Showing posts with label Kerouac. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kerouac. Show all posts

Friday, December 26, 2014

The Flamingo Bar

When Jack Kerouac lived in St. Petersburg at the end of his life, his primary watering hole was the Flamingo Bar.

Jack, who died in 1969, might be surprised now to find that this dive bar still treasures the attention he spent here and honors him with pictures and souvenirs on the walls. Next time I'm back in St. Petersburg, I need to get here when they open - someone is always already sitting in the "Kerouac chair" where they Jack always sat.

I feel Jack's presence in the place, and it just might be that his spirit helped me out with the spurt of energy that broke my writer's lethargy just before leaving for Naples. (I didn't really have "writer's block", I was just lazy)

Monday, November 18, 2013

Haslam's Book Store

There's a lot of websites - you know, those kind of websites - that claim Haslam's Book Store in St. Petersburg is haunted. And it could well be. There's certainly no shortage of weird mojo around St. Pete. Problem is, some of those kind of websites seem to think practically everyplace is haunted.

Which, come to think of it, could well be too.

Be that as it may, my interest in Haslam's is not for its haunting legends but for, firstly, the simple fact that it's just a darned fine bookstore. Surprisingly, though, for a place with so many books, there's a lot of certain subjects and certain authors I found lacking in their stock; maybe I'll sneak some in and just place them on their shelves as a little gift from me to them.

Secondly, their sign says they have every kind of book from "A" to "Izzard". What the hell is that about?

Thirdly and most significantly, Haslam's was regularly frequented by Jack Kerouac during the final period of his life when he lived at 5169 10th Ave. N in St. Petersburg. Stories are oft told that Kerouac was always getting in trouble with the owner for rearranging the books in a manner that suited him, especially his own books, which he would constantly sneak and place on prime display at eye-level.

You'd think the mere act of being Jack Kerouac would have earned him certain indulgences.