SIDE SALAD - Everything crunchy is good.

VACATION IS ALL I EVER WANTED

Well, cowpokes, I'm going to mosey for a little while. Got a week's vacation at the beach and in Orlando laying at my feet and it's time for me to enjoy a little R&R. Maybe take in a little Tampa Bay Buccaneers training camp while I'm at it.

That means Side Salad will get a rest for the next week or so.

You can keep those cards and letters coming. Just don't expect a reply.

Until then...

Drive fast and take chances,
Jeff

I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE
A POEM AS LOVELY AS TIKRIT

Reports yesterday said that while awaiting trial for war crimes and genocide, Saddam is enjoying a comfortable, if bland, life of gardening, muffin eating and poetry.

I can imagine him in his new confines, under Iraqi confinement, snacking on a cranberry muffin and writing a little Hussein Haiku:

Muffins, poetry.
Life for me is not so grand.
My beard is itchy.

Palaces are gone.
No more minons to serve me.
I'd love a Starbucks.

I like to garden.
Think I'll plant some nice poppies.
Must thank Osama.

Bush, the Great Satan,
Handed me to infidels.
Mmmm, tasty muffin.

TAMPA, ROCK CITY

You might be wondering why I remade my banner with a Photoshopped panel from a KISS comic book.

Because on Saturday, I will officially induct a new recruit into the KISS Army: my 9-year-old son, Brian.

He's grown up listening to us talk about KISS, playing KISS CDs in the car and generally saying that the KISS show we saw in West Palm Beach in 1997 was the best concert we ever saw.

On Saturday, KISS plays the new Ford Amphitheater. And we're sitting here.

I'm guessing I better bring some protection for his ears. Or for the blood that might make its way out of Gene Simmons' mouth 18 rows back. God knows where that blood has been.

PREPARE TO WITHOLD YOUR VOMIT

Retrocrush offers a disturbing gallery of '70s sweaters.

BELLY UP TO THE BARS

Know what your screen would look like if you installed every toolbar you could find on your browser?

This.

THE REV. CHIMES IN

The Rev. Joe Kendall is a huge cycling enthusiast, so it's no surprise that he sent me this assessment of Lance Armstrong's huge achievement:

After a 45-mile ride in the morning and some house and lawn care in the afternoon, I tuned in the six o'clock news and saw Lance Armstrong pedaling into Paris. He was wearing his familiar yellow jersey, nine abreast with his U.S. Postal Service teammates who protected him in a 30-mph cacoon through many of the more than 2,000 miles during the Tour de France. It was a command performance by the 32-year-old Texan, who won a remarkable, record-setting sixth Tour in a row. Riding a bike is seen a leisurely activity in this country, but in Europe it inspires the passion we associate with football in the U.S.

That Armstrong whipped testicular cancer before he won Tour No. 1 made him more human to the folks here in the States. He was a cancer survivor -- and he world's fastest cyclist. In contrast to last year when Armstrong struggled to eke out a 61-second Tour win, this year he and his teammates nicknamed the "Blue Train" because of their blue royal-blue jerseys and shorts methodically dismantled the field. The teammates went postal in the mountains, allowing Armstrong to win the mountain stages. And if you're wondering if Armstrong was simply drafting on the wheels of cyclists who were doing all the heavy lifting, consider that Lance blew away the competition in a time trial that called for an agonizing 9.6-mile trek up a mountain. He was the only rider to finish that trial in less than 40 minutes and dropped the hammer on the field in the next-day mountain stage last week.

So, it was with these memories that I biked around Tampa in the pre-sunset twilight and gloaming, taking a rare moment now and then to propel speed by rocking the bike from side to side like Lance did when he saved precious seconds before his wheel hit the finish line in his stage victories. He counted six Tour wins in a row on his two hands for the cameras as he wheeled into Paris, looking like Michael Jordan when the hoopster counted his half-dozen NBA championships with the Bulls for the TV cameras.

Who knows whether Lance will go for No. 7 next year. Maybe not. But on Sunday, he validated his place among American sportsmen and soaked up the adulation of flag-waving U.S. fans in a place where America isn't exactly the most popular country. The Rev. Joe salutes Lance Armstrong on a job well done.

TOUR DE JOKE

So, I'm sitting here for three hours watching early so I can see Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France for the uprecedented sixth time in a row. To capture what will likely never be repeated in my lifetime, there are helicopters and motorcycles and cranes and booms and all manner of tools being used to shoot live footage of this historic moment. I've gathered my son and my mom and we're all sitting here watching and at the last moment, a sprint breaks out, as expected.

The sprinters bolt ahead of the pack as Armstrong sits comfortably - and safely - in the bosom of the peloton with victory assured.

And when the sprint is done, Tom Boonen wins the stage. Who's Tom Boonen? Who cares? We want to see Lance crossing the line.

When the moment comes, all they show is... Boonen. They missed getting Armstrong. Totally. Entirely. Forever.

I'm screaming at the television. What the *!&@ !!!!!!!!!!

"Our cameras were unable to capture it,'' announcer Phil Liggett says.

How the *!&@ does that happen? With every piece of television equipment known to man there to capture the moment? How?

That's like focusing on the second horse while Secretariat is winning the Triple Crown by 19 lengths. Or not shooting the moment when Dale Earnhardt crashed into Turn 4 at Daytona.

You've gotta love the French. Really. They found a way to photograph the Nazis marching past the Champs-Elysees. They got such good footage of Princess Diana that they ran her into a concrete pillar and then kept shooting. But not Lance Armstrong. That one they missed.

SAVING THE WORLD,
ONE LOCKED-OUT BLOND
AT A TIME

Thank God there's Blondstar.



Thanks, Drew.

UNEXPECTED FINDS, PART II

Also found this shot I took in the I Love Lucy museum at Universal Studios Orlando. It's a framed award given to Lucille Ball on the 30th anniversary of her first appearance in television.



But that's not nearly as impressive as the names of the people who signed the award in her honor. It reads like a Who's Who of bad 70s television:

Bea Arthur and Bill Macy of "Maude."



Vegas lounge act and perennial Hollywood Squares participant Leslie Uggams.



"Mary Tyler Moore Show" (and "Golden Girls") actress Betty White.



"Taxi" star Marilu Henner.



Henner's co-star on "Taxi," Tony Danza.



"Shogun" and "Thorn Birds" actor Richard Chamberlain.



Annette "I haven't worked in 40 years" Funicello.



Talk show hostess and borderline singer Dinah Shore.



"Archie's Place" co-star Danielle Brisbois. (How sad I know that from memory.)



"Diff'rent Strokes" child actor Todd Bridges.



Ed Asner, co-star of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" and "LouGrant."



'50s comedianne, Imogene Coca.



The unlikely signing pair of Nell "Gimme A Break" Carter and Sid "Your Show of Shows" Caesar.



"Roots" author Alex Haley.



Character actress and commercial queen Nancy Deusault. (Who once, inexplicably, was on "Night of 100 Stars.")



Big band leader Lawrence Welk.



"Diff'rent Strokes" actor - and future California gubernatorial candidate - Gary Coleman.



His TV father, Conrad Bain.



"Trapper John, M.D." star Pernell Roberts, who played "M.A.S.H." character Trapper John back in the states, and star Mike Farrell, who replaced Wayne Rodgers on "M.A.S.H." after his character, Trapper John, left the show. (Peace back atcha, Mike.)



Ted Knight, who played Ted Baxter on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" and Judge Elihu Smails in "Caddyshack." He also was the narrorator on the '70s Saturday Morning cartoon "Superfriends."

UNEXPECTED FINDS

Weeded out some photos the other day and tripped on one from our excursion to Universal Studios Islands of Adventure.

This shot bother anyone but me?

HELLO, MOTO

I've yet to find a greater purpose for the camera phone, beyond that of pure, stupid, inane human amusement. Perhaps that's all there is, until they start making cams that produce something better than the glaucoma-like photos they currently capture.

But hey, I bought a VHS-to-VHS recorder when they were $700. Got a plasma TV when they were starting at a bajillion dollars. I'm not above a stupid plunge toward new technology before it's been refined for useful or practical purposes.

That said, I've created a new moblog (that's short for mobile camera Web log) with the help of my new friends (read: people who aren't charging for their services) at Text America. Not sure it will even be worth a glance, but like I said, I'm not the most practical man on earth.

Feel free to give mine a peek at Visual Croutons: A Side Salad Moblog. There isn't anything worth looking at beyond a couple test shots of family and friends. I'll post a note here when I think there's anything worth a damn there.

THEY STILL HAVEN'T FOUND
WHAT THEY'RE LOOKING FOR

Bad news for U2 fans. Or good news, I guess, if you like to burn illegal copies of music: It appears that Edge of U2 lost the band's new CD during a photo shoot.

Problem is: The album doesn't come out until November.

A word of advice for Bono and the boys: Lay off the Guinness.

THERE BUT FOR
THE GRACE OF GOD
GO MEN EVERYWHERE,
PART II

Earlier this month, Willie Drye, author of Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935, passed along the juicy news item about the guy who was found naked while pinned under his girlfriend's gate.

Always on the lookout for naked public buffoonery, Willie sends this story of a man who celebrated his birthday wearing only nacho cheese:

Cheesy, nude Monn arrested
MARYVILLE, Tenn. -- Michael P. Monn's birthday celebration went a little awry when he was arrested while drunk, nude and covered with nacho cheese.

Monn was detained early Sunday as he ran toward a Jeep in the parking lot outside a swimming pool snack bar.

According to police, he was stark naked and was carrying a box of Frito Lay snacks and a container of nacho cheese.

"The male had nacho cheese in his hair, on his face and on his shoulders," Maryville Police Department officer Scott Spicer said.

"The nude male had a strong odor of alcohol and was semi-incoherent."

Investigators suspect Monn climbed an 8-foot fence, broke into the pool snack bar through a window, threw nacho cheese on a wall and scattered chips on the ground.

About $40 in chips and $7 in nacho cheese were stolen.

Monn was charged with burglary, theft of less than $500, vandalism less than $500 and public intoxication and was cited for indecent exposure.

He was held at the Blount County Jail in lieu of a $9,300 bond.

It was Monn's 23rd birthday.

My suspicion about the veracity of this story began neither with the choice of viscous adornment, nor with his ability to scale an 8-foot fence while possibly drunk. I, too, have committed Herculean feats while non-sober. In fact, I once lifted a steaming locomotive in order to save a helpless kitten while fueled with a bottle of Monte Alban. But that's a story for another day.

No, I question the stated $7 value of the nacho cheese. That seems awful inflated to me. For 7 bucks, you can fill a jacuzzi with fake nacho cheese. (Don't ask how I know this.) I can't imagine this poor sod accumulating enough to even bring the total to $1.99.

THIS MIGHT EXPLAIN
TRUMP'S UNCANNY ABILITY
TO DATE SUPERMODELS
DESPITE THAT
HIDEOUS COMBOVER

Speaking of mail, the DeVito Bandito sent me this tell-tale guide for how to spot a rich guy:

HEY, CALGARY FLAMES FANS!

Know what I never get tired of? Getting photos e-mailed to me that show this lovely moment in time.

Stings a little still, doesn't it, eh?

AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE...

The L.A. Times has an interesting - if painful to read - story about the resurgence of kicks-to-the-groin jokes in movies. (A short registration at the site is required, as well as a body cavity search and submission of dental records.)

I loved this passage:

In an age when government figures are routinely seen apologizing for a misinterpreted or off-color joke or offending a delicate sensibility, it's perhaps odd that no one — particularly men — seems terribly upset about the frequent attacks on the most sensitive area of the male anatomy. There's a good reason for the lack of protest and abundance of laughter, humor scholars say: Men, in society's eyes, deserve it.

"Women would certainly be screaming and complaining if men were kicking women in the genitals [in popular culture]," said Murray Davis, author of "What's So Funny: The Comic Conception of Culture and Society." "But men by and large still hold almost all the positions of power in society, and the powerful are always targets for humor."

Unfortunately, most of those moments aren't actually funny. But a few are. My favorites:

The Longest Yard - Tired of Bogdanski the prison guard's (Ray Nitchke) incessently pounding his skull on every snap, Paul Crewe (Burt Reynolds) instructs his team to just let the guy through the offensive line. Befuddled, they nonetheless allow it. Bogdanski runs through like a bull and Crew throws a bullet at Bogdanski's groin. Laughter ensues. Crewe's team rehuddles and then giggles when the same play is called again. Replay of the same, Bogdanski goes down and has to be carried off the field.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - This groin shot actually puts down a rebellion in the Hole in the Wall Gang, when Harvey Logan (Ted Cassidy) dares challenge Butch (Paul Newman) over the next target the group should rob. Newman asks someone to count, "Onetwothreego." Sundance obliges with a rapid, "Onetwothreego." And Harvey has his two best friends separated with the sharp toe of a boot. Mutiny over.

NEXT ON HGTV:
GROWING COUCH POTATOES

I guess it wouldn't matter if you ate potato chips on this couch, since it would just turn into mulch.

I GOTTA HAVE MORE COWBELL

If I had the ability to paint artistically - and I don't, trust me - but if I did, I know what I would probably depict: a smiling Christopher Walken noodling in his robot workshop while nursing a 1 calorie Tab.

Or not. But definitely one of the two.

IT'S NOT BASEBALL.
IT'S RAYS-BALL

It was pretty for a few minutes. Then not so much. But the result was b-e-a-utiful, baby, as the Tampa Bay Devil Rays beat the Yankees 9-7. This after being up on the Yanks 5-0 after the first inning.



What this means is that after the temporary dip in performance - the DRays are 4-6 in their last 10 games, mostly due to the Yankees - the race for the American League East is back on.


Hey, Boston. Better pull up your drawers. The Rays are chasing you again.

HOW WET IS IT OUTSIDE?

Wet enough, apparently, to inspire my son and his best friend to make their way through the neighborhood yesterday dressed like this:

I can take solace, I guess, that Brian thought enough to wear a poncho.

HOMER SIMPSON, PLEASE
PICK UP THE WHITE CHOCOLATE
COURTESY PHONE

So, I was tooling around the megachain superstore yesterday.

Am I the only one who sees the problem with this product?



Not only do you have to not use any energy to brush your teeth with an electric toothbrush, you have to include molded plastic representations of the reason you're actually brushing? Did Ben and Jerry's have some sort of cooperative crossover going on this product? When did brushing your teeth become some sort of recreational activity?

Then I tool over to the shampoo aisle and find this:



I'll go on record as being very much pro food-themed products, especially back in the 70s, when beer shampoo was the rage. Wisely, no one attempted a beer mouthwash. (Actually, they did. They just called it Coors.)

But I don't want my hair smelling like some tropical breakfast beverage. I'd feel like someone was about to jam a little pink umbrella in my head and suck out my brain with a straw or something.

OKAY... GONNA VOM

MIGHT AS WELL
CANCEL THE DEBATES

This cartoon pretty much sums up the election.

PLEASE PASS THE MILK, PLEASE

Jen over at Very Big Blog passes along the note that They Might Be Giants has released a new album online. You can buy the songs individually for 99 cents or the entire album for $9.99.

If you're unfamiliar with them, you can get a taste by watching an online video of their first single, "Experimental Film."

BEHOLD THE POWER OF SALAD

J-Walk, purveyor of fine Web links, has just moved to Tuscon from San Diego. He is playing his guitar in his empty living room. He is taking pictures of rainbows and cactus. He is very happy.

And now he wants to share that happiness. He's imploring his readers to make this salad.

As a firm believer in the power of garden ruffage, I am imploring you as well. We can't let him down.

Plus, it looks like a pretty good recipe.

EVERYBODY WAS KUNG FU MAKING UP

I haven't thought the McSweeney's site has been funny in a while. Today, they made me laugh so hard, milk came out my nose. And I wasn't even drinking any!!!

Their list? Possible Follow-Up Songs For One-Hit Wonders

Some of them include:

How Are We Going to Get These Dogs Back In?

Bust an Additional Move

Seriously, Eileen, Come On

(Won't You Give Me A Ride Home From) Funkytown?

Whoomp! There It Continues to Be

867-5309 extension 2

IT AIN'T HEAVY
IT'S OUR BOA

Who knew that all it would take would be a press kit with a mask and a boa to release our inner Elton at the office?



Mitch got into the role immediately.

It should be noted that Mitch just got back from two weeks vacation.



Kim was mildly reluctant to play along. I told her that wearing the boa this way made her look like an eskimo during Gay Pride Week.



Some people just have to be contrarians.



Ah yes, My Muse.



I look like some bad, bloated frou-frou superhero.



You may remember the garden gnome statue that sits between Mitch and Rommie's desk.

I'm not sure the boa works for his diminuitive size. Damn thing almost swallows him whole.

Rest assured that this will not evolve into a Side Salad photo project. Mostly because we're the only five idiots who would put this thing on.

ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC

You never know what you'll see in traffic around Tampa. That's why I keep my camera at the ready. The last time I saw something goofy proved to be photographically fruitful.

Then I saw the above Nissan Sentra in front of me at a red light the other day loaded with bumper stickers.

Let's just take a look, shall we?

The converse, of course, is true. Whatever makes you healthy will require no hospitalization at all. Neither will whatever actually does kill you. Because, you know, you'd be dead, fer crissakes.

Here's hoping the car's owner isn't a nurse.



Ahhh. A South Park fan. How very... 1998.

As for the drugs part? Very 1968. And '78... and '88...



I love a little passive aggression in traffic. That someone could exhibit such tendencies in a little bitty economy car while Hummers and Escalades and Expeditions wait to crush their very automotive soul tells me that in this car lives the heart of a lion. Or a fool. But definitely one of the two.



Oh yes, the sweet aroma of condecension.

From someone driving a Nissan Sentra.

What, you couldn't afford a Prius?



More superiority. Ever think, pal, that maybe the ignorant walk with you so you'll feel better as some sort of ignoramus mainstreaming program?

Probably not.



The moon sticker. I knew it. And from the look of it, the owner tore a "My Other Car Is A Wiccan Broom" sticker off to make room for this one.



Your car keeps driving and all I read is, "Blah, blah, blah."



Nice. As Ron Burgundy would say, "Stay classy."



Okay, now I get it. This is Paris Hilton's car.



I'm shocked - shocked and stunned and amazed, really - that this person might have a tattoo. Shocked, shocked, shocked.

I'm guessing a barbed-wire back tat. But that's just wild supposition on my part.



Ooooh, fancy combination. Denigration and a hint of poop. Nicely done.



This originally read, "GOOD THINGS HAPPEN TO WORTHLESS, TRAILER TRASH, IGNORANT TURDS AT GULF GATE ELEMENTARY" but they couldn't fit it all in.

How very PC for them to pick an alien form with four dots on its chest to represent the frolicking children doing good things at Gulf Gate. Unless of course you're yellow, you have no mouth, hair, eyelids or hands and you have quadruple diamond pattern nipples. Then, I guess, this is one flamingly offensive bumper sticker.

LOVE MANY,
TRUST FEW
AND ALWAYS PADDLE
YOUR OWN CANOE

If you've never lived in Florida during the summer months, you really have no appreciation for how stifling and claustrophobic the weather can be.

Yesterday, with the thermometer hovering in the mid-90s and humidity so thick it was like a curtain of water, my son Brian and I decided to seek some relieve by going kayaking near Fort Desoto Park in southern Pinellas County.

We found a shallow little inlet with grassy clam and oyster beds, and with thunder rumbling in the distance and just a touch of rain, we put in.

It wound up being a perfect day, with just a slight breeze barely stirring the water. We saw loads of fish and birds, as well as a clam that was, well, clamming his way through the water as we paddled past. I hadn't ever seen that before.

Anyway, here are a few photos from the day:

Brian's always much more brave just before we get into the kayak.

Note to self: Get him a more form-fitting life jacket.

Did I mention it was glassy calm?

All that non-paddling can wear a kid out.

We found a massive oyster bed.

These roseate spoonbills were scooping the shallow water for minnows.

All day long, the water never got deeper than three feet.

All sorts of birds filled the mangrove branches.

The neck on this white heron was just amazing.

This photo makes me relaxed just looking at it.

SKY ROCKETS IN FLIGHT
AFTERNOON ANCHOR DELIGHT

I have no idea if the movie "Anchorman" is worth seeing, but I'd have paid 8 bucks to see something this funny on CNBC. Or on any channel, quite frankly.

MAN! I! FEEL!
LIKE! A! WOMAN!

Went to review the Shania Twain concert on Friday night at the Forum in Tampa. Except for the music I had to listen to, I had a blast.

Anyway, the Rev. Joe Kendall went, too, and sent me these photos he took at the concert. Not bad, considering they're from the third deck.

This was during the part of the show when she was introducing her band. I kept waiting for one of them to fall like Mustafa in "Austin Powers" into the center pit.

Shaniqua is on the bottom right.



This was taken during the encore, after she appeared onstage in a Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. I don' t think I've ever been to a concert where hockey was so much of a presence. At one point during the band introductions, a chant of "LET'S GO LIGHTNING" broke out when one of the musicians announced he was from Calgary.



During the final song of the night - I can't even remember what that was at this point - the stage was engulfed in dripping sparks and boatloads of lavender confetti. It was very Bon Jovi-esque. Especially the lavender part.

Here's a large-scale version of what all that damned confetti looked like.

WHAT KIND OF FRIENDS
DO I HAVE?

The kind that would send me this text message at work on my phone:

The Fart Machine was a huge success at rehearsal dinner. The psychological fear of its appearance at the wedding is better than its actual use!

OVER THE MOUNTAIN

You know how it is. No matter how exciting the workplace, there always happen to be slack moments that need to be filled with something other than work.

That's what happened six years ago when my friend Mark and I tried to amuse ourselves by drinking Mountain Dew in excessive quantities.

It wasn't the Dew, really. The company had a game tied to the NCAA Final Four in which you could either win a prize by drinking a bottle that had the name of the eventual national champion under it's cap, or you could win some swag by accumulating points for each Dew you drank.

Between the two of us, we figured we could do both.

We were half right.

I lost count, but I think he and I drank damn near 300 combined gallons of the stuff. We got so nauseated by the caffeine avalanches and the sugary sweetness that we switched to Diet Dew. That tasted even worse. To this day, I shudder when I accidentally brush against the Dew button on a vending machine.

A mountain of caps eventually were accrued. It didn't hurt that some of the caps actually gave you additional free Dews. And, by quirk, we nailed three of the Final Four teams. But not the one that won.

After it was all done, we had enough to get two T-shirts and two Dew do-rags, neither of which either of us wears to this day.

But we felt like we had accomplished a goal. We also had the rotted teeth and kidney problems to show for it.

Mark and I still e-mail each other whenever we see something Dew related in the news. He sent me this item yesterday:

An 18-year-old man survived but was in critical condition after losing at a variation of Russian roulette (six open cans of Mountain Dew, one spiked with antifreeze) at a party in Princeton, W. Va., in May.

Mark's question to me: "Is there a difference between Dew and antifreeze, and is the Dew worse?"

Mark, you and I know the answer to that.

As a follow-up, I can say that I think the Dew contest is a phenomenon that is particularly effective in the OCD world of newspapering. Rommie just did the same thing with a Dew promotion and accumulated almost 60 caps before the bottles with the points caps started disappearing.

Problem was, you needed a minimum of 60 caps to win even the smallest trinket.

THERE BUT FOR
THE GRACE OF GOD
GO MEN EVERYWHERE

Willie Drye, author of Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935, passes along this juicy news item:

Luckless Casanova trapped stark naked
Drunken Swede found stuck under a gate calls himself 'fine beef'

OSLO, Norway - Police, ambulance and fire crews rescued a drunken Swede found trapped early Monday without any clothes after he tried to crawl under a gate in downtown Oslo.

The 22-year-old, who insisted upon being addressed as something that sounded like “fine beef” in Swedish, had tried to visit a Norwegian woman at her apartment house in the early hours.

When she refused to let him in, he turned to leave, but found the gate leading to the street from her apartment was locked. He tried to squeeze beneath, but didn’t fit.

So, police said, the young Casanova figured if he slipped off his clothes, he’d probably slip right under the gate.

He was wrong and spent the rest of the night stuck with nothing but the chilly Norwegian night for company.

About four hours later, someone spotted a pair of naked legs sticking out onto the sidewalk from beneath the gate and called the police.

After police and rescue crews were unable to remove him from beneath the gates, they called the fire department, which used a hydraulic jack to lift up the gate. He was freed about 7 a.m.

His rescue was caught on film by a crew of Norwegian journalists and photographers who gathered to watch.

Ever optimistic, the man, whose real name was not released, urged reporters to say he’d gotten stuck while trying to save a kitten. Failing that, he asked them to mention that the object of his affections was “a real stunner.”

Police said the man, who lives in Oslo, wasn’t hurt and was sent home with the recommendation to take a hot shower and a warm nap.

Note to self: When trapped naked under a gate, avoid using lame "kitten" defense.

BLOWED UP REAL GOOD

How do you know when the Fourth of July block party you're having is off to a rousing start?

When the cook tries to put someone's head on the grill with his tongs.
That's the kind of evening we had yesterday.
For the second year in a row, the neighbors in our vicinity pooled our beer and beef resources - as well as more explosives than a vengeful Palestinian could ever hope to get his hands on - to have one helluva good time.

Few things signal an important American holiday like burning animal flesh. And I thank God for that fact every year.

Tom had the non-patriotic, non-Harley Davidson shirt of the day.

He speaketh the truth.
Reminds me of the axiom I once saw on the bartenders and waitresses at Darwin's Theory in Anchorage: "A smart monkey never monkeys around with another monkey's monkey."

When all was said and done and offspring and pets were included, I counted almost 50 bodies.

The possibilities that lay before him were innumerable.

Houck's Corrolary: Never blow up fireworks that are bigger than you are.

At a certain point, when you have so many kids around, a game of Kill The Carrier will always ensue.

This is like an Escher drawing: An idiot taking a picture of an idiot taking a picture...

As the sailors say: Red skies at night, prepubescent delight.

It's important when you're about to blow up numerous gunpowder devices in the vicinity of small children that you have a proper staging area.

For Mike's explosives, this was a match made in heaven.

When they write the warnings on fireworks displays, this is pretty much the guy they have in mind.

Sing it with me now: Skyyyyy rockets in flight...

...middle of the evening deliiiiight....

One thing we proved conclusively: toxic waste emits a really cool color when it burns.

One child must be burned by a supposedly harmless sparkler before the evening is out. It's the law. Shay was our designated casualty of the evening.
Wait, that's not true. I set Drew's hairy ass on fire with a Roman candle. But there are no photos of that little event.

How loud was was the fireworks barrage? Loud enough to make Fluffy the dog want to sit on a cooler.

This was the year I let Brian light fireworks for the first time.
His mother and grandmother and grandfather and aunt were quite pleased.

How close should you get when you're photographic fireworks?
The burns on my arm would indicate that this close is too close.

Next year's goal: Four trashcans full of debris.

I call this suburban holiday ballet the Dance Of The Men With Their Leaf Blowers.

BIG, BAM, BOOM, PART DEUX

I don't usually regurgitate old posts, but I looked back on last year's July 4th post and thought it worked.

I was going to get all weepy about the Fourth of July and what liberty means within the context of the past three 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.
So there.
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.

Then I realized I didn't need to regurgitate a post. I found what I was looking for in today's New York Times:

BAGHDAD, Iraq, July 3 — Zeke Nouri Arif is a talkative old man who, like many Iraqis, seems unconcerned if others speak at the same time or volume as he. He does not mind a chorus. And out of a teahouse chorus of perplexed Iraqis on Saturday, Mr. Arif piped up that he was especially qualified, because of his age, 71, and 50 years moving around Iraq as a truck driver, to weigh in on a momentous week in which little here changed and everything did.
"I have seen a lot," he said. "But I have never seen anything like this. This is such a unique situation. It's very dangerous. People can do whatever they like.
"But we feel better," he added. "We have a new government."
Unlike the earth-shaking changes forced by the American military 16 months ago, the transfer of formal sovereignty to an interim government of Iraqi leaders seems to be working on the national psyche in more subtle ways, which have brought a measure of hope not evident here in some time.

SAM ADAMS, ALWAYS A GOOD CHOICE

Or not.

AND NOW, YOUR MOMENT OF BRITNEY

"This is my life and I don't care what other people think. I love this guy. I knew the instant I met him that he was the one for me. I wish other people have what I have. I've kissed a lot of frogs in my life and now I have my prince. I've found my happily ever after. My other loves were like puppy dogs. They were practice for the real thing. I'm feeling everything. I'm excited. Elated. Happy."
- Britney Spears in the latest issue of People

PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS OF
YOUR MOMENT OF BRITNEY
Britney marries a childhood friend. For 50 hours.

Britney swaps spit with the Rosetta Stone of Skank.

Britney poses for photos that make her look even more plastic and lifeless than she already is.

Britney, as she would look if she hit the all-you-can-eat Seafood Lovers Special at Red Lobster every night for six months.

Britney runs a restaurant into the ground.

Britney has an evil twin available for parties.

Britney and George cut a rug.

Britney proves the axiom: Beer affects the way males respond to females.

HEY, BOSTON! WHY DON'T
YOU JUST CRY ABOUT IT?

Getting nervous yet, Red Sox fans?



That's right, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays beat the defending World Champion Florida Marlins last night to creep within 2 1/2 games of the Boston Red Sox. It's the third time in four meetings this year that the Rays have bested the Marlins.

Don't think Beantown fans haven't noticed. The Red Sox message board on the Boston Globe's Web site is full of angst and frustration and cry baby babbling. I highly recommend you give it a scan. It makes for some delicious reading for D-Rays fans:

In 41 years as a loyal fan, I cannot recall such deep frustration. The players cannot execute in the clutch (right now they would not even prevail in the Cape Cod League). The Red Sox will not win a championship again; the institution that is the Red Sox simply never will have the confidence. I have given up. Truly I have. Our three children do not deserve to endure another generation of pain and frustration.
Alan , Edgartown, MA

Choke artists! August came early this year for our wonderful Red Sox. Move the team and then expand in two years with a new park and maybe this city will see a baseball championship.
Peter, Revere

Trade Nomar for something worthwhile while you still can. Dump Lowe to someone who will give value as they are after a pennant run. Bring back Daubach who can hit and at least field better than what you've got. Teach Francona to walk a batter with a man on third and try for the double play.On second thought,fire Francona.
Peter, Wakefield, RI

We need to trade Nomar Garcia-popup. He is bring the team down. He doesn't even look like he gives a damn. We do not need his kind of attitude. I think we need a new Manager also. Tony Franconia is not making very good decisions and he's a wuss. Nomar should have been moved to the 9th position and Pokey Reese moved to 5th. Even better bench Nomar. I was one of Nomar's biggest fan till this year. He makes it so obvious that he doesn't want to be with Boston let him go!!
Susan , Enfield, CT

The only thing more offensive ithan that approach s that the team with MLB's highest ticket prices is barely ahead of Tampa. Bay Come on Theo, wake up. If Tito is the answer, then we have a lot more unanswred questions.
Signed:
Wait Until Next Year Guy
Mark , Miami, Florida

Please, put the gun to your heads and end it all so WE, the fans, of Red Sox nation, won't suffer anymore!!! I cannot remember ever saying this....Thank God, Football is almost here!!! GO PATS!!!
Paul , Grafton, MA

And those were only the first four postings.

Even Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy is arguing that the team should trade its superstar shortstop:

Trade Nomar. Nomar Garciaparra is one of the best and most popular players in the history of the Red Sox franchise, but it's time for the Sox to make a deal for their star shortstop.

I hate to dance on their premature grave, but it's fun to watch another team percolate in misery for once. Why should it be Tampa's sole domain?

KEEP ON TRUCKIN'

Got behind this guy in traffic the other night. Talk about a feast of contradictions for the eye.



Clearly, this truck's owner has some issues with public expressions of aggression.



It's important that when you insult people around you in traffic, you do exhibit a feng shui balance from one bumper to the next.



Horn broken. Look for gesticulating cat mudflap.



Some might think that a second Garfield trinket would be overkill. This driver clearly sees it as an opportunity to drive a point home.



Was I shocked that a cowboy hat was somehow involved? No, I was not.

What surprised me is that they were stacked like Dixie cups in the back window. You know, just in case he needed a fresh one.

HEY, BOSTON! CARE FOR A
DEVIL RAYS SANDWICH?

Bob Andelman of E-MailTheRays.com sends along this great note pointing out that not only does Boston have to worry about the Tampa Bay Devil Rays coming at them from below, they also have a healthy passel of Devil Rays playing for the first-place New York Yankees to squeeze them as well:

This paragraph is from today’s New York Times account of last night’s game between New York and Boston was too funny not to share. Maybe Steinbrenner’s folks think their farm team is in St. Petersburg, not Tampa:

“With two outs and nobody on, Ruben Sierra had singled and (ex-Ray) Miguel Cairo had doubled him home. (Ex-Ray John) Flaherty, batting .153, knew he would bat for (ex-Ray Tanyon) Sturtze and had been taking practice swings. He felt comfortable and slammed a 3-1 slide onto the left-field warning track, scoring (ex-Ray) Cairo and giving the Yankees the sweep they craved. The sting of Boston's April dominance is gone.”

[Devil Rays G.M.] Chuck Lamar probably is entitled to some form of steady compensation here, don’t you think?

So Boston was done in by the YankRays. And adding to the ignominy of it, we heard an ESPN host last night mention something to the effect of Boston needing to start worrying about Tampa Bay breathing down its neck for the wild-card! It was hilarious enough to make that ridiculous 14-0 loss to Toronto completely forgettable.

WE'VE GOT TO STOP
MEETING LIKE THIS

In May, I wrote about the chance I got to snuggle up to the Stanley Cup one day when it showed up in my building at work.

Well, miracles never cease...

I mean, what are the chances of someone getting to hug on that bad boy twice in five weeks' time at the workplace?

This time, as you can see, I had to bust out the sombrero. This now makes two championship trophies that the 'brero has crested. The other: The Lombardi Trophy.



The germ of the event was innocent enough. Our editorials editor thought it would be fun to have the Cup at work, since we had been so prominant in our goofup of running the "Aw, the poor Tampa Bay Lightning lost" editorial on the day the team won the cup. Click here to read my account of that snafu.

Anyway, what started as a small gathering eventually became a campus-wide event. As you can see above, several hundred people joined in to see and pose and hug and kiss the cup.



Even the Rev. Joe Kendall showed up.



The setup involved stepping up to pose however you wanted to with the Cup. A photographer then shot portraits that will be posted at a later date. (I'll post some of those here.) Then, invariably, people who brought cameras lingered for a few seconds longer to make sure they got their own copy.



It made the process immeasurably longer, but it was cool. No one complained. Except when Jose, to the right of the Cup, above, cut in line. I believe the phrase I used to refer to him was, "Rat bastard."



After missing it the first time it came to town in May, Rommie finally got to pose with it.



Even Albert, a diehard Bucs fan, got in line fully adorned in Lightning gear. You might remember that Albert cut a lightning bolt into his hair before Game 5 of the finals. Why? "To promote unity in the community," he said.

Still, he couldn't resist:



Gotta credit the man for consistency.

Eventually, the event morphed into a sidebar of Sombrero Project activity. Again, Albert was an enthusiastic participant:



Hola', Senor Alberto.



Pretty soon, others were getting sucked into the Sombrero Vortex. Jeremy, a son of my friend Greg, posed with it, to his eternal chagrin. Despite his initial reservations, I think he did an excellent job displaying the chapeau.



Then, of course, it gathered steam. Dave, namesake of The Daily Dave, posed with his stuffed elephant, Daal. Dave's own sombrero shot can be seen by clicking here.



From there, it descended into the ridiculous. Someone posed their boss's golf statue next to the Cup. Then they asked that the sombrero adorn their statue. It was all very heady stuff, these two obscure icons coming together. Only the Stanley Cup could forge such a magical moment.

HEY BOSTON! CHECK YOUR
REAR VIEW MIRROR

Red Sox fans, you're only 3 1/2 games ahead of the Devil Rays.

Just for fun, let's do a little math:

Red Sox 2004 payroll: $127,298,500
D-Rays 2004 payroll: $29,556,667

Red Sox Median Salary: $3,087,500
D-Rays Median Salary: $650,000

Makes you think, doesn't it? Makes you think someone hired the wrong manager and paid too much for talent.

TEEN UP THE RADIO

You might have noticed that I've changed the music on the Radio.Blog.

There's a theme here.

Two weeks ago, I attended a journalism conference on covering teens beyond the fads. So I thought it might be fun to throw some music on that sort of reminds us all that teens have pretty much had shitty taste in music. From Frankie Avalon to John Travolta to Britney Spears. All pure, Grade-A crap. That's why God created college, quite frankly. To cleanse the bubblegum from our souls and feed us real music at used record, and now, CD stores.

Of the ones I posted, my favorite has to be The Knack's "Good Girls Don't." I was about 14 when that came out. The Knack was on the cusp of New Wave and made decent music for one album and one album only. I still can't believe that a song that's so blatant about putting out made the charts in 1979. Then again, Donna Summer moaned for 43 minutes straight on "Love To Love You, Baby" in 1975, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised.

The most unlikely teen idol? Gotta be Bobby Sherman. The guy was almost 28 when he hit it big on the charts in 1970 with "Easy Come, Easy Go." And his songs were so... bad. I get the sense that with his silk shirts and dangly necklaces and foppy hair, Bobby Sherman may have been the American archetype for Austin Powers. Just a theory.

Alarmingly, six of the songs on the blog have ties to television - The Archies' "Sugar, Sugar" (cartoon), Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl" (General Hospital), David Cassidy's "I Think I Love You" (Partridge Family), The Monkees' "Daydream Believer" (The Monkees), John Travolta's "Let Her In" (Welcome Back Kotter), Aha's "Take On Me" (MTV). Of these, Springfield's is probably the best written and produced, but you can't deny the Velveeta goodness of Travolta's ballad. The man was born to sing... uh, nothing.

SPORT/NOT A SPORT

My former employer has a story discussing various sports and whether the participants qualify as athletes.

There's some nice, snarky writing here. I like reading stuff with an edge.

Here's the take on...

Golfers: "When one of the game's finest — Colin Montgomerie — resembles some unholy coupling of Willie Ames and the Michelin Man, you're not dealing with a sport long on exacting athletic requirements."

Cyclists: "Is, say, winning the Tour de France an unspeakably impressive feat of endurance? To be sure, but then again, so is having sex with Sting."

Bowlers: "They participate in a sport that "can be performed at a high level while drunk and incontinent with nachos."

Jockeys: "Job requirements: have an eating disorder and be able to beat a horse in the ass with a riding crop. Athlete or Calista Flockhart with a bestial fetish? You decide."

Race Car Drivers: "As for drivers in general, their victory celebrations are unspeakably lame. They do donuts in the infield, pop out the driver's side window à la Bo Duke, stand on the hood, quaff deeply from whatever beverage they endorse and get trash thrown at them by soused rednecks. Then they smoke a Winston, shop at Home Depot, slam a Bud, make out with a Golden Corral race queen, order a Papa John's pizza with their Nextel mobile phone, brush their teeth with Valvoline, use Craftsman tools to eat Swanson Hungry Man Dinners, paint their dogs with the help of Sherwin Williams, make their kids eat Levitra and Folgers' Crystals, set up a meth lab behind their local Food City and otherwise behave as the inveterate whores of brand loyalty that they are.

The only thing drivers have in common with real athletes is their propensity for non-pre-nupped marriages to Hooters' waitresses and Budweiser promotional models. An expensive habit, that."

Hunters: "Wanna get back to nature? Put down the Sony Watchman telecast of the Lions game, exit the Hummer, adjust your man-boobs and take on a Kodiak using only a Sumerian scraping tool. Otherwise, stop calling yourself an athlete."