Gasparilla is hell on earth and I can't wait to go back
Diving deep into Tampa's pirate fiesta, at which your timbers will get shivered, guaranteed.
The morning sun was gently warming the chill in the air, and a slight breeze was blowing in from the water. I was sitting on the front porch of a beautiful Old Florida bayside home in Tampa when our eyes locked. She was an attractive young woman, in her twenties, dressed in leather and lace, her hair cascading down over her bare shoulders. She had caught sight of me as she walked past our house, and she had a hungry look in her slightly unfocused eyes.
“Hiiiii,” she cooed, drawing it out over three musical syllables, and as opening lines go, it wasn’t bad.
No, it wasn’t love. She just really had to pee.
Welcome to Gasparilla, my friends. Hope you survive the experience.
“Mardi Gras With Pirates” is probably the best way to describe Gasparilla, a festival that consumes Tampa for the better part of the winter in late January and early February. There’s a “Children’s Gasparilla” day geared toward the wee ones, the Gasparilla Film Festival, the Gasparilla music festival, the Gasparilla Bowl (Florida vs. Tulane in 2024), a Gasparilla half-marathon … look, it’s basically nonstop pirate-themed debauchery for about a month and a half. What’s not to love?
Gasparilla’s origins date back more than a century to 1904, when the city of Tampa created a tribute to the legendary pirate Jose Gaspar. According to legend, Gaspar terrorized the high seas around Florida from the late 1700s to the early 1800s. His reign as a pirate king only ended when he decided to go out for One Last Job — ain’t that always the way — and he attempted to rob a U.S. Navy ship, which dispatched him in short order.
Alas, it appears that Jose Gaspar was a completely fictional character, like Mickey Mouse, Batman or John Wayne. Shame, really, because Gaspar made for a handy symbol of resistance to authority, swaggering independence, and all-around badassery. The “Gasparilla” festival thus includes a tribute to Jose Gaspar, the man, the myth, the legend, starting with a pirate ship’s journey to the city center:
According to tradition and routine, the pirate ship then “demands” a key to the city from Tampa’s mayor, who hands it over even as a whole bunch of pleasure craft circle around the pirate ship. It’s quite the production; what it lacks in historical accuracy (pirates of Jose Gaspar’s day probably didn’t drink Malibu rum and crank Kenny Chesney) it makes up in spectacle. After the mayor “hands over” the keys to the city, a massive parade begins, with floats created by New Orleans-esque krewes leading the way and slinging beads in every direction. About 300,000 pirates now attend the Gasparilla festival, and friend, I was one of those pirates this year. Here’s how it went down.
Our Gasparilla began with a trip to Tampa’s famed, century-plus-old Alessi Bakery. There, I was introduced to the glory that is scachatta, which is sort of like cake with a pizza topping. It is, as you can probably imagine, the perfect drunk food, easy to digest and scientifically designed to soak up alcohol.
Once the scachatta was obtained, all that remained was to, you know, start drinking. We were located a couple blocks off Bayshore Drive, so we weren’t far from the parade route. As such, we could witness the lunacy while still having the luxury of our own non-portable bathroom. I’m not kidding, that alone is worth dropping seven figures to buy yourself a house along the parade route.
A brief list of what I saw in just a few hours at Gasparilla:
A temporary holding pen for drunks made of wire chain-link fencing in a Winn-Dixie parking lot;
A dude completely passed out on the grass who abruptly rallied like he’d been hit with defibrillator paddles, then proceeded to do push-ups on the lawn until he passed back out, face-down;
A couple seated nearby, coming really close to conceiving a child while one of them sipped a drink and the other snacked on a granola bar;
A young woman reeling in beads with all the extension and vertical of Justin Jefferson, with the notable difference that she’s still competing late in January and Jefferson and the Vikings are already home;
A dude who spotted my Valhalla pullover, bro-hugged me, and loudly declared that he’d been there at the PGA Championship too. When I asked who his favorite player was, he apparently forgot how to speak English and wandered away;
A guy fighting the most valiant fight I’ve seen in a long time; he had two women with him, both were kissing him, and he was trying so so hard not to pass out standing up;
Someone who forgot which direction the C goes during a performance of “Y-M-C-A” (note: this was me);
People lustily devouring formerly-frozen cardboard-esque burgers off a grill like they were marbled Kobe beef (this was also me).
Perhaps nothing exemplifies the Gasparilla ethos more than this bingo card, which we picked up early Saturday morning and spent the rest of the day filling out:
In case you’re of a certain age, a “grog” (also known as a “borg”) is a one-gallon milk jug that the youths fill with a mixture of fruit juice and clear alcohol, and the ratio therein determines whether you’re going to have a really good or really bad day. The rest, I’m pretty sure you can figure out for yourself.
The rules for the bingo card were simple: You had to observe the event, item or individual, and the contest began when you picked up the card. (Very frustrating for some of our crew, who observed a young woman crying at 9 a.m. That’s getting at it hard.)
We did, however, allow players to influence the game, which is where the young lady mentioned above and her friends came into play. In return for the use of the bathroom (mark it!), we got a “Happy Gasby!” (mark it!) and “Someone carrying someone” (mark it!) out of them. Sadly, we could not talk them into either emptying their grogs or publicly urinating. (“It’s too early in the day for that.” Look, that’s not a “no”…)
As the sun went down beyond the bay and the crowds began staggering back to wherever it is that they go, we relaxed on the front porch and watched as pirate after pirate threw beads atop the stone bunnies at the en dof our walk. We cheered those who did, booed those who didn’t, and hurled insults at the one philistine who tried to steal a few beads off the bunnies. Entertainment at its most basic, and also its finest.
Gasparilla was magnificent and horrifying, chaotic in both the worst and the best ways. I would be terrified to turn my kids loose in the madness, and yet I can’t wait to dive back into it myself. Next year, though, I’m gonna sail my own pirate ship.
What’s your town’s big festival? And can I crash at your place the next time it comes around?
Song of the Week: “American Dreaming,” Sierra Ferrell
Sierra Ferrell is your classic decade-in-the-making overnight success, a former hitchhiking busker from West Virginia who finally began making a true impact last year with her first major-label release, Trail of Flowers. Ethereal and longing, this is music that’ll keep the evening chill and calm and introspective.
Check out “American Dreaming” and all the other tunes we’ve featured over the years here at the Flashlight & A Biscuit Spotify playlist:
Would You Eat It: Turkey Leg with Crab Dip
There’s just something about having a big-ass turkey leg in your hand that makes you feel like a damn viking, tearing off huge hunks of meat with your teeth while you rest from your pillaging duties. Plus, I am very much in favor of any food that can be used as a blunt-force weapon. Oh, and as for crab dip? Especially warm crab dip? Brother, I’d eat a damn tire smothered with that. This particular chunk o’ turkey was on sale at Ravens games this past season (hence the crab dip) for the low, low price of $16.99. The turkey leg could last a long time in the stands, but it’d probably be better to get that crab dip knocked back before it sits in the sun too long.
So now, we must ask …
Seen some weird/horrifying/disturbingly enticing food on a restaurant menu or at a stadium? Let me know!
That’ll do it for this week. How the hell is it February already? Stay warm & keep your cool, and I’ll catch you back here next Saturday —
—Jay
Land Cat, Georgia
This is issue #153 of Flashlight & A Biscuit. Check out all the past issues right here. Feel free to email me with your thoughts, tips and advice. If you’re new around here, jump right to our most-read stories, or check out some of our recent hits:
What horrors lurk in Palm Beach’s Coral Cut?
Snow in Georgia? Behold the devil’s dandruff!
Jimmy Carter, a Southern man in full
Our first documentary, on the famous Rama Jama’s diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama
What does “Flashlight & A Biscuit” mean, anyway?
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Summerfest in Milwaukee. You guessed it, it is the last two weekends in June and the first weekend in July. A bunch of stages and a ton of food and beer. Yes Jay, you can crash at my place.
Busbee humor at its best…Howard is smiling and Mary is laughing!