SIDE SALAD - Everything crunchy is good.

HECKLE AND JECKLE

Five years ago, shortly after the Salad Clan moved to Tampa, we got season tickets to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

That year, the Bucs throttled the Green Bay Packers 21-7 at Raymond James on a Monday night after several seasons of futility against Brett Favre & Co.

Feeling full of his 7-year-old oats, Salad Boy decided to mock Packers fans as we walked down the exit ramp.

"GO BACK TO WISCONSIN, YA CHEESEHEADS!"

Where he picked up this behavior, I'll never know.

I tried to warn him against such antics, although in truth I knew he probably was insulated by his immature age against an ass-pounding by a disgruntled Packer.

Still, I was mightily amused. Privately. Silently. But very amused.

I won't say that his heckling stopped that night. There's something that having a gigantic progenitor at his side that emboldens the lad. At times, I've had to step in and modulate his vocalizations.

"Brian," I told him once, "you don't heckle the cheerleaders."

Saying all this, I can only hope that he grows up, gets a video camera and heckles someone like Stephen A. Smith, who is truly worthy of his verbal scorn:

LETTER ABOUT IRAQ

I've received lots of e-mail from folks who follow along in the Stew with news items about my buddy Drew, who's serving in Iraq.

His wife Susan tells me that Drew's in the latest edition of Soldier magazine.

The story she sent includes this photo:

To read the excerpt where Drew is quoted about operations and objectives in Hawija, click here.



PREVIOUS LETTERS FROM IRAQ:

Walking tall.

Desert sombreros.

'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.

POP GOES THE WEASEL

This is how I eat at home.

Sometimes I share too much.

CHAT WITH BRAD

In today's Tribune Flavor section, you'll find my interview with film director Brad Bird, whose animated movie "Ratatouille" comes out on Friday.

We chatted about the technical challenges that come with trying to animate food, something that everyone in the audience is judging as real or fake, all while watching a pretty absurd tale of a rat who wants to be a chef.

Here are some outtakes from that interview.

LETTER FROM ALASKA

In what could only be described as a blessing for everyone in the Last Frontier, the fishing season has begun for my Uncle Pete, (yes, the one who was in the paper posing with a potato he grew that was shaped like a moose). No man with that much energy matched with such a capacity for mischief should be deprived of his main mission in life: making fish pay with their lives for being so delicious.

I got this letter from him this morning:

FINALLY GOT TO GO HALIBUT "FISHIN.". HAD A GREAT DAY WITH FRIENDS LARRY AND DAVE. GOT OUR LIMIT. 2 EACH OR 6 FISH.

LARRY CAUGHT THE BIG 103 POUNDER. I WAS SECOND AT 59 LBS. THE OTHERS WERE WHAT WE CALL CHICKENS -- 15 TO 25 LBS.

THE WEATHER HAS BEEN BAD MOST OF MAY AND JUNE BUT TODAY WAS GREAT. SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD FOR THE NEXT 3 DAYS.

WILL GO AGAIN.

P

This e-mail was in stark contrast to the one I got only a few days earlier, when he wrote about his newest hobby: painting.

MY FIRST TWO PAINTINGS, LESSONS AT THE SENIOR CITIZENS CENTER.

JUST LOOK, DON'T PICK THEM APART, YOU CAN DO THAT AFTER I PAINT FOR A COUPLE YEARS.

THE BEAR PIX WAS TAKEN ACROSS THE COOK INLET WHILE DOUG BAIRD, MARILYN BROWN CECILE AND I WERE "FISHING WITH THE BEARS" DOUG TOOK THIS PIX, IT WAS A GRIZZLY THAT JUST CAME OUT OF THE WATER WAITING FOR ANOTHER CATCH. WATER STILL DRIPPING OF HIS CHIN AND BODY.

THE OTHER, THE KENAI RIVER ABOUT 35 MILES UP STREAM FROM SOLDOTNA. A FALL PIX AND THIS IS THE WORLD FAMOUS RIVER WHERE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS DIFFERENT SPECIES OF SALMON RETURN TO SPAWN. GREAT FISHING AND THIS IS WHERE THOUSANDS OF VISITORS COME EACH YEAR TO FULFILL THEIR SALMON FISHING DREAM----

PETE

PREVIOUS LETTERS FROM ALASKA:

Getting up close and personal with a bear.

Time to say goodbye for the winter.

Salmon in September.

Wouldn't you rather be me?

Otter confusion.

Ice, ice, baby, Part Deux.

Ice, ice, baby.

Winter's coming. Time to head south.

Space invaders.

A little snack on the porch.

The salmon don't stand a chance.

Fish tales. Big time.

The Last Fuzzy Slipper Frontier.

There's a bar in them thar country.

Flowers are a-bloomin'.

The fog rolls in.

Moose intruder.

On their way home.

Sunsets, salmon and civil ceremonies.

Volcanoes, churches and halibut.

Eagle tree, limb by limb.

A fantasy RV for The Last Frontier.

Heading north to the homestead.

Publicizing moose-shaped tubers.

STUPID COOKING TRICKS:
HOT DOG ROLLER EDITION

I've written before about the pride I feel from being in possession of a hot dog roller.

What I haven't written about is the shame I've felt of late in not using the damn thing.

Despite all the joy it creates - it is a "joy creator" in the purest Thelenian definition of the term - I've neglected to deploy it as frequently as I should. That may be because it's kept in a corner on a bookshelf at work. The professional environment of late in the newspaper industry has had all of the charm of a puckered, non-bleached anus. With people losing their jobs by the bushel, rolling some Ball Parks on the grill as friends and colleagues pack their belongings has seemed as inappropriate as a Britney Spears nipple slip. (Which reminds us of that line from "A League of Their Own": "You think there are men in this country who haven't seen your bosom?") Funny how a death spiral in your life's profession can stub out mirth like a down-to-the-filter butt of a Lucky Strike.

But, hey. Who's kidding who? There's dancing at the funerals in New Orleans, right? Might as well throat a delicious casing full of animal lips and enjoy myself.

With that sentiment in mind, I decided some catching up was in order.

First mission: Fire up some franks on that bad boy.

Check that. Not just any franks.

They had to be Super Franks.

Which, for the record, was my favorite Rick James song.

How franky were these things?

These were super franky.

Yow.

These franks you don't take home to muthah. Especially if muthah has a low tolerence for sodium.

How long were these death torpedoes?

In a manner of speaking, their feet hung off the bed.

Luckily, there was an easy fix.

Let's just call it what it was: a meat byproduct briss.

Much better.

Unfortunately, Super Franks do not come with Super Buns.

Not that it mattered much to my friend Rommie.

NEXT STUPID COOKING TRICK:
Race Divas Twinkies go for a roll.

'NUTRAGEOUS! NUTRAGEOUS!
IT'S NUT VERY GOOD'

The second Table Conversations podcast is up and whirling through :::insert fingertip airquotes::: the In-ter-net.

This time out, I chat with actor and comedian Janeane Garofalo about her role as Colette in the new Pixar movie "Ratatouille."

IT'S SIDEBURNS

The iPhone. It's everything.

Hat tip: Gorel

A SERIES OF OPEN LETTERS:
IMITATION IS NOT FLATTERY EDITION

Dear Dane Cook,

This poster for your next movie makes me want to mail Mark David Chapman an extra bullet for Christmas and point him toward your house.

All the best,

Jeff

p.s. At least John Lennon had the testicular fortitude to not wear silk undies.

LETTER FROM IRAQ

Got another e-mail over the weekend from my buddy Drew, who is lieutenant commander of the Army's 2nd Battalion, 27th infantry.

Jeff,

I think you know me pretty well in terms of personality and I have been “Living the Dream” as the Commander of not only this historic Infantry Battalion, but also my own Forward Operating Base here at FOB McHenry. Despite being the Big Man on the FOB, we had some visitors yesterday that added a whole new meaning to the term Big Man.

Meet Greg Minor, Thurl Bailey, and Shawn Bradley (From Left to Right with my little Frame in the middle). They joined up with Army MWR as Professional Basketball Players and took some time to come to Iraq to visit with Soldiers only to find themselves on my remote Forward Operating Base. I am not a small man, but I paled in comparison to these guys. Despite their stature, I am still the Big Man on My FOB!

Thurl Bailey played for NC State and was on the 1983 National Championship Team. Despite being a Die Hard Canes Fan, and you being a Die-Hard Gators Fan, I knew you would appreciate the “Money Shot” below.

What makes this story even more interesting is the fact that during their visit, there was a suicide attack on a tribal sheik meeting in one of my town. The tribal meeting was called for and conducted by the tribal leadership to unite the tribes against the terrorists that are doing nothing but harm to this country. Thanks to the heroic efforts of the Iraqi Police, The suicide bomber did nothing but kill himself and make a large mess for the janitorial staff to clean up. The two police that stopped the bomber received minor wounds and were at our Aid Station when these 3 giants went in to visit. I thought we were going to have to give them oxygen when they saw these 3 men in Army uniforms (Custom made to fit them) enter the Station. I presented both the police officers with Wolfhound Battalion coins with our guest towering over in attendance.

The professionalism and accomplishments of these brave men typically go unnoticed by our mainstream media despite their competence and desire to rid their country of these twisted terrorists. So in one day we had the opportunity to see not only stars from our own nation's eyes, but real stars from the Iraqi Security Force.

I miss you all and look forward to talking to you again soon.

NO FEAR!

Drew

DREW R. MEYEROWICH
LTC, INFANTRY
Commander, 2-27 IN "Wolfhounds"

Then today, I got a note from Drew's wife, Susan, who passed along a front-page story that ran last week in the Kansas City Star.

Here's an excerpt. It's vintage Drew:

HAWIJAH, Iraq - Amid the sandbag maze of Forward Operating Base McHenry, two occupied body bags rested beneath sacks of ice aimed at delaying the inevitable.

The bags held brothers, killed together in a gunfight against Americans.

The bags also represented the tough-minded and more flexible counterinsurgency efforts that U.S. commanders are using as the troop surge continues.

The fight had taken place on a Sunday. The next morning a muqtar, or neighborhood leader, from the village of Abassi showed up at McHenry. Could he have the bodies for a proper burial? The answer was no.

On Tuesday, the father came for his sons' bodies.

"No way in hell," said Lt. Col. Drew Meyerowich. "I wanted to find out who their buddies were, and he wasn't giving me that."

Wednesday, Meyerowich relented. But he turned the bodies over to a local sheikh of modest influence. The sheikh, in return, agreed to deliver a third brother suspected of being in the same gun battle.

Points were made.

"I increased his prestige because he was able to deliver the bodies to the family," Meyerowich said. "Now he was in debt to me."

Just more of the carrot and stick, the tools of counterinsurgency tactics Meyerowich uses in the part of Kirkuk province he oversees.

The carrots can be U.S. dollars to restore water and electricity (efforts that still prove a mighty struggle four-plus years after the war's start).

A third factor is just talking. Meyerowich talks of the importance of getting his soldiers out of their Humvees and into conversation with Iraqis. It's a tactic that increases short-term risk in a quest for a longer-term progress.

Quite often those chats are guarded affairs, where Iraqis insist they know nothing about the attacks regularly made against U.S. soldiers from their neighborhoods. Yet now and again, a tip comes up, a raid is made and the Americans feel they've inched the security needle in the right direction.

Army Gen. David Petraeus, the top U.S. commander, wrote in his Ph.D. dissertation at Princeton University that the wrong lessons had been learned by the military in Vietnam when it failed to recognize that brute strength is an awkward tool against insurgencies.

He oversaw the completion of a new counterinsurgency manual while commanding the U.S. Army Combined Arms Center in Leavenworth before taking charge in Baghdad early this year.

The new doctrine calls for American troops to act less like burly occupiers and more like partners. It makes gathering intelligence a priority over scoring casualties against an enemy. It calls for handing over ever more of the work to friendly forces in the country, because they'll be in charge eventually anyway.

Progress can be slow. Units that preceded the 2nd Battalion in the Hawijah area relied mostly on force to try to stem growing violence. Bitter feelings toward Americans became pervasive.

So Meyerowich has downed many glasses of tea with Lt. Col. Abdul Rahman, the commander of an Iraqi army battalion that shares space in McHenry with U.S. Army troops. By working with Iraqi forces, Meyerowich said intelligence has improved dramatically and civic projects have made gradual, if halting, progress.

One night this month he showed up just before midnight at Rahman's office tent to plot new operations, to talk about the bodies he had on ice, to plan an upcoming ceremony for 90-plus men graduating from police training and Iraqi soldiers receiving medals. (Two days after the ceremony the bodies of three men in police uniform were found bound, tortured and killed in Kirkuk. And west of the provincial capital an Iraqi army officer and his 2-year-old daughter were killed.)

The two officers talked about a project to build a wall around an industrial park in Hawijah. The wall construction would provide perhaps 200 jobs and make it possible to get a couple of small factories running in relative safety. But the contractor, Rahman complained, was doing nothing. Another contractor should have been hired.

Thirty-six hours later the slow-moving contractor had been summoned to the base.

"We've got to get lots of workers there, lots of men employed and get the work done," Meyerowich told the contractor. "You'll have security."

"But," responded the contractor, "I'd like to keep this project a civilian affair."

"This is not a civilian contract," Meyerowich shot back. "It's a military contract. If you can't this work done ... we'll get somebody else."

PREVIOUS LETTERS FROM IRAQ:

Desert sombreros.

'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.

ON THE AIR

Tony Fatso does a great grilling show called On The Grill on 970 WFLA-AM from 3 to 5 p.m. every Saturday.

This week, I'll be sitting in as a guest on the show.

Also scheduled to appear will be folks from Brady's Backyard BBQ, a great place I ate at on Friday. Brady's brisket sandwich was some of the best I've ever eaten. Just great, tender, flavorful meat.

In addition to making great food, Brady's offers a wine list and cigars for sale.

Like I need two more reasons to eat there.

Be sure to tune in or listen over the Web.

IF YOU CAN DREAM IT, YOU CAN BE IT

I'll admit it. Not proudly, but I'll admit it.

Will Ferrell makes me laugh from a truly stupid place in my soul.

Him singing "Dust in the Wind" during the funeral scene in "Old School"? Kills me. His wink while posing as a homeless nude model on SNL? Wipes me out. The bit as Chazz Rinehold in "Wedding Crashers" was the second best thing next to, "Perhaps play a little game called 'Just The Tip.' Just for a second, just to see how it feels."

And "Talladega Nights." C'mon. It's the most vaccuous and brilliant one-topic satire since "Stripes."

So this acceptance speech he gave at the Spike TV "Guys Choice Awards" Wednesday night fits right in with his pantheon of hilariously stupid.

(Warning: Some people easily offended by graphic language and those without without a sense of humor will not want to play this clip.)

Hat tip: Ryan

FLAME ON

"Rescue Me" starts its third season tonight. Can't wait.

Now that "The Sopranos" is over, I can cancel HBO and focus on this show.

Last year when FX released this short, I laughed so hard, milk shot out my nose - and I wasn't even drinking any!

DON'T STOP BELIEVING

So the final scene of "The Sopranos" is a food scene, a diner scene filmed at Holsten's Diner.

Makes me really glad I did a food-themed Flavor page on Wednesday:

While doing this story (a mock surveillance of Tony Soprano's food behaviors), I somewhat suspected that food would be an integral part of the ending. Every cast member I spoke with seemed to hesitate when I mentioned food as a resolution to the season.

You can read more about Holsten's here.

LET'S GO LIGHTNING

The summer storms have started. And not a moment too soon.

I just shot this from the roof of the Tribune:

For a different version, click here.

Even made the front page of TBO.com.

Then I got this shot last night during a torrential rainstorm in Valrico.

How hard did it rain?

This hard.

The plants were happy.

Salad Boy was happy.

How happy?

Happy enough to do his version of Warren Sapp's endzone bunny dance in the rain.

When you're 11, you can get away with such things.

But not everyone was so happy.

Abraham was at best apprehensive and soggy. Who knew that 100 percent humidity would cause his left eye to go lazy?

Lincoln? His body posture indicated a three-word phrase.

HEY, LOOK

It's my Technorati Profile

Like, wow. Breathtaking.

ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
SPRINGFIELD EDITION

Orange you glad you're not this guy?

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.

THIS JUST IN

Romenesko links to this story, speculating on whether Tony Soprano will live or die during the series finale on Sunday:

Way to go out on a limb there, Al.

You just predicted the lives of all my Italian relatives. Big whoop.

A NEW SOMBRERO IN THE FAMILY

Courtesy of my friend Cessna, I am now in possession of a Tampa Bay Devil Rays sombrero. The team gave them out as a promotion for Cinco de Mayo and they went like sombrero-shaped hotcakes. Knowing my fondness for large headgear, Cessna e-mailed that she had one available for the nominal fee of a visit to the Trop.

That's a real friend, not just a MySpace friend.

Feeling duly blessed by this good fortune, we put it to good use on Saturday when the Salad Clan took in a game against the Royals at the Trop with our neighbors Patrick, Autumn and their kids P.J., Nick and Charlie:

Salad Boy

Charlie

Nick Nick

P.J.

I call this photo "I Wish I Was An Only Child."

El Grupo. Clearly one family got there early enough for free D-Ray bandanas. (Sorry for the spots on the camera lens.)

What about the game, you ask? Well, that scoreboard over Patrick's shoulder should explain it.

It was only the second inning. Enough said.

Thanks to Cessie and the sombrero, the evening was a glorious success.

But lest you think I was the only trendsetter...

...others shared my head adornment as well.

THERE'S A FINE LINE BETWEEN RECKLESSNESS AND COURAGE

I traipsed into Starbucks today to see if customers were clamoring for the new Paul McCartney album, "Memory Almost Full," the first on Starbucks’ new record label, Hear Music.

'Bucks started playing the album nonstop at its 10,000 worldwide shops. It's unclear what reaction I expected. You never know how the heavily caffeinated will respond to crass marketing ploys getting between them and their $4 hot beverages.

Turns out, they were pretty mellow about it at the shot I stopped at in Brandon on Causeway Boulevard.

Not that there wasn't plenty of signage to spur sales. I counted at least seven in-store visual reminders including:

... this rotating kiosk ...

... next to each register ... (Yes, that's about the millionth Police greatest hits collection)

... and another near the counter.

Your eyes do not deceive you. You can, in fact, get your own Starbucks gift card with Paul's cute-but-elderly-and-newly-divorced visage on it. It smells like marijuana.

Just kidding. That was a little joke at the expense of Paul's Japanese drug record.

How are customers reacting?

None bothered to touch the disc during the 20 minutes I was there. I asked a clerk if he had any McCartney customers today.

"No, but I just got back from vacation."

Huh? Nevermind.

New York magazine covered the "Starbucks invasion" today and talked with customers. It's food journalism at its finest.

My favorite response:

RICKI WASSERMAN, 57, Long Beach, executive recruiter How long have you been here? Just a few minutes. What do you think of the album? I’m not really paying attention. I’m here to get a coffee and go. Do you wish you could sit here and listen to it for an hour? I wish I could sit and listen to anything for an hour right now. If Paul were a Starbucks beverage, what would he be? Is this a real New York Magazine question? He’d probably take some kind of a tea thing. He’s British. No, what beverage would he be? Oh, for God’s sake. A chai tea. A little spicy, a little traditional.

Yes, I bought a cup of Joe. My usual: Venti Mocha.

Not sure what Sir Paul would have thought of the "Way I See It" message on the side:

Then I noticed this at the bottom:

That's putting it mildly.

I would have much rather preferred this one:

Then again, combining Opus the penguin with The Police CD on the counter might have pushed things too far toward Nostalgiaville.

Another '80s reference and the kids from "Fame" may have burst into an impromptu dance recital from behind the muffin and scone display case.

FIGHT THE POWER

"Hey, Sal, how come they ain't no brothas on the wall?"

NO LOVE FOR THE BUGS

Jim over at Parkway Rest Stop just got back from Florida.

Unsurprisingly, he is less than enamored with our lovebugs.

VINYL FEVER

So a month or so ago I fell into this Flickr group of people who share the covers of their album covers. Some are more of a memory trigger than anything ironic. Some are downright hilarious.

I uploaded shots of several that I found - I swear this is true - during one lunch hour a couple years back when I stopped in a thrift store off Busch Boulevard.

Who knew that a lunch hour could be that productive?

SMOKER'S DIARY, CHAPTER FOUR:
MESQUITE-FLAVORED MULTITASKING

As I explained before, I have a sickness. So while I was working at home on Wednesday writing some stories and doing interviews, I decided to multitask.

I mean, c'mon. How is a guy supposed to resist this kind of fun?

This pork roast was so tender, the meat felt velvety on the tongue.

Hello, you big, plump, beautiful bird, you.

Understand now that I'm not alone in my obsession.

And, you know, if this letter is any indication, I may have a career change ahead of me if I get too carried away with it all.

IT'S HARD DAMN WORK MAKIN' THIS LOOK SO PRETTAY

The New York Times has some breaking street-cred news to squeeze in amid its international headlines:

Subtle message here: He can't get a timetable amendment through the senate for a pullout from Iraq, but he absolutely knows how to dish the rock.

PRESS RELEASES FROM HELL, VOL. 35

I don't ask much from P.R. agencies.

I do ask, however, that they get somewhere close to this hemisphere when it comes to the spelling of my name.

PREVIOUS PRESS RELEASES FROM HELL:

David Beckham, Tara Reid and Smuckers.

Hello, kitty.

Michael Flatley in our midst.

The Martha Stewart of karate.

Nice Judds.

Putting the P in P.R.

Potty training month.

Huckleberry Fink.

Mama, we're all crazee now.

That not-so-fresh feeling.

"It's not a 'Karaoke Kevin' album.''