May 31, 2007
ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
RHYMES WITH 'TOO MUCH FRIGGIN' ORANGE'
For the life of me, I can't decide.
Is this dude's monochromatic color scheme more of a "found in a diaper gold" or "melanoma tan"?
PREVIOUS ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
Everything's better when it sits on a Ritz.
Patriotic turtles.
Bubba's sidekick.
Goin' mobil.
G'day, mate.
Porn as a windowshade.
Jonathan Livingston Redneck.
Buc off, pal.
Such a dirty mess.
How cheep can you be?
I'm super! Thanks for asking.
Would you like an apple pie with that?
Hearse so good.
Drive fast, take chances.
Riding with Fab the deejay.
Beware of the Death Explorer.
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.
My other car is a rocket-propelled grenade.
Live long and prosper. In an Altima.
Just two good ol' boys.
Asshats aplenty.
Nicotine is my crash helmet.
Jazz hands moms.
Ugly lug nuts.
Pretty ballsy.
My honor student can kick your ass.
Garfield mudflaps.
Horse and buddy.
May 29, 2007
May 27, 2007
LETTER FROM IRAQ
It's been a while since I've heard from my buddy Drew, who's serving in Iraq. He flew home to Hawaii a couple weeks back to visit his wife and three sons. It was his first time seeing them since August when his battalion shipped out. He told me his tour has been extended to November.
He told me a little of the great success he and his soldiers are having with their mission and that he's gratified to see real, positive change, but the Salad Clan didn't want to monopolize too much of the family's time together, so our conversation was brief.
Since then, I've been reading about the military curtailing online activities, so I haven't tried sending any e-mail. The man has enough on his mind.
Then today, I got this note from Drew:
Jeff;I feel terrible that I have not written to you guys in so long. While I am sure my excuse is justified, I think of you guys often and today I had to make the time to write.
I cannot begin to express to you the amazement I am feeling when it comes to improvements in my Area of responsibility. The Iraqi Army and Police are making huge strides in not only their understanding of their responsibility, but also in the practical application of this responsibility. Seeing the Iraqi Security Forces hungry to provide security for their villages and country is a sight that I honestly wondered would ever happen, but it is a reality that we are living.
Tonight I was walking around the Forward Operating Base talking to Soldiers who were preparing for mission and I ran across this group of US and Iraqi Leaders planning their mission for tonight. Just the look on their faces show how much they have become a team against the terrorists, but that is not what brought about this email. In the middle of all I do on a daily basis, there was Salad Man…Here in Iraq with me!
My Love to all…Drew
DREW R. MEYEROWICH
LTC, INFANTRY
Commander, 2-27 IN "Wolfhounds"
Here is the photo.
I would try to put into words what it means to me that my friend saw this image in a dangerous place and had a happy thought because of my stupid obsession, but I'm a little too choked up about it to write anything meaningful.
You're in our prayers every night, Drew. You and Susan and the boys.
May the hat that surpasses all understanding keep watch over you and protect you and bring you safely home to us.
PREVIOUS LETTERS FROM IRAQ:
'Not the same Hawijah.'
Time out for toys.
Coffee and sunsets.
Get your motor runnin'.
"Wolfhounds don't do anything small."
Thanksgiving in Iraq.
"What sacrifice for the sake of freedom feels like."
"I am amazed by them every single day."
It's who you know.
Month two of deployment.
I'd walk a mile.
Boots on the ground.
Once more into the breech.
LETTER FROM ALASKA
Yes, it's that time of year when the weather warms up, the flowers bloom and my Uncle Pete, (yes, the one who was in the paper posing with a potato he grew that was shaped like a moose) goes back to Alaska.
He's been sending me e-mails of late, including shots of huge chunks of ice that have been flowing downriver and destroying everything in their path along the riverbank.
Then there was the photo of a shoreline choked with driftwood. Including one piece that he said looked just like an alligator. He was so pumped up by this that he said he considered hauling a chainsaw to the beach so he could cut the thing free and mail it to Urban Meyer.
That's the kind of guy he is.
His latest set, though, might be his most dramatic of all the years he's been sending me photos.
His most recent e-mail, sent yesterday, reads:
WELL, I WAS OUT WITH MY CHAIN SAW CUTTING FIREWOOD FOR OUR MEMORIAL DAY GET TOGETHER====CECILE CAME OUT SCREAMING=======COME ON GET YOUR CAMERA~~!! BEN JUST CALLED AND THERE IS A GRIZZLY BEAR WALKING UP THE ROAD IN BETWEEN OUR AND HIS HOUSE. BY THE TIME I GOT THE CAMERA AND TALKED TO BEN THE BEAR HAD CROSSED THE ROAD==RAFE STREET AND WAS ABOUT 75 FEET IN THE WOODS. CECILE SPOTTED HIM AND WE WENT TO THE CORNER OF SPORTS LAKE ROAD AND WAITED FOR HIM AS HE SEEMED TO BE HEADING THAT WAY.HE DID START TO CROSS THE ROAD AND I GOT A FEW SHOTS==AS YOU CAN SEE==OF HIM COMING OUT AND THEN THERE WAS A CAR COMING UP THE ROAD AND HE TURNED AROUND AND WENT BACK IN THE WOODS.
NOW THE REST OF THE STORY=======CECILE STARTED DRIVING SLOWLY UP SPORTS LAKE ROAD AND WE WERE WATCHING FOR HIM. AFTER ABOUT A BLOCK, WE SAW A MOOSE ALONG SIDE OF THE ROAD AND I JUST GOT ONE SHOT OF HER AS CECILE WAS YELLING FOR ME TO GET BACK IN THE CAR IN CASE THE BEAR MIGHT BE STALKING HER.
WE TURNED AROUND AND WENT LOOKING FOR HIM AGAIN AND STARTED BACK TO OUR HOUSE TO SEE IF HE CAME BACK DOWN HERE.WE CAME BACK TO TELL BEN--OUR NEIGHBOR AND FRIEND-- THAT WE SAW THE BEAR AND GOT A FEW PIX OF IT.
WE DECIDED TO GO BACK AND TAKE ANOTHER LOOK FOR HIM AND SAW ABOUT 4 CARS PARKED ALONG THE ROAD ==IN THE VERY SPOT I GOT THE PIX OF THE MOOSE==AND WHEN WE GOT UP TO THEM THEY TOLD US THERE WAS A GRIZZLY BEAR IN THE AREA AND HE JUST GRABBED A BABY MOOSE THAT WAS DELIVERED JUST A FEW MINUTES AGO.
YEP, THE SAME MOOSE I GOT A PIX OF MUST HAVE JUST HAD THE BABY AND OF COURSE, BEARS HAVE AN EXCELLENT SENSE OF SMELL AND THEY ARE OUT LOOKING FOR BABY MOOSE AT THIS TIME AS, THIS WEEK MOOSE DELIVER THEIR NEWBORN. ALL ABOUT THE SAME TIME SO THE BEARS FEAST ON THE BABIES.
HORRID TO SEE AND HEARABOUT,,,, BUT WE EAT CHICKEN AND FISH DON'T WE~~~!!!???I AM SENDING THE PIX OF THE MOOSE, FIRST THE ONE I TOOK JUST BEFORE THE BEAR GOT HER BABY ALONG SIDE THE ROAD AND THEN HER FRANTICALLY LOOKING FOR HER BABY====RACING THROUGH THE WOODS, CROSSING THE ROAD, RUNNING WILD..........WHERE'S MY BABY???!!!!????
STOPS FOR A DRINK OF WATER AND AS YOU CAN SEE THE AFTERBIRTH FLOWING FROM HER BACK END~~!!!!!
SOMEONE HAD CALLED THE STATE POLICE AND FISH AND GAME. THEY WERE DRIVING UP AND DOWN THE STREETS WARNING PEOPLE TO BE CAREFUL, KEEP YOUR CHILDREN AND PETS INSIDE~~~!!!!! THERE IS A BEAR IN THE AREA.
LESSON LEARNED--------PUT THAT CHAIN SAW AWAY AND USE WHAT YOU GOT AND GO INSIDE IF IT IS TOO COLD~~!!!
NOW CAN YOU IMAGINE, WE HAVE 14 PEOPLE COMING FOR A MEMORIAL DAY COOK OUT THAT WE HAVE OUT ON OUR REAR DECK~~!!
HHHHMMMMM, MAYBE WE SHOULD MAKE A LITTLE ROOM INSIDE AND HIDE~~~!!!! EAT THOSE HAMBURGERS AND BAKED BEANS IN THE BATH ROOM AND CLOSETS~~~!!!!!
ANYWAY, ENOUGH OF MY BALONEY, JUST HOPE YOU ENJOY THE STORY.
AND DO===========HAVE A HAPPY AND SAFE MEMORIAL DAY.
Last week, he sent me this photo of his first attempt at painting.
After seeing this brown bear up close and way too personal, I'm guessing his subsequent paintings will be a little more detailed.
PREVIOUS LETTERS FROM ALASKA:
Time to say goodbye for the winter.
Winter's coming. Time to head south.
The salmon don't stand a chance.
The Last Fuzzy Slipper Frontier.
There's a bar in them thar country.
Sunsets, salmon and civil ceremonies.
Volcanoes, churches and halibut.
A fantasy RV for The Last Frontier.
May 25, 2007
MOMMY, MAKE IT STOP
I can handle this.
I could deal with this. No problem.
This? I had difficulty at first, but I'm pushing through the pain.
This? C'mon.
Game over.
May 24, 2007
YOU ARE THE WIND BETWEEN MY CHEEKS
Question: Who let Peggy Lee out of the grave to come back and perform on "American Idol" last night?
Oh. Wait. It was Bette Midler. Nevermind.
Wow. Was she bad, or what?
When Tony Bennett outsings you at 143 years old, you need to stop.
And then there were the car crashes. Bette Midler was horrendous, staggering through a tone-deaf "Wind Beneath My Wings." Someone give her a Golden Idol. (A friend text messaged: "Midler was like a housewife drunk on white-wine spritzers.")
Sorry, Bette. There's no twirling yourself out of this one.
IT WAS 24 YEARS AGO TODAY
A meme from my friend Craig I feel compelled to respond to for some reason:
I KNOW I've done this one, but for the benefit of my renewed acquaintances ...
Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be.
1. Who was your best friend?
Mike Stack (above, right), Louis Bode (above, left), Greg Tobias, Paul Ezzo, Sheelagh McCaughey
2.What sports did you play?
Basketball, track, spring football. All of them poorly.
3. What kind of car did you drive?
A white '77 two-door Olds Cutlass Supreme with a 356, V8 engine, bench seats and a blue half-vinyl roof. As Cartman would say: "Kick ass." I wrecked it. Several times.
4. It's Friday night, where were you?
Maybe at Stack's or Tobias' houses. Maybe at Treasure Island Amusement Center. Driving down Clearwater Beach. Maybe at church youth group.
5. Were you a party animal?
I had my moments.
6. Were you considered a flirt?
I had my moments.
7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?
Yeah. If you can qualify butchering the bass drum in marching band as membership.
8. Were you a nerd?
I was able to bridge the nerd/sports/journlism/Catholic youth group genres to bring each down to new lows.
9. Did you get suspended/expelled?
Yes. Yes I did. Please see question No. 5.
10. Can you sing the fight song?
Are you kidding? It was a Catholic school. The closest thing we got to a fight song was singing "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" by Van Halen out in the parking lot before school.
11. Who was your favorite teacher?
Miss Connie Ehlers.
12.What was your school's full name?
St. Petersburg Catholic High School.
13. School mascot?
The Baron. I'm not making this up. Yes, we were named for a lame Spanish nobility title. Gayest. Mascot. Ever. We not only lost football and basketball games, we lost so big, they nearly qualified as hate crimes. I attribute that to the mascot.
14. Did you go to Prom?
Yep. With Ellie, a distant cousin by step-marriage from South Carolina. (She was a pretty nursing student with a large chest, a sweet Southern accent and her own car. Gimme a break. When you're 18 in 1983, that's, like, the magic combination you only read about in Penthouse Letters.)
How Southern was she? When she got mad, she'd threaten to "pole" me. As if to say, she intended to hit me with a broomstick. This drove me insane. I told her, "If I was going to threaten to run you over, I wouldn't say, 'I'm gonna car you.'" Our relationship went downhill soon after. Especially after she made it plain we would only advance to the kissing stage of romance. We broke up a year later.
What can I say, I was an optimist.
15. If you could go back and do it over, would you?
Prom? Sure. Why not? After all, I got to watch my ex-girlfriend's revenge date strip on the dance floor and get thrown out of the Don CeSar for swimming naked and drunk in their hotel pool. The Prom Queen, Julie, was so loaded, she had to be carried during the last dance by my friend Mike, who was Prom King. Made for some really great photos in the yearbook.
Would I do high school over? Not in a million years.
16. What do you remember most about graduation?
Well, it was in a cathedral, so the ceremony was rather restrained. My father couldn't be bothered to wear a tie. Graduation night? Magnifico. It's mostly a blur. Woke up on the beach behind the Don CeSar with a half-empty bottle of Jack in one hand and my head in the lap of a woman I've yet to see since and whom I would be unable to identify from a lineup today by name or image. Regardless, I owe her my life.
Later that day, I drove with my Irish friend Desmond to EPCOT. We stole a wheelchair and spent the day limping and pretending to be handicapped so we could get on rides quicker.
I've matured greatly since then.
17. Where were you on senior skip day?
See question No. 9. The school skipped it for me.
18. Did you have a job your senior year?
Several, including working at marina as a dock hand and also at a fish restaurant as a busboy. I cleaned this guy's boat once a week at a local marina, then used it to party inside with my friends, thereby necessitating another cleaning. I had tan lines around my ankles from wearing docksiders in the sun for 20 hours each weekend and I smelled like hush puppies and French fries during the week.
19. Where did you go most often for lunch?
Our shitty school cafeteria.
20. Have you gained weight since then?
That would be an understatement.
21. What did you do after graduation?
Started at FSU and finished at UF.
22. When did you graduate?
High school? 1983.
23. Who was your Senior prom date?
See question No. 14.
24. Are you going to your 10 year reunion?
You mean 14 years ago? (Can you tell this was a MySpace meme?)
No, I didn't go. Didn't do the 20th either. I didn't feel the need to pay a thousand bucks to hang with people whom I would have paid a thousand bucks to get away from in 1983.
25. Who was your home room teacher?
Miss Connie Ehlers.
26. Who will repost this after you?
To quote Tom Petty: Baby, even the losers get lucky sometimes.
May 23, 2007
ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER EDITION
Saw this truck in Sarasota today.
What's that say on the back window?
Mmmm. Them's good eats.
PREVIOUS ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
Patriotic turtles.
Bubba's sidekick.
Goin' mobil.
G'day, mate.
Porn as a windowshade.
Jonathan Livingston Redneck.
Buc off, pal.
Such a dirty mess.
How cheep can you be?
I'm super! Thanks for asking.
Would you like an apple pie with that?
Hearse so good.
Drive fast, take chances.
Riding with Fab the deejay.
Beware of the Death Explorer.
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.
My other car is a rocket-propelled grenade.
Live long and prosper. In an Altima.
Just two good ol' boys.
Asshats aplenty.
Nicotine is my crash helmet.
Jazz hands moms.
Ugly lug nuts.
Pretty ballsy.
My honor student can kick your ass.
Garfield mudflaps.
Horse and buddy.
May 20, 2007
RANDOM PHOTOS FROM THE INAUGURAL TAMPA BAY WINE & FOOD FESTIVAL
Certainly explains why the guy next to the barrell had orange lips and a blue zipper.
Nice to see the dancers from Prince's band are still getting work.
"She took my hammock."
"That bitch!"
May 18, 2007
DANCE MONKEY!
In the audience at a taping of the "Ellen" show?
Then you'd better dance. Otherwise, as comic Zach Galifianakis explains, you'll be deemed a "person of interest" and potential troublemaker.
The story is that Ellen was watching me in her dressing room - and asked security if I looked weird or suspicious or something like that. My friend who works on the show overheard her and told Ms. Degeneris that I was a friendly - there is a little more to the story but I will keep that secret. But I was not at all asked to leave. If you do not dance with the creeps you are seen as a creep.
You can see the pre-show surveillance video here (Zach will be instantly identifiable):
May 17, 2007
THE KING RETURNS
I'm embarassed to say that it's been almost three years since The King Project received a proper update.
Something about that statement seems almost criminal.
So it seemed only right to break out the Elvis glasses in conjunction with this year's Elvis Festival in Tampa.
Yesterday, I dropped by Nicko's diner to take in the Elvis lunch. Impersonators were walking the aisles singing to female patrons, many of whom were decked out in their favorite King-related attire.
It was quite the scene. Some of them were looking at the faux Elvi with a lust in their eyes that was almost too dirty to watch.
I guess we all see what we want to see.
Anyway, I took my Elvis glasses to work for a little update of the King Project.
Remember kids...
... an apple a day keeps the Percodans away.
You can see the entire project by clicking here.
May 16, 2007
WHEN BAD FOOD METAPHORS ATTACK
Seen today at Romenesko's site:
Perhaps. Then again, what is, really?
A better question: Does this make Colbert a stromboli?
SOMBREROS OF INFLUENCE
Seems that everyone wants to get in on The Sombrero Project.
Alas, although many desire such inclusion, few are called to participate and know the full glory that the great hat can provide.
But it would appear that its reputation is growing.
I got this note yesterday from Jerry Stockfisch, the king of legislative journalism in Tallahassee:
Sent: Tuesday, May 15, 2007 1:14 PM
I don’t believe your name came up on the House floor, but nonetheless, your influence is spreading.
Cheers // Jerry
For the record, Jerry joined the Sombrero Project in part quatro. His is one of my favorite photos.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on your worldview - that was not the weirdest sombrero-related story I saw on Tuesday.
IT... IS... ALIVE!
For about two years, I wrote a column called The Big Question that ran every Friday in the Tribune. It was pitched as a column about nothing, really. Every week, I'd mention some ridiculously stupid news story (we're really good at those in journalism) and then ask readers a poll question that may or may not be tangentially related to that news item.
There was no news value in it, really. It was more an exercise to get readers used to going online, after which their answers would run in the paper, after which we'd ask another question.
It's the Circle of Life. And it moves us all.
Anyway, the forces of nature conspired against the column to make it as extraneous as the content it featured. So when the Friday BayLife section became as extraneous as the Big Question, we decided to take the carnival online.
And now we have.
Now, not only will we ask a new question every Wednesday, readers can answer on the site. And we'll put up a raft of stupid stories every day to keep people coming back.
I hope you'll drop by and throw a vote in the box.
To quote Belushi in "Animal House," it "don't cost nuthin'."
May 10, 2007
END OF AN ERROR
The Terry Schiavo of newspapers finally is nearing its last days.
Soon, by the end of the month, the last vestige of what used to be known as The Anchorage Times will be no more.
For 15 years, the Anchorage Daily News has printed a small section on its opinion page produced by a handful of people from the former crosstown competition. That section, called the Voice of the Times, is about to go bye-bye.
The Voice column was part of the agreement struck between Erwin Potts, chief executive officer of ADN-owner McClatchy Newspapers, and Times owner Bill Allen in June 1992. Allen, who always claimed publicly that he bought the paper in 1989 to preserve the local, conservative opinions established by the Atwood family on the Times editorial page to contrast to that of the liberal ADN pages, bargained to keep the Voice column alive for a decade after the sale. The agreement was extended in 2002 for another five years. That contract ends this month.
That it happens the same month that Allen pleaded guilty to federal bribery charges is both coincidental and not. As the head of VECO, the oilfield services company that made hundreds of millions in its contracts to clean the beaches of Prince William Sound after the Exxon Valdez oil spill, Allen has always been a lightning rod for Alaska's anti-oil residents. As VECO's CEO and part-owner, he's stood on the tip of that rod with his monetary support of conservative political groups, lobbyists and candidates.
It was that support that ultimately brought him down, and, most would argue, the Voice of the Times along with it (although it is doubtful, given the outcry the last time the contract was renewed, that the agreement would have been extended again).
Allen on Monday pleaded guilty to federal charges that he provided more than $400,000 in payments to five lawmakers, in exchange for the lawmakers supporting and lobbying their colleagues on bills that VECO wanted passed. As with any public villification these days, the predictable dogpile on Allen is nearing stratospheric proportions.
To me, this is tragic on so many levels.
First, it cements what all of his opponents always said about Allen; that he was dirty, that he was an oil puppet. So be it. Mess with the bull, you get the horns.
But by extension, it unfortunately tarnishes everything Allen touched, including The Times.
As a former Times staffer, that angers me to no end.
When I and others who were hired after Allen took over (because so many quit in protest), we transformed the paper, along with those who remained, from a run-down afternoon heap to a viable morning paper. We didn't set anyone on fire, but we gave the ADN a run every morning that it otherwise wouldn't have had. We got up every morning and ran to the front door to see if we had kicked them in the teeth or if they had smacked us around. They were arrogant and enjoyed the smell of their own righteous aroma. We were there to put out a newspaper.
I remember going out to cover an event in midtown and getting there early. The ADN reporter, whose name I'll never forget but won't mention here, got there late. When an event organizer asked if anyone from the Times was there, the ADN reporter shouts, "I'm here. Who the fuck cares about the Times?" Standing next to him, I replied, "I do. Who the fuck are you?" He apologized, sat down and shut up for the rest of the press conference.
For further proof of the effect of no competition, take a look at what the news side became after the Times left. Guaranteed that it would have no competition in a growing market, the ADN withered to the point of minimum staffing and maximum profit, and used the Associated Press office in town like a de facto bureau. It covered what it wanted and left the scraps to others. Friends in Anchorage would bemoan to me in the years after how little the ADN reflected the community and bitch about how impenetrable the operation was from a local standpoint.
Now, I don't know Bill Allen. I didn't work at the Times as some sort of political statement.
All I know is that the best decision I ever made was to go to Alaska at age 25 and work at The Times. It's a decision that continues to pay off to this day. Not many reporters got to cover everything from the Iditarod to the Exxon spill. I was in the courtroom when Joe Hazelwood was acquitted. I stood on the beaches and held an eagle carcass put there by the oil that his boat spilled.
I never got to know him beyond seeing him in the hallway, but Allen was always decent to me as an employer. When an anniversary section I helped write for about the Valdez's devastation on the culture, environment and way of life in the Sound won an SPJ award, I was endlessly proud. Especially because it beat out an ADN entry about the same thing. To me, it proved our editorial autonomy. It said we could produce something that reflected so negatively - and deservedly so - on the oil industry in that state. We'd blunder plenty in the news pages. Heavy handed management decisions by different regimes would create plenty of editorial black eyes and give fuel to the critics who said we were shills.
After the paper closed, Allen paid thousands in severence and shipping for me and my wife to move back to Florida with everything we brought north to Anchorage, so we could start over in a place thousands of miles away that had lots of newspaper options. He didn't have to do that.
He didn't have to put his millions where his mouth was to buy a paper. He did. For that, he'll have that bit of respect from me. But his plea agreement kills just about all we worked for.
The staff I joined in 1989 did good work. The sports writers and editors were among the best I ever worked with. Business writers went on to greater prominence. Metro reporters and editors moved up in the business, as did the photographers and graphic artists.
Many of us still keep in touch. Some I e-mail with monthly or daily. All of us know we'll never have another professional experience like that, covering the biggest state in the union in the most extreme conditions under the greatest stress. There was a bunker mentality that bonded us for life.
But by doing what he did, Allen stained our legacy collectively this week.
The Voice of the Times? The idea looks great on paper. Every day, you get to poke the former competitor in the eye in their own pages. You get to show how ludicrous their squawking can be. You do the job that they should be doing - giving a microphone to people they don't agree with. By contract, you enforce a key rule of journalism: balance.
In reality, the column became a dinosaur of self-parody that should have never existed in the first place. It wasn't anything close to balance. I'll go to my grave proclaiming the benefit of competitive ideas in the newspaper market. It's being bourne out online now in the form of millions of blogs of every opinion stripe. Don't like the newspaper's opinion? Publish your own.
But the marketplace spoke in Anchorage in 1992. Readers voted with their quarters. The VOT was a sham that only reflected a tiny shred of what it was supposed to in theory.
It's long overdue that this dinosaur become extinct. Now, thanks to Allen, it's the voice of the crimes.
May 09, 2007
MOTHER AND SON
I had the good fortune to interview the doyenne of Italian-American cooking Marcella Hazan at her home in Longboat Key last week. You can read the story here and here.
We had a chat as part of my story on her son Giuliano, who recently won an IACP award as cooking teacher of the year.
My idea was to do a package for Mother's Day about a mother's influence on her child through use of the kitchen - without using the word Mother's Day in the story. (I am loathe to do the usual food holiday story. Although, you know, you have to genuflect to the high holy food days of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, Fourth of July and Memorial Day.)
Anyway, we had a lovely chat. I was surprised to hear that she had only attended one of his classes. (She didn't want to draw attention away from her son's classes.)
The two of them - Giuliano chimes in at times in the interview - could not have been more gracious.
I have to say that I fell in love with her kitchen.
Everything in the kitchen was custom-made. The glass hood over the stove is brilliant. Really keeps a small space from feeling claustrophobic.
Olive oil and salt were at the ready. So were the two food processors and espresso machine.
She even had a built-in set of shelves for her most essential books. Which, of course, include...
Her son's books, prominent and conveniently at hand.
You can listen to the interview here:
'HEY JEFF, HOW'S THE HAND?'
Two weeks after inadvertantly fileting my hand, I finally have the stitches out.
The other morning while taking Salad Boy to school, he dropped a verbal bombshell.
"How's it look?" I asked him.
"I don't want to say,"
"Why?" I asked.
"Dad, I don't want to hurt your feelings."
"C'mon."
"No."
"C'mon. Say it. I won't be offended."
Silence.
Turns out he thought it looked like a vagina.
"I noticed it two days ago and didn't want to say anything," he said.
It is at this point in the story that I'd like to thank the Hillsborough County School District for implementing its Human Growth and Development instructional plan this month in sixth grade.
But I digress.
He wasn't wrong.
We humbly request that you withhold your "Britney Spears getting out of a car" jokes until later.
Anyway, I made the mistake of relaying this conversation at work. My desk neighbor, Patty, found it very amusing. To the extent that whenever anyone has stopped by this week to ask, "How's the hand?" she busts out into spasms of laughter. Yesterday, during a conversation with an editor, the term "handgina" was coined.
I couldn't be more proud.
Hoping that I wasn't alone in my shame, I Googled the word.
I found this.
My shame continues.
MANI. PEDI. GENETI.
Time to check at the Salad mailbag.
Rich at work sends along this note
Sent: Tuesday, May 08, 2007 5:32 PM
Subject: Now, at your local spa.......
I ended up passing a fancy spa in South Tampa last Saturday and noticed this on the window.
Along with botox, facials and manicures, they offer the interesting service in this photograph.
.
Not sure what they charge……or how legal it can be.
Then Willie Drye, author of Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 and commentator on the History Channel's "Nature's Fury: Storm of the Century" episode of the series "Violent Earth," sent along this gem:
Subject: BYO rectum ribbon
Hey Jeff:
Saw this and thought, "Hmm. This is the kind of quirky, offbeat -- and off-color -- news item that Jeff gets a kick out of."
They used to use corn cobs in this part of the world, you know.
Later,Willie
Md. town removes toilet paper from park bathroomsWALKERSVILLE, Md. -
BYOTP.That's the advice this town is giving visitors to its four parks.
All paper products were removed from the park restrooms after vandals set paper on fire in a men's bathroom, Town Manager Gloria Long Rollins said Monday.
Hand dryers will be installed, but visitors will have to bring their own TP, she said.
Rollins hopes the changes will help combat vandalism, graffiti and drug use in the parks.
Thanks, Willie. You are the wind between our cheeks.
May 08, 2007
ANOTHER SPIN ON THE WHEEL OF DEATH
As if things aren't quirky enough at work, it looks as though the Wheel of Death upstairs has been restocked.
What's for sale?
Whassat?
Could this be salad? A euphemism for not dating Lindsey Lohan? It's difficult to tell.
What else did they have?
Another bowl-shaped container. This ought to be good.
Or not.
I know it was you alfredo. You broke my heart.
Next!
Apparently, the Wheel of Death and the Wheel of Fortune are similar in that vowels cost extra.
Who wrote this, Tonto? Frankenstein? Tarzan?
Next!
This can't be good.
Buffalo's best?
I think Buffalo would dispute that claim.
Next!
Oh. Dear. Lord.
Are they serious?
Gizzards. In a vending machine.
Who the hell would buy that?
Answer: David
Yes, my Off the Eaten Path partner in crime David Williams ponied up the buck-seventy-five.
This I had to watch.
The first sign something was askew:
The distinct lack of gizzard in the ingredient list.
The second sign:
Unidentifiable fried orbs that in no way resembled gizzards, wings or anything else that could be classified as part of a chicken.
The third sign something was seriously amiss:
Were these alleged chickens from Guadalajara? What the hell did taco sauce have to do with this?
Adios mio!
By this point, most sane people would have merely tossed the package and its contents into the waste bin.
Not David. He had to pop them into the microwave and eat them.
And I, playing Sancho Panza to his gizzard Don Quixote, joined him for the feast.
Every emotion you can read in David's face accurately depicts the flavor atrocity being committed in his mouth.
It was chewy. No, it was beyond chewy. Chewy in a way that you would imagine fossilized whale genitalia would be chewy. Popping noises created by my attempts to chew were so loud and disturbing, it sounded as if I was being devoured from the inside by some sort of cerebral parasite. Much of it could not be masticated into something worth swallowing. The rest tasted like I was chewing someone else's cud. Not even fake mild taco sauce could salvage this experience.
It's one saving grace: At least it wasn't labeled a healthy decision.
PUTTING THE PUD IN SPUDCAST
So, I did my very first podcast.
For someone else. Namely, the Couch Potatoes (Wes and Rommie).
How did it happen?
It was magical, really. As they recounted on their blog:
Summer movies are absolutely worthy of having an entire Spudcast devoted to them!
For this very special podcast, Wes and I were joined in the studio by Tampa Tribune Food Writer Jeff Houck.
Yeah, the food writer.
Hey, our movie critic was “downsized” and Jeff happened to be walking by at the right time. What do you want?
Yes. It was that slap-the-20-on-the-nightstand-and-get-the-hell-out magical.
Download it here: Couch Potatoes, Episode 9
THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PREVIOUS POST
Press kit trinket name of the week:
Lather. Rinse. Repeat as necessary.
1. DOWN
Someone's got a little too much time on his hands in Chappaqua.
I love it when jokes write themselves.
May 07, 2007
PARTY PICS
No one throws a Cinco de Mayo party like Rosemary (pictured here).
See for yourself before the photos are moved over to The Sombrero Project:
Note to self: Next year bring this lovely product.
May 06, 2007
LIDO SHUFFLE
Photo of the day Saturday came when I took Salad Boy down to Longboat Key for a bit of fishing.
We drove through Sarasota and navigated our way through St. Armand's Circle. After we finished fishing, during which Brian caught one grunt and one pair of children's Spider-Man sunglasses, we rolled through Lido Key.
Whereupon we drove past this gentleman.
"You're not going to go back," Salad Boy said, trying to will my hand off the camera as we turned around to get a shot.
"Don't you know me better by now?" I asked.
I pulled up next to him and rolled down the window.
"Dad, don't," Salad Boy said, doing his best to slide under his seat and look invisible.
"Excuse me," I said.
The cyclist's pedaling stopped. He bent down to look into the truck.
"I like your hat," I said. "Would you mind if I took your photo?"
"Sure! No problem," he said. "It's Cinco de Mayo, you know."
"I know!" I said.
Then it got better.
"My name is Lido Joe. Everyone knows me around here. Just ask. They'll tell you."
After which we said farewell and thank you and then headed on down the highway.
A friendly guy in a sombrero. Rolling down the road. With his own built-in nickname.
Some blessings come wearing hats and riding bikes in the midday sun.
May 05, 2007
BIG STINKO FOR CINCO
As you can imagine, given our long-proclaimed adoration of All Things Sombrero, Cinco de Mayo is a big day here at Casa del Ensalada.
So we were only too glad to attend a party at Salad Boy's cooking school Friday evening.
Reason?
It was a fiesta, complete with queso, make-you-own nachos, Mexican cheesecake and ...
SOMBREROS!
We seized upon the opportunity to add to the vast and growing archive known as The Sombrero Project (and its subsequent parts (Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco, Seis, and Siete).
Salad Boy earned his patch for mastering Greek food. It was probably the only juvenile culinary ceremony at which a sombrero was required adornment.
And, true to every party we've ever been to where the giant hat has been deployed, people soon were clamoring to perch themselves beneath its regal brim.
This is Amy, who owns and operates the academy.
Her first reaction when asked to strike a sombrero pose was to go into Arnold Schwartzenegger mode.
I now fear Amy's physicality in ways I didn't anticipate.
This next child's new name?
Eduardo Paperhands.
For more photos from the party, click here.
We're due to attend a Cinco de Mayo party this evening. Should be plenty of opportunities to shoot additional 'brero photos.
I can almost smell Part Ocho from here.
May 04, 2007
MELTS IN YOUR MOUTH. NOT IN YOUR GLANDS.
I pleaded.
I implored those in the food industry to understand that associating breast cancer with eating - even for altruistic reasons - is quite unappetizing. Especially when your product is used as a size comparison for lumps in breast tissue.
Apparently that message didn't get through to the folks at M&Ms.
FAREWELL BUT NOT GOODBYE
I haven't written much about the changes taking place at the Tribune for several reasons. First, it's not my place. Second, it's private. As someone who lost my job 15 years ago next month when my paper closed, I have an extreme amount of sympathy for anyone in that situation. It's gut-wrenching and horrible and scary. I wouldn't wish it on my biggest foe.
Well, maybe a taste.
But I digress.
The changes that happen at a newspaper are very public. They have to be. To write about other businesses and institutions downsizing or laying off people to survive, you can't exactly shut the door when your own company does the same. If anything, you're required to go beyond the expectations of public disclosure. If you don't, your readers will further lose trust and what remains of your staff will no longer follow your lead. It's a dicey little cha-cha. Then there's the gift of giving your competition a free shot at you on your worst day. That's always two tons of fun.
Writing about it from the inside seems a tad too exploitive to me.
What I do feel comfortable writing about is how it hurts when someone like Judy Hill, a fixture at the paper, is shown the door. You don't replace that kind of relationship with readers. I used to edit Judy's columns. I went to high school with her son. She has a pet name for me that would insult anyone else but me: Shit-ass. I get Judy. Judy gets me.
It's horrible when someone like Bob Ross, a fixture at the paper, is asked to go. There's no filling the void of experience and friendship when that decision gets made.
It's brutal when someone with the world-class caliber of talent like David O'Keefe isn't in the building to play with. You can't even wrap your head around that reality.
And now today another friend, Chris Kuhn, is working her last day in Marketing. This is a dagger on another order altogether.
You don't know Chris, unless you've tripped over her cool blog at Cankuhn's Lagoon or read her comments here in the Salad Bowl. She didn't get a byline for the work she did. But if you read a promo in the paper that a story was coming to print in the next few days and you were intrigued enough to check that story out when it showed up in the paper, you know Chris' work.
She took a job that had been dicey at best, one that pinned her beneath the girders of journalism and business and promotion, and elevated it into a seamless production. Where once there had been difficulty and strife, Chris worked her ass off to make things run smoothly. To me, she was the Sherpa who brought readers to my stories. She cared enough to check the copy of the promos with me. She listened in news meetings when most sane people would be flatlining comatose. She chased through the byzantine system to get the best photos for what she needed. When something needed tweaking, she took the suggestion in stride and made the necessary changes. When stories changed run dates - which, you know, happens almost daily - she snapped into action and adjusted without complaint.
I don't know if she enjoyed what she did for the Tribune, WFLA and TBO.com, but from all appearances, she looked like she was having a blast, even on her worst day. Sometimes that matters more than actual enjoyment. People feed off that positive energy.
For all her work, though, what I've enjoyed most is getting to know her as a friend. She's just a monumental amount of fun.
We found this out early.
This is the photo I shot when Rommie and I and her colleague Andrea baptised her in the soothing, burrito-filled waters of El Taconazo. It's a rite of passage at the Tribune. You're new? We think you might be a good hang? We test it by giving you The Sombrero Treatment.
Not everyone takes kindly to the initiation. Many balk at the idea of putting on enormous headgear and eating food from a bus.
Chris, pictured at right, chugged the experience like it was a Meister Brau-filled beer bong at a frat house.
From that lunch, I knew immediately that we would be friends.
Life goes on. Bob found the life raft that is Sticks of Fire. He became BobRossMovies.com doing video movie reviews - something that he did so well on Friday mornings on WFLA for so long.
But you don't replace Bob's sense of fun. It's not often you can get a guy to swing a tiki torch while wearing a gigantic hat. Or put on a goofy mullet wig.
As for Judy, she decided retirement was the best option. But she's still going at her blog. Her fans can find her there and she can continue to do the good work she's done for charities, animal shelters and needy people in the Bay area. She can write about her children and grandchildren at will.
I called to wish her well after I heard she'd been let go.
"Hello?"
"It's Shit-ass."
"Which one?"
That's vintage Judy.
David will go on doing what he does best; painting and sculpting for some of the country's biggest publications.
Chris? Well, the future is an unwritten page at the moment.
She wrote on her blog:
Maybe it's time to determine the color of my parachute or celebrate the potential of escaping cubicle life altogether.I should be happy. There really are a number of possibilities and directions I could go....
I'm trying to remain open-minded, keep communication lines open to welcome opportunities to talk about available positions, regardless of the field. You just never know which door will be the right one, so why close any of them?
As a farewell, she wrote to her friends at the News Center:
Before I arrived at the Tribune, I was just a loyal reader for many, many years - who read my Belcher column faithfully, chuckled with the Ruth observations, shouted at the letters to the editor, checked out my Ross reviews every Friday and (I have to say it, Kevin) couldn’t wait for the Bobo the Dog trivia challenges.I feel that I have been very lucky to have been given a visitor pass to the newsroom. It’s been a great learning experience, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Thanks again and take care,
Chris
The Salad Bowl wishes you well, Chris. Whomever hires you - and whomever you meet at your next stop - they'll be lucky indeed. You're a bargain as an employee and a treasure as a friend.
UPDATE: This just in; Chris has been asked to join the advertising staff at the Tribune. Her first day: Monday.
Congrats, Chris.
May 03, 2007
SPACE COWBOY, R.I.P.
There were three things I obsessed about as a young boy: Abraham Lincoln, the Kennedy assassination and space exploration.
The first one I have no clue to the origin. The second I think had something to do with my grandmother giving me Kennedy half-dollars as reward for doing this or that around her hotel or taped to the inside of a birthday card. I remember asking her one day in her hotel office as she sat behind the PBX switchboard, "Why would they shoot anyone who's on a coin?" I may have been the only 10-year-old to read the Warren Commission Report cover to cover.
The third, well, that was easy. I lived in the only state from which they shot rockets into space. You could see the contrails of rockets launching across the peninsula from where I went to high school. I read everything I could find about the Mercury 7 astronauts. I drank up vacation visits to Cape Kennedy (thereby mixing my two obsessions). During the time I was a Cub Scout leader when Salad Boy was smaller, I could barely sleep during a camp-in we got to have sleeping under a Saturn V mockup at the Kennedy Space Center. For a space nut, that was big stuff.
So it was a bit sad to watch another member of the original astronaut corps pass away this week. Wally Schirra died at age 84 early Thursday at his home in Rancho Santa Fe, Calif.
Now, I wasn't alive for the Mercury or Gemini programs. I only remember the end of the Apollo program. (I can still remember watching black-and-white transmissions from the moon in the early 1970s.) The first big space event I got into: the wasteful, expensive P.R. mission known as Apollo/Soyuz. Talk about coming late to the party. From there it was downhill to Skylab and well, you know the rest.
But I fixated on astronaut Wally Schirra. Why?
Because Wally didn't take no jive.
Case in point: After his successful Mercury flight, Schirra's second launch into space began on December 15, 1965 as command pilot aboard Gemini GT-6A. The mission was intended to perform the first rendezvous and docking between different spacecraft, a vital prerequisite for missions to the moon, but the unmanned Agena target for Gemini 6 failed to reach orbit on October 25, 1965. Gemini 6 was removed from the pad and replaced by Gemini 7, which was launched on December 4, 1965, on a planned 14-day flight. Gemini 6 was redesignated Gemini 6-A.
Eight days later, Schirra and pilot Thomas P. Stafford were in their spacecraft atop the Titan II booster when it ignited, then shut down after only two seconds. Rather than eject himself and Stafford, Schirra chose to remain in the spacecraft while technicians confirmed that the booster was not going to explode.
Wally. Had. Jumbo. Coconut. Elephantits. Balls. Of. Steel.
In 1968, Schirra was named commander of Apollo 7, a test-run for future missions that included Donn Eisele as command module pilot and Walt Cunningham the lunar module pilot (even though there was no lunar module to pilot).
Theirs was the first manned mission after the tragedy of Apollo 1, which burned up on the pad during a test in 1966, killing Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee inside the capsule.
NASA had just spent two years gutting itself to find the flaws in its tangled organization. The agency was already getting heat from two ends: from those who wanted to kill the program for safety concerns and cost overruns and from the legacy of the assassinated president who ordered them to reach the moon by 1970.
Schirra knew that another deadly mistake would likely kill the country's space program.
As Cunningham remembered:
“The first Apollo mission was originally scheduled to be flown by Gus Grissom and his crew two years earlier in the first manned spacecraft ever built by the Rockwell Corporation. At that time Wally was planning to leave the space program for a job in private industry. Only a personal appeal by his old friend and good neighbour, Gus (Grissom), convinced Wally to stay on as his back-up. While Wally never got excited about playing second fiddle to anyone, Donn and I were overjoyed just to be ON a back-up crew – any back-up crew. And we certainly never expected to actually fly the first mission.A few short months later we lost our three close friends in a spacecraft fire on the launch pad and inherited their key mission – the first giant step towards landing a man on the moon. With a new motivation and challenge in front of him, Wally committed another two years to the job.”
Another sign of his commitment to the task at hand: He also had handed in his resignation from NASA two weeks before the mission, saying he wanted to quit while he was ahead, and he wanted it to be clear that he was single-minded about the Apollo 7 mission – that he cared for nothing else. It cost him a chance to walk on the moon. Apollo 7 was an orbital flight. Wally didn't give a shit. He had a job to do.
As the story goes, Schirra took his crew, the back-up crew and all the support crew to a borrowed house in Miami as the Apollo 1 investigation was ending. To get their minds off the fatal accident they cut all communication with the outside world and conducted intense training sessions to fit their responsibilities into the upcoming schedule. He decided then that he wasn’t going to be influenced by extraneous scientific and political interests. He would not tolerate anything or anyone that would affect the safety of the mission or the crew.
Flight director Chris Kraft once described him as "raising hell, bitching and hollering about everything."
When told, for example, that there would be no coffee on the spaceship, he lost his mind.
"You’re asking a Navy guy to give up coffee," he screamed.
At one top brass conference in Houston, during the break the refreshment trolley was wheeled in without any coffee. In response to the outrage he got up and said, “Gentlemen, since you deem it inappropriate for the crew of Apollo 7 to drink coffee during the mission, I thought you might try doing without it for just one day.”
Wally made his point. He got his coffee.
So what did the hard-nosed guy, the only one at that point to have flown into space on three different vehicles, do on launch day?
He screamed "Yabba-Dabba-Doo!" as the first engines made their burn.
Schirra, at age 45, was the oldest astronaut at the time to enter space.
But in his biggest moment, at the most stressful time of his entire career, at the minute when everything about the program and American space exploration hang in the balance, Wally became a little boy again.
I dug that. A lot.
During the Apollo 7 mission, Schirra caught what was perhaps the most famous cold in NASA history. He took Actifed to relieve his symptoms upon the advice of the flight surgeon. Years later, he became a spokesman for Actifed and would appear in television commercials advertising the product. (You can see the ad below.)
But Schirra is important for another reason: He should have been the first man on the moon instead of Neil Armstrong.
What killed that plan? Probably his bitching about coffee.
In his book "Moondust" about the men who walked on the moon, author Andrew Smith writes:
And here is where Armstrong's predicament gets peculiar, because - and this is a little known fact - all the evidence is that his elevated place in history is an accident. Deke Slayton [who was in charge of the Astronaut Corps and decided who went into space and in what order] wanted the first step to be taken by one of his Mercury 7 buddies, favoring Gus Grissom. Then, after Grissom died int he Apollo 1 fire, it was Wally Schirra - but Schirra's grouchy command of Apollo 7, the nervy first manned flight after the fire, ruled him out. [Apollo 11 command module pilot] Mike Collins thought it would be Ed White, America's first spacewalker, who unfortunately perished alongside Grissom. Collins also mused: "It is interesting to note that Neil Armstrong was the last in his group to fly. Were they saving the best for last, or was his selection as the first human to walk on another planet a fluke?" The evidence suggests that it was."
It's trite to say that they don't make them like Wally Schirra anymore, but they don't. We're a nation of calculated risk now, not a nation of commitment and purpose. We're going back to the moon, supposedly, to start a base there. Schirra hated the idea. He wanted us to go to Mars from Earth. "We've already been to the moon!" he said. Schirra didn't believe in risk for risk's sake or foolhardy ventures. But he also thought that baby steps were a waste of time.
Thirty nine years ago, he strapped himself atop a 363-foot missile with almost 9 million pounds of combined thrust in its engines. He was sitting in a remodeled version of a vehicle that had caught fire before it ever left the ground and killed three of his friends. It was the largest rocket any man had ever ridden up to that point. It had 3 million parts that had never worked correctly with men inside.
And Wally didn't blink. After all, he had his coffee onboard.
Salute him and his kind now, folks. There aren't many left where he came from.
May 02, 2007
DONDE ESTA, SENOR HECTOR?
The next Spider-Man movie comes out on Friday.
Which, of course, makes me wonder...
... Whatever happened to Hector Quinones?
THE NEWEST TOY
So, I went back to Costco and returned my digital camera for, like, the elevendy millionth time. (What can I say? I wear them out.)
The new ball of yarn to play with: The Canon A710.
Its features:
* 7.1 Megapixels
* 6x optical zoom with optical Image Stabilizer
* DIGIC II, iSAPS, 9-Point AiAF, FlexiZone AF/AE
*Digital Tele-Converter and Safety Zoom
* 2.5” LCD with wide viewing angle and real-image optical viewfinder
*20 shooting modes
Why do I carry a camera?
Because you never know when you're going to capture your black Labrador retriever impersonating a weeping Russian icon:
Or when Salad Boy will lose another molar:
Or when you'll come across a fender-bender in Valrico:
Or when you'll come across a fender-bender in Valrico with an actual Fender involved:
WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?
If you're going to make airplane noises to get your kid to eat, you might as well create the illusion of actual cutlery flight.
May 01, 2007
REMEMBER KIDS: DON'T USE YOUR POCKET KNIFE TO CUT SOMETHING OFF YOUR NEW FISHING POLE WHILE YOU'RE DRIVING THROUGH CAR LINE AT YOUR KID'S SCHOOL
This photo reminds me that the Devil Rays aren't doing half bad this year.
RUMOR CONTROL UPDATE: There's absolutely no truth that this injury was incurred while trying to navigate TBO.com.
HE'S GOOD FOR YOU
Comedian Jasper Redd, from Conan O'Brian on Monday night:
"As a black person, I don't really like all of these politically correct terms they have now to describe a person's race and nationality in America. I feel they are too long. They should be short and sweet. You know, get to the point. That's why I feel every white person here should be called 'white,' and I think all people of color should be called ... 'wheat.'"I'm trying to start that movement. I like the idea of me being nutritious. That's an N-word I can live with."
MRS. DOODLE'S DOG
I never had the pleasure of meeting Nigel the terrier. I would read about him from time to time on his fantastic blog, Mr. Doodle's Dog. Along with sister Gimlet and the ubiquitous Joe the Cat, Nigel and his family seemed to be living in what could only be described as a canine fairytale. Lots of toys. Lots of treats. An abundance of love.
I do, however, have the pleasure of knowing Nigel's owner, Pat, a colleague of mine at the Tribune who does a wonderful job designing the Flavor section covers we work on. She and her husband Bill make a lovely home for their pets, which in turn reward them with love and affection. (One of the many bumper stickers on Pat's vehicle: "Dog is my co-pilot.")
Much in the way that Al has skewed my worldview to keep ever vigilant for interesting signs of bicycle life, Pat has tuned my receiver to look for the unique and fanciful in the canine realm. When I saw this display in Chicago a couple weeks ago at a gift store across the street from the Art Institute, I knew I had to pick up a little something to bring home.
My selection?
"Art Dog" by Thacher Hurd.
The storyline:
"Just as Superman and Batman lead quiet lives during the day as Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, Art Dog spends his days as Arthur Dog, a mild-mannered guard at the Dogopolis Museum of Art. But under the light of a full moon, he undergoes a transformation into a creative force to be reckoned with. Through a little creativity and an astounding nose for art he manages to sniff out and apprehend a band of thieves who have stolen the priceless Mona Woofa."
I picked it because, well, Art Dog reminded me a little of Pat; doing heroic work on the sly, making a huge difference in ways that don't call attention, saving the world one page at a time.
Pat was so touched by the gift that she sent me this photo and caption:
"Gimlet admires the cover of "Art Dog" in the Doodle Dogs main library."
I say all that to tell you that Nigel the dog has passed away. When word got to me in the newsroom yesterday, I was deeply saddened. Not because I knew Nigel, but because I know Pat and I know how much she and Bill love Nigel and how something like that can tear a hole in a family.
On behalf of the Salad Nation - and their respective pets, of course - we extend our deepest sympathies and condolences.
UPDATE: Pat has posted Nigel's obituary. Get ready to pull a couple Kleenex.
Pat sent me this note earlier today:
"Oh, I’m going to be sad for a while. It has to be that way and I know it. That’s what happens when you love someone and they leave you. It makes sense."Gimlet reacted in an extraordinary way.
"We brought Nige home from the vet’s before we took him to the funeral home (you will read more about how Nigel continued to be a groundbreaking dog) we placed him on his dog bed in the kitchen. We brought Gimlet in to see him. Understand she fought him bitterly for years for top dog status. He never relented, but she had to wear a muzzle to bed for three years or more, and they had to be separated completely over a year ago. Well, she came in and began to lick his face and ears, just as she used to do when they were buddies and would sit in the front window together, or sit at my feet in the office while we all blogged. It reminded me of a king’s passage somehow, that the new king of the pack was acknowledging the old.
"It really helped us understand how animals grieve, too, and she is running around the house sighing and moaning and isn’t quite herself."