Favorite Places - Part 9 - St. Petersburg, Florida

St. Petersburg desperately wants to be young and hip, but I prefer its older self. My mom and I lived in the city for a while before moving to Dunedin and ending up in Countryside. As a kid, St. Petersburg ("St. Pete" to locals) was home to Haslam's Bookstore, introduced by my mother as a wonderful place to play, and Aunt Hattie's, which allowed kids to pick a toy out of a chest (if they cleaned their plates). Even then St. Pete was also covered with the thick patina of older memories and places: sprawling waterside mansions and stuccoed hotels, bustling downtown restaurants filled with shoppers and strollers, and a strict racial geography that distilled the world below Central Avenue into "South St. Pete." Even as a kid, I understood the euphemism. Most of all I remember St. Pete as the land of old people.

St. Pete was once called the City of Green Benches, a reference to its multitudes of seemingly eternal resting places for its many senior residents. Talk to anyone who lived in the Sunshine City before the 1970s and they'll reminisce about those rows upon rows of benches, often shaded by trees and always filled with elderly pensioners or vacationers seeking to perform the laid back Florida lifestyle. A 1959 Time Magazine article entitled The Old Subscribers recalls how the local paper increased its obituary space from two columns to five every fall when the oldsters would fill the green benches from morning to late afternoon, chatting, relaxing, and scanning the paper intently for errors. The benches are gone now, thanks to misguided efforts to rebrand the city.

St. Pete was also once the shuffleboard capital of the world. Again, you can thank the old-timers for that. Folks recalling long-ago sea voyages yearned for lazy afternoons on the shuffleboard court where they played an approximation of the ocean liner game. In shuffleboard, you gently push a heavy puck along a narrow alley toward a triangular target area, earning points for the accuracy of your aim. It's kind of like a dart game, but with almost no velocity. I remember even the tiny mom and pop motels of that era boasting their own shuffleboard courts. Again though, shuffleboard was always associated with St. Pete's elderly population, so today's chamber-of-commerce-types generally shove that element of the city's sporting tradition off the edges of their pamphlets.

Finally, St. Pete was home to the famed "Million Dollar Pier," a fishing promenade extending 1,400 feet (boosters claimed one-half mile) into the bay, culminating with a Spanish-style recreation center. Opened in 1926, the Pier featured an open-air ballroom (later enclosed), a casino, and even studios for WSUN. The pier also included parking spots for 1,000 cars. Previously, St. Pete piers were privately owned affairs built by railroad magnates and local business leaders, but they suffered the wrath of various hurricanes that blew into the Gulf of Mexico and Tampa Bay. Even the first Municipal Pier was wiped out by a 1921 hurricane. But the Million Dollar Pier lasted for generations until its demolition in 1967. Today tourists and locals flock to a new gathering place simply called "The Pier," an inverted pyramid that offers a nice collection of shops, museums, and restaurants. The structure is cool in a sort of EPCOT Center way, but most folks of a certain age wish the city would have simply renovated the old pier. 

These days I live in California, but I still consider myself a Floridian. So once every few years I return to the pier, amble through the nearby Salvador Dali Museum, poke through downtown antique shops, and visit the old apartment complex by the bay where my mom and I once lived. All the while, St. Pete continues to struggle like so much of Florida with shifts in population and property values. Some say that the Sunshine City's best days are long gone. But I have hope that folks will continue to search out places where time runs slower than usual. Who knows? The city may one day bring back those green benches.


Have any St. Pete memories? Please post a comment.

Also, look for my future post on one of St. Pete's most famous attractions: Webb City.

Non-sequiturds

I don’t know what else to call them, those advertisements that grab my attention solely because of their nonsensical natures. They plop onto my web browser (or television), ooze into my consciousness, and stink up my day with their annoying non-sequitur imagery. I’m pretty sure you’ve sat through one or two non-sequiturds today. Even so, let me offer one all-too-vivid illustration.

The most annoying manifestation of the non-sequiturd phenomenon must be that awful “Lower My Bills” ad that appears on otherwise reputable websites. The ad-box contains supposed “video footage” of a woman dancing in an office, badly. She seems to have no idea that her awkward gyrations are being taped until - in shock - she spots the camera. The image freezes on a close-up of her face caught in a horrified grimace. For some reason this ad sells mortages.

From this example, non-sequiturds may be defined as crappy ads that draw attention through their depictions of random imagery. Typically non-sequiturds integrate a sense of sexual titillation into their appeals, often in mildly disturbing ways. Another dimension of these ads: they would fool only the dimmest viewers. Thus one watches the ad thinking at a meta-level, “This ad is pointless, and it really sucks!” As such, non-sequiturds cut through the clutter of an exploding mediascape, inspiring critique by otherwise inattentive viewers. And garnering attention is the first step to garnering a sale.

I am told of the relative ease with which one may configure a web browser to avoid accepting ads from certain domains, supposedly banishing non-sequiturds to the land of wind and ghosts. But I fear that one death-click would simply seed the flowers of more egregious ads, resulting in an internet version of whack-a-mole. On principle (and just a bit of laziness), I won’t attempt a tech-fix.

I’d rather mock non-sequiturds when I see them, rebuking them with merciless laughter even though my response is meaningless. No matter how valiantly I rebuke these things, someone will click through. Someone will take the bait. Someone will smile at the random image of a dancing office worker and stare at her horrified freeze-frame and say, “Yes, Yes! I will take a second mortgage!” I shudder to imagine that this person will also drive a car and may even vote.

So I am stuck with a weary smile and bemused acceptance of things I can scarcely control: “Ah, joy. Another non-sequiturd.”

Incidentally I claim no origination of the word “non-sequiturd.” A google search reveals some other appearances of the term (though some may merely be misspellings). Either way, I will joyfully weave “non-sequiturd” into my occasional media critiques, gaining small pleasure in the rhetorical spit that drips from the name. Ah…Non-sequiturds: I feel better already.

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Lower My Bills Watch

Want to vent about a non-sequiturd you’ve seen? Leave a comment.

Searching for Grison's

While flipping through my postcard collection I spotted this gem: a wooden postcard mailed in 1939 for Grison's Steak & Chop House, a San Francisco landmark long gone. On the back of the card, Walter Winchell (just "Winchell," actually) is quoted about the need to keep customers happy: "One dissatisfied customer can do your restaurant more harm than the praises of a thousand others can undo. So, if a man has a tough steak, don't give him a sharp knife, give him another steak." Apparently Grison's followed his advice.

Old-timers report that Grison's was one of the greats, weaving itself into the city's mythic architecture. Writing about his beloved "Baghdad-by-the-Bay," Herb Caen mentioned the place in a 1949 San Francisco Chronicle column: "...at Grison's, a beautiful married blonde is having a cozy dinner with a handsome bachelor attorney (and that's not news because her husband just happens to be out of town and they're only good friends anyway)." Sounds like the kind of joint you'd find some film-noir or between the pages of a detective novel, classy, but with some intrigue.

The prices shown on this postcard certainly take you back: a whole broiled California baby lobster for a buck, a New York sirloin steak for a quarter more. Then there were the odd items you don't often see on menus today: celery hearts, mushrooms on toast, Roquefort Cheese for dessert, and something called "English Mutton Chop Kidney." Can you imagine taking a time machine visit to San Francisco in 1939? Hit the Golden Gate International Exposition by day and grab a steak and a highball at night for under ten bucks, with money left over for a decent tip... That would be a fun day.

More than twenty years ago a steakhouse called Harris' took over Grison's 2100 Van Ness Avenue location. One day Jenny and I might drop by Harris' for a thick slab of beef (and one three-olive dry martini for me), and we'll see if we can still experience that bygone chop house vibe. In the meantime, I'd love to learn more about Grison's. If you have any memories or photos to share, please leave a note in the comment section.

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San Francisco Chronicle: Herb Caen's Present indicative

Route 66 News

(Photo by Andrew Wood)

Lisa Chamberlain has written an article about efforts to cash in on nostalgia for Route 66. Her piece includes efforts by Albert Okura to revive Amboy, California; the status of endangered motels in Albuquerque, New Mexico; and the mission of the Society for Commercial Archeology. Along the way she notes some motels that have endured the coming of the interstate, including the Blue Swallow in Tucumcari, Wigwam Villages in Arizona and California, and the Munger Moss in Lebanon, Missouri (above).

New York Times, New Kicks on Route 66 for Commercial Builders

Kevin Sheedy has uploaded photos from his recent drive through Oklahoma and much of the Texas panhandle. Check out his Gallery.

Wichita Eagle, Time travel on historic Route 66

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Society for Commercial Archeology

Shazam!

As part of my occasional series of entries about favorite seventies-era Saturday morning kids' shows (starting with Thundarr the Barbarian) I've decided to write a bit about Shazam!, a live action Filmation series that ran from 1974-1976. The television show shared almost no similarity to the comic book, but I didn't care; it had cool music and awesome effects. Shazam! followed the adventures of Billy Batson and some old dude named Mentor (that's right: "Mentor") as they traveled "the highways and byways of the land on a never-ending mission: to right wrongs, to develop understanding, and to seek justice for all." Actually, as I recall, Shazam! generally focused its attention on other kids getting into trouble: joyriding, falling into mine shafts, disobeying their parents, that sort of thing. The dialogue was pretty awful.

Technician: "This is a restricted area. They're testing missiles today."
Boy: "You mean the kind that explode?"
Technician: "That's right."

But the threats seemed real enough to me. Fortunately, Billy and Mentor would drive by in their Winnebago and lend a hand. Inevitably things would get rough and Billy would be compelled to evoke that magic word: "Shazam!"

Suddenly lightening would strike the teenager, and Billy would receive the awesome powers of Solomon, Hercules, Atlas, Zeus, Achilles, and Mercury -- and become Captain Marvel. And I was struck too. Billy's transformation, the swelling music and those special effects, was the point of the whole show. I remember waiting impatiently for Billy to accept the inevitable and call for the powers of the world's mightiest mortal. That's when Captain Marvel would take over, flying around, smashing through walls, and chasing off mountain lions that threatened the neighborhood children. Afterward, Captain Marvel would chat with the kids, sharing some moral lesson about pride or prejudice or something similarly heavy. Then Billy and Mentor would board their RV and hit the highway in search of new adventures. Thereafter, I'd usually go outside after a long morning of cartoons and live action shows (skipping Isis) and run around the apartment complex with a jacket tied around my neck, pretending to be Captain Marvel.

Looking back, I can vaguely remember that the "Big Red Cheese" was played by two guys, Jackson Bostwick and John Davey. The former looked the part and seemed like a pretty cool dude. That latter was a bit chunky and never seemed too happy in the role. These days Bostwick is fairly busy on the convention scene and trying to publish a book called Myth, Magic and a Mortal, promising tantalizing details about his early departure from the show. John Davey worked in television through the seventies and eighties, but I have no idea of his whereabouts now. I think it'd be cool to have a low budget Shazam! comeback featuring both actors in a sort of Jekyll and Hyde struggle for the soul of Captain Marvel, maybe even with competing "morals to the story," but that nerd-dream will never come to pass.

See the Shazam! intro - Sorry, it can't be embedded.

Learn More: Epguides Shazam! episode guide

Favorite Places - Part 8 - Blue Swallow Motel

I'm certain one can stay at other perfectly nice motels in Tucumcari. The famed New Mexico town of 2,000 motel rooms (now advertised at 1,200) boasts a twinkling, glowing collection of neon motel masterpieces, such as the Americana, the Buckaroo, and the Palomino. But the Blue Swallow Motel pulls me off the highway every time. We first visited the Blue Swallow in 1996 on our first family road trip vacation and discovered immediately why so many travelers around the world love this place. The motel itself is pretty basic, an L-shaped assemblage of rooms tucked off Tucumcari's main street, with a clam-pattern stuccoed facade topped by glowing blue swallows. Yet this motel offers more than just a place to crash. Once a set of cottages built in 1939, now a beloved holdout against interstate homogeneity, the Blue Swallow is one of the nicest motels in the United States.

In 1996 Lillian Redman was still running the Blue Swallow, as she had since 1958 when she received the property as an engagement present. Lillian had met countless folks by the time we dropped by, and yet she had plenty of time to chat with us about her memories of traveling from Texas to New Mexico in 1916 by covered wagon, her work as a Harvey Girl in the 1930s, her motel's fading fortunes with the arrival of I-40, and her belief that a motel should serve as a spiritual sanctuary for traveling souls. Lillian charged awfully low rates (about eleven bucks) for a simple room with hardwood floors and a black and white television. Her motel had no phones and no frills. But you could park your car in a covered garage right next to your room, and you could sit out front beneath the glow of the blue swallow and watch the cars stroll by.


By our first visit in 1996, Lillian's story was well known and often repeated. She'd been featured in Smithsonian Magazine, photographed for books and magazines around the world, and transformed into an icon of the Mother Road. But she was 86 and getting tired. I recall that she used a wheel chair to get around, even as her mind was quick and her spirits warm. We chatted for about a half hour, looking at old pictures and sharing stories about the road. Jenny and I knew we would visit with her every time we returned to this part of the country, just to hear her stories. But she soon sold her motel, and on February 21, 1999, Lillian Redman died.

With Lillian's death, many folks fear that the Blue Swallow may fade into history. Dave and Hilda Bakke purchased the motel, refurbishing the property without harming its integrity. And yet they soon had to sell. More recently Bill Kinder and Terri Johnson purchased the property, embarking on further restorations that aim to return the motel to its 1950s-era appearance. So far the response to their plans has been positive. But lovers of the Blue Swallow know that its existence remains tentative as long as motorists stick to the interstate. We hope, but we have no promises. Even so, Jenny and I will return to Tucumcari sometime in the next year and we'll chat with Bill and Terri. We'll tell them how much we appreciate their efforts to keep a roadside legend alive, and we won't mind paying recently increased room rates as long as the Blue Swallow continues to glow.


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Route 66 News Blue Swallow Motel Seems to be in Good Hands

Searching For...

This undated postcard in the middle of this post (showing a man and a woman in an inset box) appears to be post-1958, but the names on the back of the card are "Mr. and Mrs. Ted Jones." Can you help solve this mystery for me?

Searching for Bradley's 5 and 10

One year when I was a kid, I went Christmas shopping at Ben Franklin's 5 and 10. Even then, virtually nothing cost only a nickel or a dime, but I found plenty of bargains nonetheless. Since then I've been intrigued by these sorts of fixed-priced places. So, a few years ago I purchased a matchbook for Bradley's 5 and 10. I was attracted to its fine-detailed lines and that slogan, "From High Silk Hat to Working Cap . . . Bradley's is for everybody" How often does a place define itself by the hats of its wearers anymore? Looking at this matchbook I wondered, did Bradley's simply adapt the five and dime concept to its bar and grill business?


The problem is: I can find precious little information about Bradley's. Turning the matchbook over, I learned that Bradley's had locations in Hollywood, Southwest Los Angeles, Huntington Park, Belvedere Gardens, and San Diego. I've heard that northern California locations came later. Recently I came across a postcard of the San Diego Plaza, which also featured a tantalizing glimpse of Bradley's (with the "5 and 10" apparently painted over). A blog entitled Tempus Fugit, Elizabeth Short, Howard and Grace offers a reference to Bradley's, noting that Elizabeth Short, the so-called Black Dahlia, was seen at its Hollywood location on her way to a terrible fate. Beyond that, I know nothing about this place. If you have memories or information about Bradley's, feel free to drop a comment.