, I had never seen the Mofro boys live before and as the sold out crowd began to filter in I soon realized I was definitely in the minority but it seemed like a welcoming enough crowd. I settled in at the front of the stage to watch the Nervous Turkey boys. I have seen Nervous Turkey two other times in bars with acoustics as poor as my grammar. Seeing them in the Skipperdome sealed the deal for me. I love these guys. They play a brand of blues that makes me wanna drink and there’s nothing wrong with that. For the bulk of the show I was completely taken in by Mr. Locke but as their set was winding down I took a look around. The crowd had probably tripled in size and a lot of them were just as enthralled with these fellas as I was. If you get a chance do not pass on seeing Nervous Turkey, I guarantee that you’ll have a good time.

Next came the reason for the evening. A bead of sweat slowly ran the length of my back as the band took the stage and began to tune up. “It’s been too long Skipperdome” were the first words from Mr. Grey’s mouth. The crowd response was exactly as it should have been. The opening instrumental quasi-jam band number with Grey announcing his band gave way to Florida:

Now skyscrapers and superhighways / are carved through the heart of Florida / Building sub-divisions while the swamps are drained / makin’ room for people and amusement parks / It’s like watchin’ someone you love die slow / Yeah they’re killin’ her one piece at a time / I know some fools who think I should let go / but they never seen Florida through my eyes

It was here I really began to appreciate both the honesty of these guys and the connection they have with the crowd. I would really like to think that the connection with Florida based crowds is a lot closer to the bone than it is with outta state crowds but something tells me I should not be so naive. Blogcritics put it so perfectly I am just gonna quote them direct:

Like shamans, the charismatic Grey and his sinuous band build their modestly structured, unprepossessing songs into small volcanoes of emotion, with the audience supplying half the energy.

It wasn’t some low key soul show mind you. No, No, No. The funk of tracks like “How Junior Got His Head Put Out“, “Nare Sugar” and “Ho’ Cake” most definitely proved to be crowd favorites and caused more than a few folks to break out in fits of spontaneous dancing. In the end I left feeling less like I went to a show and more like I had just witnessed an event. Do you know what I am saying? I know it sounds cheesy but I just feel like I am devaluing the the night if I just call it a show. I dunno, maybe it’s the heat talking.

Mofro - Florida
Mofro - Ho’ Cake
Mofro - How Junior Got His Head Put Out
Mofro - On Palastine

Pictures from the show can be found here.

Johansson Descends Into New York Nanny Hell

The Nanny Diaries

(PG-13; 105 minutes)

Did you know that rich New Yorkers can be totally self-centered snobs? Ridiculously trendy idiots who ignore their children and treat household servants like, well, servants?

No? Then you’ll find “The Nanny Diaries” to be a revelation.

If on the other hand, you already suspected that Manhattan’s Upper East Side is populated by snooty twits, then this not-so-fierce satire will come off as an amusing trifle with one magnificently over-the-top performance.

No, it’s not by Scarlett Johansson. The sensuous beauty seems slightly miscast as a timid Jersey girl who comes to the big city seeking a position worthy of her freshly minted college degree. She winds up stuck in a nanny job because … well, she’s desperate, passive and not very confident.

But at least this puts us in the home of the film’s walk-off star. Laura Linney is terrifically exaggerated as the incredibly thoughtless, rude, self-indulgent clod who hires the young woman and immediately starts treating her like dirt.

This chilly boss has a son who’s starved for attention, a husband (Paul Giamatti, looking silly as a pompous, adulterous exec) who ignores them both and a social schedule that seems to take up all day, every day. Linney steals this show with her hysterics, her rationalizations and her generally deranged manner.

But the rest of this extended sketch is too contrived to cherish. Heartthrob Chris Evans plays the “unattainable” dreamboat (the boss forbids her employee to date) and singer Alicia Keys shows serviceable chops in the traditional best-friend role.

Aside from a few well-aimed jokes, this mild-mannered modern fairy tale is mainly for hard-core Johansson fans. Hey, she always looks good, even when she’s trying to be frumpy.

We give it a C.

Just because we’ve been away for awhile and so much has been missed we present a rare redux edition of the wide web of (tampa bay) sports. Up today, Rays Blogs square off in the Octagon, Kanes makes an offer you can’t refuse, and Curt Schilling further jams his foot down his mouth.

• (Blog Fight!) The Rays may not be interesting but at least their fan blogs still are. To recap, first DRays Bay implied Rays fans were idiots. The Rays Index called DRays Bay out on it. To which DRays Bay responded. Then I went cross-eyed.

• (Now To Some Real Pseudo-News) After suggesting he would play for the Rays next season Curt Schilling has recanted, ON HIS BLOG! See, it was all a misunderstanding, much like WWII. Hitler didn’t invade Poland, he just crossed the border with a few friends to buy some kilbasa.

• (When Pigs Fly) Kane’s Furniture, who brought us the Devil Rays Kane’s Club, are offering free furniture for a year if the Gators can ONLY repeat as National Champions in football. AND they have to go undefeated. Quite the limb Kane’s is walking out on there.

• (Get St Louis To Sign Your Chest) Tomorrow is Ice Fest, the Bolts fanfest held at the St Pete Times Forum formerly known as the Ice Palace. Apparently the Bolts are unveiling new uniforms at the event, which are almost guaranteed to be worse than the current ones. But the new ownership group has to pay the bills some how.

Design Tampa is yet another group launched to “improve Tampa,” and “make the city of Tampa a more attractive place.”

Their first plan is to turn MacDill Park into Tampa’s Media Park, with “A large projection screen and high-fidelity sound system,” along with kayak launches and free wi-fi.

They do have an impressive-looking website. Click through the entire intro flash sequence to see some of their ideas.

But how many groups do we need to improve Tampa? One more apparently.

Found via Creative Tampa Bay, another group who’s goal is to improve Tampa Bay.

Sam Jackson Slugs It Out With Himself

Resurrecting the Champ

(PG-13; 111 minutes)

Samuel L. Jackson can do anything. Well, almost anything.

He couldn’t make box-office hits out of “Snakes on a Plane” or “Black Snake Moan.” But he seemed to have fun filming them, and his performances in both were enjoyably campy.

Jackson does serious stuff, too. In “Resurrecting the Champ,” he makes us care about a homeless stumblebum — an alcoholic ex-pugilist with no friends and a foul smell.

Jackson has the dubious title role in this intriguing, realistic drama from director Rod Lurie (”The Contender”).

Sarcastically dubbed ”The Champ” by abusive local bullies, this guy is accidentally discovered by a struggling sportswriter at the local paper. Josh Hartnett (”Pearl Harbor,” “The Black Dahlia”) brings heart to the role of a reporter who needs a good story. When he learns that his local trash-picker is a once-famous fighter, he believes he has the sports scoop of the year — or at least a human interest piece that will salvage his career.

Based on an L.A. Times magazine article, “Resurrecting the Champ” is a story of faith and redemption. But it’s not the story you expect — it takes odd twists and even asks us to ponder the nature of fame and personality while we follow an unlikely tale.

Set in Denver, filmed partly there and partly in Calgary, this modest drama gives Jackson a chance to capture and hold an audience with sheer character strength and naturalistic humor. He may be a faded fighter, but his charisma still packs a wallop.

We score this round a B.

On Sundays, the printed Tampa Tribune’s Business section has recently been combined with the Op-Ed pages. The next step will be to kill the Business section altogether, and put those stories in with the Metro section, like the sister paper just did in Winston-Salem.

They have to. The Tampa Tribune advertising losses are the main drag on the mother company, Media General. Now to be sure, I’m no big Media Conglomerate. But I think that if you are making less money, you gotta spend less money. Half of the business section is the biggest waste of newsprint.

There isn’t anyone under the age of 75 that looks at printed stock tables anymore, and the newspaper prints them on 2 pages a day on 300,000 newspapers six five days a week. Basically, they are just killing trees for no reason. Seriously. How many tons of newsprint is that? Rather than let go more reporters, I encourage the Tribune to simply drive the diehard print readers online for stock prices. With the savings on newsprint alone, you can give those each of the 17 people computers, and teach them how to use it.

In case you were wondering, each of the stock exchanges have their very own website. And their search mechanism works!

New York Stock Exchange
NASDAQ
American Stock Exchange
Tokyo Stock Exchange

By the way, this goes for you too, St. Pete Times.