Sticks of Fire: a Tampa blog

Vitale Design Syndicate is hosting a reception, open to the public, at 2200 1st Ave South, St. Petersburg, Saturday, June 30 at 7 PM.

Home owners and commercial clients are invited to examine a new fusion of art and construction. Brothers John and Joey Vitale will help guests explore creative expression through building, interior design, kinetics, custom furniture and fine art commissions.

“So much of our creative work has focused on independent fine art, but the commercial work has been our bread and butter,” says Vitale. “After putting so many shows together, we realized we have this passionate group of fine artists and large-scale contractors. It’s time to merge the two.”

Design installations and fine artwork from the Vitale Gallery will be displayed. Complimentary light beverages and entertainment will be provided until midnight.

I am totally convinced that Baby Suri is the cutest thing alive. She is an absolutely adorable little muffin-head, and I find her much more appealing than the conventional wispy blond-haired, fat-mouthed good looks of Shiloh Jolie.

So when the Scientologists finally staked their claim in the ‘Burg, you know I was at the party, because I was sorta not-so-secretly hoping Baby Suri would be there. She wasn’t, but whatever.

We got there a little late. The soirée started at five and we arrived around eight. Off-duty cops, on-duty cops, firemen, even bouncer-about-town Frankie, were there. (Best exchange of the night - “Frankie, are you a Scientologist now?” “No, dear, I’m protecting the Scientologists.” Awesome!)

All types of very assured people were milling about outside and there was definitely a vibe. The girls, I noticed, walked with incredible confidence - super-worked thetans, I guess - and had lovely semi-formal dresses on. The gentlemen were all very clean-cut and healthy with that really smooth look that comes from always getting enough sleep and never letting smoke or sun near you. Everyone looked really wonderful, as though they eat a perfect food pyramid all the time.

And probably they do, because as we learned on our tour, the first dynamic of Scientology is the self. I was nodding right along with that one, but my companions were starting to look a little nervous, shifting around a bit with darting eyes. Our tour guide, Josh, kept everyone half-heartedly engaged by asking repeatedly if we were getting what he was saying, although I have to admit, I totally dug his spiel. The first dynamic is the self; the second is sex and family, and, well, hmm, a bunch about animals and mankind and then attaining spiritual perfection. The priorities seemed just right somehow, although I guess it’s pretty obvious I didn’t dig it enough to remember it beyond self and sex.

Then, he took us to the E-meter, which was so, so exciting. It should be noted that Scientology declares a point system for various states of being and enthusiasm gets the most points, so I was pretty happy about that, too, because, you know, hooray, bonus points for attitude! Josh gave me the E-meter canisters and told me to think about different people in my life.

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This weekend, I went to an art show at a tattoo and graphic design studio called Blackout Creations (the same one Mr. Autopsy promoted).

In a lot of ways, it was the usual ‘Burg opening. There are three things you will always, always see at a St. Pete art show. The first is a crew of grubsters from good homes justifying their misery acts by going straight for the most nihilisitic piece in the room. The second is Heinz in a distractingly hot Euro-God outfit, even though he’s so Jersey it hurts under all that tailoring, and, third is lots and lots of PBR to make the ten-dollar drinks at the Independent taste better. These three things are guaranteed and the contradictions make it fun, because every one in the room is either incredibly fake or impressively self-aware.

The art was really phenomenal, too, with lots of very vivid primary colors. I liked how the knack for tattooing was so evident in the large surface area of the shapes and the heavy outlining. My favorite was called “Tomba Del Amor” and features two skeletons in wedding gear riding a cart out of a tunnel of love. I would have called it “True Love Never Dies.”

Mark got, like, instantly excited by all the popping colors and big lines. He was adorably unaware of his options when he wanted to buy a watch, but when he likes a piece of artwork, he’ll clunk down whatever amount of cash is on the sticker for it. Artists really need a guy who will support both the practical and fantastical sides of the art game, so it’s very cool.

But, then, there was a slight letdown.

“Hey, wait a minute!” he exclaimed, pointing to the corner of the frame. “Are these - prints?”

And, indeed, almost every piece in the gallery was numbered and the show’s literature only listed a few oils. The room was mainly full of giclee.

Now, I didn’t particularly have a problem with this. I think it’s nice to have the occassional show where the artists don’t trump themselves up so much that they can’t actually provide anything anyone realistically will buy. A few original oils priced in the two thousand dollar range and a smattering of watercolors around five-hundred bucks seems perfectly respectable to me when scattered in with more attainable prints for emerging art collectors, but I can see a small problem, too, because a lot of the conversation didn’t seem to recognize that the pieces weren’t originals.

So, I have to wonder, out of the healthy amount of sales I saw at nine-thirty (good for you, guys!), how many people think they bought originals and how many people didn’t even really have the awareness that it makes a difference? Maybe not too many - even when you’re only spending a couple hundred bucks on something that does absolutely nothing besides hang on the wall, you usually know what you’re getting into - and the numbering in the corner did seem like a dead give-away, but, you know, I just hope no one ends up disappointed.

‘Cause, man, Mark seemed real ready to go for something in those first thirty seconds and the art was really, really compelling.

Well, well, the Bible Belt weekend was pretty intense. Nashville is not the main draw to the area at all, though. The awesomest part of the whole trip was Kentucky, without a doubt. Nashville was OK. Rural Tennessee was very cool, but Kentucky was amazing.

The flight into Nashville was cheap, under $200, and the hotel, the Wyndham Union Station was fabulous. The building used to be a train station, and Wyndham renovated it to match its original look as much as possible. Original wooden timetables have been restored by artists who painted over the little numbers in the same font and crinkle-crackled pages from schedule books are framed throughout the lobby.

Everything in sight is marble, and the bed was so fluffy and cozy, I couldn’t help but kick like a crazy bike-rider once I got under the covers, giggling and smashing my face in the pillows, which had whole goose feathers sticking out from cotton weave. The kitchen also serves, daily, at three o’clock, some delicious kind of treat. One day it was chocolate marshmallow cookies. Another day it was chocolate chip cannolis. Very wonderful, all of it, and the connolis totally made up for the part where bottled water was four bucks a pop.

The main downtown area of Nashville was within five blocks of the Union Station, and that was a big part of why I picked it, but it actually turns out that downtown Nashville can be summed pretty quickly. Imagine five different venues in a row, only they’re all Mastry’s on Central Avenue in the ‘Burg. That’s Nashville’s bar scene - smoky, dingy and crowded with stumbling drunks in kinda dirty clothes.

The only joint that redeemed the place was Tootsies…

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Apparently, everyone in the universe wants to go out to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I didn’t particularly want to go anywhere schmancy, but I did kinda want to get something nourishing and delightful after toning my figure into various heart shapes and curves at the gym all evening.

Mark suggested Dal’Italia, where we go so often, the sexy blond waiter says every time, “Oh-a my Gawd, you havenna been here-a inna for-ever! Where-a hava you been?!” I love him, because he really does talk like that, sort of a combination of Italy and some Northeast city where he obviously learned English, and he’s also very spry, quick with the pizza and always making ridiculous jokes that wouldn’t be funny at all if he didn’t have that excellent accent.

So, I was totally ready for Dal’Italia, in pale pink cotton voile and a shawl collar, only when Mark arrived, he was wearing textured poplin and talking about Bella Brava, so I had to delay for some wardrobe game and, with the addition of white rabbit and metallic leather, we both looked really good, especially with all the love in the air.

“You think we can still get a table?” I said. “I really don’t mind pizza or Chinese.”

“Chinese? That’s like chemical poisoning. We’ll save that as a last resort.”

And we were off, ready for romance and adventure.

Except when we got to Bella Brava, it was totally not happening. We walked up to the hostess and a very frustrated, overweight guy with sweat beads on his lip spat out, “Good luck getting a table. We’ve been here for 55 minutes! And that’s with a reservation!” His girlfriend came over and tried to take his hand, but she was sort of nagging him about talking to other people or something, and he yanked his hand away and glared at the hostess, who totally ignored him.

We debated asking the hostess if the hour or so was about right, thinking the high-tops at the bar might make a lovey-dovey warm-up, but she was immediately bombarded by two couples flying in the door, ready to shove each other out of the way, each brandishing bright red beepers that were blinking and screaming.

The one guy was actually dragging his poor date, who was desperately using her free hand to try to keep her cleavage in her dress as her man pushed the other guy out of the way. He had this look of totally focused, hard-charging competition, and his girlfriend was all discombobulated and wondering where the romance had gone, so we decided that we wouldn’t antagonize the waiting couples by getting on the list.

We then embarked upon a completely farcical tour of St. Petersburg, whereby every single door we approached darkened its neon Open sign right as we hit it. Seriously, every single place was shutting down the absolute instant we arrived. We tried Primi, Tedesco’s and The King and I - closed, closing and closed.

“That’s OK,” I said. “My favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is how much I love you.”

We kissed for awhile on the sidewalk. Mark smelled really good and the rabbit added a little tactile fun. We got back in the truck and tried Outback, Carrabas and Gumby’s. At Gumby’s, another sweaty, fat guy came up to us and snarled, “We’re closed!” It was pretty silly, because, first of all, are you that jerky because you don’t have anyone to love this year or do you have no one to love this year, because you’re always that jerky, and, secondly, are you seriously yelling at me for walking in to an unlocked pizza place with a flickering open sign at nine forty-five at night and not knowing it was closed?

We were a little punch drunk at this point, only because we had both worked out for a couple hours and we were basically starving and all the Valentine’s kissing was making us a little giddy and, for real, we were just hungry.

“So, no pizza,” Mark said.

“No pizza.” I said.

We got back in the truck. Hope was waning and I was imaging how good a bagel would be for breakfast the next day when, suddenly, flickering to the left, nestled next to my dry cleaners, the only restaurant that was open - Great Wall II.

“Look! It’s open!” I said.

Mark screeched into a U-turn and slammed around the back of the building.

“Hurry! It might close!” I yipped. We were laughing like gerbils, rollicking in disbelief and jittery with hunger. We ordered way more Chinese food than any two people could ever need.

And, so, we ate the chemical poison, at my desk, in cotton voile and poplin, stabbing at dark meat chicken and twirling high-carb, mystery noodles. Then we kissed a little more and fell asleep by eleven.

It wasn’t too bad, actually, although word to Bella Brava - when you refuse people reservations, you build an image of elitism and desirability; when you make people wait hours on reservations, you build an image of tackiness and desperation. Sometimes, you just gotta say no.

Orange Magazine is gone. 

The paper hit stands a day late this week, because Media General head honchos objected to the word “c*nt” in an article about handbags sold at a site with the word in the name. 

I like Mitzi Gordon, Orange’s former editor, very much on a personal level and I think she’s a good writer, too, but I don’t really understand how she thought that word was gonna fly in a paper that shares leadership with the Tampa Tribune.  Freelancer Greg Caracci, who could be considered a colleague because we both freelanced for the rag, although we don’t know each other at all, doesn’t really earn too many points in my book for this one, either. 

First off, I don’t really care if the proprietor of these handbags is ‘taking the word back’ or whatever she claims.  It’s a stupid, offensive word to use if you actually expect your business to grow.  If you make dope handbags from high-quality materials, they will sell without you using some idiotically sensational term that, frankly, the bags aren’t going to mainstream, anyway.  Karl Lagerfeld hangs out with Lindsay Lohan, for Christ’s sake, and he doesn’t use words like that in his work.  Are we gonna see Diane von Furstenburg naming her sexy dresses after vulgar terms because she’s a feminist? 

The argument for the pitch and its acceptance is that Orange wanted a college audience, and the use of the word would get people turning the pages, which I understand, but I also understand it as sophomoric.  Fashion is supposed to be aspirational and I just don’t think anyone aspires to be a c*nt. (Yes, yes, hit the comments and tell me I’m a c*nt now.  Someone wants to, hmm?) 

Professional writing shouldn’t be so pretentious that its point can’t stand alone, and the point that should have been made here - oooh, look, pretty handbags made by a feminist - relies on pretending we can all just toss around a word that isn’t professional at all.   

I guess the thing that bothers me about all this is its predictability.  Let me preface this by saying that I am the only person I know under the age of thirty who makes a seriously decent living off of doing nothing but writing.  I know people who write freelance for the love.  I know people who have writing-only jobs, but either rely on partners, too, or are broke.  I know people who make hot money writing and doing a bunch of other adminstrative or operational tasks, or have night jobs doing completely unrelated things, but writing and doing nothing else for cash and living large is hard.  The market is tight and there’s plenty of competition.

So, if you want to write for money, and especially if you want to write for money that comes from a major corporation, you have to write professionally.  There are plenty of opportunties to write where you don’t have to act professionally - like, say, your journal, your blog, Tommy’s blog, progressive open mics, fiction workshops - but a weekly that’s subsidized by a major paper isn’t one of them.  Experimentation is absolutely necessary for writers to grow in skill.  The value of writing just to test out ideas and shape and format and language is incredibly rewarding, but experiment in the appropriate avenues or lose your professional credibility. 

Greg’s error was, sadly and simply, a lack of professionalism.  Mitzi’s error was accepting that lack of professionalism under the guise of progressiveness.  She got a bit suckered by what was essentially Greg’s intellectual pretension, this idea that his creative impulse could override standards of conduct that are pretty obvious to people with jobs.  Who knows?  Maybe he got suckered, too, by the handbag lady.  It’s all very terrible, honestly, because the handbags even sound stupid - handbags are not about feminism - but they felled a freakin’ newspaper, didn’t they?

Or maybe not.  Mitzi says she wasn’t told she was fired because of the article, but that no one else will do her job so there’s no more paper (a claim I believe, knowing what her job entailed and her level of income).  Perhaps the article was just a red herring to keep everyone’s mind off the fact that the upper management and general philosophy of the company sucked. 

Let’s see - the art director is all over MySpace looking for a roommate and a part-time job.  This girl isn’t just some intern; she’s the director. What the h*ll are these people getting paid? In addition, most freelancers were always curious as to why checks were so late and so conveniently short so often.  That never happened to me freelancing with the other papers in town.  Creative issues?  Sometimes, but nobody ever f*cked with my money. 

Also, I referred probably twelve people to the first ad salesperson at the paper and she never got back to one of them.  Distribution was embarrassing - I would walk all over South Tampa and downtown St. Pete and not find a paper.  St. Pete locations were up to a week behind.  I mean, why did Media General even start the paper if they didn’t care about doing anything with it?

Here’s the rub: Mitzi might have screwed up really badly with this c*nt thing - I’m not really sure, because I only know what she tells me and there could be a lot more or less to it - but the girl was behind this paper’s success all the way.  When I produced a section that went above and beyond the expectations of my contract, I negotiated for more money.  Guess where the money came from?  Her checking account, which she didn’t mention during negotiations at all.  When Aaron Edwards didn’t get a very large check anywhere near on time, right before Christmas, guess who fronted him the money?  Yup, Mitzi.  Sure, you can say she just floated a friend a loan, but you know she felt like he needed to be paid.

The irony of this isn’t lost on me.  There is nothing professional about paying freelancers yourself because you don’t have the corporate support to pay for people that create an interesting paper with fresh, edgy content.  It’s almost an error of immaturity, but it’s also an act of love and dedication and flat-out interest in a progressive-minded success based on ideals and nothing else. 

Worth letting the girl throw in a misguided, nasty word every now and then, I’d say.  Worth getting your lazy-ass ad sales people out on the streets, too. 

Please feel free to let me know if you need the services of a professional writer, artist or photographer.  I now know several who are very good and have no present source of income. 

Hooooray, guess what I did tonight?  Kicked it with a homeless dude, of course, ’cause, you know, you made such a point of it.

I walked out of the Garden, where Sam The Pickles was playing the deep drum-n-bass, makin’, like, two pretty girls shake their ass for fun, before I hit the Brandy’s Liquor Lounge for the real Bon Jovi throwdown, courtesy of The Movie. 

On the way to the Benz, I saw a homeless gentleman that I’ve seen for some time.  He looks disarmingly like Snoop Dogg, with very handsome, canine features and clean, thick cornrows and a long, blue jacket (I wear my shit on the left side, ’cause, yeah, that’s the Crips side).  He is perfectly non-intrusive, but lives off your money, simply by asking for it, without providing service in return.  Read your Locke.  Yes, it’s common.  I don’t care. 

“Can I have a cigarette?” I asked him.  I truly didn’t have one.  I truly wanted one.

“Sure, baby, for you, anything.  Look in my backpack.  I have to go to the liquor store.”

“I ain’t lookin’ in your backpack.  I asked you for something.  Do you have it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”  He fumbled.  I pulled out a dollar - a fair price for a vain and privileged girl to give for a long, menthol 305.  He took the dollar swiftly.

He walked into the liquor store and left me with the full pack.

I pulled out one cigarette and lit it.  I opened the door to Detroit Liquor, where the Snoop Dogg look-alike was doing his best to convince the gentleman behind the counter that the hour was early enough to buy booze.

“Thank you, sir.  I only needed one,” I said to him from halfway inside the door.

 I threw the pack on the counter for him to take it back and walked toward the Benz.

Reb Beach of Whitesnake will be at the State Theatre in about two weeks.  I had to leave to talk to the owner of The Uptown Bar about offering Mr. Beach an afterparty.

I was halfway down the sidewalk when I heard, from about two and a half blocks back, “Hey, Shorty!”

The call came again, “Hey, Shorty!  Shorty! Shorty! Shorty! Shorty!  Shorty!”

I’m five feet, ten inches, and that’s without the heels.  No one could say, “Shorty,” and mean me.  I further know that gentlemen do not yell down the street like that.  I kept walking.

Half a block later the voice is closer to me. 

“Girlfriend!  Girlfriend!”

Well, that ain’t Mark Michaels, so I know, again, it ain’t for me.  I keep walking to the Benz.  I never turn around.  I never hasten my pace.

A police officer was standing by my car.  Another Benz was parked next to me.

“Hey, you wanna race?” said the kid in the other Benz, in plain view of the officer.

The Snoop Dogg look-alike was out of earshot or had given up by this time.  I don’t know.  I don’t care.

“What’s your name?” said the guy in the other Benz, in front of the cop.

“Mercedes,” I said and drove away, safely, slowly, thinking about you, and a cop kickin’ it by my car for no reason, and a homeless man that is perfectly sufficient asking you to hand him things.

I got a lot of flack when someone handed me things, so I stopped doing it.

My, oh my, what a difference a year makes.

Your challenge - buy something off a homeless person at an exorbitant rate.  Don’t let the transaction take longer than it needs to. 

Now pretend you go out and see police at every corner.  I know you weren’t there, because the street was empty, except for the Snoop Dogg look-alike who sold me a stoge at a dollar (a 400% markup).  Pretend also that you could handle the same transaction as smoothly.

And now tell me I wanna beat people up.

Reax Magazine is hot in the middle of the first annual State of the Scene Readers Poll.  The poll aims to determine what’s hot in the Sunshine State’s independent music scene. 

I like this poll for a few reasons.  First, the competition is fierce.  Mega vs Ranmecca vs. Jask?  Oh nooooo.  The Basiqs vs. Red Tide?  I know which I prefer, but both are incredible.  Favorite venue? Who can really ever say?

The second reason I like this poll is because it stretches from St. Petersburg to Orlando.  As Mr. Autopsy points out, “Orlando bands are local bands.”  That might not be entirely true, because a lot of Tampa Bay heads (myself included) don’t really know jack about Orlando the way we would if we were very immediately connected, but all of us probably should know more about Orlando’s talent, and a little healthy competition is a fun way to gain exposure.  Try to remember some of the names of places you see that you don’t recognize and, next time you go to MCO, let ‘em know that Tampa and the ‘Burg know how to show love.

Third, there was actually a nomination phase, so you know the winners are gonna be the best of the best. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel as though some of the alt weeklies around here are plugging their buddies (you know who you are!).  I know sometimes it’s inevitable - if you don’t know about someone, how can you have the idea to write about them? - but, most of the time, it’s a challenge for magazines with limited budgets to keep coverage as broad as what it should ideally be.  Yes, a proactive stance from performers and artists helps - send your samples, people, send ‘em everywhere! - but the responsibility lies primarily with writers and editors, and Reax sidesteps this dilemma nicely by putting the question in your hands.      

So, good luck, nominees!  You’ve got a lot of respect already!