#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE LETTER “H” HYSTERICAL BUILDINGS I HAVE KNOWN

Yeah, yeah; I was going to write about Historical buildings, but there's been so much written on it and it's so boring at this point, what fun is that? I've got some history, but I also have my own take on some of the dwellings, huts, edifices, superstructures, but not ziggurats, and some domiciles that inhabit V. M. Ybor (pronounced ee-bor, not eye-bor, as this moron did, when first exploring the place), and Ybor City, which we are cheek-by-jowl with, and in some confused way, a part of.

So, let's get started with this nightmare. It's on the corner of 15^th Avenue, or Columbus Avenue and Nebraska and it has no windows, no doors that I can see and I never see any activity, although I did notice cars parked in an adjacent lot, one evening. It could be anything, since this is a mixed-zoning area. The more prosaic guess is some kind of hum-drum manufacturing of small bits of metal doo-dads goes on here, but I'm not the only one who thinks this is a scary building.

courtesy:googlemaps   

This building doesn't look that ominous in the daytime, but the fact that what windows it did have are painted over, and I can see no egress or ingress, is creepy to me. Mebbe the workers tunnel in, or climb a ladder in the back and enter from the roof. Crappy working conditions, if you ask me.

Two violinists of my acquaintance, who drive me regularly to and from rehearsals and concerts have both commented on the more sinister aspects of it's appearance. Of course, we're usually viewing this at night, when we've been plowing through something like Mussorgsky's “Night on Bare Mountain” and are a bit jumpy to begin with, so perhaps we are to be forgiven for our hesitance to ascribe anything benign going on behind those sinister walls. My best guess? Bad juju as there is a Haitian church nearby and this is where they make zombies with that scopolamine we sell them at the “Farmer's Market Gun and Knife Show”. We have no one but ourselves to blame, when the missing neighbors lurch north and start trying to munch on our body parts.

courtesy:googlemaps   

This is more a case of the building isn't scary, but what's in it is. When you have people who are basically bored and shiftless, you're bound to have trouble.

Now that we've sorted out that mystery, we can go on to something that is truly scary and does truly exist. Take a look at this purple number. It's a supposed “halfway-house”, although I have yet to see a halfway-house with an attached bar that is open during the day. When I was homeless, one of my roomies, who didn't have a screw loose and I would walk to the library with one of the guys who liked to read; safety in numbers, and all that.

The first time we passed on the same side of the street as this place is on, 42 guys all came out and in various states of sobriety, or sanity, cat-called us all the way down to the library. I might mention that there were women who live in this squalor, too, although, I think this was just the prospect of fresh meat. Guys were hanging off the roof of the bar, off the porch and just making all kinds of noise. After that, we either walked on the other side of the street, or even safer, took the bus.

courtesy:googlemaps   

Checkers: Proudly serving you 4-day old grease, heartburn, strokes and heart attacks since forever.

I know that the police go to that place much more often than they ever went to our shelter, and I'm pretty sure that is a place, where you could get ANYTHING, up to and including fissile material to make your own nuke, if you had the brains. It's been that same god-awful color since I've lived here. They've either cornered the market on “Midnight Blue” or it's more than likely paint full of lead, judging from the way the inhabitants act.

courtesy:googlemaps   

Checkers of the Damned. Once you've shuffled off this mortal coil, who says you stop craving those grease-and-bacon burgers, and spicy-oily fries? I think you just change venues and come here for your Happy Meal!

Next on our guided tour is this curiosity. I'm not even sure that this building was ever opened, or why it was painted the way it is, but Alex and I speculate all the time. I personally think that because this is such an old neighborhood and that there are regular paranormal activities going on, that this is probably “The Checkers of the Damned”. We just can't see all the ghouls and ghosts, as they are in the spirit realm. They coast through in their Christine cars and order wormy slug-burgers with crispy toads' feet, and drink minty, or vanilla ectoplasmashakes.

There's a Checkers for live people right across the street, and the ghouls, being Nebraska ghouls, set up shop there, thinking they'd give the other Checkers some competition, and then they went “oh... wait... yeah. We're dead.” and shrugged their little ghost shoulders. I'm sure their service is just as horrible as the live Checkers; the staff flirt and yak on their cell phones and make drug deals. A person could starve to death, or just eat a few meals there and let the cholesterol kill you. Either way, you're gonna end up at “The Checkers of the Damned” sooner or later.

courtesy:zillow.com   

This is how the house looked during it's Roosevelt-Truman-brothel and apparently "Paul's Tourist Home" era. I've been inside this house and up and down and all over it. It's a wonderful house full of nooks and crannies and the trim and original fixtures are marvelous. Some of the rooms are roped off, because they are designated historical sites, where Teddy and Harry laid their heads, and just their heads. At least I think so.

So, now that we've established that V. M. Ybor is full of hysteria, we can also establish that it's full of history – as is anything that is more than a decade old. My dear friend (okay, my “pretend adopted son) Alex, lives across Nebraska Ave. from me in a house that is considered the heart of V. M. Ybor. It has been declared an historical building and anyone who owns it, has to put up with many, many regulations to fulfill the “restoration clauses” of the house. Alex rents a room there and has been there forever.

What's interesting about this house is that Teddy Roosevelt stayed there and used the University of Tampa as his staging area to muster his troops; the “Rough Riders”, for the taking of San Juan Hill in Cuba. Ole Teddy mustered the 1^st United States Volunteer Cavalry, which was one of three such units raised in 1898 to participate in the 1898 Spanish-American War. President William McKinley called for the volunteers, because the American Army was so poorly understaffed after the Civil War.

courtesy:zillow.com   

The white house as it looks today. It is a stunning house, both inside and out. My pretend adopted son, friend, Alex lives here in one of the rooms upstairs.

Teddy slept in the big white house, while musterin, as did Harry Truman. Truman also has a “Truman White House” in Key West. Truman, apparently, loved Florida. The house also gained notoriety as being one of the finest brothels in the country, but I'm hazy as to when this was, and I'm thinking that it may not have been when Roosevelt or Truman were sleeping there. Or maybe it was and that's why they slept there. Who am I to judge?

courtesy:googlemaps   

One of the many beautiful houses that grace V. M. Ybor. They probably don't have nearly the vivid past that the white house does, but they are pretty. Most were built in the 1920s to 1940s and have gone some kind of renovation. They are typically built "shot-gun" style, with the rooms in a line to take advantage of the breezes, as the homes were built before A/C was a thing here in Florida.

But, the real heart of Ybor, meaning “Ybor City”, and not V. M. Ybor, are the Cigar factories and now, the micro-breweries, which are on the edges of the tourist district. People flock to Ybor City for it's fine Cuban and Spanish cuisine and the night life. I used to play with my string quartet there, almost every night in the tonier restaurants. It's within walking distance from where I live, but it's a world apart.

courtesy:googlemaps

I love to tell the story about the Washington D. C., national journalist for HuffPo, Jason Linkins, who was sitting in a bar in Ybor City during the 2012 GOP convention. He was tweeting about the pizza and beer he was drinking. I was busily “live-blogging and tweeting” the convention from the comfort of my blogging chair, as if I were at the convention. When we got to the “family values” part of the speech some nameless gorm was making before nominating Mitt Romney, I tweeted, “Yup, some family values. Nebraska Ave looks like a Hollywood Premiere with all them damn stretch limos running up and down. Guys looking for crack 'n' ho's!”

I tweeted that to Jason, and he is one of the very finest iconoclasts I've ever known. He said, “ha ha ha ha ha ha.” We tweeted back and forth a bit, and became Twitter friends; the man knows his political shit! Thus, a years-long friendship was born. I admitted later, I was just making shit up, except the part about the limos. That was true and it was before noon. Guess the GOP wives were getting their hair done, or some shit.

Just more history. Just more hysteria. 'Cause, Nebraska Avenue.

#ROW80 SUNDAY CHECK IN – POST 14 – ONLY ON NEBRASKA AVE., 33602, 33605, 33604, ETC.

I believe I've mentioned that everything that can possibly happen has happened here on Nebraska Avenue, whatever the zip code. As I roam around pretty much within these 3 zips, it's safe to say, I've seen just about every kind of human failure, vice, venal and cardinal sin committed, along with just about every sort of human kindness, sacrifice and altruism given in aid as well, not as part of someone's job, but because someone cared and ached for a fellow being.

That being said, lots and lots of weird things happen and just plain, WTF? of the unfathomable variety. Laziness? Because you could? What part of no did you not get? Case in point being the famous hole in the counter between the registers in the Sweetbay Pharmacy. The hole is 2” across; not very big. People kept throwing garbage in it and it was a real pain in the ass for the pharmacists' assistants to get the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the hole.

Look how happy he is! He's just waiting for you to throw your linty mint, chewed-up pencils and broken hair barettes in here. (Frankly, when inanimate objects start doing this, I'm outta here!)

The easy solution? They started out by writing “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” Less than 20 feet away is a perfectly good garbage can for, ohbestillmybeatingheart: garbage. I know; right? Garbage kept magically appearing and the pharmacists' assistants kept having to dig the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the whole.

The thing escalated. Next, one of the assistants put a medicine bottle that just fit in the hole. You could still see the “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” This did not deter are garbage squirrelers or throwers, or lazy assholes, or whatever. They removed the bottle, and dumped their little pieces of wadded paper, gum, lint and what have you, so the pharmacists' assistants would now have to remove the bottle and dig out all of the day's debris.

Someone finally got pissed enough, after 2 years of this shit and put about 6 pieces of duct tape over the bottle, so that if some garbage scofflaw wants to get rid of his or her pocket trash, they will either have to peel off 40 minutes worth of duct tape, which will get them beaten to death by an angry Pharmacy department, or walk the 20 feet to the real garbage can. When I heard all of this, I just shook my head and said, “Only on Nebraska Avenue.” Two of the assistants live near me and they howled. They knew what I was talking about.

This is pretty much how we roll here. From shoe-guy on the bus, to slum landlords who think bedbug control is using a 1200 degree heat gun on your mattress, completely missing the "oops, my mattress caught fire" factor, taking bets on how long it will be before someone violates parole and ends up back in the slammer and the ever-popular bus stand game, "Can I have a dollar?" No. "Can  I have fifty cents?" No. "Can I have a bus pass?" Shut up. "Can I have a dollar? ...

This was taken from my porch. I face east. Directly south of this house is the homeless shelter where I lived, before moving here, when I received my disability. It's a magnificent house; there's a plaque on the front explaining it's history.  This is where Teddy Roosevelt stayed at times when he was mustering the Rough Riders, a volunteer corps. After the Civil War, there were not enough soldiers to engage in the Spanish-American War. There was also a fierce debate raging in Congress regarding interference in foreign affair. Isolationists v. Imperialists, so, Teddy took his own road.

Which brings me to my next story. There is a house across the street. It is a magnificent house. Theodore Roosevelt stayed in this house, when he was mustering troops, who later became renowned as “The Rough Riders” before they left for Cuba to fight in the Spanish-American War. They arrived in Tampa in 1898. The Rough Riders are still around, and each year for several years, I played “Mass in Timeof War,” By Franz Joseph Haydn. We would play on Veteran's day and the Rough Riders would come; we donated some of the gate to their cause, for homeless children.

The Rough Riders, circa 1898. The staircase leads to the Grand Ballroom of the University of Tampa. I have played in that ballroom many, many times when I was Principal Viola with the Tampa Bay Chamber Orchestra. The acoustics are marvelous!

A little diversion here, because that's how I roll. I always sat first stand and partnered with a fellow from Curtis freaking Institute. Julliard is Curtis's bitch, if you get my drift. William is an awesome player, and of course, he makes me play like I came from Curtis (ha!) but it's axiomatic, you play better when you're with better players. Anyway, we had to have this choral conductor who was no Dr. Charlene Archibault, or Sir Colin Davis, or James Levine, and certainly no Maestro Anton Coppola. Dr. No (not his real name) did nothing but scowl at us. But, he would never tell us what made him scowl. Sometimes, he'd have less of a scowl, sometimes more. After one of our last performances, William said to me, “What's up with him? He always scowls at the violas, but never tells us what to do to make unscowlable.” I said, “Dunno, but did you notice he had plenty to say about every other section. Mebbe he's just pissed 'cause we don't suck.” William and I shrugged and went off to our next gig, “Santa Claus in Whole Notes, Cause We're Violas.” Great use of that performance major. But, I digress.

This is close to the same image now. Check out the minarets. 

Anyway, that magnificent house has quite a history. I housed a high-class madam and her “hoors” for several decades. The mayor and the Chief of Police were frequent fliers there, I hear. Also, once upon a time, this town was pretty mobbed up by the Trafficante family, who had some dealings with a character named Jack Ruby. The Trafficantes pretty denied much any association with him and some of them are still around, but they engage in honest commerce.

Back in the 70s, I believe the house was sold to the present owners who completely gutted it and restored it back to its original state. It has been named a historical sight and is one of the key key attractions of V.M.Ybor (pronounced ee-bor) which is a part of Ybor City, just to the southeast of Tampa proper. V.M. Ybor's neighborhood association is a weird combination of young professionals and hoodlums. Very eclectic. The V.M. Ybor association had to fight like hell to get it named a historical monument. One for the good guys.

I love the piano. It doesn't love me. I had to take a semester in college and I managed a little Chopin and some Beethoven. I got to Rachmaninoff and had a crisis. I'll stick to the viola on ol' Rocky. That's tuff enuf.

Anyway, the guy who now owns the house has a bunch of musical instruments and he had bought himself a new piano. Either an upright grand or baby grand. He had it tuned and then they had to move it into the house. On the second floor. Understand, I'm a bit sketchy on this, because this is lore and happened about 25 or 30 years ago. So, the owner gets himself a piano mover, who is using an... I don't know what. Forklift? Crane? Magic? Whatever he was trying to use, it didn't work and he dumped the piano right spang in the middle of Nebraska Avenue. Other than being out of tune, the only thing that broke, was the little knob on the lid one uses to open and close the thing. Only on Nebraska Avenue. Actually, I say that, but what I'm thinking is this, “they know about pianos on Nebraska Avenue?” Sometimes, the people here make me wonder if they know about fire or the wheel.