Seeing Red
Will Nashville soon get that Grayton Beach feel?
Is there any place in Nashville registering a more blistering heat index than 6, the sizzling restaurant at the triangular intersection of 12th Avenue South and Industrial Boulevard? Owners Kevin Boehm and Scott Alderson, the first tenants in Armistead/Barkley’s multimillion-dollar Gulch redevelopment project, have been playing to a packed house of the young, the beautiful, and the leather-encased since their opening two days after Christmas. No doubt, their enviable success in what was once regarded as a retail wasteland is powerful testimony that will prove invaluable for the developers’ future leasing efforts.
So the Crier is not surprised to hear that what 6ö wants, 6ö gets. The owners, whose standards of perfectionism have already resulted in pink slips for nearly three dozen opening employees, weren’t fond of their view. The view, that is, of the trashy, run-down building just across the way from their bustling valet parking stand and dramatic front entrance. They complained to the building owner and presto, change-o! Two weeks ago, the former Buddie’s Drive-In, vacant and deteriorating for at least a decade, underwent a radical clean-up and got a nifty paint job—deep russet—and a new tin roof.
Now Boehm and Alderson are putting the heat on their good friend from Grayton Beach, Fla., Ollie Petit, to check out the neighborhood. Ollie and brother Phillipe own and run Red Bar, the wildly popular, funky little beachside restaurant that is a favorite summer grazing spot for vacationing Nashvillians. Boehm and Alderson think that Buddie’s—already scouted by several aspiring restaurateurs—is the perfect size and ideal location for Red Bar Nashville. The tall, dark, handsome, and single-again Petit, known to his legion of female fans as the Belgian Elvis, has reportedly been in the building, soaking up Gulch ambiance during a visit here to assist Boehm during 6ö’s opening weeks. Might Nashvillians be able to get their fill of shrimp and penne pasta in tomato beurre blanc sauce without having to drive 400 miles south? From where they stand, Boehm and Alderson are seeing Red.
Kick the can
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and civil rights. Abbie Hoffman and the anti-war movement. Gloria Steinem and feminism. Pamela Anderson and animal rights. Bob Bernstein and the Pepsi Kid.
All revolutions require a leader, a doer, a dreamer of dreams, a shaper of ideas, and a mover of people. Fresh from a three-month sabbatical in Missoula, Mont., coffeeshop owner and noted free-thinker Bob Bernstein—the man who brought the Nun Bun to the world—gladly took up the torch for hordes of fed-up film fans who are sick to death of Hallie Kate Eisenberg. The tousle-haired Bernadette Peters wanna-be stars as the Pepsi Kid in the unbearably annoying ads that run between previews and the feature film at all 4,000-plus Regal Cinemas.
After months and months of repeated showings of the spot that features the precocious child, with a disconcerting voice-over by über-male Jack Palance, as a sheriff in a Wild West bar, movie buffs were ready for a showdown. And they got one Friday night outside of the Green Hills cinema.
Armed with homemade signs and petitions signed by nearly 400 Fido, Bongo Java, and Bongo Java Roasting Company customers (a demographic whose leisure time the Crier envies immensely), a peaceful group of about 10, led by the Big Bobber, protested in the driving rain outside the Cineplex, demanding that Regal stop showing the ad. Or, as the petition concludes: “...Thus, we are now so annoyed every time we see that ad we want to drop-kick that obnoxious, curly-headed, lip-synching brat and blow smoke right into her puny little face. Therefore, we respectfully ask you to stop showing this commercial.”
The soggy protestors eventually were met by Regal district manager Tom Atkinson (no relation to the Gaylord mouthpiece; he spells his last name with a “d”), who called his boss on his cell phone to find out how to handle the civil disobedience. The group was simply asked to move to the side, and then was rewarded with movie passes from a manager.
Still, nothing will appease the Hallie Haters until the ad is deep-sixed and the Pepsi Kid is either driven out of town or locked up until she passes puberty and is worth ogling. Another protest is planned for this Friday night, 8:30, at the Hollywood 27 in 100 Oaks. You can also register your complaints and keep up with the growing movement at www.canthepepsikid.com.
Mourning for Fred
Oh Fred, we hardly knew ya.
The Crier was looking so forward to those ride-along interviews in the (rented) truck, those stops for country barbecue and slaw, and generally just mucking it up and being hopelessly flirtatious with the ultimate powerful Tennessee guy.
But your decision to stay in the Senate with all those guys who aren’t as sexy as you instead of making a run for governor (read that: Tennessee government is a cesspool and you don’t want to have anything to do with it) means that all the Crier has to look forward to next year are a couple of chattering, uninspiring short guys who have never once graced a movie set or had Margaret Carlson panting at their heels.
They might have popped open the champagne at the offices of William Fletcher last week, but the Crier headed straight for the Maker’s Mark. No water. The tears did the trick.
Paging Bettie
Some of the downtown YMCA’s senior male members were in a sweaty lather last week, and they weren’t anywhere near a Stairmaster. What got their heart rates up was an obituary for one William Edell Neal, aged 79, who passed away Feb. 10 in Nashville.
It said Mr. Neal was survived by one daughter, two brothers, and two grandchildren; that he was a graduate of East High and Castle Military Academy; a veteran of World War II; and a post office retiree. What was not in the obit—but is surely his biggest claim to fame—was the fact that Billy Neal had been married not once, but twice, to ’50s pin-up queen Bettie Page, the hometown girl who shocked the nation with her saucy S&M photos.
Speculation was running high that the former Mrs. Neal might fly to Nashville to pay her final respects. To the great disappointment of those who attended the funeral at Woodlawn, Bettie was a no-show.
To whispah in the Crier’s ear, e-mail citycrier@nashvillescene.com. The Crier is compiled and written by Scene staffers and edited by Liz Garrigan, who can be reached at 244-7989, ext. 406.
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