One afternoon I looked out, and there was this green sky. I rushed off in my shorts down to St. Joseph Sound, off Crystal Beach. It had been a very hot day, and these dogs were reveling in that cool moment just before the storm.”
— DOUGLAS R. CLIFFORD, Times staff photographer
“I was just trying to come up with an absurd contraption, and putting a businessman in it made it look goofier. I went more for temperature than fashion. But I did put a hat on a businessman, so he’s looking pretty dapper.”
— STEVE MADDEN, Times artist
“David Matney, 34, was hanging out at Greenbacks night club in Clearwater. I thought it was cool the way he fit into the whole scene. That light wouldn’t have been as cool without him, and he wouldn’t have been as cool without the light.”
— KINFAY MOROTI, Times staff photographer
We needed a break from the heat, so we asked some of our favorite writers, artists and photographers to explain what "cool" means to them.
Maybe "dog.' But never "daddy-o'
ST. PETERSBURG - Nancy Topper wrote a little play for Abba Dabba theater camp, and before she could write the last act she had a critic.
"Mom! You can't write that."
Her son Nick held the first few pages, cringing. He was appalled by the language of the group known as the "cool kids." Especially the part where Cool Bob says, "Dog's cool, dude."
And Cool Jenny adds, "Dude, "dog' means like "brother.' "
Dog. Dude. Brother. All so wrong.
Nick's 13. He looks like he should know. His blond hair has been growing long and fluffy since last Christmas, begging girls to try to touch it. He pleaded his case, but his mother figured her vision of cool was cool enough. The line stood.
Now the play is in rehearsals at Perkins Elementary. Nancy, the playwright, is directing.
From a distance, Nick maintains his position.
"That doesn't mix, you know? Somebody who'd be saying "dog' would not be saying "dude,' you know? And "Daddy-O', that's like 10 years old."
Nick shrugs.
"I tried to explain it to her. She just didn't get it."
- KELLEY BENHAM, Times staff writer
Oak hammocks and lakeside breezes
Crawford's chickee is topped by thatched palmetto. Even in summer it's oak-hammock cool, a through-way for breezes that sweep off Orange Lake.
When Interstate 275 crawls at rush hour, I see palmetto rising defiant between cracks in the concrete and think of my friend.
Because of Parkinson's, Crawford lives in a trailer now, 30 feet and millions of miles from his sweet hut. But in the wilds near Gainesville, magic still fills his life.
He laughs when mating hornets land in his lap. He cries when sandhill cranes trumpet goodbye. The last time I saw him, we followed bear tracks through a winter drizzle.
The St. Petersburg Times wrote about Crawford more than 30 years ago, when he and his first wife delivered their child in the woods. Back then, natural childbirth was back-to-the-future cool.
Crawford's ahead of the curve, I tell myself. We'll all catch up, right?
I think about him when I speed over Tampa Bay at night, toward the lit-up skyline people consider so pretty.
The wind ripping through my window, that's Crawford, howling.
- RON MATUS, Times staff writer
4 wheels, 2 girls, 1 sponsor
TAMPA - He's here somewhere in this cavern of rattling ballbearings and sweaty nonchalance. One of these boys is the coolest skateboarder.
"That kid," says Chris Johnson, pointing to a bench 15 feet away. "Chris. He's the best in the bowl."
The Chris in question is Chris Lehman, 15, whose arms are draped around two girls. Two.
Confronted with his reputation, Chris pulls his arms in, reaches reflexively for the board between his sneakers.
The girls nod knowingly.
Chris' face disappears behind black-dyed hair that blends into his black T-shirt. The logo says Skatepark of Tampa, his sponsor.
"He'd be cool even if he wasn't sponsored," says Jackie Massey, Chris' girlfriend. "He's really sweet."
Sponsorship is new since Chris won the Damn Am Series last month. His victory was assured with a maneuver called a "half cab ice plant to fakie."
"Won $100 and a few items. Board, some socks and boxers," Chris says. "I'm not wearing them. Cuz of the brand. Hawk clothing."
That would be Tony Hawk. Skateboarder turned businessman.
"It's not me," Chris says.
Chris heads to the bowl. Somebody wants to video him.
"His style's so natural," Jim Grosser, the videographer, says. "It's like seeing Michael Jordan at 14."
- BILL DURYEA, Times staff writer
Furtive firing up
JUNE 1962: The crawl space under the kitchen floor was not unfamiliar territory. I had been there many times before to find slugs for the turtles.
On the other side of the floor, Mom was making supper. I lay sideways beside my twin brother. She was unaware. Always so unaware.
We passed the Kools between us. The menthol felt like breathing ice. It was the first adult thing we'd done in our lives.
JUNE 2004: The air-conditioning unit for the California guest house was large. If I got behind it, I couldn't be seen from the main house.
Inside the guest house, on the coffee table, lay a list of house rules. I had been asked to wear "indoor" and "outdoor" shoes, and to make sure the hot tub was full before I turned on the jets. I had been asked not to smoke, either in the house or "on the grounds."
I crouched in the dark below the air-conditioner - and puffed, hurriedly, only a few times. I doused the half-finished cigarette in a plastic cup, carried it into the guest house, flushed the ashes and rinsed the cup.
It was a Marlboro Light.
I've outgrown menthol.
- JOHN BARRY, Times staff writer
The dance of unfettered potential
I'm 15 or 16, on the cusp of manhood.
I'm wearing my blue Pro Keds high-top sneakers. Right rubber strips gleaming white; red, gold and green stripes painted vertically on each heel. Straight-legged, baggy blue jeans, cuffed at the ankle. A red and white bandana protruding from my right back pocket, just visible under my blue crew neck cotton T-shirt. My hair is brushed back in waves beneath a black leather cap pulled low over my forehead.
Call me Tandrew.
It's Saturday night. Late 1970s.
I leave home, slipping out the back entrance. Inside, my grandparents sleep soundly. Overhead, the Caribbean night sky is clear as are my intentions and my destination: Disco 747, a converted grocery store.
I stride forward, my heel touching the asphalt first. A bebop walk with a slight hitch. Inside my head is the soundtrack of adolescent rebellion. The reggae band Third World sings, 96 Degrees in the Shade. Peter Tosh: Legalize It. Jimmy Cliff: The Harder They Come.
I'll rock, move and impress. I see the world looking downward. The rhythm in my head propels me along. My walk is an adolescent dance, a dance of life, the exuberance of unlimited possibilities.
