Karen Magee opines on downtown merchants’ woes.

By Hannah Wallace

I had a great remedy to the Tuesday blues last week—I needed to interview a “Peak Performer” for the March issue of Biz941, and since we’d decided to feature a hockey player (and good friend) Karen Magee, I arranged for an in-person interview at the Sporting News Bar & Grill in the new Holiday Inn Sarasota-Bradenton Airport.

Karen, you might remember, is one half of the Wonderfuls, who owned and operated Jake’s Downtown.  For two years, Jake’s seemed, in my eyes, anyway, a rallying point for downtown businesses—not least because Karen’s partner, Andrea Rankin became president of the Downtown Merchant Association and brought happy enthusiasm to the effort to unite merchants for a better, more profitable downtown.

CCB and I ran into Karen on Main Street one Saturday last December. She was visibly upset at having just let go a longtime employee, but the real story was in what she didn’t tell us: The following Monday, Jake’s closing was announced.

“One thing we like to tell people: It’s OK to say ‘I’m done.’ Sometimes it just doesn’t work,” says Karen, who’s operated her own business consulting practice for nearly five years now. On Tuesday, when we finished discussing the finer points of business professionals on ice, the conversation drifted to the Jake’s ordeal and Karen’s professional opinion of the downtown business environment.

“As a business owner, sometimes the good idea is to stop.” Bad enough to see your friends close their store; worse still to hear Karen tell us that Jake’s Downtown had been Andrea’s dream (and one she pursued with infectious enthusiasm). When business began to slow, the Wonderfuls faced what so many business owners are facing these days. As Karen puts it, “How far in debt do you want to be?” It’s always tempting to hold on for one more day, but “sometimes the pot of gold is nowhere to be seen,” says Karen. “We looked at six different scenarios, and nothing would make money.” With Christmas on the horizon, they decided that pulling the plug would at least give their employees a chance to find new employment during the hiring swells of the holidays. Once they took it into serious consideration, the decision was reached in a matter of hours.

            Unfortunately, other business owners have been around so long, they’re virtually paralyzed by the choice: stay open and lose money, or close and face scenarios that are not necessarily any better. “This is all they know. Once you hit 50, are you really going to go out and find yourself another job? And what’s the job market look like right now?”

“We absolutely refuse to blame the landlords.” In fact, they don’t blame anyone. Karen’s experience as a start-up specialist gives her a Zen-like attitude about their struggles: “It is what it is and we’re not going to complain.” Still, she reveals just a hint of exasperation regarding the excuses and grumblings she’s heard from other business owners—especially in lieu of making productive changes to their business. “Our landlords were great. I once heard someone threaten to go to the newspaper because ‘my landlord is bad to me. He won’t work with me,’” says Karen. “I said, ‘You’re really going to tell the newspaper to write a story because your landlord wants you to pay your rent?’ We signed a lease. If they work with you, that’s good. But they’re not obligated to.”

“It’s not the customer’s job to support your business. It’s your job to provide them with something they want at a price they want to pay.” The movement to support local businesses is great, but blaming customers for not coming into your store is, at best, unproductive.

“If you’re not going to stay open late, then don’t complain.” Jake’s joined the small crowd of businesses attempting to harness Main Street’s restaurant market by staying open into and after dinnertime. “It was disappointing. Mattison’s [serving dinner] at one end and Café Americano at the other, and we were the only retailer open.” Sure enough, thirty percent of Jake’s sales came between 8 and 9 p.m. Andrea once challenged downtown businesses to stay open late just one night, just to see. Those who did reported positively on the experiment. “Other places,” says Karen, “at 5:30, that’s it, they’re closed.”

“Just go put up some frigging signs that say ‘Downtown,’ would you?” Karen says this with a laugh, but obviously it’s a big deal. She suggests that local government efforts are focused too much on creating new shopping destinations without promoting the ones that already exist.

We take a trip to a pro-boxing brawl.

By Hannah Wallace

Well, mark this down as a new experience: We went to a pro boxing match on Friday.

The “Ballroom Brawl” is a semi-regular event featuring professional boxers (usually from the west coast area and around the state) held in the ballroom of a Tampa hotel—in this case, the Westshore Doubletree. Aaron Jaco, a pro boxer himself and the guy who tries to whip CCB, Big J and me into shape over at Uppercut Fitness, told us about the event earlier in the week.

Aaron’s twin brother, Adam, was fighting in the “co-main event.” In a ballroom, mind you. I really had no idea what to expect. Would this be like the fights you see on TV, or some makeshift, backyard fight club? Would there be glamorous people there all gussied up for the event, fratty jackasses, or a collection of random training partners?

Answer? Well, a little bit of everything.

Actually, it seemed like kind of a big deal. The hotel was abuzz—I’m not sure if that was all about the fight, but it seemed to be generating a decent crowd, especially for $20 general admission. And oh, what a crowd: There was definitely a large percentage of the female crowd in killer heels, jangly jewelry and boob-revealing tops. (I’d thought this was a possibility and considered taking a stab at that level of dress, but frankly, I would’ve just looked like a teetering moron. Nine times out of 10, I opt for comfortable and woefully underdressed, rather than aiming too high and coming up awkward.) There were massive guys in hoodies and baggy pants, others all Ed Hardy-ed out, and even one guy whose style I immediately labeled “douchetastic."

Dave Jaco, Aaron and Adam's father, was there, too. We've never met him before, but he's not hard to spot: At 6'6", the former heavyweight contender had a lengthy career that included fights against George Foreman and Mike Tyson. Top Dog Tom likes to talk about how he saw Dave Jaco fight Buster Douglas at Robarts Arena, right before Douglas became a superstar.

The Ballroom Brawl venue itself was exciting and legit, while still being cozy enough that we didn’t need binoculars. First couple of fights didn’t seem to grab anyone’s attention—though, man, it must be weird to be up there above the crowd, with the lights on you, and hearing the music cut out, the bell ring, and you’re left with the faintest murmur from the crowd while you try not to get your head knocked off.

Alas, the first kid, a 129-pounder in his first ever pro fight, did not succeed in that particular respect. He hit the mat less than a minute in, and that was that for his debut.

Speaking of inauspicious pro debuts, a Tampa heavyweight demonstrated such an awkward stance and weak, wide punches that CCB and Big J decided on the spot to become pro boxers. “Hell, if that’s all it takes,” they agreed. And the guy earned a draw, even.

Further down the card, though, the fights were impressive, which is fun to watch, even if good boxing lessens the likelihood of, y’know, blood and stuff.

When Adam Jaco’s super middleweight bout came up, we finally had a reason to scream and shout in support of someone. (Not that we were alone; he had most of the crowd for him.) He won the decision handily.

When you come to a sport or hobby after you’re well into adulthood, and you practice at it in a laid-back manner and without a concrete goal, it’s great to wake up every once in a while and see it performed exquisitely and all-out. That simplicity is the beauty of sports, and of competition at a higher level—when the rules are clearly defined and the point is to win, you can turn off neuroses and  really measure how far you can get with unadulterated effort. The Sweet Science is the epitome of that wonderful simplicity, where the point is to win, and you win by punching the other guy. Hard.

Adam signs an autograph after his win.

After the fights, CCB and I stood around in the lobby enjoying an adult beverage while Adam and Aaron's entourage decided where to go. Dave Jaco momentarily settled in at a nearby table, so we celebrity-stalked him a little as he poured a can of Pepsi into a glass. CCB began to say that he was disappointed the man was "only" drinking Pepsi, but before he could get the words out, Jaco pulled a flask from his inside coat pocket and baptized his soda. "I like him," CCB declared. Dave Jaco looked up and grinned, "I can't afford the drinks here."

I think I'm gonna like this sport.

What’s the best thing to do with my holiday time?

By Hannah Wallace

Alrighty, still settling in to 2010. Just got my W-2, doing vacation-accrual math, scoping out the vast expanse of the new calendar. Allowing myself a big financial sigh of relief having survived the holidays (including three birthdays therein), as well as the peak of several hockey seasons, with a modest tax return on the horizon. No nearby plans for big parties, requisite family gatherings or sporting events to splurge on. So: What do I do with my vacation?

Oh, bonus! At my five-year anniversary with the mag at the end of February, I begin accruing vacation hours at a faster rate.

Oh, caveat! Five of my vacation days have to be spent by the end of June.

I never know what to do with vacation time. I have this, like, maximization compulsion that makes me want to find the scientifically ideal scenario to pursue. (This disease often manifests as “choice paralysis” and can also be linked to my wanting to plot my straightening up around the house so as to avoid retreading a path or entering the same room more than once. See also: overcompensation at “Close Your Eyes and Jump” syndrome.) And with vacations, there’s all these variables and theorems—like, am I going for “best life experience” or “maximized relaxation”? Because one might involve a trip to Europe, while the other would almost surely avoid airplanes altogether.

Dear god in heaven, I’m neurotic.

Lots of times, vacation days really do wind up getting spent for me—either I need a day here or there after a hockey tournament or before a long weekend, or there’s a family reunion. Not that that’s been bad. The last few years, family excuses have taken me to Ohio, Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula, and every single park in Disney World (…twice). But I really want to be able to decide one for myself. It seems to me that the fewer third-person influences there are on your decision, the closer you are to maximized vacation potential.

If you’re calculating along at home, that’s (L + (R - St)C²) – Σ(Px) = Maximized Vacation Potential, (where Px is out-of-pocket expenses), which is surprisingly similar to how you figure out quarterback rating.

Anyways, Vegas was a great vacation along these lines—just a, “Hey, we should go here. This is an experience we should have.” But aye, there’s another rub, ‘cause do you go somewhere you’ve been before because it was so awesome the first time? Or is a brand new destination part of maximized potential? And if you’re traveling as a pair, is it better to be the vacation tour guide or the one who’s never been there? Or should you go somewhere neither of you has ever been?

Yeah, I know it sounds like I’m analyzing all the damn fun out of a vacation (welcome to my life), but, y’know, I like to consider things. A lot.

So anyways, taking all that (and more) into account, we’ve narrowed down infinity to a few options. Feel free to influence our decision with your own information. Or, heck, suggest new spots of interest. At this point, it can’t hurt…

Key West: Neither of us has been there (I’m a bad Floridian); it’s close, beachy and party-friendly.

Manhattan: Both of us have been there (separately), but we feel drawn to the bright lights and big city.

Seattle: ‘Cause it’s perdy and I like it.

Las Vegas: ‘Cause it’s awesome.

New Orleans: CCB’s birth state; known for food and music (we like these things); a quintessential American city that neither of us has experienced.

North Carolina: Between the two of us, there’s familial connections in Wilmington and Raleigh—both fun cities worth a couple-days’ tour; and going east to west, we could also hit mountainous Boone, for fantastic scenery and hippie-fied college-town atmosphere.

San Diego: More familial and friend connections; niiiiiiice weather.

So, whaddya think? Hit me up with your thoughts in the comments section. Best idea gets a ride-along during our vacation (only no, not really).

The wear and tear of a hockey weekend.

By Hannah Wallace

Another hockey tournament weekend. It’s funny how much my enthusiasm for hockey lets me gloss over its, shall we say, less glamorous aspects. A lot of it could be considered an inconvenience, and plenty of things are annoying—some even downright infuriating—and yet, it’s all good. Like the bumper sticker says, a bad day on the ice beats a good day anywhere else.

It’s a three-and-a-half hour drive to Incredible Ice in Coral Springs, which means I have to skip my lunch break and head directly from work. I’m reminding myself that it’s Friday night, and I could very well be recovering from the work week at this very moment, going out to eat with friends or even in my pajamas already. Instead I’m staring into the blackness of Alligator Alley with a numb butt.

If I weren’t used to it, I’m sure I’d be nauseous, trapped in a hatchback with the stench from my equipment—the full and sharp notes of body odor that concentrate as it dries.

I like hotel rooms. Ours is a La Quinta about two miles from the rink. King bed and a television that blips “unusable signal” until you turn it off then back on again.

We’re at the rink by 8:30 p.m. to watch the rec team game. It is freezing cold outside—in Miami, fer christsakes—so there’s no relief from the freezing cold inside. I have to put new tacky tape on my stick, and I’m frustrated because the tape keeps wrinkling. I’m also trying to change the laces in my skates, but the eyelets have corroded and collapsed and I’m having a helluva dusty tug-of-war trying to get the old laces out. I use my car keys to pry out the little bits of metal.

Glamorous locker room.

On the C team, we don’t start putting on our equipment until 9:45. It’s cold, undressing in the locker room of an ice rink, but this is the only time this weekend that we’ll be putting on dry equipment. And it’s the only time this weekend that we’ll feel limber and energized.

We play at 10:15 p.m., a team from North Carolina we’ve never met before. Too many 18-year-olds, the minimum age for the league. They beat the snot out of us, 7-2. By the time we’re out of the rink, it’s almost midnight, and the grocery stores are closed. CCB makes late-night PB&Js in the hotel room, tearing off a piece of a Styrofoam cup to use as a knife.

Up at 7:20 a.m.; game at 8:15. Temperatures dipped around 30, and the wet shin guards, elbow pads, gloves and pants that sat in my car all night are painfully cold. Close game, too—the other team, our regular rivals, have a conniption, thinking they’ve tied it up with 11 seconds left only to have the refs wave off the goal.

Downtime meal (lots of water).
 

Gorging on bagels from a real indy deli, then a nap well earned. Four free hours in the middle of the day, but we’ve still got two games to play, so I sit in the hotel room and watch football.

 CCB takes advantage of between-game downtime, too.

It’s Top Dog Tom’s birthday, and a text tells me they’re getting together with Krazy Kevin et al to go bowling tonight. “Thanks for the invite,” goes the reply, “but we’re in Miami for a tournament. Tell Tom he’s old.”

    
Requisite stretching

Next up: a team from Minnesota. Mostly middle-age women. Starts off friendly enough, but a 1-1 tie into the third period, and things start getting chippy. They go up 2-1, and with a minute left, we pull our goalie and immediately give up an empty netter. Down 3-1 with 30 seconds left, I get pinned against the boards, out of reach of the puck, and retaliate by two-hand whacking a woman in the back of the shoulder pads. Aaaaand now I’m in the penalty box. The other team protests (technically, they’re right) that I should be kicked out of the game, but the refs leave me be at my current level of shame.

Still another game to go. Mozzarella sticks at the upstairs bar. We trade stories—tearful, laughing—about on-ice brawls.

   
Mrs. Harrible and Lefty are amused by my locker room self-portrait.

Yep, equipment’s still cold, and by now we’re stiff and sore and nursing various bumps and bruises. The other team challenges the eligibility of a substitute player we’ve recruited, and just like that we’re down to three defenders, two of whom haven’t skated in months. We lose our heads, and the game soon thereafter.

It’s after 10 p.m. and Wendy’s is the only dinner option. Junior bacon cheeseburgers and Vitamin Water while we chat with Lefty late into the night. There’s another tournament in February, but her next break from vet school isn’t until August. She’s on a plane at 7 a.m. Sunday.

The three-game Saturday lets the rest of us sleep in, and we’re back in the car by 2 Sunday afternoon. All the muscles that are sore from hockey are exacerbated in the car, and we’ll only get back in time to eat dinner before heading off to our house-league game in Ellenton. And that’s where the weekend went.

Rearranging equipment before heading to the final game of the weekend.

But if I’m going to be sore, I want to be sore all over. And if I'm going to fall down, I want to be wearing pads. If I'm going to get angry, I want to have a stick in my hands (and knives on my feet).

If I'm going to be tired, I want to be exhausted.

My vacation was packed with family, calories and (spectator) sports.

By Hannah Wallace

A week and a half without work and I’m only just now catching my breath. Here’s the itinerary:

Dec. 23, 6 p.m. Kick off the vacay at the SR 70 Gecko’s with CCB, Big J, Little J and high school pal Bek, in town from San Diego. (Gecko’s hamburgers are my new love, by the way.) Best of all? We’ve stumbled into Gecko’s Wednesday trivia night. I always forget what a great night-out activity that is. No, we didn’t win, but I nailed Mark Twain and the MASH theme song, which is ego boost enough for me.

Dec. 24, 7 p.m. The Fourth-Annual Wallace Spaghetti Carbonara, West Wing and Wii Christmas Eve Spectacular.

Dec. 25, noon: The Christmas loot: Arguably the star of an especially bounteous Christmas bounty this year was the Kindle CCB bought me (I’m breaking it in with Duma Key). But for a fun rundown of my personality, check out the other awesome gifts I got from my sibs, boyfriend and parents: a new hockey equipment bag, the 8 Mile soundtrack, a pedometer, Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism, hockey garter belt, The Godfather, padded bike shorts, foot duvet, candlesticks, panini press, gym towel and a custom combination gift bag of artisan soap and cocktail Christmas ornaments. Score!

Dec. 26, 3 a.m. CCB hops in the car and drives northward to Huntsville.

Dec. 26, 11 a.m. – 8 p.m. Bro-in-law Captain Slack gets a tour of Bradenton for his birthday: Red Barn, then a trip to Mixon Fruit Farms for the requisite fruit-buying for folks up north. (Did you know there’s such a thing as Bradenton wine? I’m no sommelier, but I thought the Reisling was quite nice.) A pitcher at the Hi-Way, a stroll along Bradenton Beach, a stop at Joe’s Eats and Sweets for ice cream, then dinner at Lee Roy Selmon’s.

Dec. 27, 5:30 a.m. I crawl out of bed to make my 8:45 flight out of Tampa.

Dec. 27, noon (CST) – 8 p.m. A Very Cheetah Christmas, overflowing with warm and welcoming family, unbelievable generosity, fabulous food, small children and sugar.

Dec. 28, 4:30 a.m. CCB and I drag ourselves into the 25-degree Huntsville pre-dawn for pick-up a hockey session.

Just a wee bit early in the morning.

Dec. 28, noon – Dec. 29, 7 p.m. Touring Huntsville, including Christmases with both sets of Cheetah grandparents, plus a crawfish po’ boy at the one and only Po’ Boy Factory.

Dec. 30, 9 a.m. (CST) – 9 p.m. (EST) CCB and I drive from Huntsville to Bradenton.

Dec. 31, 8 p.m. CCB and I break in his new fondue pot with lobster, filet mignon and duck. Low-key New Year’s festivities center around flipping between New Year’s TV coverage.

Jan. 1, 10:30 a.m. CCB and I arrive at Raymond James Stadium for the Outback Bowl, featuring CCB’s Auburn “War Eagle” Tigers taking on the Northwestern…somethingerothers.

A rainy New Years at the Outback Bowl.

Jan. 1, 2:30 p.m. I harangue CCB for making me watch Auburn try to lose the game seven different times. (They eventually won, but…eesh.)

Jan. 1, 6:45 p.m. I discover Olive Garden’s breaded, fried, alfredo-sauced lasagna fritta appetizer. All is right with the world.

 Capt. Beerslinger, left, treats us to suite seats for the Lightning game.

Jan. 2, 2 p.m. The Harribles, Top Dog Tom, CCB and I meet up at the St. Pete Times Forum with Lefty and Captain Beerslinger, who’ve kindly included us in their luxury suite for the Lightning versus Penguins hockey game. Added bonus: Lightning win. We celebrate with a Rock Band slumber party.

Mr. Harrible, CCB and Top Dog Tom at the Forum.

Jan. 3, 9 p.m. The Revolution lose their first hockey game of 2010; Krazy Kevin is mercilessly harassed. Some things never change.

And that pretty much brings us up to date. Hope everyone’s having a great 2010 thus far! Any resolutions you’d like to share with the class? Thus far, I resolve to cut back from the 4,000 daily calories I’ve been ingesting for the last month and a half.

Yeah, after all that, I need a nap.

One party down; the rest of the holidays to go.

By Hannah Wallace

The makings of a good Christmas party: Homer Santa, Channukah "party songs," The Christmas Shoes DVD and chocolate-covered bacon (with nuts!).

Well, Chrappy Christmas went down just about as smoothly as something like that can go. Good turnout—about 25 people total, I think—and things seemed to flow around the house pretty well. (This was a problem on Halloween, when our Dexter setup and the warm weather made everything feel cramped and closed-in.) No stories to tell you of outrageous behavior or hookups or even marathon condiment fights—just good, old-fashioned mingling and merriment. Every once in a while I’d look up and see hockey players chatting with high school friends chatting with kickballers. It may be low-key, but that kind of social mixture is the most difficult thing to achieve—and I could take credit for that, sure, but again, it’s the people that make the party.

Oh yes, there was boxing.

Bud the Beerslinger was so popular for Halloween that we had to bring him back--in the Christmas spirit, of course.

So, now that that’s gone off without a hitch, I find myself…surprisingly prepared for the holidays, actually. Presents are purchased and wrapped; house is…cleaner than it was 48 hours ago, at least; work projects are getting pretty well taken care of in preparation for a week off. All signs are pointing to a wonderful, relaxing holiday.

Everybody will come over for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner at my place, for which Mom brings all the fixings for a quick preparation of spaghetti carbonara. (That tradition dates back to my teeny tiny apartment in Indian Beach, where boiling water was as complicated a culinary maneuver as we had room for.) We’ll open presents Christmas morning at my parents’ house and relax there throughout the day. Then we’ll all head to Mattison’s Riverside for Christmas dinner—also a new tradition, since last year’s dinner there was a hit with everyone. And then we’ll head up to Huntsville to do it all over again with the Cheetah Club clan. Tell me that doesn’t sound perfect.

During our Chrappy preparations, because we also have normal Christmas decorations that we’d put up anyway, we like to say that if anyone thinks our décor is tacky, then it’s on purpose—for the party, of course (whether or not it was intended to be). But it occurs to me that that’s not the only reason the line is blurred. I think Christmas is supposed to be about our little oddities (or idiosyncrasies, if you prefer). Kind of like Thanksgiving, how everyone wants the cranberry sauce in the shape of the can, ‘cause that’s how it always used to be. At some point the things that were just a joke make their way into our affections anyway, and we forget that some little ritual used to be a send-up of holiday traditions, and now it’s become one.

Chrappy decor.

I think sometimes I worry that I’m not doing Christmas just right, and I wonder if anyone else feels that way—nothing major, just that you’re not quite living up to the capital-S Spirit of the Season, and that honoring family and tradition has to be all serious and reverent. Like even when people are laughing we need a slow camera pull back from the window and the syrupy music to indicate that this is, indeed, a meaningful time to be treasured and precious memories and Folger’s moments and blah. But what we really want to do is get the church giggles in the middle of mass and go home and make fun of Mom’s Normal Rockwell compulsion until she falls down laughing, and we quickly follow. Y’see, those really are the moments to be treasured.

It’s probably the same reason everyone affectionately refers to their family as dysfunctional during the holidays—we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Y’see, even when it’s all in jest, you can’t escape the sentimentalism. Or I can’t, anyway. I hope everyone’s holidays are as ridiculous and irreverent as you remember them being, and I’ll see you all in 2010!

Photographic evidence of my week’s activities.

By Hannah Wallace

I had such a Bradenton-community day on Tuesday, it made me want to run right out and buy some Bayshore Bruins apparel. (It's true, I can go to the Desoto Mall Champs and get my high school sweatshirt more than a decade after I graduated.) Speaking of, I didn’t go there or anything, but Manatee High School is playing for the state football championship tonight. That’s pretty cool.

First up, a press conference at the Kiwanis Club introducing the new Bradenton minor-league baseball team: the Marauders. I sat next to Doug Fernandes of the HT (I met him once years ago when Rock Star Kim and her band were playing at the Entersection on Beneva and Webber) and listened to Mayor Wayne Poston and Pittsburgh Pirates personnel get everyone psyched for a full season of 70 home games—all to take place about a quarter mile from my place.

I didn’t get any pictures though, because…I forgot my camera. I’m an excellent journalist.

Later that afternoon, I attended the groundbreaking (not, as I’d earlier reported, the “opening”—see again: excellent journalist) of the new 13th Avenue Community Center “Dream Center” off of Ninth Avenue and 24th Street East.

I tell you what, if you want to get pumped about community initiative, listen to 13th Ave.’s Patrick Carnegie and a slew of other homegrown leaders describe the efforts and motivation behind a project like that (they partnered with Champs, which is headquartered near that very neighborhood) and congratulate themselves without being self-congratulatory, if you know what I mean. Makes you want to roll up your sleeves and get to work.

The mayor was there, too. Y’see, following me around, just like Jerry Springer.

What else happened this week? Why, oh yes, the Ritz holiday cocktail class!

 

CCB and I wear the requisite holiday hats at the Ritz Bayview Bar.

Not a bad view, either.

Wednesday night, once again, mixology deity Pete Whitely led us through a series of original, holiday-themed concoctions.

A craisin floats in my poinsettia champagne cocktail.

Peter Whitely (front, with his assistant, Brandon) muddle ginger for "ginger drops" and sink pomegranate syrup for "Misfit Toy Martinis."

With so many repeat students from the class last year, we all agreed to make it an annual tradition. Next year at the Ritz-Carlton!

Oh, and let’s not forget the office “white elephant” gift exchange on Thursday. The highlight? Gulfshore Media president Chris Schulz unwrapping the final gift of the day: a framed, “autographed” picture of David Hasselhoff.

Merry Hoffmas, everyone. Stay tuned next week for Chrappy Christmas pics!

My sporting activities wind down as the holiday season—starring Chrappy Christmas—heats up.

By Hannah Wallace

Sports sports sports. Both kickball and hockey ended for 2009 this past weekend. While the SH-T Kickers played in the Div. I semi-final and championship games Friday night, Mrs. Harrible, CCB and I were off at a hockey tournament. Still, I honored their efforts by wearing my Kickers jersey under my hockey gear. (And…both of my teams lost that night. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t honor things so much.)

I don my kickball jersey for Friday night's hockey game.

In other sporting news, the Pittsburgh Pirates Tuesday are unveiling their new high-A minor-league team, which will be calling Bradenton’s McKechnie Field home. Finally that beautiful stadium will be used for more than one month a year. And I am tooootally buying merchandise for a pro sports team from Bradenton.

Also Tuesday is the opening of the 13^th Avenue Community Center, which was the star of the ridiculously awesome Champs Celebrity Sports Night. I’m going to be at that event, too, but I really just wanted an excuse to show this picture again:

Did everybody see the Uppercut shout-out (with a dash of Hannah-acknowledgement) in Creative Loafing’s DIY Holiday Guide last week? Between Aaron Jaco and my fans over at the Hi-Way, I should open up a marketing agency for pugilism and dive bars. Punch-Drunk PR—whaddya think?

And I could be my own client! CCB and I host the second-annual Chrappy Christmas—sure to involve both drinking and brawling—this Saturday. I don’t want to jinx anything here, but people seem pretty excited about it. I’ve said before, attendance makes the party, and even without Top-Dog Tom (whose son has a hockey tournament) and Harm-o the Goalie (whose own upcoming progeny keeps him pretty well house-bound looking after his wife—as it should be), a great variety of folks tell us they’re gearing up for the holiday tacky-fest. I’ll let you know next week how it goes, but we’re expecting chocolate-covered bacon and at least four Canadians in attendance—I mean, really, how could we go wrong?

So, as if it’s not bad enough that all of my sporting activities are winding down for the year (except for holiday-hating Aaron Jaco, who’s actually added a $10 Tuesday-night resistance training class at Uppercut), I’ve got endless restaurant gift cards and parental dinner invitations to fill up my week—and my waistline, dammit. This week alone, instead of YouFit, kickball and hockey, it’s Cody’s with the ‘rents on Tuesday, Lee Roy Selmon’s and my Club 63 free-appetizer coupon on Friday, and then Anna Maria Oyster Bar with a gift card on Sunday—not to mention our office Christmas luncheon on Thursday, which, what the hell, I might as well bring fettuccine Alfredo with lard-balls for how healthy I’m going to be.

At least carrying around my fat ass all Christmas will keep my legs strong. Hockey starts back up Jan 3. By then I’ll be ready to throw my weight around.

No time for cohesive narrative; bullet points it is!

By Hannah Wallace

--The Sarasota Elf just came into our office. Next thing I know, I’m doing a little dance in front of a camera. This is indeed a magical time of year.

--Unforeseen mathematical problem: Christmas tree + cat = needles everywhere.

--Less than three weeks left—do you have gifts for those random acquaintances, out-of-town family and/or the people who have everything? If you find the right store, that kind of treasure hunt can actually be fun. Main Street Traders and Artisan on St. Armands are two of my favorites; Write-On Sarasota’s a good one, too. And since I walk by their window every morning. Awesome Orchids on Pineapple is definitely getting some of my money this holiday season. Where else?

--Chrappy Christmas is coming Dec. 19^th! An excuse to wear my “Merry Christmas, bitches” shirt and CCB his unintentionally phallic Santa Claus-suit shirt, while we play N*SYNC’s Christmas album and watch The Christmas Shoes and get out all of the holiday stress in one great big tacky evening. Bonus: We again scheduled around Lefty’s holiday break from vet school in St. Kitts, so the hockey family can be together for the holidays. Have yourself a checky little Christmas.

--As for other family reunions, Thing 1, Thing 2 and Captain Slack are coming into town for the usual Wallace festivities—including spaghetti carbonara dinner at our place Christmas Eve and our traditional (as of last year) Christmas dinner at Mattison’s Riverside. Then CCB jets up to his family Huntsville; I get to spend an extra day with the fam down here, ‘cause CCB bought me a plane ticket to join him on the 27th. Aw, such a sweet guy.

--Here’s a cool event: The Community Shoe Box Reception, a Meals on Wheels project hosted by Polo Grill and Bar, this Sunday, Dec. 13. You wrap a shoe box and its lid separately, and fill it with toiletries, puzzles and other little items, to be distributed to Meals on Wheels recipients. Bring your filled boxes (held together with a rubber band) to Polo Grill between 3 and 6 p.m. Sunday and get a free drink for every box you bring. Feel that warm fuzziness in your belly? That’s the Christmas spirit.

…and no, I’m not talking about the booze, dammit.

--Actually, I’m sending my shoeboxes with someone else, as I’ll be in Estero this weekend with the Ms Conduct for a hockey tournament. That’s my kind of white Christmas right there. Hopefully I don’t wind up doing too many snow angels.

A brilliant artistic concept turns out to be a mixed blessing.

By Hannah Wallace

Ever since I heard about it, I’d been looking forward to Wednesday night’s collaboration between G.WIZ and The Banyan Theater Company—a staged reading with Asolo alum actors (and family friends) David Howard and Annie Morrison, performing The Gravity of Honey by Bruce Rodgers (also an Asolo alum and friend to the Wallaces). For one thing, the play, as I recalled from years ago, is fantastic. And for another thing, when small, ambitious and, one might even say, quirky local arts groups start working together, there’s an exciting sort of…intellectual volatility…like taking two very different, explosive elements and throwing them in a fire and watching the strange new colors glow.

Y’see what G.WIZ does to me? I’m talking all science-projecty now.

Unfortunately, the event itself suffered some setbacks. AC issues, which in Florida always seem to have the same malicious timing indoors as thunderstorms do during outdoor events, exacerbated what was already a less-than-ideal performance space, which required the actors to be miked (microphones kind of hamper the all-important intimacy of the theater). And there were a couple of other organizational snafus that made some moments feel a little seat-of-the-pants—although you could blame a lot of that on the exceptional turnout, which is definitely not anything to complain about.

To preview the dramatic reading, the welcoming remarks were a performance piece highlighting humanity’s struggles to communicate as technology puts up barriers between us (ie people wrestled with the mic system while audience members in the back created a counter-productive din of “We can’t hear you!”).

Most inspiring was a pre-show narrative setting the scene that doubled as an homage to the prologue in Henry V—“For tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings.” In this version, the narrator generously explained the nature of a staged reading and espoused the importance of imagination (while noting in the same breath and without irony that stage directions would be read, too—for the imaginatively handicapped, I suppose). Yes, I chose to interpret that speech as an artistic challenge and not a borderline condescending set of “how to watch a play” instructions. Let’s just…be careful about that, can we please, people?

(The pre-play introduction, by the way, also included the announcement of this summer’s Banyan season: Ibsen’s Ghosts, The Drawer Boy by Michael Healey, and what looks to be an exciting production of a play set against the backdrop of the 1940s jazz world—The Side Man by Warren Leight—which Banyan founder Jerry Finn promises will include some world-class musical talent.)

Then came the play itself, which, in all seriousness, still manages to transcend whatever distractions it encounters.

The Gravity of Honey was produced years ago in the Asolo’s Cook theater—as a bonus part of the Asolo season, as I recall—and it was one of those theatrical experiences that has really stuck with me. It’s about a promiscuous, unconventionally spiritual lounge singer, Honey, who suddenly (and cheerfully) feels compelled to befriend an aging Catholic priest and write endless mathematical formulas that she herself barely (if at all) understands. She soon realizes that her uncontrollable scribblings are working toward defining the fabric of the universe and thus proving the existence of God. The priest is at first skeptical and offended. But their friendship grows, and in a moment of empathy, the priest begins believing in Honey’s work. From there he grows more and more obsessed with the science that might justify his life’s work.

The closer Honey gets to understanding these things, though, the more her body deteriorates, so there’s a sad progression as the priest pushes through the project even though Honey’s losing her joie de vivre—as well as her job and her ability to walk, and, eventually, her ability to communicate at all.

In one great moment (of many), the priest realizes that he’ll never get his definite answer and laments that by looking for absolute proof, he’s lost his faith. Honey responds that his faith was what kept him at her side, looking after her as her body gave out, and so his faith is as strong as ever.

It takes a lot to tell a story that both explores intellectual ideas and portrays sincere human emotions. And that’s the kind of stuff that sticks with you.

So, ok, this wasn’t the smoothest sailing event, and I admit that I probably set my expectations impossibly high, which is why I felt bad about the various problems distracting from what I’d dreamed would be a pure, simple and thus transcendent artistic experience.

But I will maintain that the most important point is that this was a play—and one of great merit, at that—performed in a science museum, and attended by a dedicated, attentive and intellectually curious crowd. And for that, I’ll gladly hope for 1,000 more events just like it.

This weekend, we made sure our eating was balanced with exercise.

By Hannah Wallace

Ugh, my pants feel tight.

So yeah, Thanksgiving dealt us its usual caloric blow, but we didn’t go down without a fight. Experiment A: There’s a new YouFit gym that’s arisen near our house in a shopping center that was recently deserted by Marshall’s—if that says anything about the neighborhood. Wednesday, despite the best efforts of the infomercial-worthy salesman to drive us screaming from the building, we signed up for $10-a-month memberships, then returned that night to spend some time with their army of cardio machines (each one equipped with its own cable-enabled TV screen). We showered there and walked over to Chili’s for dinner. It was cold and rainy, my legs were rubber, and it felt great.

But wait, there’s more: Thanksgiving morning we were up at 7:30 a.m. to truck all the way south to a special holiday boot camp class at Uppercut Boxing. The hour-and-a-half ass-kicking—which included sprints and lunges, 15 minutes straight on the heavy bags, push-ups, sit-ups, squats and other tortures—prompted CCB to ask of proprietor Aaron Jaco, “Why do you hate Thanksgiving?!”

In between gasps, I finally got around to introducing myself to fellow Uppercut devotee John Cannon. I was already scheduled to interview him for the new “Peak Performance” department in the January issue of Biz941, so it would’ve been weird to tell him over the phone that I’d recommended him for the article because I’d seen him at the boxing classes, and then be all, “Oh, but I haven’t ever talked to you, no. I’m just stalking.” (Add him to the list of powerful people who are drawn in by my Power Magnetism.)

Anyway, the class was beautifully brutal, and went a long way toward erasing the guilt of a holiday smorgasbord.

Not much to say about Thanksgiving dinner, except that a) it was delicious; b) we didn’t burn the house down; and c) we were in bed with a full-on food coma at 11 p.m.

Ma handles the turkey/

We awoke 10 hours later and spent the next two hours preparing a big breakfast and watching “College Gameday” in our pajamas. Take that, Black Friday.

Actually, our curiosity, combined with a need to loosen up our abused muscles, prompted a bike ride down the road to DeSoto Square Mall. We’d just planned on taking in the madness, but sadly, that poor old mall wasn’t all that much crazier than usual. And in the end, we couldn’t resist some of the Black Friday sales. So if you saw the weirdos riding their bikes down First Street balancing a home pizza-making kit and a Conair foot spa, yeah, that was us.

Saturday, CCB—who is quite the shopper, I must say—located some sporty deals for pre-Christmas presents to ourselves. We returned from a short trip out with biking shorts, a football, a 100 lb. heavy bag (on sale for $50) and a Christmas tree. Now we’re going to start shopping for other people, we promise.

Gorgous weather, gorgeous setting: the Venetian Waterway trail.

For our Sunday coups d’gras, CCB and I joined Big J and Krazy Kevin for a bicycle ride down the VABI’s Venetian trail. What a way to end a weekend: We biked along the Intracoastal down to Venice Ave., then down through downtown Venice and over to Sharky’s for lunch. From there, we rode through Caspersen to meet up with the trail again, then backtracked to Circus Bridge (only because the alternative would’ve been swimming the Intracoastal), to finally get back to our cars at Shamrock Park. It was like being a kid again, that feeling being in a pack and riding your bike wherever you want to go.

Trail wildlife; Big J the health nut.

A beautiful ride through Caspersen.

And with that, we called the weekend a success.

This week’s big exciting event? The Wednesday night tag-team between the Banyan Theater Company and G.WIZ. The science museum is hosting what is, for me, a perfect theatrical storm—so much so that I even paid for CCB’s ticket. Between parents and press privileges, this is the very first time I have ever paid for a local performance. (I’m happy to see now that they’re sold out, too.)

More on that later this week. For now, suffice it to say, I am excited.

We pitch our tent for an overnight camping trip.

By Hannah Wallace

CCB and I headed to Lake Manatee State Park this weekend to camp with the Harribles. While the two of us were just in it for the fresh air and whatnot, the Harribles were also tasked with helping their son, the Boy, perform some Cub Scouts duties—appreciating nature and hard work and all that jazz.

Mrs. Harrible teaches the boy how to start a fire.

First up: the nature hike.

I’m a horrible Floridian in that apparently I don’t at all pay attention to the things around me. Given the excuse to ask questions about the plants along the trail, I realized just how many things pass me by without any acknowledgement of their unique features. Things that would normally be deemed “pine trees” without another thought suddenly broke apart into several strikingly different species, and it seemed bizarre, looking closely at them, that we could even refer to them all with the same name. Bushes, grasses, berries, flowers—I found myself surrounded by things I had no names for, beyond “plant” and “weed.” And so, with several pages of information provided by the ranger station, we walked along the trail searching for plants we hadn’t yet identified.

Halfway through the hike, I spotted a piece of trash 10 or 15 feet off the trail. Declaring myself a good Samaritan, I marched over to pick it up and saw it was a faded can with an old-school “pop top” tab opening. I dusted off the sand and investigated the embossment on the lid: “Schlitz Brewing Co.”

I really am the only person I know who can go on a nature hike and come back with a souvenir beer can.

(Also awesome was that this discovery afforded me the opportunity to recite this Tomato Nation assessment of the Schlitz ads of the 80s: “’When you're out of Schlitz, you're out of beer.’ And you're happy about it, too, because if you wanted a beer that tasted like fish, you'd have dunked a Maryland crab cake in your Sam Adams.”)

But nature wasn’t the only camping lesson the Boy was to absorb. Mrs. Harrible explained that we were to discuss the value of doing things together, “as a family.” As if CCB and I needed a refrain for the peanut gallery.

“Boy, put down that stick before I beat you with it.”

“Child abuse is fun, when you do it as a family.”

“Hey, what are you—DON’T PUT THAT IN THE FIRE!”

“I’m so glad we had this opportunity to enjoy pyromania together as a family.”

Mr. Harrible wholly endorses Hunts Ketchup for camping hot dogs.

Jokes aside, it was a good time. Camping is like hitting the refresh button: 24 hours without television (or mirrors), moving only as far as your feet will take you, staring at a campfire and going to bed and getting up without once looking at a clock. It takes you to a place where activities are the things you have to do rather than just to pass the time. Setting up shelter, gathering firewood, starting a fire, cooking—all these things have a refreshing necessity to them. As cluttered as my mind gets, it’s nice to remove all options once in a while and just…be.

It's amazing the things you can cook over a campfire. For breakfast: coffee, a Pop Tart and a mini donut.

Here’s where you can add your own segue between the satisfaction of camping and the traditions and history of Thanksgiving.

Back in civilization, CCB and I are again hosting my parents for a Thanksgiving Day feast of deep-fried turkey with all the fixings. It’s a hot-oil holiday disaster waiting to happen! I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday, and I’ll see you when Christmas shopping season has officially begun!

Filling your lunch hour when you can’t go home.

By Hannah Wallace

When I lived in Indian Beach, I went home for my lunch breaks. I could cook some food, watch TV, take a nap, you name it. But when CCB and I moved to a house in Bradenton, 12 miles up traffic-light-laden 41 (gah, that was, what, nearly two years ago now), I had to find new ways to refresh my mind in the middle of the workday. But it’s amazing just how refreshing an hour outside of the office can be.

For instance, I just got back from a stroll to Laurel Park (less than half a mile from our office), where I can sit on a park bench and read for 45 minutes (today I finished Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex). Bayfront Park isn’t a bad option for this, either, but Laurel Park is arguably an even easier walk (no daredeviling across 41), and it’s almost always completely deserted. Which is odd, to my mind, because it’s an incredibly accessible and peaceful oasis, especially for anyone who works downtown. Big oak trees keep most of the park in the shade and double as acoustic accompaniment when the wind rustles their leaves—often the only sound you’ll here. There’s a tiny kids’ playground with sandbox sand and a bunch of toys, unattended. That no one steals them serves as a testament to the community mindset, and makes the park that much more comforting.

Plus, I can swing by the Short Stop deli on Orange Avenue on the way and grab a bottle of iced tea and a homemade sandwich to enjoy during my read.

Other options? When it gets really cool, I’ll walk right out of the office and march three-fourths of the way over the Ringling Bridge and back. The route takes me exactly an hour and it’s a helluva workout—plus you get fresh air and a great view for all 60 minutes.

When it’s warmer, the downtown Y is my lone exercise option. If I drive over to Main Plaza around 1 p.m., there’s almost always parking along Links Avenue (and if not, Second Street around the corner has plenty of parking, and in the shade, too). I can get in 30 minutes on the stairmill, plus a shower, and be back to the office within the hour.

I don’t mind going to restaurants by myself (again, I’ll take a book as a safety blanket), but some places seem to suit solitary dining better than others. My favorites? Citrus Café, just up the road here on Pineapple—I usually go for the balsamic grilled chicken breast sandwich on focaccia (with goat cheese—yum) or the California club (I add avocado). And Sahara, a short drive away at the corner of Bahia Vista and 41: The spanakopita platter, which comes with Greek salad, fresh warm pita and Sahara’s famous homemade hummus, is filling without being too heavy. Or I can walk up to Whiteberry and get some frozen yogurt (a blueberry, raspberry, coconut smoothie is my new favorite) and enjoy the clean modern atmosphere and sidewalk view.

What else? Well, shopping, of course. Target and TJ Maxx are close enough when I have specific items in mind, but when I just have a random urge to browse, there’s no beating the big Goodwill on Tamiami Trail near Myrtle. Nothing takes you out of yourself like an hour of sorting through records and sporting equipment and knickknacks. And if I happen to find something I never knew I always needed, I’m usually only out $10 at the most.

I’ve even found a way to sneak in a nap when I need it: I just park my car somewhere quiet along the street in the north Rosemary District or by Gillespie Park, put up the windshield shade, crank the seat back and grab some Zs.

I do enjoy the alone time, but arguably the best lunch activities are the meals with friends—such a city feel to meeting Rock Star Kim on foot at the corner of Orange and Main, then walking over to Pho Cali (No. 80 with chicken) or Whole Foods (avocado sushi and some samosas). Or Jimmy John’s, which is all of 100 yards from where I’m sitting right now. Sometimes Ma and I will meet up at Starbucks for lattes and a fruit-and-cheese tray, or Copy Editor Megan and I indulge in El Greco or Libby’s.

So I’ve learned a transient lunch hour downtown isn’t such a bad thing after all. Did I miss anything?

A local connection to the history—and possible future?—of transportation.

 

 

 

 

 

By Hannah Wallace

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since embarking on his semi-permanent sabbatical, my father’s had time to indulge some new obsessions…er, “academic pursuits”—everything from world religion to gardening. Most notably, he spent a good deal of the last two years doing exhaustive research for a book about the history of the Asolo—but he’s been forbidden from doing any more work on it until I get a chance to do some editing. (There’s nothing like getting 20 pages into an edit and then having to start over on a new version.) So what’s Dad’s hobby in the meantime? The steam engine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wallace family packs up and heads for the beach.

 

Turns out, during his daily walks around his bayfront Whitfield Estates neighborhood, Dad made a new friend from down the street named Dick Stanley—yep, as in “Stanley Steamer.” Dick’s family was responsible for the famous turn-of-the-century, water-powered automobiles. Since then, Dad’s been spewing forth information about steam engines: their efficiency (as much as 20 miles to a gallon of water), and how fast they could go (over 100 mph). While informative, his monologues also have a strong undercurrent of conspiracy theory—why did this cheap, effective mode of transportation disappear instead of being developed further? He’s fascinated that hybrid, electric and even water-powered cars are considered today’s new trend, when 100 years ago the Stanley Steamer was virtually mainstream. As a proud technophobe, Dad considers this vindication for having to learn how to use a cell phone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So imagine Dad’s excitement when Dick invited him out to a car show on Sunday to experience a fully functional Stanley Steamer. I tagged along to take pictures (it’s always good to take an interest in your parents’ hobbies; keeps them out of trouble).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Actually, this was a meeting of the Florida Packard Club—interesting enough, since Dad owned his grandfather’s 1937 Packard up until a few years ago, when he had to give it to a family member who had time for the upkeep. The Packards alone, arranged on some private property east of I-75 off of Bee Ridge, were a sight to behold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About an hour after we arrived, the Steamer finally made its grand entrance, chugging along Golf Club Blvd. right there between a pick-up truck and a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Dad had an endless stream of questions for the owner, a friend of Dick’s who was happy to explain everything about the car’s history and operation (he kept having to check to make sure the pilot light was still lit).

 

 

  

Turns out, the efficiency isn’t quite what Dad had read—a mile per gallon of water is about what you can expect in the Florida heat. But man, what a ride—we hopped in and zipped around a little community to the rhythmic puffing of the engine and the train-like whistle, nearing 40 mph. I have to admit: I’d expected steam power to be a little …gentler. Feeling the lurch of the car accelerate really inspires respect for the 100-year-old technology.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dad looks through an unusual window to the future.

 

Yeah, I’m not really a car person, but it’s fun to see Dad take a real interest in technology, even as he wisecracks about carving letters in slate and using smoke signals. Check him out, right there at the forefront of the green transportation movement.

 

Stanley Steamer from Hannah Wallace on Vimeo.

Our most successful party to date yields many great pictures.

By Hannah Wallace

Woo!

Ghosts in the Ghetto tour from Hannah Wallace on Vimeo.

Sunday morning, after sleeping in his car parked on our Bradenton street, Scoops grumbled into our spare bathroom to wash up for the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Harrible were slowly packing up their air mattress; Little J had curled up on the couch under his trench coat; Krazy Kevin and Top Dog Tom, also having slept on couches, had both left at first light. A few clanks and crashes in the bathroom had me a tad confused, so I checked with the crazy Canadian when he finally emerged.

“Scoops, you OK in there?”

He responded in typical Scoops fashion (i.e. without concern for logic or context), “Who puts eyes on babies?!”

So, yes, the party Saturday was a rousing success. I don’t have a final tally just yet, but I know there were about three-dozen attendees, and about 30 or so folks in the house at once, damn near all of them in costume. Bruce the Kegerator was so overwhelmed by the attention that he wet himself. Our Dexter room, finalized in a storm of pre-party preparations Saturday morning and afternoon, was so well received that partygoers who were fans of the show stopped to take photos with the saran-wrapped corpse and plastic sheeting.

Our homage to Dexter.

Not that we can really take the credit for the party’s success. I now realize how much it helps to have a holiday like Halloween—a holiday that people set aside in their datebooks for some kind of celebration—fall on a Saturday. I suppose it never occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one who wanted the excuse to dress up and go crazy.

I'd say Krazy Kevin was just playing along with his hair rocker costumer, but...he always acts like this.

Best of all, seeing such a herd of hockey players and their families, kickballers, neighbors and longtime friends mingling seamlessly, clapping each other on the back and posing for pictures together, is, I think, my idea of heaven. And the costumes made it that much better.

 Ms. Conduct gals and their hubbies.

 Rockstars Kim and Kreg as another rockstar couple; Scoops gets his licks.

 CCB gets a little love from Batman.

And there were so many entertaining moments to be retold—my trying to give candy to the neighbor who was actually just trying to give me a bag of vegetables from his garden; Krazy Kevin ill-advisedly fish-hooking Top Dog Tom (and getting a beating for it); yet another partygoer wandering off into the ghetto night (and arriving home at 4 a.m., without explanation, after the cops had been called); Big J giving Top Dog Tom’s entire family a ride home when Tom decided he wanted to join in the slumber party.

With all that confusion, I suppose you can forgive that certain, more subtle aspects of our decorating had been overlooked. This is what led to Scoops’s accidentally brilliant non-sequitur when he emerged from the bathroom Sunday morning, having only then noticed the creepy addition to my father’s baby picture.

Later, he wrote a song about it. Expect “Eyes On Babies” to be the first single off his forthcoming album.

Eyes on Babies from Hannah Wallace on Vimeo.

(OK, I won’t be surprised if nobody finds that as amusing as I do. Maybe you had to be there—maybe it’s the thick Canadian accent—but wow, “Who puts eyes on babies?!” still makes me giggle.)

If we needed any more confirmation that the party was a success, we got it Sunday night, when fully half the Revolution hockey team came into the rink half dead, and we had to apologize to our team captain for everyone being so tired. Still, our exhausted revelers filled the locker room with stories from the night before. And in the end, the stories make a better catalogue of the event than pictures ever could.

But yeah, the photos are good, too.

A few pics from the Asolo Balcony Club's Undead Party Thursday night.

The Asolo Rep Balcony Club, a new group devoted to encouraging appreciation of the arts among young professionals, hosted a party Thursday evening following an effectively creepy performance of The Mystery Plays by the second-year conservatory students. Halloween madness ensued.

Before we join the party, CCB gets my fancy shoes tied just right.

Revelers revelling.

I am sexy, no?

Martin St. Candycorn gets snack-blocked.

CCB with Asolo Rep employees the Jolly Blond Giant and Mrs. Harrible, who helps head the Balcony Club. (Hee, that red-eye is a nice photo effect. I did that on purpose, y'know.)

Pat Egan, who acted at the Asolo in the 70s andreturned for a couple seasons a few years ago, is looking a little worse for wear since last we saw him in A Christmas Carol.

Ma swung by the party after finishing her stage managing duties for that night's Contact performance. Here she gives Pat a little love. They go way back.

Aw, a little Halloween family portrait. Ain't it sweet?

I’m totally geeked out for this Oct. 31st.

By Hannah Wallace

I love Halloween (as I’ve said before). Our theatrical family used to go all out in Whitfield Estates: We’d decorate the yard with homemade creatures, starring a headless horseman Dad assembled by clamping a wood-and-pipe frame onto a sawhorse. We’d stuff pants and a sweatshirt to create the body; the “horse” had one of the mean-looking dog heads from an old three-headed Cerberus costume that came from…I don’t even know where. The horseman’s lead-pipe arm was cocked back, with a platform at the end that held a jack-o-lantern, so it looked like he was charging out of the house ready to chuck the pumpkin at you.

In my adult life, I’ve yearned to recapture some of that all-out Halloween glory. I always want excuses to wear costumes; to shop for fake blood and body parts; to decorate the house with spider webs and scary creatures.

But every year since college I’ve been disappointed. Why decorate the house for the four or five trick-or-treaters who brave our shady street? Why dress up with nowhere to go? It’s depressing being the only Banana at the bar.

What I needed was an all-out, balls-to-the-wall Halloween party—full-on decorations, guests in costume, the whole shebang—but my social circle never had that going on. This year, finally, CCB and I are going to make it happen our own damn selves.

Shh...some of our decorating has to be kept secret.

Sounds like everyone’s on board, too. I’ve gained confidence in our party-throwing capabilities over the last few years, but I still worry about turnout. No matter how excited we are, it’s so hard to generate enthusiasm. But in the past few weeks, when we remind our friends about the Halloween party, instead of the usual, “Oh, ok, yeah, probably, we’ll see,” the responses have been, “I know; I need to think of a costume!” Good sign, I think.

Big J’s been literally sweating over coming up with the perfect get-up, but Saturday night he may have figured it out: Santa Claus. Hell yeah. Krazy Kevin can’t stop talking about spandex and wigs for his hair rocker costume. We keep telling Scoops to be an ice cream man, but who knows what that crazy Canadian’s going to do. We’re even dressing up Bruce the Kegerator (as a robot or a ninja; haven’t decided yet). Of course, I will be Hannah Banana for Halloween until the end of time, because it is just that perfect. And CCB? Well, let’s just say he’s not going to be allowed out in his costume until we’re sure all the little trick-or-treaters are gone for the night.

And the decorating…oh the decorating! So much fun, you guys. I’ve spent every lunch break in October going from store to store, giddily filling my basket with more and more gory crap. Walgreen’s is seriously going to put out an APB on the creepy lady who keeps showing up to shop the Halloween aisle—contemplating exactly what kind of fake blood is needed for the windows; weighing this skull over that one like they’re cantaloupes or something.

I don’t want to give away too much, but I think we’ve got a very Halloweeny atmosphere in the making. There are torches and ghosts and a few severed limbs, some creepy creatures and 1,200 square feet of spider web, plus a little bit of Dexter thrown in for good measure. You’ll get pictures and video next week, I promise.

Ok, maybe just a hint of what we've got in store.

We’ve even got a good pre-party to get warmed up: Mrs. Harrible and Baller Ben from kickball have been spearheading the Asolo Rep Balcony Club, a group for arts-supporting young professionals. They’re having a party on Thursday following the conservatory’s performance of The Mystery Plays. ($10 for the party, or $20 for party and performance. RSVP: Laura Wood, 351-9010 ext. 4712 or

Laura_wood@asolo.org.) Should be good times. Wear your undead garb, come see the show and then hang out with us youngsters on the lobby mezzanine. Just don’t sit behind the banana.

Autumn is upon us! Kind of! For now, at least!

By Hannah Wallace

Oh blessed blessed cool air! How I love thee! I want to hug you! I want to kiss you! I want to bathe myself in your loving coolness!

Alas, it’s Monday, and I’m stuck in the office. Oh well, maybe later.

It’s one of those little things, y’know? Nothing that’s going to change a horrible day into a great one, but all other things being equal, you step outside and think, “Wow. WOW. This is great,” instead of “Oh dear GOD I’m sweating already! Dammit dammit dammit!” From “dammit” to “WOW” is a big difference, if just for a small moment. And the difference is all the difference. I notice a similar phenomenon when I go on a cleaning binge: As I run hither and yon in the morning, trying to gather gym bag and lunch and coffee and breakfast and oh yeah I should put clothes on, if I see a clean coffee table or a sink free of dishes, there’s a noticeable quiet where my neuroses usually fester. The little things.

Happiness is equilibrium, says the man. My weight shifts a little with the weather.

(Huh, apparently I’m going to link to all the highlights from the 20^th Century Theater class I taught for TIP. Hey, eff you, links are for closers. )

Hard to argue when the walk in from the parking lot looks like this.

So the post-hockey-tournament cold that kicked me in the throat last week was, strange to say, well timed. After getting out of bed Saturday…er…late morning…-ish…the cold had killed all obligation for a productive afternoon. Instead, we opened the windows and the back door and let the breeze blow by as we watched college football and contemplated dinner. Heavenly. And completely without the usual taint of regret that time is going by without anything to show for it.

This feels like it’s going to be an in-between week: season’s changing (…hopefully; though I know it’s going to go back to summer a few more times before January rolls around), wrapping up my projects our December visitors annual, no hockey tournaments or practices or galas or anything. Just a cool breeze and a little time on my hands. As it should be. Happy autumn, everyone.

Coming up: the SH-T Kickers Fat Sandy eat-off; what to do during your lunch break (when you’ve eaten your lunch already);  and tales of horror from our increasingly complicated Halloween party (including CCB’s costume, which is so risqué I won’t even be able to show you pictures…muahahah).

I’ll have more to say once the oxygen starts flowing back into my brain again.

By Hannah Wallace

Not much to report on today. I’m pretty wiped out, after boxing boot camp Thursday, hockey Friday, hockey and hockey again Saturday, and then hockey two more times yesterday.  Basically lived at the Ellenton Ice rink for the last three days. Pretty good tournament, overall. Some highs and lows, the latter including a dumbass play I made that cost our team a goal and turned “trying for a last-minute goal to tie the game” into “losing by two points.”

Highs included close games against good teams, and a not-so-close game in our favor (scoring more goals than the other team had shots on net, yay), plus hanging out at Evie’s Ellenton location with a good portion of the Florida Women’s Hockey League Saturday night—kicking back with teammates old and new, watching the Lightning win, playing some video cornhole and whatnot. Good times.

Oh, and this was definitely a high:

This is actually a really awesome goalie, so I'm not going to talk any trash or anything, because next time she sees me she'll stone me and hack my feet off at the ankle.

So yeah, I hardly know where I am or what I’m doing today, except that I’ve got to go straight from work to boxing again tonight, so tomorrow I’m definitely going to need a day off from exercise.  I’ve got lace bite on my right shin, my groin is going on strike, and I can feel the soreness in my back when I take a deep breath. It’s good medicine for neuroses, at least.

And so I really really have no idea what’s going on around town these days. Ma’s busy in rehearsals for Contact, and I hear the Ringling International Arts Festival was a huge success, but I’ve had my busy-blinders on, so just getting from place to place with all the proper equipment and materials for my various activities has taken every bit of my mental energy. (Yeah, I’m an excellent Sarasota Magazine employee. Where am I, again? What town is this?) Hopefully I’ll come up for air on Tuesday or Wednesday and have a look around at what’s going on. Better regroup now; CCB and I have a Halloween party to plan…

Come cheer on the unheralded women of the FWHL.

By Hannah Wallace