I’ll admit it - I am no good at starting a piece of writing. Often, the first lines I write of any blog/article/piece of writing are quite cliché. They’re often questions - or statements, like this one. The difference with this intro, though, is this: it is a cliché statement, out and out; I’m not denying that “I’ll-admit-it” is pretty damn cliché, and that it gives you an obvious opening to say anything: I.e. “I’ll admit it - I own a clown suit, and I use it to collect garbage. Why? Let me explain…” or “I’ll admit it - I backed Mitt Romney, because I want my President to look like the President from any mid-nineties disaster movie. It’s a comforting thought - hear me out” - no, the reason that the usage of a cliché opening here is okay is this: it explains itself - it is about itself. That makes it excusable - at least in my book… and all of this might be in a book one day, so I have the right.
(Or maybe that right was just cancelled out by the really bad pun I used to justify it - either way.)
But, writing is exactly everything that writing literally is, plus more. Writing is grinding something out of nothing - looking at a blank piece of paper and wondering what the fuck to write about. There’s always so much to write - things that bounce around inside my head, that beg to be enumerated, blasted, shaped, and expounded upon. These are the dreams of my ideas - that’s what they dream about at night. Ideas sleep by lying dormant, so they sleep, and dream of being useful - totally useful, used to express something or another.
But ideas - and their personal dreams - are often squandered by the communicator, the two-hundred-and-sixty-pound, near-sighted bag of blood and sinew and skin that typifies myself - and they sit in my mind, sleeping and living, until I can force myself to shape and expound on them, with the movements of a writing instrument. Sometimes my ideas are suppressed - for years and years - they never see the light of day, they yearn for that light - and I, as the communicator, keep them suppressed. Poor ideas, at the mercy of their keeper - but that’s life, regrettably - that the communicator is hampered by moods, laziness, and the fucking cursed thing known as “writer’s block” - again, that’s life.
What’s interesting, though, is when ideas get crafty and try to make themselves known - at the displeasure of myself, the communicator, who is in no shape to expound upon them. They want to get worked on and written up - and they attack my train of thought, and try to derail it. They’re like rebel ideas - they’re trying their damndest to get out.
I imagine that ideas, with all the downtime they have, get together and plan revolts. They occasionally succeed in the fullest possible manner - that is, get seized upon, throttled, finessed, and, in the end, typed and edited and read by someone. Most of the time, though, they get out, but written down and incorporated in the most horrible, awkward way. When this happens, and they see themselves flayed out on a piece of paper, looking all un-worked and entirely unfavorable, I wonder if they ponder the situation and thing to themselves, “Goddamnit - I should have just stayed in there a little bit longer.”
Here, for your reading pleasure (and to prove that I’m not a lunatic with nothing to really write about), is a fully unedited, true-to-the-letter, factually-accurate, blow-by-blow account of an Idea Revolt. When you read this passage, put yourself in my position - sitting in a café, on a lazy Sunday, with a loud football game enveloping the room, and a blank sheet of paper in front of you. The Ideas formed and pushed, linked together in the most random fashion, no doubt drunk on the nervousness and excitement that came with the unspeakably dangerous revolt, which they had planned for weeks - which was happening, really happening - and then they fell out onto the paper, embarrassed and gasping for breath:
“There’s ground-shaking football being played today. I believe today is the two games that decides who plays the Super Bowl. The first game is just starting - Jordin Sparks, American Idol herself, is taking her turn of glitzing up the National Anthem. I didn’t know that she had won American Idol; I just know her from her annoying singles on the radio. Surrounding me are about ten moneyed 20-types, who are choking on cigars and watching the game. Six of them just left - maybe the environs weren’t up to their liking. I have no idea.
It is the Sunday before the Tuesday. This Tuesday is not only notable for Barack Obama’s inauguration; it is also the day that, for the first time, I will go to court - well, traffic court. Very historical - our first black president, and a guy in Tampa goes to court for the first time. That should make the Tribune, at least.
I’m currently supporting the Cardinals. That makes me a party of one on this side of the café.
Kurt Warner!
As a note - I don’t like the new line of Budweiser “Drinkability” commercials… the new ones, with their “hey, look at this, I can create drawings out of thin air” is kind of boring - but then again, the old ones weren’t too imaginative either. The only reason I liked the old ones - other than their semi-surrealism - was the fucking cute red-haired girl in one of them.
“Fills you up?” - that was her.
All tall and thin - with an expressive face and, yes, brownish-red hair - that was a cute, cute girl. She was the only thing that made those certain Bucs games watchable - those games where we’re down two touchdowns at the beginning of the fourth - and there’s a chance, a sliver of a chance - that we could regain and, at least, make the game go into overtime. That would never happen, of course. We’d get one more touchdown, and that would lose us the game - just enough of a loss to make certain people royally pissed (my brother) and other people annoyed (myself).
Red hair kills me - on girls, at least. It goes well with blue eyes - which aren’t so special, according to a song that I wrote about fifty feet from this very spot more than two years ago.
Don’t get me wrong - I like blue eyes. They look nice. They’re occasionally entrancing. But a lot of people have them, especially a lot of girls. Blue eyes aren’t the single thing that makes a girl special - that’s what I meant by that song. And not all blue eyes are special - they might be, and probably are, but they’re not always what they’re cracked up to be.
In the meantime, while I’ve mused about the Budweiser girl, and Bucs, and blue eyes - the Eagles have scored a field goal and, just now, stripped the ball from my buddies, the Cardinals. I believe the middle-aged guy at the other table is trying to bait me - “It’s cheap, but we’ll take it!” he’s repeated three times, looking at me directly. The Eagles suck - their fans are shit, lobbing batteries and stuff. Fuck them. I don’t see Cardinals fans starting riots.
Now, they’re getting first down after first down - unbearable. I’m not gonna stand for this shit.
Maybe Raheem Morris will groom the Bucs back to their Super Bowl glory, and we’ll beat the Eagles’ ass next year. That would be beautiful.
Touchdown Cardinals!
I’m not getting much done here. Football has me distracted. But this is real life - the Sunday before the Tuesday - and if I had control of things, the Cardinals would go to the Super Bowl, and I’ll have a nice time in court. Barack Obama is already going to be President - that’s the best part of all.
And if you take anything from this pile of hodge-podge that would even make Judy Hill blush - let it be that.”
Bob Dylan, when asked how he wrote a double-album’s worth of songs for Blonde on Blonde, replied that he was working at such a fast pace, that he had forgotten writing most of them - they just kind of poured out. When Dylan’s ideas revolted, stuff like “Just Like a Woman” and “Temporary Like Achilles” would, all of a sudden, exist - good, worthwhile, interestingly-worded songs.
This is because his ideas, when they revolted, were finely woven and well-put-together - that’s what I think, anyway. But my ideas aren’t like that - they’re like a group of peasants, working purely from instinct, trying to do anything to make their life better - even if it includes embarrassing their creator and communicator. Stupid ideas.
And, of course, the only ideas that revolt are the weird, stupid ones. Anything of importance is smart enough to stay in their place - inside my head - until they’re called upon and shaped and written - coddled, loved, and sculpted into a beautiful, worthwhile existence.
This is why I’m glad that I have the opportunity for multiple drafts. Also, when paper is introduced to fire, it has a tendency to turn into a pile of inscrutable cinders. This is a plus, even though I haven’t literally set fire to anything I’ve written since the eighth grade - no matter how bad or embarrassing it was. Fire is such a melodramatic thing, when you can just rip the stuff up with your bare hands - no risk of housefires, or devastating burns.
But, like any real person, those destroyed ideas can linger indefinitely in my head, in memory, for as long as they wish to… attached to another little idea, which might meet up with one of those huge, smart, important ideas, and procreate - into a large family of ideas, and when that happens - well, it gets seized upon and written about eventually - shaped, blasted, and expounded upon. Loved and coddled.
To that end, this is the Tuesday of the Tuesday… not the Sunday before the Tuesday, or the Friday after the Tuesday - today is that singular, tumultuous Tuesday. And, in detail, a lot of stuff turned out good since Sunday: Barack Obama was sworn in this morning, and it was quite moving; the Cardinals beat the Eagles and are now going all the way to the Super Bowl - which is being held in this lovely city; traffic court was a groove, because the judge dismissed my ticket in fifteen words, and I walked out without owing anyone anything; and Monday was my last day of packing things safely and charging people for it, because I was laid off - and I find it hard to care about it, because I feel entirely free. Life is, again, a blank slate - and not just for me, but also for many, many people. It’s a great thing.
Life changes, like ideas do, at a fast and unpredictable speed. At the risk of sounding cliché, you’ve got to grab onto the reins and hold on with all your might. Something to consider.
And, with that, I’ve touched on everything I needed to - writing clichés, Idea Revolt, my life, and all the things that I wanted to write about. Ideas were used - and not in vain. That makes this piece at least semi-complete.
Ideas - like revolutionaries - never die in vain. They just look weird for a while.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
King Corona (in tribute)
King Corona has always been nice to me - well, for the most part. One time, I came here, half-starving and in the perfect, unshakable mood for a King Corona Cuban sandwich - with plantain chips, all warm and crunchy - and was rudely turned down, because the kitchen had technically closed down all of ten minutes before I got there. I was pissed - very angry - but then again, I was late.
But, as I was walking out the door, I was pretty sure that I saw Jimbo, the cook who would make those Cuban sandwiches (with plantain chips) that deserved perfect, unshakable cravings - still knocking around the building, somewhere. Or maybe I didn't - either way, after wasting a dollar to get my car out of the garage, I drove out to sweet Riverview and went to Taco Bell, and was awarded with a totally different order than what I asked for, which I took home and ate, in total anger, simmering about a lunch and, indeed, an afternoon ruined… but that’s another story.
Perhaps the Cuban sandwich snub was what I deserved for all those afternoons that I’d stumble in, all disheveled and carrying an evil-smelling “aristocratic” briefcase that I bought for like $12 at Sunshine Thrift, and bother Sarah for a Coke, and then sit in my corner, scheming and writing, looking unapproachable for up to three hours before grunting up from the chair, the perfect picture of a starving artist, whose hair was like a humid haystack in a life-threatening thunderstorm, with a wrinkled shirt and a face that said “I don’t give a shit about how I look, but my head is full of IDEAS that MUST BE WRITTEN DOWN - oh shit, so important” - walking up to the counter and pulling three sorry-looking dollar bills from my wallet - $2 for the Coke, $1 for a “tip” - and with a “See ya, darlin’ “ would walk my sorry ass to my car in 16th Street parking garage where, after a ride in those evil-smelling elevators, I would tender one dollar for my parking fee, and then treasure my one remaining dollar, which was earmarked for “whatever” - usually a small bag of chips from Whaley’s when I got bored enough at Lenny and Vinny’s to walk over and buy them, being left with a penny, since the chips themselves were all of 99 cents, and then being absolutely broke of bills until I had a delivery or two, or three, or none - whatever happened that evening, which was never, ever predictable, not at all - this is the life is a pizza-delivery man who fancies himself a writer/musician/man of the arts and plans his visits to the one place he can be creative around five whole one-dollar bills. It was a crazy, frustrating and wholly fun lifestyle. I lived it for more than a year.
Anyway, my point is this: I didn’t spend any good money here for a long time. A Coke - which is infinitely refillable around these parts - is the cheapest thing here, besides water. A café con leche is $3.25 or thereabouts, and a full lunch - the aforementioned Cuban sandwich (with plantain chips) and a Coke (since drinking heavy coffee and having a hot sandwich may be good for some stomachs, but not mine) came to $10 or $11, after a tip worthy of such a meal. I could not afford such luxuries in those days, so I stuck to my $3 special, which probably irked some of the managers here, thinking that my corner table might have been better filled up with a person or three who would get food and beer and wine and maybe some old port, and would pay something like $40 for these pleasures - or more, I’m sure. Instead, this table of mine was occupied by a scary-looking “artist” who would have fit in better in a halfway-decent “coffee bar” in L.A. or in Greenwich Village or somewhere that catered to my type, instead of an upscale cigar bar on 7th Avenue that had enough of an audience to consider offering 40-year-old port.
And, to that end, I’ve never had enough money to sample the 40-year-old port - or, for that matter, the 30- or 20-year-old port on call here. I can look at it - since it sits right behind the bar - but cannot afford to have the bottle cracked and a portion poured for me. I’ve often wondered how it tastes - probably like jewels in a glass, or at least I hope it does, for the price they charge for it - and thought about the act of drinking a liquid that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969. Must be an interesting experience.
But, my money situation in those times was dire enough that I couldn’t even look at those bottles of port and not feel an immature, rageful jealousy for the people who could thoughtlessly shell out $50-plus dollars for a taste of a drink that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969 - it was that bad, being a “starving artist”, being pointlessly jealous of men with money and a pad on Harbour Island, or, if they had a family, a house on South Orleans Avenue. I’m not jealous of those guys anymore, now that I have a little more money to play with; now, I like to laugh at their jokes, or treat them like humans, or occasionally be mad at them, when they use their money in bad ways that affect me personally. That’s not very often, though.
Even after a few paragraphs of rambling, I haven’t touched on what I was trying to get to - except the end of the last paragraph, which did mention my reversal of money-luck. And the entire point of this missive/essay/whatever is to praise this place, not bash the people who like to inhabit it - and I will fix this post-haste.
Anyway… since then, I’ve gotten a new job, which I wrote about before - but for anyone who hasn’t read it, here’s a recall: I pack things into boxes, make sure they won’t break in transit, and, after affixing a label to it which effects where its going to go, once an official Man paws it later, charging that person an amount of money. That total eventually gets paid. Next customer.
Or, if you wanted some stamps, I can sell you those, too. There you go.
It’s not a hard job. It pays decent - at least, more than I was usually getting delivering pizza. The only really horrible thing about the job is that it takes up most of my time… which is not entirely a good thing. I’m back on a regular old work schedule, which usually leaves me at the mercy of Saturday crowds, rush hours, and everything else that comes with being synched up with most of America’s employment times. I spent two years being un-synched - enjoying the pleasures of, say, going to the mall at 2 PM on a Tuesday, or taking photographs at an hour when most people were chained to a telephone, leaving the streets pretty empty. Getting synched up again was a hassle. It still is, actually.
Mercifully, I usually get one day off, during the working week. I spend this time off the grid - unhinged, as it were - happily having a temporary flashback to my “starving artist” days… and how fun it can be.
I miss them - I’m not going to lie. There’s a charm in having a quarter-tank of gas and five dollar bills between being relatively comfy and having an uncomfortable, boring bout of what Orwell called “enforced idleness” - a night-long stay in room 847 of Hotel Tedium - in the vast, slightly embarrassing land of Being Broke.
You should have heard me in those days - bitching to Dallas, to Jeremy, to Ryan, to Sarah, the cute-as, sweet-hearted, red-headed barista at this place (whom I mentioned briefly before as the Dispenser of the $2 Cokes, if you recall), and anyone with ears - bitching about money. “Goddamn it!” I would fairly shout (I don’t shout too much), “this life SUCKS!!” (Deserving of the double exclamation points, believe me.) “It’s supposed to be romantic! These are supposed to be the TIMES OF MY LIFE! And I positively, absolutely, without-a-doubt HATE IT!” (So on and so on - excuse my semantics, by the way - until the person I was talking to would be reduced to monosyllabic responses - or would change the subject - or think about what their cat, at home, was up to.)
But now - being removed from it - those were the times of my life. Kind of. Orwell (again with the Orwell - but he did write two of my favorite books, both of which dealt with poverty, on two different levels) wrote that once you’re broke, you find it hard to care about much. I can tell you, from experience, that he was being honest - “Only two francs lie between you and starvation,” and all that, from Down and Out in Paris and London - that’s what it feels like. I might not eat tomorrow - who gives a fuck.
Well, I was never that broke - except for a handful of occasions. I felt more like Gordon Comstock in Keep the Aspidistra Flying - stuck in a dingy, lower-middle class rut, convinced that a $20-dollar bill (or two) was the only thing between me and totally amazing, awe-inspiring artistic freedom. I was so broke, and sick of it, that I started becoming Gordon Comstock - believing everything he said, or thought - all that stuff about money-gods and how finances keep you from everything that, basically, makes life worth living - which made me a sad case, especially considering that his character was created as a satire. That’s right - George Orwell probably would have despised me, if not found my aping to be humorous. I might have given the old man a chuckle or two.
And how did Gordon end up? Married, in a much-detested “good job”, earning his four pounds a week, with an aspidistra in the window.
And how did I end up? Earning more than usual, but still trying to fit a creative life into a schedule that would better suit a weekend bar-hopper, or someone hoping for quiet domesticity. I’m not really like that, so combining the best of a moneyed life and my penchant for acting like a shabby old gentleman with a flair for the arts is proving unusual - but not entirely unsuccessful.
And that’s where this smoky, wood-walled place fits in - good old King Corona.
Here’s some - but, of course, not all - of the things that I like about this place:
It’s basically a hole in the middle of 7th Avenue - kind of like Alice in Wonderland, but only not really - where one can stay lost and write for three or four straight hours, which is what I’m doing now, actually; good coffee in plentiful amounts; you can smoke indoors, if that’s your bag; it’s mostly quiet, which conjures up all kinds of inspiration for me, for some unexplainable reason; and, if you want conversation, there’s no end to the types of people in here - liberals, straights, scene kids, old Cuban guys, hot girls, business professionals, young upstarts, band members, artists, the young and the bright, and the old and the wise - and those are just the people who have worked behind the counter in the three years that I’ve been coming here. Whoever sits at the tables, or on the patio outside, or gets their hair cut at the barber shop that operates out of this place (that’s right, a fucking barber shop) are all of those, and many, many more - all of them interesting, and most of them friendly. The food is good, too - just refer to the beginning of this rambling, mostly pointless tribute.
There’s always music on, and depending on who is controlling it that day, it mostly synchs to whatever mood I’m in, which is an extremely fortunate thing. Otherwise, it just sits on the edge between soothing and thoughtful - be it the best of Cuban jam bands, or Bob Dylan outtakes, or nameless, good soul music - it does much to the creative process.
I’ve lifted so many lyrics, and musical snippets, off of the things that attack my senses here. There’s a flat-screen television to my left, tuned to ESPN or TMC, blaring commercials or a college football game or some old film (indeed, one time, I watched an entire Lassie film here, for lack of anything else better to do); there’s knots of people, here and there, all around me, off on their own trips and leaving swirls of conversation in their wake; and the real world sits outside - a strip of 7th Avenue, reflecting the weather and whatever else is going on - attractive girls walk by, skaters, punks, bums, gaggles of bike-riders.
Even in my most illogical, moody, and disheveled times, I have always been welcome here. One time, I left in a hurry and thoughtlessly forgot to pay for all of the food and drink I had been scarfing - and simply paid the next time I saw them. That’s business - good business, trusting business, that relies on honesty from the customer and the staff. I’m sure if I did business here every other day, I could set up an account - that’s what kind of place it is. The owner, Don, is a hell of a nice guy - he's the kind of boss that wanders around the bar during the daytime, talking to random customers and having lunch with his buddies near the front windows, never losing sight of maintaining the ridiculously easy vibe within these walls, before going home and, I assume, watching sports and smoking cigars, among other things.
Every owner/boss should be like him - every place of business would be a groove to work with. And that’s a fact.
It’s totally nasty outside - windy and rainy and cold. I’m here in this warm haven, and just wrote - by hand - about 2,400 words in one sitting. I’m about to head home - for food, and a couch, and for book-reading and Wii-golf-watching with my friend Jeremy. I’m sure that I’ve popped through the three-hour parking time limit, which drives my parking garage fee to $3 - instead of $1. I might have worried about that a year ago, being so broke; but now it’s not too big of a deal. I even bought two drinks - a café con leche and a Coke - which I can pay for now - so on and so forth.
Honestly, though, I’m milking the last few moments I have in this place. The overhead lights have just dimmed, which is King Corona parlance for “Night is coming - the sun is setting - you might have to be somewhere here pretty soon.” Or, at least, that’s how I see it.
The bar has cleared out, for the most part; there’s one guy sitting there now, a professional-type waiting for his black-and-tan, or whatever he’s going to order and drink and enjoy. I would suggest the Guinness - it’s quite heavenly here. The Bass is also tasty. No beer for me, though - I’m about to kill this Coke, currently on its fourth refill - and the café con leche died a few hours ago.
But, indeed, the lights have dimmed and the house in Riverview is becoming more and more of a priority. A party of four, sitting to my left, are sipping wine and catching up on things - probably haven’t seen each other in a while - telling stories and such. There’s laughter - loud laughter - they’re gonna stew here for a while; their time is just beginning here - mine is rapidly coming to an end. You can feel when you’ve got to shove off from this place; you just know, in a weird display of psychic forethought - or usually, your back is hurting and your ass is numb - either way, something always lets you know.
You can’t ignore real life forever, sadly; you can’t stay here forever, more like, which is also sad. This is probably the one place where I can be in public and also be alone, with my ideas and such - a shut-in out in the open.
There could be one way of prolonging the magic - maybe I could just move in here - put a cot and an alarm clock upstairs, in between the kegs and old bits of wood and the rumored ghost that I’d have to share the place with - maybe a computer and a turntable too. I’ll have to talk to Don about that one of these days.
Living here would be pretty cool; or, I’d die after a week-long exposure to the vibes and words floating around downstairs, floating up through the floor in a choking fog. Something to consider. I wonder what Don would charge.
(Handwritten at King Corona Cigars [1523 East 7th Avenue, in beautiful Ybor City], over three-and-a-half hours on January 13th, 2009; typed and edited by the author the same evening.)
But, as I was walking out the door, I was pretty sure that I saw Jimbo, the cook who would make those Cuban sandwiches (with plantain chips) that deserved perfect, unshakable cravings - still knocking around the building, somewhere. Or maybe I didn't - either way, after wasting a dollar to get my car out of the garage, I drove out to sweet Riverview and went to Taco Bell, and was awarded with a totally different order than what I asked for, which I took home and ate, in total anger, simmering about a lunch and, indeed, an afternoon ruined… but that’s another story.
Perhaps the Cuban sandwich snub was what I deserved for all those afternoons that I’d stumble in, all disheveled and carrying an evil-smelling “aristocratic” briefcase that I bought for like $12 at Sunshine Thrift, and bother Sarah for a Coke, and then sit in my corner, scheming and writing, looking unapproachable for up to three hours before grunting up from the chair, the perfect picture of a starving artist, whose hair was like a humid haystack in a life-threatening thunderstorm, with a wrinkled shirt and a face that said “I don’t give a shit about how I look, but my head is full of IDEAS that MUST BE WRITTEN DOWN - oh shit, so important” - walking up to the counter and pulling three sorry-looking dollar bills from my wallet - $2 for the Coke, $1 for a “tip” - and with a “See ya, darlin’ “ would walk my sorry ass to my car in 16th Street parking garage where, after a ride in those evil-smelling elevators, I would tender one dollar for my parking fee, and then treasure my one remaining dollar, which was earmarked for “whatever” - usually a small bag of chips from Whaley’s when I got bored enough at Lenny and Vinny’s to walk over and buy them, being left with a penny, since the chips themselves were all of 99 cents, and then being absolutely broke of bills until I had a delivery or two, or three, or none - whatever happened that evening, which was never, ever predictable, not at all - this is the life is a pizza-delivery man who fancies himself a writer/musician/man of the arts and plans his visits to the one place he can be creative around five whole one-dollar bills. It was a crazy, frustrating and wholly fun lifestyle. I lived it for more than a year.
Anyway, my point is this: I didn’t spend any good money here for a long time. A Coke - which is infinitely refillable around these parts - is the cheapest thing here, besides water. A café con leche is $3.25 or thereabouts, and a full lunch - the aforementioned Cuban sandwich (with plantain chips) and a Coke (since drinking heavy coffee and having a hot sandwich may be good for some stomachs, but not mine) came to $10 or $11, after a tip worthy of such a meal. I could not afford such luxuries in those days, so I stuck to my $3 special, which probably irked some of the managers here, thinking that my corner table might have been better filled up with a person or three who would get food and beer and wine and maybe some old port, and would pay something like $40 for these pleasures - or more, I’m sure. Instead, this table of mine was occupied by a scary-looking “artist” who would have fit in better in a halfway-decent “coffee bar” in L.A. or in Greenwich Village or somewhere that catered to my type, instead of an upscale cigar bar on 7th Avenue that had enough of an audience to consider offering 40-year-old port.
And, to that end, I’ve never had enough money to sample the 40-year-old port - or, for that matter, the 30- or 20-year-old port on call here. I can look at it - since it sits right behind the bar - but cannot afford to have the bottle cracked and a portion poured for me. I’ve often wondered how it tastes - probably like jewels in a glass, or at least I hope it does, for the price they charge for it - and thought about the act of drinking a liquid that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969. Must be an interesting experience.
But, my money situation in those times was dire enough that I couldn’t even look at those bottles of port and not feel an immature, rageful jealousy for the people who could thoughtlessly shell out $50-plus dollars for a taste of a drink that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969 - it was that bad, being a “starving artist”, being pointlessly jealous of men with money and a pad on Harbour Island, or, if they had a family, a house on South Orleans Avenue. I’m not jealous of those guys anymore, now that I have a little more money to play with; now, I like to laugh at their jokes, or treat them like humans, or occasionally be mad at them, when they use their money in bad ways that affect me personally. That’s not very often, though.
Even after a few paragraphs of rambling, I haven’t touched on what I was trying to get to - except the end of the last paragraph, which did mention my reversal of money-luck. And the entire point of this missive/essay/whatever is to praise this place, not bash the people who like to inhabit it - and I will fix this post-haste.
Anyway… since then, I’ve gotten a new job, which I wrote about before - but for anyone who hasn’t read it, here’s a recall: I pack things into boxes, make sure they won’t break in transit, and, after affixing a label to it which effects where its going to go, once an official Man paws it later, charging that person an amount of money. That total eventually gets paid. Next customer.
Or, if you wanted some stamps, I can sell you those, too. There you go.
It’s not a hard job. It pays decent - at least, more than I was usually getting delivering pizza. The only really horrible thing about the job is that it takes up most of my time… which is not entirely a good thing. I’m back on a regular old work schedule, which usually leaves me at the mercy of Saturday crowds, rush hours, and everything else that comes with being synched up with most of America’s employment times. I spent two years being un-synched - enjoying the pleasures of, say, going to the mall at 2 PM on a Tuesday, or taking photographs at an hour when most people were chained to a telephone, leaving the streets pretty empty. Getting synched up again was a hassle. It still is, actually.
Mercifully, I usually get one day off, during the working week. I spend this time off the grid - unhinged, as it were - happily having a temporary flashback to my “starving artist” days… and how fun it can be.
I miss them - I’m not going to lie. There’s a charm in having a quarter-tank of gas and five dollar bills between being relatively comfy and having an uncomfortable, boring bout of what Orwell called “enforced idleness” - a night-long stay in room 847 of Hotel Tedium - in the vast, slightly embarrassing land of Being Broke.
You should have heard me in those days - bitching to Dallas, to Jeremy, to Ryan, to Sarah, the cute-as, sweet-hearted, red-headed barista at this place (whom I mentioned briefly before as the Dispenser of the $2 Cokes, if you recall), and anyone with ears - bitching about money. “Goddamn it!” I would fairly shout (I don’t shout too much), “this life SUCKS!!” (Deserving of the double exclamation points, believe me.) “It’s supposed to be romantic! These are supposed to be the TIMES OF MY LIFE! And I positively, absolutely, without-a-doubt HATE IT!” (So on and so on - excuse my semantics, by the way - until the person I was talking to would be reduced to monosyllabic responses - or would change the subject - or think about what their cat, at home, was up to.)
But now - being removed from it - those were the times of my life. Kind of. Orwell (again with the Orwell - but he did write two of my favorite books, both of which dealt with poverty, on two different levels) wrote that once you’re broke, you find it hard to care about much. I can tell you, from experience, that he was being honest - “Only two francs lie between you and starvation,” and all that, from Down and Out in Paris and London - that’s what it feels like. I might not eat tomorrow - who gives a fuck.
Well, I was never that broke - except for a handful of occasions. I felt more like Gordon Comstock in Keep the Aspidistra Flying - stuck in a dingy, lower-middle class rut, convinced that a $20-dollar bill (or two) was the only thing between me and totally amazing, awe-inspiring artistic freedom. I was so broke, and sick of it, that I started becoming Gordon Comstock - believing everything he said, or thought - all that stuff about money-gods and how finances keep you from everything that, basically, makes life worth living - which made me a sad case, especially considering that his character was created as a satire. That’s right - George Orwell probably would have despised me, if not found my aping to be humorous. I might have given the old man a chuckle or two.
And how did Gordon end up? Married, in a much-detested “good job”, earning his four pounds a week, with an aspidistra in the window.
And how did I end up? Earning more than usual, but still trying to fit a creative life into a schedule that would better suit a weekend bar-hopper, or someone hoping for quiet domesticity. I’m not really like that, so combining the best of a moneyed life and my penchant for acting like a shabby old gentleman with a flair for the arts is proving unusual - but not entirely unsuccessful.
And that’s where this smoky, wood-walled place fits in - good old King Corona.
Here’s some - but, of course, not all - of the things that I like about this place:
It’s basically a hole in the middle of 7th Avenue - kind of like Alice in Wonderland, but only not really - where one can stay lost and write for three or four straight hours, which is what I’m doing now, actually; good coffee in plentiful amounts; you can smoke indoors, if that’s your bag; it’s mostly quiet, which conjures up all kinds of inspiration for me, for some unexplainable reason; and, if you want conversation, there’s no end to the types of people in here - liberals, straights, scene kids, old Cuban guys, hot girls, business professionals, young upstarts, band members, artists, the young and the bright, and the old and the wise - and those are just the people who have worked behind the counter in the three years that I’ve been coming here. Whoever sits at the tables, or on the patio outside, or gets their hair cut at the barber shop that operates out of this place (that’s right, a fucking barber shop) are all of those, and many, many more - all of them interesting, and most of them friendly. The food is good, too - just refer to the beginning of this rambling, mostly pointless tribute.
There’s always music on, and depending on who is controlling it that day, it mostly synchs to whatever mood I’m in, which is an extremely fortunate thing. Otherwise, it just sits on the edge between soothing and thoughtful - be it the best of Cuban jam bands, or Bob Dylan outtakes, or nameless, good soul music - it does much to the creative process.
I’ve lifted so many lyrics, and musical snippets, off of the things that attack my senses here. There’s a flat-screen television to my left, tuned to ESPN or TMC, blaring commercials or a college football game or some old film (indeed, one time, I watched an entire Lassie film here, for lack of anything else better to do); there’s knots of people, here and there, all around me, off on their own trips and leaving swirls of conversation in their wake; and the real world sits outside - a strip of 7th Avenue, reflecting the weather and whatever else is going on - attractive girls walk by, skaters, punks, bums, gaggles of bike-riders.
Even in my most illogical, moody, and disheveled times, I have always been welcome here. One time, I left in a hurry and thoughtlessly forgot to pay for all of the food and drink I had been scarfing - and simply paid the next time I saw them. That’s business - good business, trusting business, that relies on honesty from the customer and the staff. I’m sure if I did business here every other day, I could set up an account - that’s what kind of place it is. The owner, Don, is a hell of a nice guy - he's the kind of boss that wanders around the bar during the daytime, talking to random customers and having lunch with his buddies near the front windows, never losing sight of maintaining the ridiculously easy vibe within these walls, before going home and, I assume, watching sports and smoking cigars, among other things.
Every owner/boss should be like him - every place of business would be a groove to work with. And that’s a fact.
It’s totally nasty outside - windy and rainy and cold. I’m here in this warm haven, and just wrote - by hand - about 2,400 words in one sitting. I’m about to head home - for food, and a couch, and for book-reading and Wii-golf-watching with my friend Jeremy. I’m sure that I’ve popped through the three-hour parking time limit, which drives my parking garage fee to $3 - instead of $1. I might have worried about that a year ago, being so broke; but now it’s not too big of a deal. I even bought two drinks - a café con leche and a Coke - which I can pay for now - so on and so forth.
Honestly, though, I’m milking the last few moments I have in this place. The overhead lights have just dimmed, which is King Corona parlance for “Night is coming - the sun is setting - you might have to be somewhere here pretty soon.” Or, at least, that’s how I see it.
The bar has cleared out, for the most part; there’s one guy sitting there now, a professional-type waiting for his black-and-tan, or whatever he’s going to order and drink and enjoy. I would suggest the Guinness - it’s quite heavenly here. The Bass is also tasty. No beer for me, though - I’m about to kill this Coke, currently on its fourth refill - and the café con leche died a few hours ago.
But, indeed, the lights have dimmed and the house in Riverview is becoming more and more of a priority. A party of four, sitting to my left, are sipping wine and catching up on things - probably haven’t seen each other in a while - telling stories and such. There’s laughter - loud laughter - they’re gonna stew here for a while; their time is just beginning here - mine is rapidly coming to an end. You can feel when you’ve got to shove off from this place; you just know, in a weird display of psychic forethought - or usually, your back is hurting and your ass is numb - either way, something always lets you know.
You can’t ignore real life forever, sadly; you can’t stay here forever, more like, which is also sad. This is probably the one place where I can be in public and also be alone, with my ideas and such - a shut-in out in the open.
There could be one way of prolonging the magic - maybe I could just move in here - put a cot and an alarm clock upstairs, in between the kegs and old bits of wood and the rumored ghost that I’d have to share the place with - maybe a computer and a turntable too. I’ll have to talk to Don about that one of these days.
Living here would be pretty cool; or, I’d die after a week-long exposure to the vibes and words floating around downstairs, floating up through the floor in a choking fog. Something to consider. I wonder what Don would charge.
(Handwritten at King Corona Cigars [1523 East 7th Avenue, in beautiful Ybor City], over three-and-a-half hours on January 13th, 2009; typed and edited by the author the same evening.)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Gahh!
Hey guys.
I'm back, for the moment.
I'm writing a blog as a way to chop up the tedium of editing pictures.
I mean, I *like* editing pictures - to a degree. But often, I just don't have the patience to sit and fuck with them for hours.
For instance, I have a photograph here that I personally think is brilliant. I was on N. 12th Street this afternoon, shooting stuff for the Tampa project, and I saw a car pull up near me and park. Two people got out, a very attractive girl and a cigarette-smoking guy. They locked the car and started walking towards Kennedy. I, meanwhile, got the Garry Winogrand inspiration, and, without raising the camera to my eye to frame the shot, released the shutter as they walked by.
The single frame I got of them is pretty good, I think. The problem is that its horribly tilted - probably because I didn't want to seem so creepy as to actually be *taking a picture* of this couple, so I just acted like I did it accidentally. The camera wasn't level, of course. This is proving to be a bitch to edit, purely because of my options - let me explain...
When I pull the shutter on the Nikon D60, I make ten million pixels happy. They get to soak up light, and color, and do the job they were created for. They rarely complain, and the only benefit they ask for is that their sensor - their home - is kept nice and dust-free. The sensor cleaner does this with ease, of course, providing safe, good working conditions for all ten million of those pixels. That's the short of how the camera works - ten million employees, or something like that.
Anyway, with TEN MILLION of those things working full-bore (except for two or three slackers - hot pixels - but that's a different story...), I have very, very clear total resolution. I could probably make prints up to 24" by 36" without losing detail, or having to blow the image up.
With that kind of resolution, I can do all kinds of cropping. My options have opened up - so much so, that I'm kind of drowning in them. The picture I referred to above - the one of the couple - can be anything it wants to be, basically. I can make it perfectly straight; I can also crop it almost any way I want to - and it would still be greatly clear, and quite sharp. That's ten million pixels for you.
But, I can't decide how to crop the damn thing. My options have become a trap - six months ago, I would have considered this picture trash, and would have regretted not holding the camera straight - all of that stuff. Now, I can *make it work* - and now that I have the option - the means to *make it work* - I'm stymied by it.
That's life, I guess.
Other than those problems, editing is pretty easy. I do a lot of pre-editing in the camera, on-site, in terms of deleting photos that obviously aren't going to work when I edit them for real. This gives me extra card space, and we all know how convenient that can be.
Editing can be monotonous, though - and that's why I'm writing this blog in the first place... to clear my head before I tackle this Winogrand-ish frame again. Working the fingers can do wonders for the brain, especially if you ramble.... Derek Taylor, ladies and gentlemen...
See ya'll later.
P.S. My top photo-editing music:
1. Charley Pride - She's Just an Old Love Turned Memory
2. the Beach Boys - Surfin' Sufari
3. Lightnin' Hopkins - Lightnin'
4. Avril Lavigne - anything.
I'm back, for the moment.
I'm writing a blog as a way to chop up the tedium of editing pictures.
I mean, I *like* editing pictures - to a degree. But often, I just don't have the patience to sit and fuck with them for hours.
For instance, I have a photograph here that I personally think is brilliant. I was on N. 12th Street this afternoon, shooting stuff for the Tampa project, and I saw a car pull up near me and park. Two people got out, a very attractive girl and a cigarette-smoking guy. They locked the car and started walking towards Kennedy. I, meanwhile, got the Garry Winogrand inspiration, and, without raising the camera to my eye to frame the shot, released the shutter as they walked by.
The single frame I got of them is pretty good, I think. The problem is that its horribly tilted - probably because I didn't want to seem so creepy as to actually be *taking a picture* of this couple, so I just acted like I did it accidentally. The camera wasn't level, of course. This is proving to be a bitch to edit, purely because of my options - let me explain...
When I pull the shutter on the Nikon D60, I make ten million pixels happy. They get to soak up light, and color, and do the job they were created for. They rarely complain, and the only benefit they ask for is that their sensor - their home - is kept nice and dust-free. The sensor cleaner does this with ease, of course, providing safe, good working conditions for all ten million of those pixels. That's the short of how the camera works - ten million employees, or something like that.
Anyway, with TEN MILLION of those things working full-bore (except for two or three slackers - hot pixels - but that's a different story...), I have very, very clear total resolution. I could probably make prints up to 24" by 36" without losing detail, or having to blow the image up.
With that kind of resolution, I can do all kinds of cropping. My options have opened up - so much so, that I'm kind of drowning in them. The picture I referred to above - the one of the couple - can be anything it wants to be, basically. I can make it perfectly straight; I can also crop it almost any way I want to - and it would still be greatly clear, and quite sharp. That's ten million pixels for you.
But, I can't decide how to crop the damn thing. My options have become a trap - six months ago, I would have considered this picture trash, and would have regretted not holding the camera straight - all of that stuff. Now, I can *make it work* - and now that I have the option - the means to *make it work* - I'm stymied by it.
That's life, I guess.
Other than those problems, editing is pretty easy. I do a lot of pre-editing in the camera, on-site, in terms of deleting photos that obviously aren't going to work when I edit them for real. This gives me extra card space, and we all know how convenient that can be.
Editing can be monotonous, though - and that's why I'm writing this blog in the first place... to clear my head before I tackle this Winogrand-ish frame again. Working the fingers can do wonders for the brain, especially if you ramble.... Derek Taylor, ladies and gentlemen...
See ya'll later.
P.S. My top photo-editing music:
1. Charley Pride - She's Just an Old Love Turned Memory
2. the Beach Boys - Surfin' Sufari
3. Lightnin' Hopkins - Lightnin'
4. Avril Lavigne - anything.
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