Mitzi Joyce

In Sarasota newspapers of the late 60s and early 70s, advertisements appeared hawking some sand-dune chanteuse called Mitzi Joyce as performing at a delightfully seedy-sounding joint called the Five O'Clock Club. Mitzi was a pianist, organist, accordionist and vocalist all in one, and definitely sounds like an act worth catching. The ad copy, in the style of those Mad Men times, declares her "The little redhead with big talent". Me, I like to think that after she had a few gin rickeys in her, if you called her that to her face, she'd hit you with the microphone.

I have tried to learn more about MJ, but the internets are failing me at every turn. I found a few potentially promising leads, but nothing I can report on just now. Once tantalyzing nugget was a blurb from a 1982 circus magazine that, couched among notices for "Darrell's Mule" and "Norbo, the Almost Human Gorilla", describes the lineup for the Coronas Circus as:

Jon Friday, ringmaster; Joe Nappa, Mitzi Joyce, musicians; Bounding Kays, trampoline; Edwardo Trio, bikes; Ruwills, plate spin; Arturo Rescigno; Janie Coronas, dogs; Wallenda Duo, wire; Tangiers, tumblers; George Hanneford family, riders; Swaying Stars; others.

It astounds me that an active musical performer in a major city could leave such a faint echo of a digital trace in the age of the Internet. I suppose finding actual Super-8 film footage of her playing accordion at the Five O'Clock Club is too much to ask?

Greenscape Celebration Park

Here's a small but friendly little park in Jacksonville, where I used to spend mornings fishing for croaker with a friend. I let him have all my catch each time, because just between you and me and the NSA agents, dear reader, I wouldn't eat anything that came out of this river.

Mostly though, I just sat and sipped my morning Starbucks and watched interesting stuff float by, like dead armadillos and styrofoam coolers and such. So much for celebrating the greenscape. But you can't beat its sculpture of an acorn that looks more like a breast wearing a knitted toboggan.

Saxapahaw Sam

Did a double-take when I passed this paste-up graffiti in Ybor the other day. Some sort of parody of noted groundhog Punxsutawney Phil called Saxapahaw Sam, and with the cognitively-dissonant caption "I Will Kill You."

(What is up with Florida and "kill you" graffiti lately?)

According to this:

Richie identified the work as that of Saxapahaw Sam, a well-known Franklin Street tagger in her UNC-Chapel Hill years. He was popular until he took it a step too far, rather than defacing an abandoned or under construction building, as is the case in Durham, he painted on the walls of an open establishment, which was naturally quite upset.

That article, from 2013, made it sound like Sam is retired from the tagging game, but this graffiti is new. New enough that a fellow seeker of arcane lore, one BXGD, took this picture of the very same graffiti in Ybor just days earlier. And then there's this recent aggregation of Sam's oeuvre in other locales.

I haven't delved much further into the matter because it's often the case that finding the story behind enigmatic graffiti is disappointing, and I usually much prefer not having it explained. I just like Sam in all his mystery the way he is, on his own merits.

Parking Lot Honor Box

This parking lot in Tampa has a quaint old "honor box" left over from the 1950s or so, in which you leave payment in the slot whose number corresponds to the one on the space you parked in.

It was originally constructed to take quarters, which is what clearly dates it back to an era when parking here probably only cost 50 cents. Now in the 21st century when parking here is three bucks, they've had to leave some elaborate instructions for the public. The sign instructs you to fold each dollar three times before forcing it into the tiny coin slot and using a key to ram it in. It's not quite an exact science - the dollar is still pretty damn difficult to wedge in there, even after some aggressive folding and flattening.

There's a guy who lingers around here handing out those sign-language cards with the phrase "I am deaf, please make a donation", hoping to pounce on people while they've got their wallet out. I declined his routine, and then after he turned away I felt bad about it and reflexively said "Hey, wait". Equally reflexively, he quickly turned around with a hopeful expression and said "hmmmmm?" - then caught himself too late.

"Never mind."

Stone Soup Company

I didn't come all the way to Tampa to eat Cincinnati-style chili. Well, wait, maybe I did. They sell it at Stone Soup Company in Ybor and I dug it.

The delicious sangria came served in an ice cold metal goblet which was great fun. I have to say, though, if were to pour it into a normal glass like the kind they serve sangria in at Rumba, it wouldn't even fill it a third of the way. Oh well. Living here in a privilege, and sometimes with it comes the tax of parsimoniousness.

They have an interesting selection of primitive Outsider Art hanging on the walls, such as this decidedly Spunt-like rendition of Marilyn Monroe.

The Interzone Sausage Report

Having just spent three months on Siesta Key, I had sufficient time to sort out where all the important stuff is - namely, the good cigars. It's a neverending cigar store safari in Florida, with my selections of smoke being wholly dependent on the vagaries of local sources. And it's frustrating to have to pull up stakes and ship out to another city just when I finally had this town figured out. But as our Solar System is currently hurtling through space at 420,000 miles per hour into the Local Fluff, none of us can stand still even if we try.

After Siesta Key, I took an extended-stay residence in a hotel in Sarasota's Rosemary District. It being not so far from my prior cigar sources, my left-jacket-pocket lineup didn't change so much. I did, however, discover a new place not previously reported on here - Smokin' Joe's downtown. It's a swingin' bar with a kick-butt walk-in humidor and some knowledgeable employees. They carried delicacies like Loose Cannon, Gurkha Cellar Reserve, Alec Bradley Black Market, and Esteban Carreras Aged 12 Years. Best of all, they were an additional supplier of my current favorite cigar, the Alec Bradley Nica Puro.

While in the Rosemary District, I happened to be smoking a cigar in the park when a lovely lady walked past me, smiled, and remarked on how good my cigar smelled. I should have asked her to marry me but was too stunned to speak.

I spent some time in Ocala, and though I'm sure they must have serious cigar tobacconists hidden there somewhere, I never found them. My dwindling supply of sticks leftover from Sarasota carried me through this difficult time. I know you feel my pain. When the X-class killshot solar flare hits Earth, pray for me that I'm not stuck in Ocala.

Then came Orlando, land of Cigarz at Waterfront (and Bubble Tea.) The guy at Cigarz was a swell Johnson who spotted me a free sample of Cordoba & Morales Family Reserve torpedo. I also dabbled in delights as Puro Pinar, Pinolero, San Lotano Oval, and Don Pepin Garcia. A liquor store (whose name escapes me now) carried in its dusty old humidor a neglected box of Nat Sherman which I pounced on like an antique dealer buying a Renoir from a yard sale whose owners don't realize what they have.

Don't think me ungrateful; I do adore hotel living but the biggest drawback about the lifestyle is that everyplace is "no smoking". This means that, now more than ever, my car has become my substitute smoking parlor in lieu of a lanai on which to lounge. As you might expect, this puts a damper on my predilection for pairing my cigar with a fine craft beer or a shot of something funky like Zwack.

Someday this war's gonna end.

Now I've arrived at yet another hotel, this time in the promised land - Tampa, the cigar capital of the world. And as if to herald this momentous event, a supernova exploded in the Cigar Galaxy, a.k.a. M82. Truly we live in miraculous times.

Does it get any better than this? I intend to find out.

Jimmy Hula's

Can I postulate an axiom? It would tentatively go something like this: "The potential enthusiasm of a Tiki Bar increases with distance from the ocean."

I love all my Florida Tiki Bars, of course, but it has to be said that compared to the classic ones of the good old days, they're rather weak - either on ambience or customer service or the menu itself, or all the above. The not-very-Tiki-ish (but delicious!) Tiki Joe's in Sarasota comes to mind, as does that insufferably crappy place in Jax Beach I'm too nice a guy to name. But I'll take what I can get in this day and age.

Having said that, I also keep discovering great new places that are nowhere near the surf and yet, somehow, counter-intuitively, they kick ass over their coastal counterparts.

Why? Apparently because the owners are painfully aware of the uphill battle in trying to create a beachy vibe in the absence of a beach, they try way too hard and in so doing often acheive something truly epic. Jimmy Hula's in Orlando is one such place. They're not quite on the pure "exotica" tip but rather try to personify the "Cool Key West Hangout" feeling - and in an over-the-top way that you might expect from someone who's never actually been there but only heard about it thirdhand. Regardless of the source of their inspiration, the place works, it totally works, and it joins Chewy Boba Company among my Top Five Reasons Why I No Longer Hope Orlando Falls Into a Giant Sinkhole Forever.

I had a pitcher of Sweetwater 420 IPA and a specialty burger called the "Burnt Reynolds" - it's a burger topped with bacon, egg, and potato chips. If my life ever turns into the movie Groundhog Day, please let it be my day at Jimmy Hula's that I keep reliving over and over.