The Unemployed Journalist Chronicles

Did you miss Kyle Durrie last Sunday? That's too bad.

2012-01-29T16:04:00.000-08:00

ST. PETERSBURG — What could be misconstrued as a food truck in the hungry Downtown area turns out to be Kyle Durrie's Chevrolet Step Van. Inside, she is kicking it Gutenberg-style with a letterpress machine and cross-country road map. Outside, kids are running around with the "St. Petersburg" prints Durrie helped them create with moveable type.

For seven months, Durrie has been on the road with the Moveable Type project that led her to Central Avenue. Moveable type is defined as a "system of printing that uses moveable pieces of type (e.g., individual letters numbers and characters) to reproduce elements of a document," according to the project website.

Durrie owns Power and Light Press, a letterpress studio in Portland, Ore. She studied art at Bowdoin College and started printing after taking classes in Seattle. She's been printing about six years and wants to show the country what the letterpress process is all about.

"I decided it would be a really fun way to expose people to this type of printing and take a neat road trip," she said. The road map hanging inside the Type Truck is marked with over 120 red pushpins.

The Type Truck, complete with Durrie's quirky greeting cards available on Etsy under Power and Light Press.

Signs inside the truck are packed with print humor like "Printeresting" and "Comic Sans: A Typeface Made For Radio." A box near the steering wheel is stuffed full of "Donations for Gas Travel," guarded by a little green dinosaur. The state magnets stuck to the ceiling almost form the entire United States. Durrie decided to schedule the St. Petersburg visit after connecting online with Jennifer Kosharek, owner of Eve-N-Odd Gallery on Central Avenue.

"Every place has something really different to offer," Durrie said. "I try to make something specific for each place I'm at."

A single "St. Petersburg" print sits against a window inside the truck.

Next stop? Miami.

Kyle Durrie in St. Petersburg!

Not living in the Type Truck's path? Follow it on Twitter for blog updates and tweets about the only "Cross-Country Adventures in Printing": @TypeTruck

Why the new Facebook Timeline is another shining example of privacy invasion that people will continue to put up with

2012-01-24T21:37:00.000-08:00

Once again, a new Facebook feature is clogging the intellect of my Twitter newsfeed. I like Twitter because I can follow things that actually stimulate brain activity, versus mindlessly Liking things for a millisecond of satisfaction via clickery. I enjoy tracking news sources that can teach me things or people that have mastered the art of 140 character quips. Unfortunately, Facebook is of great public interest because the universe is tied into it, so whenever a new feature breaks through and stirs the ant farm, I still have to hear about it.

As I've said for over a year, Facebook is the ultimate invasion of privacy. Malware that looks like fun. Spyware that comes in a fun package. Like buttons, games, a vortex of photos that your friends and friends of friends of friends who you haven't spoken to since high school can see, unless you have your privacy settings tweaked perfectly (and sometimes even that doesn't matter).

And here comes the Facebook Timeline. The definitive archive of every move made by each Facebook user, in a neat package to sift through with ease, stapled to profile pages. Don't like the idea? Too bad, so sad.

In a nutshell, the Timeline will organize everything that's ever touched your profile, in chronological order, starting the day you birthed that Facebook profile baby that you now wish you could smother to death with a squeaky giraffe pillow.

Before the new Timeline feature "rolls out" or "goes live," users are given a seven day period to activate the feature themselves, allowing them to edit their personal information before others can see it.

Isn't that sweet? Mark Zuckerberg is allowing users to be proactive with their own information before Facebook does whatever it wants with it. Cool.

Aside from the FTC investigations and gargantuan contradiction that Facebook is as a whole, I keep hearing the same arguments and reasoning from users alike.

"What's the difference? It's all out there anyway." - Everyone

"Well, people should be more careful about what they post online." - Everyone

"What? That's crap! I'm leaving Facebook.

Wait, who just liked my status about Pita Chips? Oh yeaaaah!" - Everyone

Minus the guy with the Pita Chips, both are valid points. However, the word we're looking for here is control.

Control within a personal, social website that encourages you to have fun with it. Control of your online identity. Control of what people see and how they see it on your own page. To say people should be more careful about their posts is irrelevant. If I've posted nothing but photos of kittens and smiley faces since the day I subscribed to Facebook, then that is my information to control on Facebook. Until now.

Facebook has morphed into a monstrous online trigger for omnipresent cognitive dissonance. People find themselves hating it, threatening to leave it, dealing with it, learning to love it once more and moving along until the next uproar. To compare Facebook to a domestic violence case would be a little ridiculous; I'd prefer the term rape. Rape that starts in a back alley of Palo Alto that permeates through your veins, eyes, guts, ears and keyboard until they spill onto the screen of a friend of a friend of a friend's iPhone. You're Liked. Tagged. Notified. Poked. Messaged. Invited. Requested. Information sequestered.

The Facebook Timeline is coming and it's here to stay. For those of you who give your profile no permission to be used in advertisements, wake the fuck up. You are one.

Learn to Like it.

Update from last post:

2012-01-22T14:16:00.001-08:00

Found a story and acted on it.

So far, sticking to the late New Year's resolution! Article to come.

My my life is a bad comedy. And I'm tired of starring in it.

2012-01-20T14:18:00.000-08:00

From now on, I'm going to act on my predictions and ideas when they come to me, instead of spending a month+ wavering between whether or not my idea may or may not be stupid for the may or may not be... intended audience. Today is the pickle on my shit sandwich of journalist motivation and pace of work. Here's why:

For months, I've been mulling over an article idea about cereals. It started at a grocery store in La Spezia, Italy, where I spotted my new favorite cereal that I would never see again in this country. I won't go into specifics, but this one cereal was intended to be the "star" of the article - delicious morsels that aren't, in fact, available here in the United States. I was going to accompany my words with a sweet infographic and even t-shirt ideas for the publication I was pitching this to - a great magazine in New York. My article plus extra mile of face-melting graphics and ideas for the company were going to come with a side of desperation and a plea for that once in a lifetime internship, the one that could put me on the map or at least give me a good beginning for the memoir I would write when I'm 75 and have gone nowhere due to my lack of haste. But excellent ideas aside, today I decide to go shopping at Target, an establishment which has earned my utmost respect in terms of bomb-ass deals on juices and snacky food (and even frozen veggies if you catch them on a good day).

This is the point where I will ask one question and those who formulate a correct answer can move on.

* At Nicole's trip to Target, did she:

A). Run into an awkward ex

B). Run into an awkward ex who had the same idea for a story pitch to the same magazine

C). Purchase a giant plastic bear filled with animal crackers for $4.97

D). Stroll down the cereal aisle only to find that the United States is now mass producing the intended star of her magazine pitch and selling them everywhere.

Sorry, the correct answers we were looking for were C and D. For those of you who are moving on, I know you Christmastree'd it. Be ashamed.

As a Capricorn with an estranged sense of intuition, I know what you're thinking, so don't worry. Yes, I could still continue with my pitch idea minus the cereal that I was most passionate writing about. Yes, I could think of an entirely new idea and try to work on that. Yes, life will go on and within the next hour I will have changed into my fudge-stained Candy Kitchen t-shirt and be on my way to lift waffle cones into walking corpses' faces like a programmed cyborg. Yes, that will be $2.90 and $3.10 with tax. Two singles? $6.21 with tax. No we don't have senior discounts. Why should you pay less just because your skin is fucking ancient?

Life is gross.

Why Twitter > Facebook.

2011-12-25T22:53:00.000-08:00

Twitter connects users based on thoughts and brain cells. Facebook connects people who Like the same brand of pants. - Nicole D. Miller

These are my words. Mark them. I've debated this issue multiple times from a buffet line of angles with a melting pot of people. The conversations always go a little something like this:

"Why do you like Twitter, Nicole? I think Twitter is stupid."

Me: Do you know how to use it?

"No."

Me: It's much different from Facebook. Instead of waiting for someone to comment on your status or tag you at the latest bar scene, people on Twitter are busy learning from the feeds they are subscribed, connecting with people who share the same thoughts and ideas or talking to public figures who would have never noticed their existence if it wasn't for the unique Twitter format.

"So what? Facebook can do that too."

Me: Maybe. But is Jim Carrey really updating the Jim Carrey Facebook page? Considering the fact that his Facebook Biography was posted via Wikipedia, I think that's a big fat no. But he sure does have 73,650 Likes, while 616 Facebook users are currently talking about him. I would rather follow him on Twitter and read his kooky Tweets with random photos of himself instead of connect with a giant Facebook advertisement for Jim Carrey.

"Yeah right. It's probably not really Jim Carrey! How do you know?"

Me: Because it's an official Twitter account for Jim Carrey. See the blue check mark and photos he has posted of himself? And look at the Tweets. Entertaining opinions and silly, custom Jim Carrey emoticons. Not career plugs.

"Good point. Are there other famous people on Twitter?"

Me: Yes! For example, Jonah Hill is an avid Tweeter. Once in awhile, he'll cue his followers to Tweet him rapid-fire questions about anything and he answers any questions for a certain number of minutes. That's fun. Even publications like USA Today reach out to Twitter users. One day I got into a discussion with @USATodaytech about Facebook and they were talking to me personally. On Christmas morning I Tweeted a photograph to a company called Quirky. The photo was of my grandma opening a Quirky product on Christmas morning and my Tweet/photo was Retweeted by the founder and CEO of Quirky, Ben Kaufman. Twitter is a great way to get noticed by public figures or celebrities.

"But you only get 140 characters to say something! How lame is that? Facebook doesn't give you a small limit for status updates."

Me: That's because Twitter trims the fat from what people are trying to say and get out in the world. Do you really want someone to drone on and on about their cat and inject that into your newsfeed?

"No."

Me: But they can on Facebook. At least Twitter will cut them off by the time they get to the cute way the cat sleeps. Then, Twitter connects that person with other users who use cat-related hashtags.

"Facebook gives you more characters per status update. I would say this allows for more creativity and mental stimulation!"

Me: And you are very much entitled to that opinion. However, writing clear and concise sentences is not easy. If it was, everybody would have a journalism degree. Twitter forces people to be short and sweet. This relates back to my point about Twitter stimulating more brain cell use than Facebook, where people partake in the near-limitless droning.

"Well either way, social networks are all the same! Friends and followers. Photos and updates."

Me: Yes, you can Tweet photographs of random things on Twitter. Keyword: Random. Most likely, the photograph is related to the 140 characters you're Tweeting with it, making it relevant to thoughts and conversation. No, Twitter does not let you upload entire photo albums or tag people in photographs in which they never wanted to be digitally connected with in the first place. Friends vs. followers is also debatable. Think of followers as your audience. Your followers are actually interested in what you have to think and say - the entire point of Twitter. Gaining Facebook 'friends' can be forced and awkward, as they request your permission to form a digital friendship for all to see. And even so, is what they're saying really that interesting or thought-provoking? What if it's someone you haven't spoken to since high school and never really liked? Do you accept them and put up with their digital life that has now meshed with yours? Do you accept them as a 'friend' and then hide their posts in your feed to keep your sanity without offending them? Do you deny them and feel like a jerk for being mean to a possible new 'friend'? On Twitter, they can follow you or unfollow you and vice versa. You can make everything public or make everything private, where followers would have to request to follow you. Simple.

"I don't know. I have enough privacy concerns with Facebook. I don't think I want to add another social network to the mix."

Me: Please don't get me started on Facebook and privacy.

"It's all the same, though."

Me: I'm going to level with you. Facebook uses its users more than the users use Facebook. It's almost like malware/spyware that comes in a fun package. Sure, it has entertaining qualities. You can poke people and Like things. Then you can perform free advertising on Facebook, for Facebook, to make your 'friends' Like things. Then people can tag you in photographs that are now connected to you, whether you have your tagged photos set to "private" or not. You can also wait a few years while Facebook monitors and archives your every move, on and off the website. On the website, your information will come back in a new Facebook Timeline. Don't like that idea? Well, that's too bad. Off the website, Facebook has special tracking cookies to monitor what you're browsing on the web to a certain extent. Wondering why you get all of those Facebook ads that somehow cater to your interest and/or something you've researched independently? That's why. Are you aware that the Federal Trade Commission has also stepped in with Facebook privacy issues? The FTC doesn't just step into things willy-nilly.

"I think you're contradicting yourself. Didn't Twitter have some issues with the FTC?"

Me: Yes. That had to do with Twitter not having enough security against hackers (outside sources). That had nothing to do with Twitter deceiving, invading and using its own users willingly and knowingly. Do you know how many ads are on my Twitter home page right now? Zero. Do you know how many times Twitter has used my web identity, words or photographs to form an advertisement or fan page? Never.

"I guess this makes sense. I still don't get how Twitter really works, though."

Me: Here, let me show you how to make a Twitter profile.

311 Pow Wow: Not just a concert, but a way of life.

2011-08-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

It’s way too fucking hot. So hot that I’ve already sweat out those four swigs of Jose Cuervo and bypassed the buzz. Gnats are like cockroaches of the heat; nothing will kill them. I’m honestly starting to think they thrive in bug spray, as they stick to me like seagulls in toxic waste. Sure, Florida is sweltering in the summer months — you break a sweat on the way to that air-conditioned car in your driveway — but this is lethal temperature. I’m no meteorologist, but it’s over 100 degrees and 189.5 percent humidity... or something. The air is so thick you could slice it with a toothpick; it’s like wearing an oxygen tank filled with steam. But you’re worth it, 311 Pow Wow Festival. You’re worth it.

The 311 Pow Wow at the Suwannee River Music Park is not just a concert in the middle of a heat warning. It’s a way of life.

I’m not about to go all hippie-ish on you, but I may just a little. Just imagine a beach, but instead of gross sea water, insert the Suwannee River. Add black dye to the water and the ability to spark a joint without worry of an incoming misdemeanor. The sand is fluffy, yet scorching. Across the river, concert-goers are swimming to the rope swing and miniature cliff for their 15 seconds of fame. All jumpers are briefly judged by the roaring crowd of floating limbs and shimmering Bud Light cans on the other side. Scores are determined by a lull of: Wooo, Awww, and “I think she popped an implant!”

The first day, jumpers are just getting warmed up — different leaping techniques and various 311 praises. The second day, the clothes come off. By the third day, divers are jumping naked with added props. Dear Umbrella Guy, wherever you are, please know that you’re my hero.

A member of my clan tries to top that by blowing a red plastic horn on the way down, but drops it.

The 311 Pow Wow is a place where strangers greet each other with drunken wooing and water balloons. A good day happens when a balloon lands in the back of your moving pick-up without exploding, so you can throw it at someone else. A better day happens when your next victim catches it in perfect condition and flips a u-turn in their measly golf cart.

Then you remember why you’re here.

Oh yea, The Dirty Heads are playing live. Right down the street. The stage is within walking distance. Stop at your campsite for more tequila and smokes. Stumble to venue. Flash wristband. Stumble in.

----------------------------------------------------

The Dirty Heads are like a tropical beat-box. Beach bum music mixed with an acoustic and rap. They remind me of Flobots, because they blend a fast-paced alternative sound with rap and hip-hop rhythms. Seeing Lay Me Down performed live with Rome from Sublime is magic.

This is the first concert I’ve ever attended in my 23 years that provided free water for the crowd. It’s basically a set of hoses with faucets, but who gives a shit. Partiers are even allowed to bring in their own bottles of water from camp. Thank you, Suwannee River Music Park, for not charging me $8 to live.

I know absolutely nothing about MURS except he puts on a great live show. With Whole Wheat Bread joining him on stage and a surprise cover of Bulls On Parade, I can’t help but screech into my beer and channel my 10th grade self. Whole Wheat Bread covering Rage = monumental occurrence in my life.

I would like to take this time to dedicate a moment of silence to the Reel Big Fish. Bow your head fucker, seriously. Lack of Big Fish at the greatest ska/reggae show of my time is categorized under Tragedy.

You can’t find yourself at the 311 Pow Wow and not know about the Reel Big Fish — pioneers of third wave ska. And how would you be able to do The Fish? Everybody’s doin’ it.

Aside from the fact that I’ve been going to their shows for the past seven years, I was excited to see if the new guitarist wedged himself out of his shell and into Scott Klopfenstein’s limelight. He was left with some pretty big shoes to fill: silly banter, sporadic quips and sexy vocals. I think with a little audience ass-kicking practice, he’ll break out. The last Scott-less show I saw in Ybor left me a bit glum, despite a great show. In fact, it’s been 101 percent proven that Reel Big Fish can never play a bad show. Even when I saw them perform drunkenly at the Florida State Fair for 10 bucks a pop — despite the slurring words and AWOL lyrics — it was still bad-ass. Just a moment of silence, please.

This brings me to Streetlight Manifesto. Oh, Streetlight. Their sound is like putting an Energizer Battery inside a box of brass. Streetlight is harder, faster, and probably the best in bed. I’ve never been to a Streetlight show that lacked a thrashing skank pit, lucky if it can keep its pace with former Catch 22 frontman Tomas Kalnoky, spitting everyday views into rapid poetry. Unfortunately, due to drinking shenanigans, we lost track of time and missed the set. What? The naked jumpers are distracting.

Ah, The Supervillains. Hearing the name just makes me giggle, like I’m on my way to the ska circus. They remind me of every ska and reggae/hip-hop band I’ve ever liked all rolled into one (pun intended), complete with comedic value and upbeat tunes that leave you a little lightheaded, yet smiley. And hungry. I give them props for being the only band on Planet Earth to make people want to scream out “gonorrhea.”

Sublime with Rome. Do I really need to say more? Good, because I don’t remember the entire set. I was there, for sure. Just know that it was definitely worth it, and those of you who resent them because ‘they aren’t sublime,’ can suck it. That’s why they’re Sublime with Rome. Assholes.

311 played two sets Friday and Saturday, after the hellish sun dissolved and jumbo dream catchers were lit up on both sides of the stage. When they took the stage, it was like some kind of higher being just landed from the clouds to greet its people. Flashing hoola hoops swayed over the crowd; one kid even had a duck balloon impaled on a stick to joust in support of their never-ending sets. You just had to be there.

In conclusion, if the 311 Pow Wow Festival took place on its own island 24 hours a day, I would live there. Next to the venue there is a little store for water and other essentials. You can leave your iPod stereo and life savings inside your zip-up tent and nobody will steal it. You can leave a shitty tarp in the same spot for six hours and nobody will move it. There is a homemade ice cream shop where the sweet, old lady gives you three scoops no matter what, and uses real bananas in the ice cream.

311 did me right.

Day One: I will absolutely not pay for a millisecond of your wifi.

2011-08-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

Five dollars for 30 minutes of wifi? Fuck you, Miami International. It's also required to have a Sunpass now in the Miami area? Or maybe it's everywhere. My aunt had it right: "It's so they can track you! Little China!"

I never want to be one of those people who need the $9.95/month unlimited access to Miami International's wifi. I'd venture to guess that those people start shedding at an early age and have heart attacks before age 40. Busy Busy Business People.

My name in Italian is Nicoletta. My cousin is going to be there too! I've heard lots about him since I was a kid. My grandma would always talk about Jacapo and tell him all about me. We're about the same age, and all I really know is he likes Green Day and the Chili Peppers. His American name would be Jake. He added me on Facebook awhile back, but I've never been able to decode his status updates. He does know English, though.

Seeing my aunts in Ft. Lauderdale was a trip. It was like watching The Banger Sisters. Aunt Diane is the crazy biker chick; Aunt Lorrayne is very proper and meticulous. Lorrayne practically counted the seconds until we needed to leave for the airport, while Diane talked about last night's bartending gig. It's weird how much distance can keep you from really knowing another side of your family.

My grandma is such a run-of-the-mill grandma: super happy, a little forgetful, extremely generous, a bad driver and can show you how to bake a pie. She lives pretty old-fashioned, yet owns a Blackberry and iPad 2. She also has that little keyboard that connects wirelessly to her big-screen TV. Yeah, my grandma is more tech-savvy than yours.

But she also engraved her iPad 2, so the back reads, "Happy Birthday and Happy Holidays" just in case.

"I still haven't decided if I like this thing," grandma says, staring at the reflecting Apple logo. "And it's really not that light."

About an hour until boarding.

Bonjourno!

2011-07-22T09:35:00.000-07:00

I've decided to post my journal entries from my trip to Italia this summer. But before we move on to Day One, I think it's important to have some back story:

My grandmother on my dad's side has been wanting to take me to Italy ever since I could walk. She's not Italian, but my Grandpa Frank (her second husband) was born and raised in a little village on a giant Tuscan mountain. When he was younger, he came to New York for a job and ended up finding my grandma. Our family ended up in Florida, and they spent the next few decades of their life together alternating between the baking Florida sun and high Italian altitudes. They would live six months here, six months there and travel to other fun places in between. Grandpa Frank passed away about six years ago, but his lifelong dream was to move our entire family out to Luscignano to live the good life.

"He was so proud of his little village," grandma says. She hasn't been back to Luscignano in over a year, and claims she wouldn't have planned to come without me this summer. So, grandma is my tour guide for two weeks, as my graduation present is booked at every tourist's fantasy, and some places off the radar.

Stay tuned.

Dear Readers,

2011-04-28T20:18:00.000-07:00

And by that, I mean the three of you who are awesome and actually read this thing when I update. Keyword: when. My bad. I've been busy this semester, but I do have some publications under my belt. Check them out:

Hard news article about check scams. Pretty proud of this one. Very unlike my usual sarcasm and stabs at pop culture.
http://thecrowsnestnews.com/2011/03/23/check-scheme-skims-st-pete/

Entertainment article about Facebook. God I hate Facebook.
http://thecrowsnestnews.com/2011/03/07/the-faces-of-facebook-final-edit/

10 TV channels you probably own, but never heard of (ignore the typos, idk who edited this one)
http://thecrowsnestnews.com/2011/02/24/ten-tv-channels-you-didn%E2%80%99t-know-you-own/

Every April Fool's week, my school paper prints a spoof issue. Basically, we get to make up all the articles and make it funny, like a prank for students. My spoof article made the cover of the printed publication :)
http://thecrowsnestnews.com/2011/03/28/double-tall-or-scrambled/

This semester, I was the Entertainment Editor for Her Campus online magazine. It's basically an online mag for girls in college, and the website is made up of branches all over the country. My campus just started a branch this semester:
http://www.hercampus.com/nicole-miller

Read on, ass kickers.

Good grief...

2010-12-19T21:11:00.000-08:00

Seven songs you need to hear during the five stages of grief (if you haven't already gargled motor oil) . . . (Please don't).

Nirvana: All Apologies
No, not the track that spins off of Nevermind. YouTube search the live version from MTV Unplugged. The essence of a stage glowing in a light purple and a cello accompanying the world's most successful Grunge band is overpowering. The only words you hear are coming from Cobain, with his suffering voice echoing live in front of Dave Grohl, who is barely tapping the drums and symbols that usually crash. The set is almost intimate, and performance: absolutely flawless.

Alkaline Trio: Blue in the Face
You need Matt Skiba's stressed lungs and acoustic powerchords to serenade your eardrums like a mourning violin at all times. No questions, no exceptions.

Matt Skiba: Next to you
Your brain is numb. His voice is Prozac, as well as his psychologically pleasing analogies that always have a rhyme in their step. "You blow my mind, like a Colt 45 every time."

Joy Division: Love Will Tear Us Apart
Melancholy 80's rock only fits. But the keyboards in this song blow a grim wind through you're already damaged being. It feels good.
* Matt Skiba also covered this when he played with his side project, Heavens. Hint.

Taproot: Mine
Perfect for when you hit the Anger Stage in your five level carosel of unwanted emotion. The first three irate powerchords from Mike DeWolf's segue into Stephen Richards's whisper, that transforms into audible snarling throughout the track.
Swirl your boiling thoughts in 3:50 of this, because you're already going crazy.

Metallica: Nothing else matters (Orchestra version)
You'll need YouTube again.There's something sacred about hardcore bands doing rare, live performances with delicate instruments.

Brand New –Soco Amaretto Lime
You can literally see Jesse Lacey hunched over his acoustic, watching the world morph from a high school party to a melancholy post-grad celebration under an overpass in a sea of empty glass --until the track scratches out like a broken record. Prepare to cry your fucking eyes out. Even though you already are.

Five bonus tracks (since nothing else good is happening to you right now):

Mad World: Gary Jules

Echo and the Bunnymen: The Killing Moon

Regina Spektor: Samson

The Fray: How to Save a Life

The Church: Under the Milky Way Tonight

When finished, repeat playlist.

Lorene's Fish House Stands Alone

2010-12-02T16:49:00.000-08:00

- Published in the Weekly Challenger - Thursday, July 22, 2010

St. Petersburg -- Despite the empty lots and buildings that line 22nd Street South, Lorene’s Fish House remains a beacon of hope for hungry souls in the Midtown area.

Besides the Sweet Bay Supermarket, China Star restaurant and snack-filled convenience stores, Lorene’s Fish House is one of the few places where locals can find food along the south side of 22nd Street. “If we weren’t here, they’d go way far off to get something to eat,” said Paris Lovett, Lorene’s nephew and employee of seven years.

This family-owned and operated restaurant has been dishing out soul food for nearly two decades and is an important part of Historic 22nd Street South. Fried chicken wings, fresh seafood sandwiches and garlic crabs have kept loyal eaters coming back for 17 years.

“When she first came here, she really started with the garlic crabs and fish sandwiches,” Lovett said.

My first meal in Midtown is one of Lorene’s catfish sandwiches. The crunch and scrunch of the soft, white roll against the crispy catfish meat gives a pleasing texture for the sandwich. The tender catfish is coated in golden-fried breadcrumbs. The salty sensation in the breadcrumb seasoning with an added touch of garlic is unlike any flavor found at more expensive eateries.

“She experimented with different seasonings ‘til she found the right one,” Lovett said.

The tartar sauce also gives Lorene’s sandwich a good kick. Her light, homemade concoction lets the actual flavor of tartar sauce blend with sandwich ingredients, instead of the overbearing explosion of tarter toothpaste that comes from processed sauce packets.

Lorene’s does not cater only to those who enjoy seafood. Chicken wing platters and pork chop dinners are also available and cooked to order.

Contrary to the miniature chicken drumsticks found in party platters and frozen dinners, each of Lorene’s wings come complete with the wingette and the drumstick. Imagine that -- all of the parts that make up an authentic chicken wing. Not only that, but the steamy, meat juices tease taste buds after the first bite through the thick, homemade batter.

Three of Lorene’s chicken wings can easily occupy 75 percent of a plastic foam tray, also packed with french fries and a side of ranch, for most meals.

“That ranch dressing is something serious,” said Ernie Doctor, a Midtown resident cycling along 22nd Street South on Memorial Day. Doctor has been coming to Lorene’s Fish House for years and knows a lot of people who do the same. “Lorene’s is probably the only one left on this strip,” he said. “Back in the day, this use to be a live street with restaurants all up and down here.”

The quaint atmosphere of the restaurant gives a feel for Lorene’s legacy on 22nd Street.

The painted mural on the side of the brick building that advertises Lorene’s Fish House is fading, yet stylish. Above the entrance, “Lorene’s” is painted in a quirky font, unlike the digital signs or neon lettering adopted by most modern businesses.

The inside of the restaurant has two small tables and chairs. White table settings display each menu item, written with different colored markers. The item signs are placed around the ordering window and front walls. One wall is decorated with family photographs, political images and a black-and-white portrait of Lorene. A small television provides entertainment for waiting customers and children.

“Sometimes Lorene lets kids by with price if they don’t have enough money,” said Bianca Lovett, Lorene’s niece. When school lets out, some kids venture to Lorene’s for an after-school snack, she said.

Most meal combinations cost no more than $10 at Lorene’s, even after the decision between all natural lemonade, fruit punch and tea. The smallest drink price is $1.50, while the largest size, a quart, costs only 50 cents more.

Lorene’s Fish House will be serving food at the community seafood festival in September, with the full menu up for grabs.

Connie's Keeps Geech's Gift Alive

2010-12-02T16:39:00.001-08:00

St. Petersburg -- Billowing smoke blows across 16th Street South, masking my view of Frezell’s Car Wash and sparking my olfactory nerve. I can smell different forms of cooked pig in the air, while the thick, smoky aroma singes my nose – in a good way.

The fragrant smoke signals coming from Connie’s Bar-B-Que frequently subside, but still alert Midtown residents that there is at least one place left to get some killer barbeque, with a side of south St. Petersburg tradition.

“Customers always say, ‘so I heard you got the Geech sauce,’” said Melvin Hall, Connie’s son and business owner. “Everybody knows about it.”

Back in the day, Geech’s was the place to stop for some real old-fashioned barbeque. John “Geech” Black created a special mustard sauce to top his authentic dishes that kept customers around for years.

“My mom use to work with him a little bit,” Hall said. “He retired but she kept it going.”

Hall remembers the old days, when Geech’s thrived on a lively street. “On Friday, you couldn’t even get down 22nd Street,” he said. Hall said the road use to be packed with restaurants, night clubs and pool halls.

Although Geech’s Bar-B-Q Stand has vanished, much like everything else from the former 22nd Street South hubbub, a taste of its legacy still remains at Connie’s.

As I unwrap my first Connie’s chopped pork sandwich, I can see drips of the Geech sauce escaping from the wax paper already stained in bright yellow. The thin mustard sauce is tangy and sweet, but not overpowering, as if a jar of French’s Mustard had been squeezed onto my sandwich.

The sesame seed bun is thick and squishy. It provides the perfect stability for the globs of tender, shredded meat in the middle of the bun, soaked in the Geech. The juices do not soak through and ruin the bun like they do at other restaurants that drown everything in sauce, often leaving you with a dilapidated sandwich and need for a fork.

The caramelized kernels of the deep-fried corn on the cob are a perfect meal addition to cleanse your palet between helpings of pork.

The crinkle-cut french fries are made to order with a unique flavor kick. Fries are served golden brown with added salt. Cooked potato seeps out of the crispy edges and burns the roof of my mouth. It feels like money well spent.

The aftertaste of the fresh fries has the subtle flavor of funnel cake from a state fair.

“We touch ‘em up a little bit,” Hall said with a smile.

Connie’s has been serving home-cooked barbeque for 24 years and remains one of the only places to score some real barbeque in Midtown. The restaurant packs two cookers in case of a busy weekend and houses the last Ms. Pac-Man video game in town. Loyal staff members also add to Connie’s Bar-B-Que’s character.

“I love meeting different people and joking around with them,” said Geno Harrell, longtime employee. Harrell has been working at Connie’s Bar-B-Que for more than 15 years and learned different cooking techniques from Hall and his mother.

“I’ve been cookin’ all my life,” he said.

Although times have changed since Geech’s legacy and their 15 cent hot dogs, most meals at Connie’s cost $10 or less, unless you start picking at slabs of ribs. Drink prices run from 60 cents to a dollar.

Everything at Connie’s is homemade and fresh, with original recipes that have not changed since the beginning. Employees even grind the meat for the burgers and don’t use any preservatives in the food.

Hall works six days a week to guarantee good food for Midtown barbeque lovers. Connie’s is closed on Sunday, giving Hall a relief from the seven days he used to work.

“After awhile I said, what am I working seven days a week for? I’m cuttin’ down,” he said.

In his spare time, he likes to spend his days shooting pool, riding his motorcycle and hanging out with friends at Tampa clubs.

On the weekends, Connie’s serves late-night munchies until 1 a.m. instead of the usual 11 p.m.

Stop in and look for Hall behind the ordering window, wearing his brown apron and wide-rimmed glasses. He’ll tell you about his mom, the family business, and Connie’s famous rib sandwich. If it’s a slow day, he might sit with you while you soak your face in the Geech sauce, offer dating advice and listen to your story, too.

The History of Bubble Dumb: People just chew it up and spit it out

2010-10-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

It’s like October’s calm before the terrifying storm.

Before oozing zombies taunt children, before dripping vampires or giant walking hot dogs comb the vacant city streets on the 31st, consumers are dazzled at every glistening store corner.

It’s the only time the Pillsbury Doughboy will wear a blue Zorro mask or the Count Chocula family will congregate at the convenient end of the cereal aisle. It’s the only time the souls of Spooky Nerds and Howlin’ Laffy Taffy will come to life. It’s the only time the Jum-Blo Gum Ball logo will hire a bloodshot eyeball to fill in for the O.

That would be morbid to sell in January.

While the Oreos boast of their bursting orange innards, the snooty A-list candies bite their Hershey thumbs at the outcast fish with their Swedish accent and unfestive pound bags of Dubble Bubble. “Two for $4,” the cling tag reads. “Get ‘em out of our sight.”

In a world where Cadbury Adams and Wrigley dominates the chewy realm of gum base, corn syrup and sugar, Dubble Bubble still holds its head high when it slithers through the conveyor belts of Tootsie Roll Industry’s Concord Confections.

Still in a stretched rope form, the pink strands lie on belts of powdered sugar to avoid sticking, and wait to be cut and clothed into the twisted yellow suit with blue frills.

Although it was an accident, little DB was born in 1928 at Frank Fleer’s Chewing Gum Company and marked the start of America’s modern bubble gum buffet.

Blue bubble gum cigars are perfect for when It’s A Boy. Hubba Bubba Bubbletape is great for those who eat gum in 12-inch increments only. Bubble gum band aids mend imaginary boo-boos while bubblegum-flavored antibiotics cure imaginable infections. Three Olives Bubble Gum Vodka can make one sticky martini –garnished with a toothpick and a glop of Dubble Bubble sounds pretty sweet. A bottle of Jones Blue Bubblegum is pure cane sugar soda, for those who aren’t old enough for the vodka. For smokers on the lookout for an alternative brand to Marlboro or Camel, bubble gum cigarettes come wrapped in white with a brown filter tip. Blowing the powdered sugar smoke is probably better than a nicotine fix, and the cigarette packs even have sophisticated cowboy emblems on the front.

Tobacco dippers aren’t left out, either. The first aluminum foil pouch of Big League Chew weaseled its way into the bubble gum industry in 1980, thanks to the Portland Mavericks’ lefthander Rob Nelson and teammate Jim Bouton. Nelson first concocted the gum in a frying pan and shredded it to get the Skoal look. Now, sports lovers all over America can shove mounds of Outta’ Here Original or Ground Ball Grape in their mouths for the ultimate bubble-blowing opportunity during a big game.

That’s exactly what Walt Diemer, a creative accountant at Fleer’s Chewing gum Company, set out to do –make a new formula for gum that gifted chewers with a fun, bubble-blowing ability. The failure of Fleer’s original Blibber-Blubber gum made Diemer’s son, Dubble Bubble, an immediate success until WWII put a stop to production. While the main ingredients for dwindling amounts of Dubble Bubble were diverted to war efforts, the rest of DB’s brothers and sisters were rationed among hooked consumers.

After WWII, the gum came back headstrong as other Dubble Bubble flavors hit shelves and Bazooka rivals emerged packing extra ammo –Joe and His Gang comics.

Bazooka Bubble Gum was born in Brooklyn and named after American comedian Bob “Bazooka” Burns, who invented an odd musical instrument out of a funnel and two gas pipes. He dubbed it a “bazooka,” and proudly played it during a duet of Clementine with singer Shirley Ross in 1946.

Decades out of the black-and-white era, the pink wads of original Bazooka and Dubble Bubble are nostalgia at its finest, since most current gum varieties have a laser show of colors and tastes to choose from. Bubblicious, the over-achieving offspring of Cadbury Adams, can range from neon green squares of Savage Sour Apple to chunks of Twisted Tornado for the taste buds. Even Bazooka has jumped into the turn of the century with Bazooka Bubble Juice Nuggets that come in Rockin’ Original or Slammin’ Blue Raspberry.

However, Klutz Press cleverly recommends using Original Bazooka with its Bubble Gum Science book, which comes with six pink pieces and instructions for life on how to blow the biggest bubble, double bubble or even the triple bubble.

Although mass-produced bubblegum has spiraled into a vortex of changing consumer appeal, original flavors always stick with the pink, stretchy sweetness.

When Dubble Bubble was conceived, daddy Diemer perfected the flawless formula and grabbed the only food coloring available in the lab –it just happened to be pink.

These days, the Concord Confections family has brilliantly scatterbrained children who carry on the Dubble Bubble genes. Painterz Gum Balls sport the DB logo, but are designed to paint lips and tongues whatever color they devour. Cry Baby Gum Balls still posses the sweet DB spark but is packed with enough sour to punch a baby in the face and leave them in a stroller, crying. This leaves high hopes for Dubble Bubble’s grandkids, assuming that their parents swap corn syrup with someone even more dubblelicious.

So, when the Halloween aisle gets demolished to clear a path for Saint Nick and napkins with turkeys stitched on them, keep a sharp eye out. While DB sits on the shelf with sad puppy eyes and a red clearance sticker, be sure to boost the spirit of America’s most important bubble gum that is most forgotten.

Adopt every bag.

You are all peas.

2010-10-09T21:52:00.000-07:00

In the depths of my bowl of sugar snap peas once frozen, there is a lone broccoli tree. Drenched in pea juice at the bottom of my bowl, surrounded by bitten shrimp tails and little green balls that have so cleverly escaped the pod.

Where is it's origins? Why is it here?

It looks dirty. All green and stalky in appearance. It's the misfit. Has it made friends with fellow peas? Do they resent it? Did they bring it into their pea world with open pod flaps?

Was it inconveniently stuck in the conveyor belt when factory orders called for a shift change to pea processing? They lived together. Were frozen together. It was just looking for better weather. In my microwave.

I am the broccoli.

Fixated Fix

2010-09-27T12:32:00.001-07:00

There would be a void in my life without David Sunflower Seeds.

I scramble to Winn Dixie at 10:45 p.m. some nights to grab a 14.5-ounce bag before closing. When I buy a new bag, I can’t wait to break the plastic seal and unzip the 100,000 milligrams of sodium pending ingestion. Well actually, it is 135 milligrams per serving, but who counts those when most of the bag is gone in one sitting?

I drop a small pile into my mouth and store them in my left cheek until my taste buds convulse from the dissolving salt. I can feel it streaming down my throat while I crack the first shell open between my right molars and taste the first puff of seed protein.

My mouth is numb when I hit the 45 minute mark. My eyes are fixed on the TV screen, like 46 percent of David seeders who are glued to the tube while snacking. Halfway through the second episode of Roseanne, I can feel the sodium stinging the inside of my mouth. It soaks the inside of my lips, burning the areas that I constantly gnaw and tear with my front teeth. This snack was made for people like me.

Freud calls it oral fixation. He has this theory that all infants pass through early stages of development; the oral stage lasts until a kid turns two. At this age, an infant’s main focus is oral stimulation provided by breast-feeding. A child who is breast-fed too much or too little can be affected later in life. As an infant, I survived on Similac with added iron and a plastic bottle.

Adults fixated in the oral stage develop an obsession with oral sensations, often participating in behaviors like nail biting, smoking and straw chewing.

I constantly find myself popping a stick of Polar Ice gum, biting my lips and touching the outside of my mouth when I am bored or nervous. The orally fixated are also known to suck on toothpicks and snack as comforting activities.

But David Seeds? They are my Snacktivity.

My snack of choice starts with garden dirt and a pattern of numbers. Sunflower seeds grow out of the center of the flower head in very succinct spirals, following the Fibonacci number sequence: One, two, three, five, eight and so on. This ensures that every sunflower will grow with maximum seed-holding capacity.

Ninety percent of David’s successful seeds come from America’s Sunflower Triangle. Gardens from Minnesota, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas and the northern plains of Texas make up the triangle. The other 10 percent come from Canada.

No matter where the seeds are grown, the chosen ones will get dry roasted in Fresno, at the main distribution center for my spiraling fixation.

Fresno is also where David Der Herbedian created the consistent mixture of slick seeds and plentiful salt that I so often crave. In his own grocery store, also serving as a gas station and tavern back in the day, he began roasting sunflower seeds and sold them as individual servings for only five cents.

In 1912, he started marketing them under the name David Seeds, which later became David & Sons. The name change came 14 years later, after popular demand influenced company expansion. ConAgra Foods bought the David name in 2001.

Other brands just don’t do it for me. Planters seeds aren’t salty enough. Frito-Lay gets an A for effort, but the seed texture is too dry. Publix seeds are just unpleasant – like seeds that have been plucked out of the dirt and sealed in a bag, often discolored and gritty. David gets it right every time.

ConAgra Foods can dress David Seeds in all the nacho cheese seasoning they desire, but I will never spend a dime on anything except the original. It gives me a twisted sense of pride to know that the original taste of David Sunflower Seeds, a roasted concoction of just seeds and salt, is still the #1 selling flavor out of the seven. Ranch comes in second and is the only other flavor I could bring myself to try; I won’t even touch that chili lime nonsense.

Out of the 142 seeders that responded to a David Sunflower Seeds poll on Facebook, 54 left comments naming original as their favorite flavor.

Original was there for me as a beginning seeder with training wheels. As a kid, I would suck on a single seed and bite until I heard the cracking sound. I would then extract it from my mouth and take it apart like a seedologist in surgery. I’d have a pile of kernels on the living room table, while my dad would lounge behind me on the couch, pouring the bag into his mouth and shooting shells into a cup like a machine gun.

For Christmas one year, he bought me a gift bucket of the seeds. While most kids were into Twinkies and Pop-Tarts, I was obsessing over the David-stamped bucket at the bottom of our pantry. We both were.

These days, it’s Dad’s fault that I can’t make it through finals week without a surge of sodium chloride. It’s his fault that I can’t watch the annual season of the Next Food Network Star without clutching a red bag during each hour-long episode. It’s his fault that I can’t write a paper without an overflowing mug of shattered shells at my side.

He wasn’t breast-fed either.

This probably took me a full 72 hours

2010-08-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

Farewell, Warped Tour

2010-08-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

My pores have come in contact with the sweat of 35 different people today. Condom balloons, inflatable penises. Stray sandals. Bands I’ve never heard of and never will again. Sheets of slanted rain blanketing the stage front. Rain clouds drift, influencing the intensity of the precipitated water strikes. One heavy drop bursts right into your pupil. Of all the places it could land, it makes its way into the direct path between your eye brow and glasses rim, perfectly centered. Tilt your head a slight degree, and bam. Straight to the retinas. It almost burns, until the drop dissipates into the depths of your eye fluid. You utilize a few frequent blinks get your life back on track, as soon as you realize that the Crowd’s energy is reaching a paradigm shift. You see one pair of eyes ahead of you, until the entire population of the region you’re suffocating in is now facing the opposite way of the stage. Grab an arm or leg. A grimy shoe. Particles of mud under the fingernails. Watch out for the untied laces. Lift a head. Fist pump an asscheek. Anything to get these god damn animals off of you.

A good band has a constant stream of body surfers.

A good crowd doesn’t drop them, unless they greatly exceed the courtesy weight.

Twiggy girls flawlessly glide along the surface wave of the Crowd. Adolescent boys are simply tossed from one unexpecting spine to the next, while kicking faces and eardrums with their checkerboard Converse. Failing, flailing. Into the dirt. Only to be sprung up into the air, like an orangutan onto another oblivious spine, and dumped over the security bar. Guards pluck the surfers from the Crowd like babies in a nursery, sometimes cradling them or simply making sure that their bodies are positioned in a way that allows limbs to slide over metal railing without destruction.

Bonding over organized power cords and brain-pulsing drum solos. Comradery when a fellow surfer is trying to catch a wave, or needs a hand after busting ass in the midst of the ocean. The relief of passing a kidney stone over your head, so you can enjoy the aesthetic presence of the band and stage theatrics once more.

Until.

You feel.

The shift.

My submission to Facebook beta testers

2010-06-16T10:36:00.001-07:00

Why is Facebook better than MySpace?

Well, it’s the easy and up-to-speed features of course.

When I update my status on Facebook, I know it’s being sent to all of my friends’ newsfeeds simultaneously, as well as my friends who have my status updates deposited into their text messaging inbox.

Facebook tells you when your friends reply to you upon the second they hit “submit.” You can even start up a conversation with them if you are both online at the same time thanks to the functioning chat feature that lags on MySpace. The chat feature on MySpace frequently malfunctions, often needs to be refreshed to receive current messages and uses awkward color-coding to distinguish online friends from those who forgot to sign out of MySpace. However, the chat malfunctions really do not matter. I currently have zero MySpace friends online.

If you can actually sift your way through bulky MySpace bulletins, spam emails from crappy bands in Idaho and annoying, in-your-face advertisements, nobody will be there to read your status anyway.

Another reason Facebook owns in the social networking arena is because you can find your friends. Imagine that – a networking site where you can find people. Facebook urges users to use their real names on their profile for easy identification and social connection. <3MyBfSAwEsOmeee<3 will never be a Facebook friend of mine.

Create a profile on MySpace and see who you can find.
http://www.myspace.com/

What’s a best friend?

A best friend is someone who knows you inside and out.

They know you better than you know yourself at times. They have no problem pointing out your mistakes, as long as you return the favor. A best friend is like a toy that you can bring with you everywhere. You can bring it around your family, on the boat with your retired grandparents who listen to Jimmy Buffett all day or even around your other friends that aren’t on Level: Best.

You can talk to a best friend about everything – hopes, dreams, fears and disgusting things that happen to you in the bathroom. You can argue for days until you both give up. You have makeup lunch instead of makeup sex. Nothing says “let’s just forget this” like cheddar biscuits from Red Lobster.

A best friend is one of the strongest relationships you can have without being romantically involved with a person. They can drive you completely insane or fix you when you’re upset and want to give up on life. They are the best.

For a quick definition and list of Best Friend songs, check out this site:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Best_Friend

What is a blog?

A blog is type of online journal created by individual internet users.

Technically called a “web log,” a blog site can be created by anybody with a brain stem and internet access. Users can create their own biography and add blog entries to their page, similar to an online diary. Most sites let you experiment with different fonts, page layouts and added features to get the look and feel you want your blog to have.

A successful blogger creates a specific theme for their blog to keep readers coming back for more. For example, if a person only blogs about cafeteria food, then readers interested in food are more likely to follow that blog on a regular basis. If a blogger posts random things about their thoughts on everyday life, the only readers who will follow that blog are the user’s parents. Everyone needs moral support.

For info on the history of the blog, check out this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog

If you do not have a blog and would like to start blogging, welcome to 2010. Please click here: https://www.blogger.com/start.

Illustrations for Infographics

2010-04-22T22:29:00.000-07:00

Morphing into an Infographic...

Infographics

2010-04-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

Map :)

Local Candy Kitchen Employees Brave the Darkness. And Yolk.

2010-04-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

SEMINOLE, FLA, April 2 -- With a van full of ammunition and painted faces, local Candy Kitchen owners Brad and Lora Holybee would never expect to get April Fooled by their loyal, mint-chocolate-chip-scooping staff; especially when April Fools’ Day had been expired for two hours.

Around 2 a.m. this morning, employees piled out of a suspicious white van like a Mexican army, to quietly bum-rush the Holybees front lawn with ammo in hand.

Danielle, 19, took the first stab at the dirt. The handle of the plastic spoon broke in half.

Minutes later, the Holybee's yard is a garden of shiny, white spoon heads and cackling employees. Nicole Miller, 22, sticks a spoon in the mailbox while other assailants break out the rolls of Saran-wrap. Holybee's Jeep Eliminator will stay fresh for a long while.

Jenny Leinbach, 22, snaps a few photos of the new decor as they organize their hasty departure.

Danielle’s truck and the getaway van are positioned past the front of the house with engines running.

Puzzled that the Holybees have not caught on to the echoing laughter and noisy redecoration of their landscape, Shelby Sizemore, 19, and Miller decide to bring it to their attention.

They walk around the corner towards the front door when Sizemore sees a “peeper” through the blinds. “Someone’s looking out here!” she whisper-screams. “THERES A PEEPER!” Sizemore takes off running towards the van while Miller jumps into Danielle’s pick-up.

After no sign of a Holybee, Miller jumps out of the truck bed and races for the front door. She shortly hesitates, realizing that there is no doorbell in sight and knocks quickly. She zip-lines towards the vehicle and they zoom away unnoticed.

They follow the white van, driven by Candy Kitchen manager, Leah Giordano, who parked down the street. All pile back into the van.

In the distance, they can see Brad peeling the plastic sheets off of his car.

“Aww man,” Leinbach said. “Do you think they’re pissed? Should we go help them clean up the mess? They didn’t have fun and retaliate like last time.”

Giordano slowly approaches the scene of the crime.

A loud thud comes from Brad’s direction. Egg yolk splatters the window and streams down the glass as everyone screams and the van screeches away.

“We need more ammo!” Miller shrieks.

Armed with a loaf of bread, a bag of powdered donuts and Heinz ketchup from a 24-hr Hess, the impending war is on.

Meanwhile, Tara Yopp’s vehicle that was parked safely down the street is being tampered with by her big, bad candy boss. Spoons are sticking out of the hood cracks and a bra is stretched over the trunk lift. The inside is occupied by mounds of Saran-wrap.

“Oh man,” Yopp blurts. “That’s my favorite bra!”

Brad ambushes the next drive-by with more eggs while Lora is standing on the front porch. Sizemore, Miller and Leinbach jump out of the van a few houses down and plan a bread-ball sneak attack. They can already hear the screams.

Giordano and others emerge from the darkness covered in ketchup and egg. Brad is laughing hysterically. Lora is armed with two different kinds of salad dressing, just in case.

No sooner do they reach a cease-fire, the Seminole cops show up on reports of a possible burglary.

“Neighbors said they saw a bunch of people dressed in black,” one office said. Staff laughter.

“With face paint…” he continued. More laughter.

“Will you take a picture of all of us?” Miller asked the officer.

“No. It’s time for all of you to go on home.”

"This is the first time we've had bras... and bullets, on stage."

2010-03-23T09:27:00.000-07:00

Despite odd opening bands and on-stage mishaps, Alkaline Trio rocks the House of Blues harder than you could kick rocks.

Around 9:30 pm., Matt, Dan and Derek finally took the stage after hours of waiting between sets and what-the-fuck bands.

The first performance was made of up of British men playing musical instruments, while the singer literally pranced around center stage.

During one of the songs mid-performance, the singer grabs a tambourine to accompany his lackluster voice and mediocre lyrics that have been vomited across other mediocre bands of the Mediocre Era. The only thing that I liked about this performance was one of the band members accidentally kicking a mic stand and hitting a front row Alk fan in the face. I didn't see it happen as my friends did, but the kid ended up in the VIP section right below me with bandages covering his nose.

VIP? Maybe I'll slip on a beer puddle next time.

At the end of their final song, the singer's set ends and he skips-to-my-lou off stage, to let the instrumentals take over -- if only they had done that at the beginning of the show. The group might have a chance in the music industry if they axe their current vocals. The band name remains unknown to me and I don't care so much that I'm not even going to look it up.

Cursive, the second band, at least has the intriguing factor going for them. Their songs sound purposefully off-tune, but in a catchy fashion. The lighting techniques and awkward use of keyboard effects and trumpet spurts compliments the performance of songs like Mama, I'm Swollen: "I am the egg/ I am the spark/ The fire in the dark/ I am fertilized/ Fully actualized/ A loaded gun/ Born 'neath a blood red sun."

As the singer flails with his guitar under the intense red glow and screams "Beat of the blood red sun," over and over, I slowly start to feel like I'm at some kind of religious sacrifice with dying goats all around me. It's the same feeling I get when I listen to Pink Floyd and other trippy bands. They weren't bad.

Once the Trio symbol starts glowing above the empty stage, I know all is about to be right with the world. The Heart & Skull image inked on the back of my neck starts to glow, also.

Matt and Dan take the stage in their new Mickey Mouse t-shirts and Derek plops down at his home behind the drums. Skiba gives a quick "hi" into the microphone before their intro, This Addiction, starts shaking the House walls. When the first song is the new hit single, you know the encore is going to be awesome.

"So I took mushrooms and went to Disney World today," Skiba blurts into the microphone before the next song. "Disney World is awesome on shrooms. They haven't quite worn off yet, so if it seems like I'm on shrooms, it's cuz I am. This songs called Armageddon."

The 21-song set-list was an almost perfect mix of older tunes with the new, shiny ones. They played songs from From Here to Infirmary, Good Mourning and my personal favorite, God Damnit. Thankfully, they only played one song each from Agony & Irony and Crimson (my two least favorite albums), but they were the tracks that I liked the most from those CDs.

In one of the Trio's new songs, Lead Poisoning, they have a short horn section in the middle of the track, which is a route they've never taken before. The always-grim lyrics mixed with a new upbeat instrument was definitely one of the highlighted tid-bits of the new album. I just hope they don't go overboard with it.

As my friend Adam storms out of the venue to smoke a cigarette, the trumpet player from Cursive waddles out to the front mic to play the 30-second horn section of the song. Some fans are offended because this short alteration does not make them a trio.

My friend Amber and I decide to skank in support.

During In Vein, a plaid-shirted Alk fan somehow avoids all HOB security and finagles his way on stage. He runs in between Matt and Dan, points at the screaming crowd and dives in. An assembly line of orange guards rush to the front as the kid escapes into a sea of tattooed limbs and crowd surfers.

Matt starts laughing when the song ends. "I'm proud of you," he proclaims to the anonymous stage diver. "I feel like I just gave birth to an illegitimate son; I dedicate this next song to you. It's called Fuck You Aurora." I laugh when Skiba sings, "the cutest stage diver I've ever seen" instead of the cutest grave digger.

The gig continues with Mourning melodies like 100 Stories and Continental and Skiba finds stray ammunition on stage. "Hey, whoever lost your .45 caliber bullet, don't worry," he said. He tucks it in his left pocket. "It's right here."

"This is the first time we've ever had bras. . . and bullets on stage," he said.

They go on with Nose Over Tail and I can't help but play every chord on my imaginary strings against the wood railing in front of me. Nose Over Tail and Cringe are the first fast-paced songs I ever learned to play on my Fender Squier. I've yet to hear Cringe played in front of me.

However, I finally got to hear Skiba's love song about pot, 97, played live.

They exit the stage as if we don't know there's going to be an amazing encore. After minutes of drunken fans screaming for one more song, they come back and switch positions. Skibas now on drums, Andriano on guitar and Grant is on bass.

They open with one of Andriano's tunes from the new CD, Fine, and I still get chills when he sings "aces in a... Deck." They follow it up with a cover of the Misfits's Angelfuck, with Derek on vocals. It was cool to see him step out from behind the drum set and take the lead.

They switch back to their normal spots and move on to Blue in the Face.

For the final hoorah, they woo the fans with My Friend Peter and go out with a bang. I go apeshit, because this is one of the songs I obsess over and play repeatedly in my living room when nobody is home. It's the first song I ever learned how to sing and play at the same time.

"I need a beer to wash it all away without a trace. And I'll drink 23 more to wipe this stupid smile off my fucking face."

Set list

1. This Addiction
2. Armageddon
3. Dine, Dine My Darling
4. Mr. Chainsaw
5. Lead Poisoning
6. We've Had Enough
7. Dead on the Floor
8. Fatally Yours
9. Crawl
10. In Vein
11. Fuck You Aurora
12. Another Innocent Girl
13. Continental
14. 100 Stories
15. Sadie
16. Nose Over Tail
17. 97

Encore:

Fine
Misfits cover of Angelfuck
Blue in the Face
My Friend Peter

`

$22,500 a song? No thank you. I'll stick with my crappy, legal software.

2010-02-16T15:45:00.000-08:00

Copyright Infringement

“Student who illegally downloaded music ordered to pay $675k”

Joel Tenenbaum, a Boston University graduate student is being ordered to pay four record labels for illegally downloading and distributing 30 songs on a peer-to-peer music website. Jurors decided that $22,500 is a reasonable fine for each song that represents willful copyright infringement. He has admitted to downloading over 800 songs throughout the years and is still fighting this lawsuit that would eventually lead this 25-year-old to bankruptcy.

Tenenbaum’s decision to argue fair use was declined in court. According to the textbook, fair use is a test used to determine whether or not infringement exists in a situation involving use of a copyrighted work. Tenenbaum argued that although he did download the songs for free, he did not download entire albums, which would hurt an artists’ market even more. He also said that his use of the material was not for commercial use, which is often the case with infringement lawsuits.

According to the textbook, I’ve noticed that the following criteria are examined when trying to determine fair use:

1. The purpose and character of the use: In Tenenbaum’s case, the use was for nonprofit, personal enjoyment. However, downloading free songs does not have an educational, critical, or research purpose, either.
2. The nature of the copyrighted work: This is more clearly defined as factual information v. creative works. Music is harder to define because it is solely a creative work, whereas a factual document could be dissected to determine amount of material used and whether fair use is present.
3. The amount and substantiality of the portion used: As Tenenbaum argued, he downloaded individual songs only and not entire albums from the website. His logic is probably centered around factual fair use examples, where a few paragraphs from a book can be used in a classroom discussion or a few minutes of a videotape can be used for news purposes. However, I think which songs he downloaded should also be taken into account. Were they the hit singles from the albums? Some of the most legendary songs by the artists?
· Upon further research, I found that the songs Tenenbaum is being sued for downloading are songs from popular rock bands like Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Songs like Nirvana’s “Come as you are” and the Chili Pepper’s “Californication” are indeed, radio-hit songs.
4. The effect on the plaintiff’s potential market: Tenenbaum argued that the reason behind his song-sharing was to let his friends and family enjoy the music and added, "that is, the very use for which the artist or copyright holder is entitled to expect payment as a reward." The textbook states that using the most important information from a copyrighted source, even if the amount is acceptable , does not constitute fair use. Quoting the last line of a mystery novel could hurt the author’s profit on future sales of that book, so why wouldn’t free hit singles hurt the purchase of an album?

With more factors tilting outside of his favor, fair use was not considered a valid defense in this case. Tenenbaum was ordered to pay $22,500 for each song and act of willful infringement.
In some articles, it mentions that Tenenbaum was using a Swedish file sharing website to download his music for free. Upon further research, I’ve found that the popular website Kazaa is the mp3 system that Tenenbaum was using. Why didn’t the website itself get dragged into this case?

Napster was an illegal peer-to-peer file sharing network, just like Kazaa. Napster was aware that it was allowing users to commit copyright infringement, as it was the sole purpose of the website. The recording industry sued Napster for allowing the infringement to continue.

Why isn’t the RIAA trying to kill the symptom, but not the cause? Tenenbaum would have never committed infringement if this site did not exist and allow it to happen. And oh yea, is Tenenbaum the only user on the Kazaa interface to download songs illegally? Since this is a Swedish-based operation, I’m surprised that there is no issue involving the Berne Convention and the fact that Kazaa is letting users download illegal songs from artists all over the world.

Decades ago, before mp3s and file sharing lawsuits emerged, music buffs relied on compact cassette tapes to pay and play their musical interests. They were also used to record songs from the radio.

When Sony invented the VCR, they were sued for copyright infringement because users could record copies of television programs. The court decided that although users could make unauthorized copies of shows or aired movies, this was not the sole purpose of the VCR and Sony did not encourage users to do so. VCRs were used for more “time-shifting” purposes, so viewers could watch programs at a later time.

Were audio cassettes also used for time-shifting purposes? Could that be considered fair use as well? What’s the difference between downloading a song off of a free internet website and recording it from a free source, such as the radio? Even the concept of TiVo is still an undecided factor under copyright law.

The concept of internet downloading may need another examination under the copyright looking glass.

Sources
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RIAA_v._Tenenbaum
http://www.firstamendmentcenter.org/news.aspx?id=21943 – Student who illegally downloaded music ordered to pay $675k
http://www.firstamendmentcenter.org/news.aspx?id=22380 – Student ordered to destroy illegally downloaded music files
Textbook: The Law of Journalism & Mass Communication

Bayboro Tavern Update

2010-02-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

Speaking of contaminated food and bacteria festivals, I've recently discovered how to access a buffett of public records. One section of which, includes restaurant inspections and health code violations. Let us rejoice together, shall we?

08A-28-1

Critical. Observed food stored on floor. bucket of pickles [walk in cooler]

I always thought their pickles tasted a bit. . . iffy. Sometimes they tasted amazing, sometimes they had a subtle hint of Windex in their seedy flesh. But either way, lawl.

09-03-1

Critical. Observed nonready-to-eat food handled by employees without the use of gloves, deli paper, scoops, tongs or other utensils. placing shredded cheese on top of chili with bare hands

Oh my! This was dated 2-23-2009. Almost a year ago. How many years has this been USFSP's favorite place?

12A-22-1

Critical. Observed food employee touching ready-to-eat food with their bare hands and the establishment has no approved Alternative Operating Procedure. placing shredded cheese on top of chili with bare hands

Again with the manhandling of the cheese. How does a place not get shut down for repeated violations like this?

14-49-1

Observed single-use containers (boxes and/or cans) reused for the storage of food. opened can labeled 'diced tomato' contains kidney beans [walk in cooler]

Wow. Not only is that completely disgusting, but also kind of stingy. I at least want my current dining situation to have kidney beans in their own personal can. Penny-pinching and dirty? Or just ungodly lazy?

29-02-1

Observed toilet stopped with tissue [womens restroom]

Ok, it happens. I blame the customers. And I honestly DON'T want the employees to clean the bathrooms if they aren't using a fucking pair of gloves.

50-08-1

Critical. Establishment operating without a current Hotel and Restaurant license. expired 2/01/09 total amt due by 2/28 $ 323.00 [incl $50 late fee] This violation must be corrected by : 4/23/09 .

Idiots?

"Can you describe the wallet ma'am?"

2010-01-31T18:28:00.000-08:00

"It's the one that says Bad Mutha Fucka," I say into my shitty Verizon cell phone, complete with a cracked plastic screen and my last shred of patience needed to deal with cell phone companies. I can't believe I have to drive back to Lakeland. It feels like I've spent the past 2 days glued to my passenger seat.

I don't like to be the one driving on road trips; I have the sense of direction of a compass out of the 99 cent bin at Big Lots. I don't mind letting my friends drive the Hell Boy, though.

"I'm famished," I say to Sarah, as I suck the last drop of juice off of my blue raspberry Ring Pop. We need sustenance and everyone is hell-bent on going to Wendy's.

I haven't eaten there in over 7 years. My mom and I went to a local Wendy's for lunch one day and watched flies buzz around after the cashier released them from the locked compartment of the trash bin. And oh, the smell. The rotting stench of Heinz 57, stale bread crumbles and masticated cow, conveniently located in an accessible black sack, easily exposing the oxygen in that public eating establishment. I want Five Guys.

We pull off of a random exit on 275 and Sarah drops me off in front of Five Guys Burgers and Fries. Sarah, Amber and Jenny head to Wendy's Shithole as I bee-line towards the counter for a real burger. My taste buds still house a tangy raspberry flavor. My face looks like I've just eaten a Smurf, but my lingering hangover cures the need for me to care.

I grab my new bag of grease to nurture last night's blood alcohol concentration, take a quick piss and jump back into my Suzuki that Sarah has gracefully swung into the parking lot.

Last night reached monumental proportions. The Hard Rock Hotel in Orlando will for sure be an annual woo-let's-spend-money-and-get-shit-housed kind of bonding thing for myself and the best friends a person could wish for and actually receive.

Last year Jenny and I celebrated a birthday weekend Hard Rock style. And since we found cockroaches and bed bugs in our room, we figured we would wait a whole year to use our free night stay and do it again.

It started in the room this year. Cherry Sprite bombs and Parrot Bay. Hypnotic and Captain Morgan. Vodka, vodka and. . .

"It's your birthdays?!" said the jolly fat man at CityWalk box office. "Well then these are free!"

We can now get into every club with the flash of a card. Dear CityWalk Party Pass, thanks for making me feel like a responsible adult.

CityWalk is under one liquor license, meaning I can buy a margarita at the Bob Marley club, walk out with it and bring it into the Red Coconut without having to chug next to the trash can at the front of the line. This place is like Baywalk, if Baywalk were to do steroids out of a meth pipe soaked in THC.

As they begin kicking out everybody who's squealing under the hazy age of 21, I wondering if it would be possible to live here.

I was bobbing along efficiently until we got to Margaritaville. They had it in for me. Our free birthday shot resembled something like a rainbow, with 3 perfect layers of color. Red, yellow and delicious. It tasted like a bucket of maraschino cherries and I couldn't really taste anything the rest of the night after ingestion. I love you, Jimmy Buffett.

The Bob Marley club has a cool vibe. Live reggae beats with red flickering lights pulsed through my veins, right behind the tequila. I remember licking all of the rock salt off my glass and sucking down the Jose Cuervo to lonely ice cubes.

The rest of the bars seem repetitive. However, it could have been caused by my tequila lenses, distorted reality and extreme lack of judgement involving everything except my undying habit of chain smoking when I drink heavily. Crushing the tobacco to get that sweet, sweet menthol is the only activity I can handle at this level of drunk.

I hardly ever drink anymore. On most nights, I would rather slosh around in sweatpants and play Guitar Hero than go out to bars filled with the village drunkards, eye-gouging lights and bass that shakes the ice in my $6 Captain and OJ.

But for you, Orlando? I'll make the exception.

I pull into my driveway and ease on the brake; my Hell Boy's had enough for one weekend. I open the back door so Amber can grab her bags and finally realize what today's monkey wrench will be in the Life of Nicole Danielle Miller.

I paid for my burger. I had it. My back right pocket. Grabbed my bag. They weren't back yet.

I scream the word Fuck loud enough to echo into my neighbor's backyard.

Where the fuck was that Five Guys?! Ok, we were by Auburndale. No, maybe it was by Dinosaur World. Yea, I didn't think I would need a receipt for a slab of cow covered in cheese.

"Do you have your Wendy's receipt?" I text to Amber in a frantic stream of panic and nausea. I quickly delete the typos caused by the sticky keys of my Verizon P.O.S.

863-816-7600. I describe my current predicament to the Wendy's secretary; his level of empathy seems a bit burnt out. "This is Lakeland?" I ask excitedly. Our exit could have been the gateway to Hell and I wouldn't have remembered how to get there. My abandoned wallet is somewhere on a road named Socrum Loop.

I kick myself for forgetting. I remember laughing through the raindrops on my window when we turned off of the exit ramp. Did that say Scrotum Loop?

"Yep, that's you!" says the Five Guys GM. "It still has all of your cash and 3 Visas. Just ask for Kim or Donald when you get here."

Sarah volunteers to accompany me on the urgent Lakeland trip. "So I was thinkin..." she says. "Maybe we could stop by the Hard Rock in Tampa on the way home and stick a 20 in a slot machine, see if we win and leave." Double Hard Rock? It's settled.

I decide to put in only $1 at the first machine until I figure out this crazy array of flashy hieroglyphics. I quickly print out my $1 voucher and give up.

The second machine is very aquatic. Rows of seashells and underwater creatures. Why are there so many buttons? I just want to spin the shit. I take another $1 voucher and relocate once more.

I plop down at a machine dubbed Early Retirement; the bright logo depicts a baby in a clothespinned diaper with a bag of bulging cash. Sounds good to me. I shove my neglected voucher in the slot and play around with betting amounts, lines and bets per line. OOOooooOOo I have $4.37. $8.39. $15. 24.

$230.84.

I pound the print button.

It's the one that says Bad Mutha Fucka.

Would you like some E. coli with that?

2010-01-14T12:33:00.000-08:00

This is it. Today, the 14th of January, I have vowed to myself to never ever eat at Bayboro Tavern ever again. I know I've gone off on these tangents before, but this time is serious.

I haven't been to the Tavern in months. I always get grossed out by the fact that they don't wear gloves when they assemble my sandwich. I mean, anything could be on your hands.

On the radio the other day, the DJs were talking about a recent study they've done on new clothes. Researchers took cultures from a few items, mainly new sweaters and blouses, then ran some lab tests.

How about there's feces on like everything.
NEW FUCKING CLOTHES. I never want to see one of those black light luminol tests done in a fitting room.

So the Tavern is infamous for their unsanitary process of. . . not being sanitary.

How come nobody says anything? Well, it could be a few reasons.

1. The Bayboro Tavern is the main hubbub of dining on the USFSP campus. They serve anything from sandwich wraps to Nachos Supremos; you could easily eat there a few times a week as a full-time student. Nobody can live off of Chik-Fil-A alone.

2. They serve beer. Uh duuuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUhhh. Who's going to complain about the one place students can go to get crocked before their 6:00 p.m. class. I've even had a professor resume the 2nd half of our Photojournalism class at the Tavern, to discuss the techniques behind ethical shutter speeds over a pitcher.

3. They serve beer. Too buzzed to realize what the fuck is going on behind the counter? We've all seen what I've seen at a 3:00 a.m. trip to Wafflehouse. Of course drunk people wouldn't notice the germ circus spilling out by the waffle irons.

4. Maybe people have and they didn't give a shit (unless it's in the form of particles in between tomato slices).

Last time I ate at the Tavern I think it made me sick. I got sick shortly after; either that night or the next day. Today, I decided to give the place one more shot.

I walk through the entrance and see one person sitting at a table. One employee is washing a dish. One is wiping down the tables. She looks up at me and continues swiping the tabletops. Thanks.

The one wiping tables gets back behind the counter, looks at me like I'm a fucking alien and then asks what I want. I order the usual: Half a roast beef sandwich, a touch of mayo, tomato, extra lettuce.

She grabs the bread with her probably damp hands that are finally free from the burden of the rag. Oh, that rag. The rag that just visited the surface of the 8-something tables. Bacteria from the hands of at LEAST 8 different people. Each table seats more than one, however. I just try to pretend like the pink rag she just threw on the food counter didn't also visit the outside seating area.

She picks up my Pumpernickel bread, peels the roast beef off of the plastic and makes sure to get some fingerprints all over my extra lettuce. The food is pretty good; I'll give them that. I keep telling myself that it's going to be ok.

They even handle your money without an afterthought of cleanliness. Currency is the worst thing you could ever expose your immune system to. That shit could seriously have AIDS on it, aside from common bodily fluids like spit. Or snot. Or ya know, semen.

It's not ok. I ate some of the meat and bread and put the rest back on the counter and walked out. Jesus fucking Christ. ONE PERSON.

There was one person in the whole restaurant. And she couldn't find 30 seconds to even rinse her damn hands off? Squirt sanitizer? Snap on a glove or two? Jump into a tub of Clorox Cleanup Disinfectant Spray because she and the entire staff are the most disgusting human beings on the face of the earth?

They'll be lucky if I even come back for a beer before my 6:00 p.m. night class.

It's a health code violation with a pulse and they don't even have to hide it.

My Story - End of Semester Update

2009-11-30T21:22:00.000-08:00

As far as journalism goes, my previous opinion stands. I still think that this job can be an adventure. I still think that working in this field will bring many different types of opportunities, not let me do “the one thing I was trained to do.” I still think that a respectable degree is what separates honest credibility from citizen blogging. And I still like being a sarcastic idiot.

However, after taking this course, my eyes have been opened to other areas concerning journalism.

It has always been my natural instinct to shy away from the political scene. My gut always tells me to change the channel. I’ve never held a picket sign. I don’t watch debates. Bumper stickers make me want to hit things with my Suzuki Grand Vitara.

I did vote in the 2009 national election because I like Obama’s charisma and personality and am strongly opposed to Amendment Two. I also voted in the 2009 presidential election because I wanted to do all that I could to make sure that Sarah Palin would not have a snowball’s chance in Hell to ever run the United States of America. Plus, you get a cool “I Voted” sticker.

Writing the paper on the St. Petersburg mayoral election was really hard for me. I thought it would be easy, because I did not follow the campaigns at all. I had a clear, unbiased agenda with zero background knowledge on either candidate. It took me more than six hours to write.

I don’t understand politics or the issues at hand. No matter which candidate is speaking, the words sound the same to me. I think they are meant to sound that way. To me, politics is voting for the personality that you hate the least.

I ended up getting an A on the assignment, but it was not easy or enjoyable. I did find out something new about myself: I will never write for a political beat.

Another thing that I learned about journalism is that you can make an article a little subjective as long as the news is still there. This was very helpful to me. In Writing for the Mass Media, every sentence had to be completely objective. This is hard for me because I do not like producing work that is automatically summarized to sound like every other person’s work. There is no room for creativity. Without the ability to add a unique spin to a worthwhile piece of writing, what is the point? Seriously.

I had a lot of fun with my beat stories. Choosing my own topics within my beat and writing in my own tone was really cool. It was almost relieving, because I finally realized that I would have fun doing this as a real career. It also gave me an excuse to be active and talk to people, which I normally would not do.

Another thing that I enjoyed about this class, were my classmates. I really like how most of us have the same classes together, such as Beginning Reporting. I’ve taken Writing for the Mass Media, Visual Communications and Photojournalism with some of the same students and they are all awesome people to accompany me on my beginning journalism adventures.

No journalism class is complete without Brian Walsh, sitting in the back corner, killing professors and students with his omnipresent stream of wit and sarcasm. No class is complete without Tiffany Farnum sitting quietly in the corner, occasionally laughing at Walsh. Where would a class be without Nikki Ezelle’s “in your face” attitude and side conversations between Angela Moneck and Kelsie McClain. I can’t forget Katie Pentedemos, Melissa Harford and that crazy Filipowicz. Colby Cole is also an important piece to the puzzle; where would Walsh and I be without someone to tease in class?

Then... there is me. I’m an observer.

I can only imagine what kind of people I will meet in this field in years to come, as I watch the friends I have now become successful, published writers.

I’m looking forward to it.

Miller Finally Receives Bad Karma for Making Fun of Swine Flu

2009-11-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

DAYQUIL, FLA -- "I'm gonna punch every swine in the face," she said, in between Kleenex tissues and coughing up her god damn lungs. "I don't know how this happened."

Miller had reported a constant stream of lethargy over the past week, but was not experiencing any cold/flu symptoms. While at her current occupation this past Friday, she started feeling woozy and got those awesome flu chills that everyone knows about.

She also advises all of her blog readers to stay the hell away from liquid Nyquil, unless they want to lay awake for 6 hours and "trip balls."

"It's like, when you have a fever you feel really out of it already," she said, "but after a shot of Nyquil you're stuck in the zone. Lost in your own head - random thoughts and images - the same song stuck in your head for hours on end. Chills. No sleep. Bad chills."

"I still feel like death," she said, on the couch inside her Madeira Beach home. Miller currently has a 5-page paper, beat story, photojournalism assignment, and 8 online lectures to watch. The only thing she has enough energy to do is sit on her ass, watching Iron Chef and pretending that her chicken noodle soup is actually Eel Osobuco, with a light tomato glaze.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

You'd think people would be worried about the Swine Flu...

2009-11-17T18:38:00.000-08:00

As I step through the trampled grass blades and massive crowds of people at Vinoy Park this Sunday, the sweet smell of funnel cake and grill fire floats through the air. Nothing is visible in the midst of hungry souls, except for a sea of heads, foam-topped cups and mouth-watering signs:

Lemonade!

Funnel cakes!

Hand-dipped onion rings!

Butterfly fries!

World Champion Barbeque!

Ribfest 2009 is here.

Every year, St. Petersburg lets some of the best grill masters in the world claim a spot on park grounds, to kick up the flames and the flavor of their craft. National touring bands take the stage while eaters enjoy with sauce-smeared faces.

Thousands of rib-lovers invade the city, parking on neighborhood streets or in illegal parking spaces, blocks or miles away. The lines at each stand stretch into the center of the park. The last ones in line stand in a crowd to keep from cutting into the park’s walkway.

Deciding which barbeque line to jump in may be overwhelming. Each stand has billboard-sized advertisements to help people decide whose ribs are better. However, these are the best grill teams in the world. They all display the same messages: “World Champion! Best Ribs! Award-winning!”

Unless you have a favorite place that keeps you coming back every year, jumping in the shortest line you see may be the best bet to kill hunger pains.

Big Boned Barbeque appeared to have the shortest line. From 4:30 to 5:45, I stood patiently, trying to decide how much food I should buy when it was finally my turn at the window. I overheard a mother talking to her son in front of me: “Do you wanna get ribs and go back to the car and eat? ‘Cause we don’t have a place to sit.”

According to the Vinoy Park website, events can attract up to 50,000 people. “There’s all different kinds of life out here,” said Jennifer Diedrich, a rib-lover in the Big Boned line. “Lots of places don’t offer events like this,” she said.

People will stand in a line over an hour for different forms of smoky meat. I end up with a half-rack of Big Boned ribs with a side of… pulled pork sandwich. Altogether, the $18 is worth the amount of food they slap on your Styrofoam tray.

The ribs are excellent. The meat sticks to the bone but is still tender enough to bite into. Slathered with their signature sauce, each chomp delivers a tangy zap to the taste buds with an essence of smoked goodness.

The sweet and smoky flavor of the pulled pork blends instantly with the starch of the sandwich roll. The soft bread and tender swine squish together like a big, greasy marshmallow. Big Boned Barbeque from Chattanooga, TN, knows what they are doing behind the grill.

The Zac Brown Band, one of the most popular headlining bands, was the final performance to take the Ribfest stage. They wooed the crowd with over an hour and a half of southern rock and surprise cover songs, like “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Blackbird.”

Their style of music ranges from slow, mellow tunes to fast-paced guitar riffs with a southern twang that could easily start a hoedown. Their latest hit song, “Toes,” is saved for the last song on the set-list, right before their unexpected encore.

Overall, Ribfest is the ultimate scene for a rib fiend or music fan. This all-day event is held at Vinoy Park one weekend a year. Each day has different musical performances with the same grilled delicacies from places like Big Boned Barbeque or Willingham’s World Champion BBQ.

Although the place is crowded and there is no room to breathe, Ribfest is worth the experience. Just take it from Zac Brown:

“I’ve got my toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world – a cold beer in my hand. Life is good today.”

Hopefully city development is something he can Foster

2009-11-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

With 53 percent of the votes, Bill Foster won the St. Petersburg mayoral election Tuesday, against opponent Kathleen Ford. For some, the result is not unexpected.

According to St. Pete Times Columnist, Howard Troxler, the formula is simple: “For at least 20 years, every mayoral election in St. Petersburg has featured a critic of City Hall vs. a candidate preferred by the downtown and business establishment.” He said this year’s election was the “same dance, same result.”

Foster’s win is tied to his traditional views of keeping the city going in the right direction. He had support from the city’s police, business groups and former and current elected officials, while advertising his shared views with former mayor, Rick Baker.

Baker proudly endorsed Foster over Ford during the 2009 campaigns.

Ricky Lehner, a 21-year-old USF student, made sure to cast a ballot at the voting booth this year. “I think that as someone who manages a business downtown, he will probably end up being the better mayor for businesses, but this is just me looking for the good in him winning,” he said.

“I wanted Ford to win,” Lehner said. “I don't want Foster to come in and just continue running things like Baker has been, with all the crooked business deals that they (republicans) give to all their business friends.”

Although Ford lost the 2009 race, results show that she did gain more votes compared to her 2001 loss to Rick Baker. With her reformist views that most of the city opposed, she still managed to stack up 47 percent of the votes. That is, of the small percentage that actually voted.

Foster had 24,289 votes. Ford had 21,761 votes. The city of St. Petersburg has 156,478 registered voters. Something does not add up.

The St. Pete Times said that a low voter turnout was already expected for this election, since it was scheduled in an “off year” from state and national elections. According to Supervisor of Elections, Deborah Clark, the turnout would have been higher if St. Pete synched its elections with state and national voting dates.

The city uses this awkward scheduling process to “rid local elections of greasy machine politics” that go hand-in-hand with major national races, according to the Times. However, this also has a lasting effect for voter turnouts in St. Petersburg.

Voter turnout for specific age groups is unknown in this election, but Lehner is proud to exercise his right to be heard.

“Young people think that the decisions being made today don't affect them at all, so they don't care,” he said. “People elected now are the same people who are going to be in power, say, when we graduate college, at which point the young people now might think it matters, but when their opinion really mattered was at election time right now,” Lehner said.

Fiery debate issues teetered until the final ballot was counted this year. Debate topics varied between things like crime control, businesses, Baywalk, the Downtown area and property tax.
One citizen concern was a new stadium for the Tampa Bay Rays and the possibility of St. Petersburg losing its devoted baseball team.

The Tropicana Field matter is now in the hands of Foster, who says he’s not willing to let the team leave the city, according to a Times article. The Ray’s lease is up in 2026 and Foster would like to see them play through it.

Ford said that the stadium issue is not one of the most important issues to be focused on and had planned to sue the Rays if they tried to break their lease before it expired. “We’re one third of the way into that lease agreement. And I think The Trop is just fine,” she said.

The article also states that candidates want the final decision to be up to the citizens, but Foster believed the city would have lost the Rays if Ford was elected.

Lehner thinks that the Rays should stay and play. “I think from an economic point of view, it would be important for the Rays to stay in St. Pete,” he said.

In his acceptance speech at Ferg’s Sports Bar, Foster claimed that he would work to win over the citizens that did not vote for him in the election: “47 percent of voters didn’t agree with me, and I will work to try and earn their respect every day,” he said.

*proper sources have been cited in submitted version of my paper*

Could a Tampa Bay Talent be the Next Big Thing?

2009-11-05T20:56:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, October 21st, local bands and radio fans gather at the Push Ultra Lounge to watch the 97x Next Big Thing Local Band Search - a live music competition to help fans decide whose music would be worth paying for at one of Tampa Bay’s biggest concerts in December.

The 97x Next Big Thing is an annual concert put on by 97x for dedicated fans. This bay area FM station loads listeners with a variety of upbeat, alternative tunes whenever 97.1 hits the radio dial. When listeners finally get their NBT ticket ripped at the gate, they get to watch more than 10 bands in the stage line-up and rock out to live songs that blare louder than any radio signal.

This year, 97x is looking for a local band to rock the opening stage.

At Push Ultra Lounge on 3rd Street south, the first night of the band search has begun and Shark, a popular 97x DJ, is excited to host it.

The first local band, Marksmen, took the stage in front of the event’s small crowd. This foursome made the lounge echo with their catchy rhythm, crashing symbols and front man that can sing or shriek in harmonious rock melody.

Chris Brickman and Matt Segallos were the first members of the original band. Brickman played lead guitar while Segallos sparked the lyrical side. After a few months of experimenting with acoustics only, they brought along Reed Murray to bash the drums and Sean Allred to pluck the bass guitar.

Marksmen was born.

Connie Alatorre, a USF student and Marksmen fan, bobbed her head along with the band’s tunes. “I actually know someone who is in the band,” she screamed through the air of guitar riffs and amplified words. “See that guy over there jumping around all crazy with the guitar? That’s my friend, Chris.”

Alatorre works with Marksmen’s guitarist at Sam Ash Music Store in Tampa. She came this Wednesday night to have a few drinks and show support for Brickman’s show. “It’s really surprising that there aren’t a lot of people here for a 97x show,” she said.

There were about 11 people standing in front of the stage. Other small groups of people were sitting at the bar-top or at the booths in the lounge area. Some people decided to show their support by sitting outside.

Push Ultra Lounge is one of the more upscale bars in Downtown St. Pete. The brick walls and silver curved bars that run down the ceiling and bar-side wall give the place a classy, yet down-to-earth atmosphere.

Marksmen rocks hard while Annie Urena leans against the corner of the bar-top, facing the stage. Urena is the Generation Y Liaison for Florida Central Credit Union. She works for FCCU by promoting events that the bank sponsors or participates in, while also getting feedback from the bank's younger generation. She uses the most popular social networking sites to get the word across to younger people or anyone that is connected to FCCU online.

“I’m actually uploading a photo to Facebook right now,” she said while her cell phone screen flashed the familiar homepage. “I deal with the Twitter pages, Facebook and MySpace, stuff like that.” She also updates a web page on blogger.com for the credit union.

According to Urena, Florida Central Credit Union is giving $1,500 to the winning band of this 97x band competition. Her job opens many connections for networking and being involved in social events. Aside from this 97x event, she is also in the process of helping with three upcoming television commercials.

This was the first night of the 97x Next Big Thing Local Band Search, but it won’t be the last. More local talent will be playing at Push every Wednesday for the next five weeks, so fans can decide whose music should make it to the NBT stage in December.

The 97x Next Big Thing will celebrate its ninth anniversary at the Ford Amphitheatre this year. Gates open at 10 a.m. Ticket prices range from $20-$65 depending on section choice, plus the added service fees. Some of the headlining bands that will be shaking the stage on December 6th include: Rise Against, Chevelle and Thirty Seconds to Mars.

The opening band is up to the fans.
Listen to the Tampa Bay locals and cast a vote at 97xonline.com.

Annie Urena (left) and fans

Future Reveals Grim Result of Miller's Morning

2009-11-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

HOLY FUCK, FLA, Nov. 5 - A University of South Florida student, Nicole D. Miller, is currently losing her fucking mind in her Madeira Beach home this morning. Officials said the onset of this time-lapsing epiphany of analytical pessimism began earlier the previous day, but has lasted until 2:38 a.m.

Officials also said that Miller realized today that she only experiences bad in everything because of the people who cause it in her world and do not even take the time to notice. "It's like, how can you just shit all over someone's day and then politely step over it so you don't get any on you?" she said early Thursday morning.

According to Miller, this constant fatuous bullshit makes her want to "inhale staples" and "peel my face off, so I have something to suffocate myself with."

So far, her coping method is playing Wii and rapping the popular 97x song, No Handlebars, in its entireity.

"Rapping helps me forget about peoples' bullshit for a few solid minutes," she said.

Fuck Life.

This First Friday won't be the last

2009-10-03T09:44:00.000-07:00

It’s that time again:

Cops are roaming the streets.
Roads are blocked off.
Crowds of pedestrians are shuffling through the cross-walks.

It’s October 2nd.

On the first Friday of each month, Downtown St. Petersburg encourages citizens of the legal drinking age to celebrate. Spreading out from Central Avenue, surrounding streets provide several bars, eateries and street performers that attract and provide a late-night party scene for any First Friday participant.

The downtown area provides several blocks of entertainment to spark a lively nightlife. Popular bars like The Tamiami, Mastry’s Bar and The Bishop Tavern attract many college-age customers. These bars are usually packed wall-to-wall on First Fridays. A bar-top itself can be difficult to spot through a sea of human limbs moving to trendy hip-hop songs to their own unbalanced rhythm. In these bars, the music is just loud enough to shadow the room full of mixed conversations floating through the air, between good friends or friendly strangers.

Chris Wilson, a bar-goer at Mastry’s, enjoys the First Friday atmosphere: “It’s all about the social life, the people, the scene,” he screams over his plastic cup of beer with a smile on his face. “I love seeing new faces.”

At the back end of Mastry’s, drinkers are provided with a brick patio area covered by a wooden overhang, so they can socialize in a designated part of the back alley. Surrounding the brick area, puddles of liquid gather inside the dips in the street while the stench of vomit lingers in the air.

Inside the Tamiami, mirrors cover the walls across from the bar-top, creating a sense that the bar has reached its full capacity for the evening. Drinkers carefully hold cups of cocktails above their heads to prevent a pricey spill.

Perched on a bar stool, 28-year-old Jeff Smith slurs his opinion about First Friday in St. Pete: “Actually, I don’t like anything at all,” he said. “I’d rather be at home reading to be honest with you.” Smith explains how the First Friday scene is nothing more than an awkward dating game that gets old fast. “The next step for me is marriage at this point,” he said. “I’m done messing around.”

After last call, citizens pour onto the streets and sidewalks like a glass Captain and Coke spilling off of a barstool. Even though it is past 2 a.m., Friday does not end here.

Angie’s Café, located next to Jannus Landing on 1st Avenue N., stays open after bar-hoppers pay their final tab. People can line up down the sidewalk to place their order at the convenient to-go window. Fortunato’s Italian Market is also open later on First Friday, providing partiers with a past-midnight snack.

Some independent musicians and artists even stay up late to entertain or make a couple bucks from downtown passerby. In front of Fortunato’s, a man wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt strums his 6-string acoustic while people whiz past him on the sidewalk. At a street corner, a middle-aged man bashes his red drum set in front of a white building. At another corner, a man in white make-up is sprawled out on the sidewalk, tapping his bongo with a basket full of dollar bills. His outfit is complete with a festive headdress, animal print bra and straw skirt.

First Friday appears to be the ultimate once-a-month party scene. The event attracts so many people that roads like 2nd Ave N. are barricaded to keep vehicles out of pedestrian traffic. Cops line the streets to monitor the safety of citizens and keep potential troublemakers in check. “A lot of people plus a lot of booze equals potentials for problems,” said one St. Petersburg police officer. He says that First Friday is a night of many calls for the St. Pete police station. “A person just got shot on the west side of town,” he said.

I'll just have to drum something up on my own. Pure. Gonzo. Journalism.

2009-08-29T21:35:00.000-07:00

As I stare blankly at my Dell laptop screen, the word “professional” bounces around my lexicon, trying to find some personal meaning in a sea of my firing neurons. They nip away at it like piranhas in the Amazon. The letter F is devoured as the O clings for dear life onto the serif of Mr. R.

I don’t like the word professional. Professionalism scares me. In my opinion, you do not have to be “professional” to be successful. When I think of a professional journalist, I think of someone typing their life away in front of a glowing computer screen. Their eyes are bloodshot, as they chug Starbucks and fill their Marlboro-flavored ashtray for the second time. They are awake at an hour during which most people are hitting the REM cycle. They are writing another article about the failing U.S. economy under a hard deadline. They hate their life.

Speaking from a societal viewpoint, a journalist is someone who can analyze an event, slap words on paper to form coherent and comprehensible sentences, remain aware of ethical issues in media and jump through all of the necessary hoops to earn a respectable degree. And that, folks, is also the difference between journalism and citizen journalism.

Everyone has their own idea of what a journalist should be. Each person’s opinion is obviously swayed by the authors they are drawn to and their own personal writing style. Writers have the ability to construct their own reality by picking out the specific nuts and bolts of information that they find important and expressing them through words. For example, my friend and I are sitting on the same bench. She sees the blue Mustang whiz past us, while I am distracted by a conflict between two squirrels near an oak tree. I never notice the existence of the Mustang. She doesn’t see what happens to the acorn. Thus, different people have the ability to write about any situation or experience in a new, fresh way.

My opinion sways in the opposite direction of most. I am drawn to sarcasm, obscenity, irony and wit. Hunter S. Thompson is my hero. Thompson is most well-known for the novel Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, but he has written other pieces worthy of reading. He started “Gonzo journalism,” which is journalism written from the most subjective, vulgar and bizarre viewpoints. There are no limits in this genre, as Thompson so eloquently exhibited during his lifetime. He wrote stories under the influence of a vast array of substances, was often late to work, dressed like a tourist bum and usually disobeyed his editors; in fact, they would sometimes have to beg him to send anything in time to be printed while he made adventures out of his assignments.

Now, I know I won’t be B-lining through Barstow with a head full of acid anytime soon, but it’s nice to know that good journalism sometimes stems from the limitless. Was Hunter S. Thompson professional? Not really, unless you’re rating him on a scale from one to… insane. Was Hunter S. Thompson successful? Legendary.

I want to be a journalist so I can write about the world in my own crazy style, without having to peel off my professional “society face” at the end of each day. I can’t be professional. I can write. When I try to be prim and proper, I cannot. I want to share my views with the world as I travel it. I want my job to be an adventure, not a chore or “something I’m gonna have to do tomorrow.” I want to be able to dive head-first into the media abyss from whichever angle I choose. I want this or I won’t have much else.

Fin.

Where Shopping is a Leisure

2009-07-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

Grand opening of new Publix brings many obscure observations

It's 4:34 p.m. I am barreling down the left lane on 66th Street North, keeping one eye on my illegal odometer speed and one on the row of Publix banners that are whizzing past my passenger window.

"Ah, I found it!" I shout in pathetic victory. I coast into the parking lot and head for the aisles; the new parking garage looks like it has reached its capacity for the moment. Maybe I should try again next time.

As I spot a parking space on the outskirts of the parking area, I slam on my brakes to prevent a customer from smashing the side of my Mountaineer, while they carelessly haul it in reverse. This place is like a fucking reptile zoo.

As I walk into the new Publix, I am greeted by the small lobby area, with escalators and elevators. I hop on the upwards escalator, feeling like I am entering an airport for some kind of secret mission: "WHERE IS THE BOX OF SACRED CRUNCHBERRIES?! THE PRESIDENT NEEDS AN EDIBLE PEACE OFFERING!... SHOULD WE INITIATE DEFCON 4?!"

No worries, America. I'm here now.

When I get to the second floor, I am puzzled by the circular desk in the central area, complete with its own friendly receptionist. Apparently this is where I go for lottery tickets, Money Services and Publix Services. I wonder if I could also make a room reservation, schedule an appointment or book a flight out of this bitch.

Shoppers are infesting the store like termites at the Grand Opening today. I see young teenagers, middle-aged adults and their children, elderly people and even two nuns perusing the store. There is a line at the seafood counter.

There are so many shoppers, it seems like there should be some kind of holiday around the corner. However, Publix is lacking islands of canned yams and sales on Pillsbury pie crusts; it is just a normal Thursday.

Sometimes, humans remind me of Furbies. No wait; make that hamsters. People will get excited over anything that's new, even if it consists of the same crap they are exposed to everywhere else. It's just like adding a new plastic tube to a hamster cage; all of the tubes are the same, except now this one curves to the left.

It's the same brands. Same white shelves. Same "amazing sales" that rotate every other week. And oh yes, those are the same Totino's Frozen Pizzas that they sell at Sweet Bay. But oh those Publix free samples. Decision swayed.

This one even has its own shopping cart escalator and an ENTIRE aisle of Hallmark Greeting Cards! This one has a self-serve soda fountain in front of the deli, so I can have a Pepsi on the rocks while pushing an unopened 2-liter around in my cart. This one must be better.

I know I always need an overdose of caffeine and Get Well cards while I shop for food. Does anyone know which aisle carries beach sandals and unleaded gasoline? Anyone?

This store even puts all of the healthy snacks in the "Greenwise Market" section of the snack aisle for easy identification. I would say that's convenient avoidance for the average American diet. Come on now, Americans don't like eating "wise." It's like disguising aspirin in applesauce; you gotta mix that shit in with the Doritos. What are you thinking, Publilx?

As I comb the aisles, I notice that Publix officials are watching me like a flock of hawks. I pass them a few times while scribbling in my notebook to see if they say anything to me.

Their facial expressions give a distrusted vibe of my presence: "She's not shopping!!! Why does she have a notebook?!"

I hop down the escalator and decide to stand at the entrance, to count how many customers get confused about how to enter the new Publix messiah. Four people in 3 minutes. In three minutes, 4 people try to enter the store through down escalator; the one for the carts no less. I think I'll stop counting now.

I spot two suited Publix officials moving towards me on the electric staircase. They touch the floor and bolt in my direction like CIA agents. A hasty departure may be necessary in the upcoming seconds.

"What are you writing??" questions Mark Andrews, the store manager. The other Publix agent remains silent. He must be the back-up, just in case I get out of hand.

"Just takin' some notes..." I reply vaguely. It's always fun to make people wonder.

"All good things? Who are you with? What are you writing about?" he interrogates, as customers whiz past us in the direction of the incorrect escalator.

Right now I'm counting the number of people that are confused about entering your store, I thought. "Oh yea," I say. "Lots of good things."

On my trip home, I pass my local Madeira Beach Publix. The parking lot is half empty. There are no balloons. No crowds. No fucking banners. It's just a normal Thursday.

My Resume

2009-07-19T23:40:00.000-07:00

I like it.

Free writes are fun. Wafflehouse? Even better.

2009-07-19T23:34:00.000-07:00

I'd like to be a restuarant critic. Someday. Maybe.

This is by far the grossest thing I've ever witnessed in the 21 years I've been alive. Wafflehouse. 3:46 a.m. I can't believe humans are actually consuming this food. How the fuck do I always get dragged to Wafflehouse?

Last time I was with my best friend and a group of guy friends we'd only known a couple days. They did coke in the parking lot while my friend and I waited inside, swivelling on the stools at the front counter. We didn't hang out with our new friends after that.

Nobody inside a Wafflehouse past 2 a.m. is sober. Anybody in their right mind and sober state would see the 1,502,289 health code violations in the cooking area alone. When you're wasted, everything tastes amazing. That soggy, half-cooked waffle is like a breakfast fiesta in your pie-hole. Any kind of waffle would taste delicious; even your taste buds are inebriated. It's like heaven when the irritated, underpaid waitress sets the plate of chocolate chip waffles down on your table smudged with ketchup from the previous shoppers.

However, in your drunken stupor, you fail to realize that the entire restaurant is a breeding ground for E. coli and other fun bacteria. There is lively a germ festival taking place in the midst of the waffle iron area. It's like a bacteria circus; the waffle irons are definitely the Ferris wheels of the joint. Jesus Tapdancing Christ. Even the employees are intoxicated. I think I'd have to be to work here.

Nobody in a Wafflehouse past 2 a.m. is sober. Except me.

MarriAGE

2009-07-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

Recent study shows that age may predict the future for first marriages.

"I don't buy that," said Teresa Scroppo, a wife of 34 years and mother of seven kids. "Twenty two isn't much older than 18. You choose to love. Anybody who goes into a marriage with divorce as an option is doomed to fail."

Recent data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reflects the current marriage patterns of couples in the United States. The findings are based on the results from the National Survey of Family Growth, a study of women ages 15-44.

The study links a woman's age at the time of her first marriage to the length of time it may take that marriage to collapse. Patterns show that the older a woman is at her first wedding ceremony, the longer that marriage may last.

For example, 59% of marriages to brides under age 18 end in separation or divorce within 15 years, while only 36% end when the bride is 20 or older.

Overall, findings suggest that 43% of all first marriages fail within 15 years of declaring holy matrimony. Scroppo is a part of the 57%. Could this have anything to do with her age on the wedding day?

"We were both 22 when we got married," she said. "I knew immediately that he was the one for me."

Nineteen year-old Blance Simonin is having a different marital experience. Married at age 18, she now has a 9-month-old son and two jobs. Simonin finds it hard to be married at a younger age: "I'm still learning to understand how it works."

For video clips of young couples experiencing the married life, check out MTV episodes of Engaged and Underage.

(This was my first article assignment ever in Writing for the Mass Media)