Creepy Crawlers: Outer Limits

Cortez Kitchen (4528 119th St. W., Bradenton, 798-9404) is exactly the way I imagine all Florida bars must have looked in decades long gone.

The tables are all outdoors, protected by a gnarled wood roof from which hang all kinds of crap: a door, a small boat, large swaths of netting, crusty buoys, a plastic shark head. Forklifts scuttle back and forth next door, on their way to a roomy warehouse right on the water. Empty crab traps pile up across a stagnant-looking canal.

Lawlessness rules when it comes to grabbing a table. Joel Rozen, Max Linsky and I size up each customer, waiting to snag a spot as soon as the check is taken care of. No lines here, no remote buzzers telling you when your table is ready. Just straight jungle competition.

Once seated, we order beers and wait for the food, which takes longer than expected. When the waitress asks if we need another round, Linsky replies, "I'm all right," but the waitress hears "All right," and showers us with another trio of cold bottles. Did we just get bullied into drinking more?

Luckily, the food is worth the wait. I wolf down a dozen raw oysters, lush and almost buttery.

After two hours, we leave Cortez and work our way back toward Bradenton proper, stopping for some beverages at Drift-In Liquors (2709 Cortez Road W., Bradenton, 755-9825), a beautifully stocked package store that doubles as a cramped watering hole. The bartender chirps on one of those cell-phone-as-CB devices the entire time, pausing to deliver beers and a Beam and Coke.

The regulars at the Drift-In turn out to be some of the nicest bar-goers we've encountered on our four-night binge, striking up an immediate conversation. My neighbor compliments me when I get carded, telling me I have a baby face, while Linsky gets drawn into a discussion about Eastern Massachusetts. In between, Rozen, Linsky and I hash out our differing views on race, language and political correctness. OK, so we've had a few.

Over at the Oneco Beach Bar (5151 15th St. Court, Bradenton) -- 10-plus miles inland from Bradenton Beach by the way -- the scene is notably quieter. Five diehards occupy stools at the small bar, while the tender prances around to music coming from the pint-sized karaoke machine. We hadn't planned on a night of sing-alongs, but when opportunity knocks, you best answer. We quickly make requests and nurse our $2 beers until called, which gives us time to explore.

Unusual touches abound in the rustic -- I'm being charitable -- spot. A car jack lies underneath the pool table. Two slices of what looks like a frozen pizza sit on top of a small toaster oven. A warning sign plasters the refrigerator: "KEEP OUT."

The bathroom's outside, of course, and there ain't much protection from the elements: The men's door is wide open, the urinal angled so you can't really hide your business. The sink looks so dirty that washing your hands might actually make things worse.

Finally, after one patron's astonishingly high-quality take on Sarah McLachlan's "Angel," our group's karaoke cards turn up. I rock "Jumpin' Jack Flash"; Rozen surprises us all with his handsome chorus-trained soul stylings; Linsky brings it home with a rough "Sister Christian."

We play pool, accept a free second round and turn down a third before splitting for downtown Bradenton, our crew now rounded out by Meredith Jacks and Weekly Planet alum Mark Sanders.

We discover upon entering Art and Dave's 9 Ball Lounge (1313 Eighth Ave. W, Bradenton, 748-4705) that karaoke will be a common theme this evening. The setup is noticeably more professional here: The mic actually rests on a stand. Overall, the 9 Ball's décor resembles a skating rink. Black light illuminates the dark carpet, which is spotted with fluorescent ribbons. A half-eaten cake sits on a small shelf near the karaoke machine. Three balloons float above a table, tied to a bottle of what looks like Zima, the original malternative.

But the Miller High Life tastes just fine, and pretty soon we're jamming up the karaoke song list again. I give what can only be described as a forceful performance of Creedence's "Fortunate Son"; Sanders channels Elvis; Rozen masters Stevie Wonder's "Blame it on the Sun."

Our lone Sarasota stop of the night, the Cock & Bull Pub (975 Cattlemen Road, Sarasota, 341-9785), sadly does not feature any karaoke, ruining my buzz. Never having sung publicly to a backing track before, I already possess the zeal of a true believer.

The C&B does deliver, though, when it comes to beer, with a menu the size of a phonebook. The joint is packed with college-aged white kids and the staff works double-time to keep up. We order and then take over a small room just off the main hall, where we relax in comfortable chairs and shoot the shit.

Shortly before last call, our gooey cheese pizza hits the coffee table and is quickly annihilated. Although I know I'll regret it come morning time, I tackle three slices. While not technically great pizza, just before 2 a.m., the bread 'n' cheese tastes pretty darn sweet.

The tender starts flicking off all the neon signs, the universal sign to get the hell out, so we depart, splitting up in the bumpy dirt parking lot. Riding home, I'm already compiling my next set list.

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