My story about a St. Petersburg native - and huge Buccaneers fan - now living in Tokyo ran today. You can't tell it by the bird's nest of text at the bottom of the Web version, but I had a Japanese interpreter translate some Bucs-related phrases from English to Japanese. (Including the above phrase, which means, "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.")
Other phrases included:
Pound that rock!
Engi yoku rei no iwa o tata-ite!
It's automatica with Gramatica.
Guramatica sen shu no kerri- kata wa jidou-teki.
Welcome back, Booger McFarland.
Oh, no. There goes Tokyo. Oh, no. QB Killa.
A-ree tookyoo mo dai-nashi da. QB ga yarare soh.
Give us the Chucky face!
Chat-key no shik-ame-tsurra o misete.
I could use another beer.
Bee-ru o gui-tto nomi-taj na
On a related note, Tribune writer Roy Cummings is keeping an online journal of his time in Tokyo.
This place is spotless. I walked around the city for about four hours Tuesday and only once did I spot a piece of litter on the ground. Even the taxis pass the white-glove test. Hop into one and you think you've just hopped into a freshly detailed car. There isn't a speck of dirt inside and the seats are covered with the same kind of lacy white linen as the doilies in my grandmother's house.
Margi points out a great rant at Suckful. My favorite part about people he hates of late:
The fuckhead who has the gas-powered two-stroke scooter - Look, I'm sorry the DMV pulled your license you redneck piece of shit, but if you wake me up at 6 am one more time, I will string some invisible wire across the sidewalk and cut your goddamn head off. How would you like it if I came over to your house and ran back and forth across your yard with a chainsaw?
The Venemous Kate passes along this tale of reverse diversity.
Kelley notes that there have been plenty of great ways invented for leaving your lover.
Mike has a particularly funny tale to tell about his parents' dog's penchant for befouling his floor. This is one of those times when I'm glad blogs have no Smell-O-Vision.
Michele passes along this alarming list of politically correct edits made to Looney Toons cartoons through the years.
Oh the fun you can have with an elastic baby.
Never fear, the Duct Tape Super Heroes are here.
I got as far as the handcuffs and bag of cannibis.
No words can accurately convey the humor of this movie.
And, apparently Red Bull really does give you wings.
Kicker Martin Gramatica is besieged for autographs.
Safety John Lynch watches from the sideline as coach Jon Gruden
chews out a receiver for running the wrong route.
Simeon Rice, mouth in motion as usual, jawjacking with Greg Spires.
The Three Amigos: Lynch, Joe Jurevicius and Derrick Brooks watch as QB Chris Simms takes a snap.
Warren Sapp sucks down a bottle of Gatorade in the 95-degree heat.
(Keyshawn Johnson runs off the field, to Sapp's left.)
"We asked for an alligator, we paid for an alligator
and unfortunately we did not get an alligator. It's unfortunate,
it's somewhat embarrassing obviously, but the bottom
line is we thought we were getting an alligator."
-- University of Florida spokesman Steve McClain, responding to
the announcement that a large crocodile -- and not the school's
namesake alligator mascot -- is featured on the cover of
the University of Florida's 2003 football media guide.
McClain said he regrets the error.
In case you haven't heard the term "flash mob," it means, "A large group of people who gather in a usually predetermined location, perform some brief action, and then quickly disperse.''
In San Francisco, about 200 came out of nowhere to whirl like dervishes across Market Street, attracting confused stares from tourists. In New York City, hundreds of people burst into applause on the mezzanine of the Grand Hyatt hotel at 7:12 p.m., then quickly disappeared. In New York, a flash mob packed an upscale SoHo shoe store July 16, pretending to be a tour group from Maryland. A month before, hundreds of people crowded around a nondescript oriental rug at Macy's. When sales people questioned them, they said they all lived together and were shopping for a ''love rug.''
You can read more about flash mobs at Cheese Bikini. Sean also have pictures of a mob in Central Park and one in Rome.
A friend here in Tampa is trying to get the word out that on Saturday, Aug. 16 at 4 p.m., there will be a flash mob at the Citrus Park Mall.
His instructions: "Head over to the statues of the baseball players (toward the east end of the mall, near Godiva's Chocolates). Come dressed as you would to a little league baseball game. Bring a lawnchair, gloves and wear a ball cap. When you arrive sit down and act as you would at the begining of a baseball game. THEN at 4:05 begin random baseball cheering, at 4:07 start booing the umpire, at 4:08 storm off.
If you have questions, e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org
There. I have done my civic geek work for the day.
I can't sleep, so instead, I choose to inflict my online amusements upon you. Enjoy.
Is that Mr. T in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
I love art that smells like low tide.
And when there was no meat, we ate fowl and when there was no fowl, we ate crawdad and when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand. You ate what? We ate sand.
Apparently the guys at Google were jealous that Yahoo! was getting in all the good political search engine jokes.
Here's an optical illusion that's making the e-mail rounds.
The world is all about choices, isn't it?
And I choose not to photograph these.
I would so win this contest.
You know, it's true what they say: The world don't move to the beat of just one drum .
You can ride this for 100 miles and hang it up on your porch afterwards for use as a set of wind chimes.
If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning. I'd hammer in the evening, all over this land. I'd hammer out danger. I'd hammer out a warning. But I sure as hell wouldn't jam the goddamn hammer through my pie hole, that's for sure.
I have always wondered: What happened to Boo Berry?
Great story today in the Wall Street Journal about novel techniques people have used to find jobs.
Doughnut man: Kevin Wynn whetted a hiring manager's appetite for his candidacy by driving 350 miles to buy and deliver Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
In May 2002, the 33-year-old unemployed man hoped to become assistant media-relations director of Worcester Polytechnic Institute in Worcester, Mass., where he lives. He thought the popular pastry might help, but the nearest store was in New York. Around 2:00 one morning, he headed there to buy a fresh batch of Original Glazed.
By 9:30, he was handing a box of doughnuts, with his resume and cover letter attached, to Patricia Samson, his potential supervisor. "Some things are hard to find, like Krispy Kreme doughnuts in New England, and a public-relations professional with an engineering and technology background," the letter stated. "Now you have both."
Ms. Samson, a Krispy Kreme fan, says she hired Mr. Wynn because his creative gesture "was the kind of thinking I was looking for."
On an unrelated note. I wonder what Willie Nelson, pictured above, would do for a hot Krispy Kreme right about the time his munchies kick in after a show.
For the uninitiated, that phrase means "Go Bucs!" in Japanese.
Why Japanese? Because the Bucs are in flight right now, somewhere in the middle of their 15 hours on an airplane to Tokyo to play in the American Bowl. I have to think that Sapp, Simeon and Booger are feeling a tad cramped at the moment.
I went with my family to see one of their last training camp scrimmages last weekend. I'll post photos later tonight.
Side Salad's favorite movie critic and cigar supplier, Bob Ross passes this along from today's New York Post:
The New York Times obituary of Bob Hope carried the byline of Vincent Canby, who has been dead himself since 2000."He wrote the piece a few years ago," said Joe Lelyveld, "and not much has happened in Bob Hope's life since."
We have another Reaper's member on the scoreboard in my death pool contest.
Too bad it's in the negative zone.
As was stated at the beginning of the contest:
BEST CHANCE TO FINISH IN NEGATIVE POINTS
If Bob Hope dies after May 29 and Carole Tarrant has no other people assume room temperature on her list, she could finish with a - .5 total score, since Hope turns 100 this year. (That accounts for rounding up per half-year.)
Carole, thanks for the memories.
Entertainer Bob Hope Dies at 100
AP - Bob Hope, ski jump-nosed master of the one-liner and favorite comedian of servicemen and presidents alike, has died, just two months after turning 100.
Hope died late Sunday of pneumonia at his home in Toluca Lake, with his family at his bedside, longtime publicist Ward Grant said Monday.
The nation's most-honored comedian, Hope was a star in every category open to him — vaudeville, radio, television and film, most notably a string of "Road" movies with longtime friend Bing Crosby . For decades, he took his show on the road to bases around the world, boosting the morale of servicemen from World War II to the Gulf War.
President Bush said Monday that "the nation lost a great citizen" with Hope's death.
Possibly because we're going to make an attempt to go to Bucs training camp today. We tried to do this last week, but that was before we heard of my brother-in-law's passing.
After the infinite sadness of the last week, the only passing I want this weekend will hopefully come from the arm of Brad Johnson.
My mom is going with us, since she's a massive Bucs fan. After she read about Jon Gruden threatening to run down Dale Mabry Highway in Tampa in a jock strap if they won the Super Bowl, I may have to tie a string to her ankle to keep her from floating away when she sees him today.
Just to make it even more excrutiatingly fun, we're staying at the Hard Rock Hotel in Orlando and going to Islands of Adventure on Sunday.
Why? Because we can, can, can.
I've just bought a 256mb memory card for the digital camera, so I'll post photos when I get back. I should have about 250 to choose from, if I play things right. Be well and have a good weekend.
Allyn at work sends along this joke:
There was a Marine deployed to Iraq. While he was there he received a letter from his girlfriend. In the letter she explained that she had slept with two guys while he had been gone and she wanted to break up ... AND she wants pictures of herself back.
So the Marine does what any squared-away Marine would do. He went around to his buddies and collected all the unwanted photos of women he could find. He then mailed about 25 pictures of naked women to his girlfriend with the following note:
"I don't remember which one you are. Please remove your picture and send back the rest .."
Charlotte sends along this photo taken in Key West of an elderly Hooters waitress reunion:
They look rather mannish, don't they?
David, who tends to hang out on the right side of the Salad bowl, sends this tender missive:
Question: What is the perfect example of Globalization?
Answer: Princess Diana's death.
Question: How come?
Answer: An English princess with an Egyptian boyfriend, crashes in a French tunnel, riding in a German car with a Dutch engine, driven by a Belgian who was drunk on Scottish whiskey. Followed closely by Italian Paparazzi, on Japanese motorcycles, treated by an American doctor, using Brazilian medicines!
And this was originally sent to you by an Armenian, using Bill Gates' technology, and you're probably reading this on one of the IBM clones, that use Taiwanese-made chips, and a Korean-made monitor, assembled by Bangladeshi workers in a Singapore plant, transported by lorries driven by Indians, hijacked by Indonesians, unloaded by Sicilian longshoremen, trucked by Mexican illegals, and finally sold to you.
That, my friend, is Globalization!
And Alan, with whom I have great affection for minor league baseball, cycling and heaping bowls of yogurt served with Angel Food cake and gallons of Juicy Juice, passes along this link to one of the online diaries of a pitcher on the Vero Beach Dodgers.
A particularly riveting entry about his dental history and his recent removal of wisdom teeth:
"I'm feeling much better, because the first couple of days I had to deal with dry sockets."
What does it mean for this guy to do "The Curly Shuffle?"
You don't want to know.
This would explain the agony and the exstacy.
Not surprisingly, her husband Ruben was the only one of her many male suitors who could actually find her.
Recent headlines from my Onion day-by-day calendar:
Communists Now Least Threatening Group In U.S.
$500 Stereo Installed in $400 Car
American People Ruled Unfit To Govern
You Can Tell Area Bank Used To Be A Pizza Hut
Country Singer Trying To Think Of Rhyme For "Shove You"
World Gets First-Ever Look Inside Greenspan Fantasy Ranch
Report: Depression Hits Losers Hardest
Billy Ray Cyrus To Speak Out
On Single Payer-Healthcare Issue
On Politically Incorrect
Secondhand Smoke Linked To Secondhand Coolness
and my personal favorite:
Everything A Goddamn Ordeal In Area Family
HUNTINGTON, WV - Absolutely everything from ordering a pizza to going out to the movies has to be a huge goddamn ordeal for the Flemings, father Bryce Fleming reported Tuesday. "Just once, could we maybe sit down and watch some goddamn TV together without the whole thing desolving into an all-night screaming match?" Fleming asked wife Tanya Fleming. "Could we?" Fleming went on to ask if that could happen once in the history of their goddamn household.
My thanks goes to everyone who expressed their condolences over the loss of my brother-in-law, Bob, last weekend. He was a kind and generous man and we all miss him greatly.
Wow, Kayla Rae, my turnoffs are flesh breath, narrow minds and closed hearts, polluters, runs in my nylons, animal-tested products, weak coffee, apathy, giving up on true love, foie gras, milk (aka mucus) moustaches, too!
Okay, maybe not the nylons part. But definitely the part about the flesh breath.
When you live in Florida, you come to expect strange news stories.
This one is just the latest addition to the great canon of weirdness this state has to offer:
MIAMI -- Cuban migrants fashioned a boat out of a 1951 Chevy pickup truck and drove it to within 40 miles of the United States before they were spotted, taken off and returned to the island, the U.S. Coast Guard said Wednesday.
The truck was sunk by the Coast Guard.
The dozen migrants, some sheltered in the truck cab or under a yellow tarp covering the bed, were first found by a U.S. Customs aircraft on July 16 south of Key West, Coast Guard Petty Officer Ryan Doss said.
A propeller attached to the drive shaft of the green vintage pickup was pushing it along at about 8 mph, Doss said. The truck-raft was kept afloat by empty 55-gallon drums attached to the bottom as pontoons.
``It was actually being powered by the truck engine,'' Doss said.
Doss said the truck was sunk as a hazard to ocean navigation.
Migrants have been founds on rafts or small boats made out of refrigerators, bathtubs, surfboards and inner tubes, but the truck was unique.
``We haven't come across any vehicles like that before,'' Doss said.
Now, I can understand you have to follow policy and return the Cubans to the island. But sinking the truck? That's just wrong. That damn thing belonged on a permanant rotator mixing margaritas above the bar at the Hard Rock Cafe in Miami.
Clearly we need to adjust our foreign policy when it comes to granting asylum to those who exhibit obvious engineering skills and enough ingenuity to pull off such a feat. Last time I saw a car turn into a boat that worked, James Bond was at the wheel.
I mean, half the population of white senior citizens in Florida plows their car into a swimming pool at some point during their driving careers. You don't see us sending them back to Europe, fer crissakes.
Side Salad will be taking a bit of a hiatus for a few days, due to a death in the family.
Uh oh. The French - the people who just made booing a national crime - are at it again:
PARIS - Goodbye "e-mail", the French government says, and hello "courriel" — the term that linguistically sensitive France is now using to refer to electronic mail in official documents.
The Culture Ministry has announced a ban on the use of "e-mail" in all government ministries, documents, publications or Web sites, the latest step to stem an incursion of English words into the French lexicon.
The ministry's General Commission on Terminology and Neology insists Internet surfers in France are broadly using the term "courrier electronique" (electronic mail) instead of e-mail — a claim some industry experts dispute. "Courriel" is a fusion of the two words.
I'd like to envite the entire French nation to stand in unison and recite these words: "Je suis un petit lapin effrayé d'un pays." (Go here to find out what that means.)
My good buddy Rob worked up this logo for the Salad Bowl. He's insanely talented, as you can see, and is a whiz with Photoshop. One time he seamlessly put Dolly Parton's cartoon-like head on the body of an infant to illustrate a story I did on what celebrities were like as kids. It was spectacular.
As for this logo, Rob writes:
Everyone will wonder "Whassup with the bear head?" But, we'll know won't we? Oh, yes my friend, we'll know.
Yes, Rob, we will. And we won't tell, will we?
Well, because he has a Super Bowl ring. That sort of unlikely accomplishment tends to fill you with overwhelming joy.
Second reason: Because training camp opens today for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers at Disney's Wide World of Sports complex. And Warren Sapp loves training camp.
Last year, my son and I went one day in the middle of the week and watched Warren & Co. pan fry in the July heat as coach Jon Gruden barked commands. Sapp was almost giddy at the energy his new coach brought to the practice field.
As Brian and I were pulling out of the parking lot to head home, we saw this James Bond-like golf cart motoring up alongside us at 40 miles an hour.
Inside are defensive lineman Booger McFarland and Warren Sapp, fresh from showering after practice.
Sapp and McFarland are giggling and yelling into a cellphone as Sapp guides the cart toward the team's hotel. We pull up next to them at the light and roll the window down. Brian sticks his head out to say, "Hi" and Sapp - who is noted for his prickly nature - yells, "Hey, little man!"
Totally made Brian's year.
Then we bumped into quarterback Brad Johnson, who gave Brian another, "Hey, little man!" and signed his jersey. Brad's only Brian's favorite player in the universe. I had to tie a string on his toe and walk him around like a balloon the rest of the day.
So we're going back for more this weekend. Got us a room here, which also gets us exclusive access here.
I'll post photos from the weekend on Tuesday. That is, if we're not too busy having fun here.
Who knew there was such a rich history behind shooting someone a bird?
Think you have it bad? Some else always has it worse.
And they have the paperwork to prove it.
Need an anvil? Maybe you're short one gigantic rubber band. Perhaps you'd be interested in a Do-It-Yourself Tornado Kit.
Those and other lovely items are available in the Illustrated Catalog of ACME Products.
Part of my job requires me to respond to letters like this one:
I wish to lodge a complaint against the comic known as The Dinette Set by Julie Larson that appeared in the Sunday edition. It was a major misrepresentation of Mt. Rushmore. It showed a picture of it far off in the distance with areas closed.
I was there in person just last month and know for a fact that the picture is grossly inaccurate. First of all you can take a trail right to the base of the loose rocks, the souvenir shop was huge and full of merchandise and people, the "snack bar" was so large that during a rainstorm all visitors fit comfortably in the dining area for cafeteria food, there is a stage with a huge seating area, and there was an information center in which worked very informative people with free maps of the surrounding area and knowledge of all detours in SD and WY. The only thing that was out of order was one of the elevators that went to the stage.
If you stayed until closing you saw a video on the mountain and of the Presidents that are being honored. A park ranger gave a very informative talk on the mountain and the surrounding area. At the end of the "show" they turned on lights that lit up the mountain. I was glad we went and stayed for the closing.
I think Julie Larson owes the people who have been there an apology and she should retract her comic for that day as those who may have been planning a trip there may have rethought their plans due to her inaccurate publication.
The best part about this letter: We don't run that comic.
Willie Drye, author of "Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935, has a few issues with CBS Sportsline's ranking of the top college football stadiums:
Never been to a game in the Swamp, can't comment on CBS's listing it at #4, but am willing to take your word for it. But what the HELL are those pointy-headed New Yorkers doing by not even including UNC's Kenan Stadium anywhere on the list? Not having Kenan even mentioned makes the validity of the whole damn list suspect, as far as I'm concerned. Kenan is a 60,000+ stadium tucked into a natural valley and surrounded by pine trees. It's been called by many the most beautiful natural setting for a football game in the country, and they recently did a $50 million upgrade without harming the surroundings. So while I don't dispute your belief that UF is a great place to watch a game and deserves a #4 ranking, I'd say that CBS has proven conclusively that they really don't know squat about stadiums as a whole. Fresno STATE and BYU included in the top 25? Camp Randall Stadium #23 and not in the top 10? Neyland Stadium #3? I've been in Neyland, but I've also been in Sanford Stadium, and I think Sanford is at least as good or better.
I think it's a bizarre ranking.
Pat at Mr. Doodle's Dog passes along this story:
After a hard day's jousting, what a medieval English knight needed was ... a plate of lasagna.
And he apparently could have it, according to British researchers who claim to have found a British recipe for lasagna dating from the 14th century -- long before Italian chefs came up with the delicious concoction of layers of pasta topped with cheese.
"This is the first recorded recipe for a lasagna-based dish,'' David Crompton, one of the researchers, said Tuesday. "The Italian dish has tomatoes, which were only discovered two centuries later in the New World.''
1. No fucking way. What's next, that they invented dental floss, too? Wait, I know how it happened:
"Oh, you know, this lasagne is pretty good. Let's abandon the recipe and eat some bangers and mash instead for the next seven centuries."
2. It's nice to know someone out there is still hard on the case researching goopy pasta dishes.
This news item caused a stir in the office the afternoon, providing a little mental sorbet for the work day:
LONDON - Frequent masturbation, particularly in the 20s, helps prevent prostate cancer later in life, according to new research.
Australian scientists have shown that the more men masturbate between the ages of 20 and 50, the less likely they are to develop the disease that kills more than half a million men each year.
They suspect that frequent ejaculation has a protective effect against the cancer because it prevents dangerous carcinogens from building up in the gland.
"The more you flush the ducts out, the less there is to hang around and damage the cells that line them," Graham Giles, of the Cancer Council Victoria in Melbourne, told New Scientist magazine on Wednesday.
Which, of course, prompted one male co-worker to shout in a somewhat excited Southern accent, "I'M GOIN' HOME TONIGHT AND KILLIN' ME SOME CANCER!"
After which a female in the room said dryly, "Well, at least he's going home."
It appears that the folks who brought us the Micro-Screen Shaver and the semi-automatic rifle have introduced a new pube-whacking tool.
Hey, whatever floats your boat. I'm all in favor of reducing the prickly pear factor as much as possible down there. Wax on, wax off, Daniel-san.
What I found interesting are the tidbits the company throws at you on its Web site. It claims to have research indicating that:
**15 percent of women in a survey conducted by Remington have taken bikini topiary to the bedroom to hot things up and increase intimacy
Interesting... I wasn't aware that hot was a verb.
More from the little shavers:
**36 percent of women said that they have trimmed a shape into their pubic hair (often using scissors - ouch!). Hearts were the most popular, but other shapes such as stars and rectangles also featured - one woman even trimmed in her boyfriend's initials.
Here's hoping his name wasn't Harry Osbourne.
More survey results: 27 percent said that they have had a "Brazillian" hair trim. (So named because of the ability to wear the skimpiest bikini on the beaches of Rio.) A full 22 percent said that they have had a "Hollywood" trim.
I was previously unaware of what a "Hollywood" was. All I can say after a brief bit of Internet investigation is: "Yikes." Then again, you know what they say; grass don't grow on a race track.
I'm waiting for Remington to come out with a dual-carb, 20-valve Bush Hog that'll exfolliate some of these primordial cavemen I see at the gym who appear to be growing the Amazon rainforest across their shoulder blades. Christ, these guys have hair in places monkeys don't.
In what could be seen as a plea for pube sanity, one Henry Panky (His friends call him Hanky, I guess) argues that there is a follicular crisis afoot.
A previously unknown fact: Every year over 2 million square miles of pubic hair are clear cut or torn out by the roots, much of it in virgin and "old growth" stands.
Just checked in at Chris Pirillo's site, where he rents his chest as a billboard.
His next plan: Rent My Ass.
Oh dear God, we're all going to hell.
I don' t know if this is a joke or not, but these guys do a pretty good hybrid of the Beatles and Metallica.
If, you know, the word good could accurately describe such things.
That and 49 other of the worst pickup lines ever can be found here.
I have to honestly say that I'd rather look at the week-old, maggot-filled corpse of Katharine Hepburn than eight photos of 9021-Ho Tori Spelling in a bikini.
During the early days of this blog, we introduced a recurring feature: A Moment of Britney. The idea was to showcase the latest absurdity from the alleged career of the vapid, atonal singer. It proved to be popular, so of course, we neglected it and let it shrivel and die. (Although referring in the plural and third person to the lone human maintaining this blog never goes out of style.)
So without further delay, here's a look at Ms. Spears' photoshoot for W magazine.
A nomination for the Bad Story Ledes Hall of Fame from the Orange County Register:
Think of hearing aid as a thong for your ears
Hearing aids and thong underwear.
It takes about two weeks to get used to wearing both, says Dr. Alison Grimes, a doctor of audiology.
At least, according to Kegel.
Here's a nice way to start a Tuesday.
CBS Sportsline says that my alma mater's football stadium is the fourth-best place to watch college football.
While that is laudable, I must say that having Neyland Stadium at the University of Tennessee at No. 3 is annoying to say the least.
But six of the top 10 are from the Southeastern Conference.
Take THAT, Big 10.
Don't do it with donuts.
On Anna Maria Island, of course. And Longboat Key.
Some weekends, you can't get enough of the beach.
Are you crazy? I went back to Pass-a-Grille with my son.
We have the same feet. Even down to the mosquito bites.
At Pass-a-Grille Beach, of course.
I'm a big fan of tiki stuff. Always have been.
So, it's nice to see it's coming back in style.
The best of what, I'm not sure. But it's clearly one of the weirdest photos you'll see.
Think of it as the Yalta Conference of entertainment freaks: KISS and Hulk Hogan.
A few fake posters for you to enjoy:
I'm praying that the Virtual Church of the Blind Chihuahua is a real religion. It can't be any more weird of an experience than what I went through for 25 years as a Catholic. Apparently it was named after a little old dog with cataracts, who barked sideways at strangers because he couldn't see where they were.
As the Web site explains: "We humans relate to God in the same way, making noise in God's general direction, and expecting a reward for doing so."
I can live with a creed like this:
We can't be right about everything we believe.
Thank God, we don't have to be!
To Alaskans, the height of couture is to be seen wearing a Bill Spear pin on your jacket zipper, anorak or baseball cap.
Bill was a lawyer with an eye for design who liked to doodle. Now he's a doodler who makes high-falutin' pins and sells them out of his way-cool showcase store in downtown Juneau.
The original title for this pin was "The Night My Goddamn Drink Caught On Fire.
I could go for one of those right now. The drink, not the pin. I already own the pin.
Be sure to check out the rest of Bill's amazing collection.
Don't bother making lemonade. Go to Hollywood.
They've got lemonade in the bottle out there.
It's Friday. It's been a long week.
It's time to listen to some reggae and add your own fill-in drums and keyboard.
The site is spliff optional.
It took me a while to figure this wordplay blog out, but it came to me eventually.
As it says, the last word from the latest post is up for grabs. It's the acronym for the next.
If it isn't difficult enough for you, play it in Portuguese.
My friend Willie Drye, a one-man walking history of the Carolinas, sends this brush-with-fame recollection of Buddy Hackett. (Willie's book "Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 " comes out in paperback this month from National Geographic.):
It was the mid-'70s, and I was recently out of the Army and in school at UNC. Had a room on Franklin Street (Chapel Hill's main drag) across from the campus and five or six blocks from Fowler's Grocery, where I'd go once or twice a week for beer, frozen dinners, etc. Was in Fowler's one night, took a left at the end of the canned soup section, started down the next aisle, nearly bumped into this pudgy guy pushing a shopping cart. Looked up, and I thought "Jeez, that guy looks like Buddy Hackett."
If I remember correctly, he was pushing a grocery cart that was pretty well loaded. It so happened there was no one else on that aisle. I went down that aisle, turned right, and headed up the next aisle. There was Buddy again, only by now he'd been recognized by some of the other shoppers. And he didn't seem too happy about it, although he wasn't exactly incognito. I didn't hear what the first person who recognized him said to him, but whatever it was, Buddy launched into a stream of profanity-laced insults and whoever it was that spoke to him just stood there with this sickly smile frozen on her face as old Buddy sailed away with his shopping cart.
What was Buddy doing in Chapel Hill? I didn't ask him, but he was probably taking part in this famous rice diet program that once (and maybe still is) done at the Duke University med school. As you probably know, dear old Dook is only about 10 miles down U.S. 15-501 from Chapel Hill. It was, so I was told, extremely expensive to go through the rice diet program. Many tubby celebrities went through it in those days. The ricers often came to Chapel Hill. They were easily recognizable, anytime you saw a well-dressed middle-aged tubbo on Franklin Street, or a Mercedes that was sagging on the driver's side, you assumed they were ricers My guess is that Buddy was playing hookey from the rice diet program and had ducked into Fowler's to grab a few off-the-record carbs before heading back to Durham.
Anyway, Buddy caused quite a stir as he pushed his cart through Fowler's, and he was giving everybody absolute hell and you could watch their smiles morph into this look of stricken horror as they realized they were being sliced to pieces by the sharpest tongue they'd probably ever encounter, and they were powerless to protect themselves or even respond. I mean it was non-stop, take no prisoners. Buddy was talking out of the side of his mouth in that nasal, sort of high-pitched Noo Yawk accent, and he was cutting people down left and right. I wish I could remember some of the insults he flung at people, but, as I said, it was a long time ago and I wasn't taking notes. I will say this -- he was profanely articulate and funny, and he kept it up even as he went through the checkout line, and I just remember a lot of numb, silly smiles when he left, or, rather, made his exit.
So, bon voyage Buddy, and thanks for a memorable performance.
Bon voyage, indeed.
Staying on an ever-popular Corey Feldman note, did anyone notice the resemblance between the C-Man and "Hulk" star Eric Bana? I went to see the movie last weekend and I kept waiting for Corey Haim to bust through a wall with a bandana around his neck to rescue his friend, like something out of "License to Drive." We can only pray Bana doesn't develope a "Bad"-era Michael Jackson fixation.
Full disclosure: I once covered a story that required me to stay at the Canon Inn in beautiful Canon City, Colo.
Unfortunately, it was while Corey Haim was filming "Fast Getaway." There were a million pubescent and pre-pubescent girls hanging around the lobby, waiting for Corey to walk through with his "mafia" of friends. I actually saw the punk surrounded by this adolescent phalanx of goofballs walking briskly past the front desk, as if there was an urgent security risk and, you know, he just had to refill his ice bucket.
Best of all, I paid a 12-year-old girl $25 for the picture she took of Corey in one of the hotel hot tubs, looking tough with a water gun cocked, like he was about to bust into a cocaine cartel's pool party.
I felt so tabloid.
The only thing that we can hope for now that Corey Feldman has his own font, (I can't believe I just typed those words), is that maybe, by the grace of God almighty, someone might make a Scott Baio typeface.
Please, God, let it be so.
Peter Jennings is now a U.S. Citizen.
As a hazing ritual for our former Canadian friend, I say we parade Mr. Fancy Pants around shirtless in some star-spangled bike shorts and have him sing, "God Bless The U.S.A." in a falsetto outside a VFW hall in Possum Crack, Ark. That should show us how much he really wants to be an Amurrikan.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
You might have noticed I've cobbled together a little code for a comments section under each post.
Turns out the baby tattoo Web site was a radio station hoax.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
My friend Jacqueline and her husband Bill are taking time off from their jobs at The Washington Post to galavant across the country on one of their Herculean road trips, as is usual for this time of year.
She sends me this amazing photo taken from her family's property in Wyoming.
Not a bad view, eh?
You know it's a sign of the apocolypse when professional, full-contact party skanks Paris and Nicky Hilton - the Gabor sisters of the new millennium, only without the talent - get their own spots on the Internet Movie Database.
Not familiar with their full skankitude? Check out Nicky's 18th birthday party photos. What did you use to put your eye makeup on, ladies, a Wagner PowerPainter?
When farting is outlawed, only outlaws will be farters.
Well, folks, I'm tired of this Reader's Digest, large-sized type this god-forsaken design offers. It's pissing me off in a big way to force you to suffer through such ugliness because Blogger only allows a limited selection of designs. Hell, sometimes, I can't even scroll to the bottom of my own damn page.
For the hassle I have brought upon my most devoted reader(s), I am most sorrowful.
The Salad bowl is going to get another redesign. Might have to kick it old-school.
Hell, anything would be better than this.
Bear with me as I reassemble the blog, yet again.
Folks, take a gander at this list of recent celebrity deaths:
June 15 -- Hume Cronyn, 91
June 23 -- Maynard Jackson, 65
June 22 -- Lenoard Koppett, 79
June 24 -- Leon Uris, 78
June 25 -- Lester Maddox, 87
June 26 -- Strom Thurmond, 100
June 29 -- Katharine Hepburn, 96
June 30 -- Buddy Hackett, 78
My friend Alan, who runs a nifty site called Hudsonian, sends me these photos from his trip this weekend to see the Vero Beach Dodgers play.
Al snuck on the field for pregame festivities. Nice to see the minors still have stringent precautions in place as part of homeland security.
"I guess 'Trashy' was already taken as a nickname,'' Al says.
Ernie always took advantage of Hardcore Stalker Night at the ballpark.
It's tough to beat minor-league baseball played beneath a spectacular Florida sunset.
Just before blowing his lips off, Steve said, "Tastes just like chicken."
Well, as expected, the Fourth of July block party in our neighborhood was a large time.
We grilled dead animal flesh.
We boiled half a Kansas corn field.
We drank beer.
We smoked cigars.
We rode motorcycles.
We talked NASCAR.
Children played in the rain.
We blowed things up, real good.
In short, it was the perfect day.
I was going to get all weepy about the Fourth of July and what liberty means within the context of the past two years and how freedom is precious and how my family hasn't even been in this country for a century and yet only four generations later I enjoy a life of prosperity and happiness that would be envied around the world.
And then I thought, "Why bore the crap out of people?"
Why not show them a cool picture and wish them a happy and healthy Fourth.
I'm making corn on the cob for our neighborhood street party today. It's a bring-your-own-meat gathering where everyone gets to grill their own, drink their coldest beer and watch their kids run themselves into a sweaty mess.
If that isn't freedom, I don't know what is.
"I will always cherish the wonderful moments we had together ...
... back when you were famous.''
-- Carson Daily to ex-girlfriend Jennifer Love Hewitt
during a roast last weekend at the first annual MTV Bash.
You'd think that a sports editor wouldn't screw with his news copy. Especially on a golf story.
Check out the fifth, sixth and seventh grafs of this story from the Roswell Daily Record.
Then take a look at the second paragraph here.
Which, of course led to this correction.
Sort of makes you wish that Jayson Blair had been a "Caddyshack" fan. It would have made his copy a lot more entertaining.
A friend who is in a position to know such things tells me that a "congress person" is going to be outed this week.
My guess is that the person will be a Republican who has a history of sponsoring what is perceived as anti-gay legislation or at least having an anti-gay rights agenda.
I know. Big leap there, Jeff.
Amid all that discussion, I found the above photo purely by accident. Really. I swear I didn't do a Google image search for "Strom + Flintstone + Modern Stone Age Pony Boy."
Too bad Strom has assumed room temperature. This would have made lovely photographic evidence.
Being a participant in the publishing world allows me access to all sorts of horrific spam.
As if I'd have some sort of anyeurism and publish it verbatim.
My favorite e-mail subject line of the day:
What would you do for an erection?
Uh, buy it lunch? Bail it out of jail? Change its tire?
Not to be outdone by the very real and very graphic photo of the horrific injury that inspired that little work of art.
WARNING: Don't click the above link if you get queasy easily.
If you read nothing else online today, read this transcript of Will Ferrell's speech at Harvard's Class Day 2003 commencement (an event the night before graduation).
Here's an excerpt:
Make no mistake, Harvard University is one of the finest in the land. And its graduates are that fine as well. You're young men and women whose exuberance exude a confident confidence of a bygone era. I believe it was Shakespeare who said it best when he said, "Look yonder into the darkness for knowledge onto which I say go onto that which thou possess into thy night for thee have come with only a single sword and vanquished thee into darkness."
I'm going to be honest with you, I just made that up. But I don't know how to delete it from the computer. Tomorrow's graduation day speaker is former President of Mexico Ernesto Zedillo. Ernie's a good man, a deeply religious man, and one of the original members of the Latino boy band Menudo. So listen up to Ernie. He was at the beginning of the whole boy band explosion.
Via Paul Katcher.
Summer's here and the time is right for answering dumbass questions:
1. Lemonade or Ice Cold Beer? Beer. Beerbeerbeerbeer. Oh, beer. Sweet mother of arctic cold, you-can-climb-the-thick-ice-on-your-mug beer.
2. Swimming pool or beach? Beach.
3. Long weekends here & there, or a 2-week vacation? Long weekends. The amount of work you have to do ahead of time in orter to take off for two weeks staggers the mind.
4. Destination: Acapulco or Hawaii? Neither.
5. Destination: Mountains or Beach? Hmmmm. Mountains.
6. Hotel/motel/B&B or camping? Well, there aren't a lot of hotels in the mountains.
7. Carefully planned vacation, or play it by ear? Ear.
8. Sneakers or sandals? Sneakers. Ever climb a mountain in sandals? Two words: toe chafe. I think not.
9. Air-conditioning or fans? Air conditioning. Gotta go with air conditioning. Especially on vacation, when you can throw that mutha down to 68 degrees in the hotel room and pile on the blankets. There's no better way to sleep than knowing you're stealing the hotel blind on electricity.
10. Concerts in the park or baseball games? C'mon. Is this a joke? Baseball. Make it minor league baseball and you know you have summer on your hands.
Seems that J.K. Rowling forgot about the consequences of writing an 870-page book.
Coming soon to a mall bookstore near you:
Japanese publishers said on Monday they will launch a campaign this week to stop digital shoplifters - people who visit bookstores to photograph magazine pages with their cell phones rather than make a purchase.
Best 31st birthday wishes go out to Dave Simanoff, proprietor of The Daily Dave and blog Obi Wan to my Annakin.
I think the folks at "Hee-Haw" said it best when they stood up in a cornfield in unison and shouted, "SALLLLOOOOOOOT."
And as the Irish toast goes, "May the color of your PHB Annoyance Advisory System never be brighter than the candles on your cake.
Or something like that.
I'm dying to catch an episode of Snoop Dogg's "Doggy Fizzle Televizzle." If the MTV Web site for the show is as good as the actual show, I'm missing something good.
Loved this synopsis:
Snoop reads a bedtime story to Beetlejuice and goes on a private tour of the Playboy Mansion with Hugh Hefner and a bevy of bunnies.
Who wouldn't watch something like that?
The site's gallery has some amazing captions:
Snoop teaches "proper" English to a group of ESL students.
Snoop wins the race by a corn row.
And this one, with a pic of him reading a fresh copy of "Big Black Booty" magazine:
Reading is fundamental and in his spare time, Snoop likes to catch up on his fine literature.
My guess is that they first saw Snoop's potential when they shot an episode of "Cribs" in his, well, crib.
It was so cool to see this guy who, you know, plays like a gangsta walk through his kitchen, stop at his modest pine dinette set, pause, and say, "This is where we get out eat on.''
I was a fan from that moment on.