Congratulations on owning the Internet. Seriously. Big ups to you for conquering the planet.
If I might, I'd like to bring something to your attention.
You have this nifty thing on your maps page called Street View. (I know you know about it. You guys know EVERYTHING!)
Anyway, for some reason, you found the time and money to drive by my house out in the suburbs and take a photo. (Must cost a bundle to fill up your tank these days.) Not sure why that seemed necessary - it's not like I live in a high-traffic area that the public visits a lot - but you did it anyway. So be it.
Street View seemed like a lot of fun when I could navigate the avenues of Manhattan or cruise the strip in Las Vegas with only a click of my mouse. Sure seemed like a clever idea. And it was hilarious when you'd accidentally catch a kid falling off his bike or someone in the middle of doing a little bidness. It also was a little funny when you captured my friend Jay giving people directions in front of our workplace.
Then again, those tender moments didn't include driving past my house.
But now you have. And let me say it was a thrill to realize you had done so.
Up until it wasn't.
Did you have to pick trash day, Google? Did you?
Thanks. Seriously. Your perserverence should make it easier for future home buyers to see that tasty visual morsel for themselves.
FYI: I'll be driving by your house for the next few months, hoping to catch you doing something embarassing. Should be a hoot.
All the best for your continued success,
PREVIOUS OPEN LETTERS:
Lay Off My Yaz Edition
Karma Is A Bitch Edition
Paging Mr. Freud Edition
Imitation Is Not Flattery Edition
I Ate A Baby Edition
Andy Samberg Edition
Personal Technology Edition
Crazy Nordic Singers Edition
An Inconvenient Poop Edition
As a food writer, I'm quite proud of the last frame. Not only had I succeeded in blinding my wife at a restaurant, I had made our offspring ashamed enough to cover his face as if he was in the witness protection program.
From a parental standpoint, I'd say the 13th year is off to a great start.
Happy birthday, Brian. You're the best son a dad could ever have.
As a 13-year-old, I'd go over to my friends' Phil and Steve Porvaznik's house, sit in their bedroom and listen to their George Carlin albums over and over again until we memorized even the applause levels and odd sounds of uncontrolled laughter in the audience. Yeah, we felt like outlaws reciting the Seven Dirty Words. When you're a skinny white geek in 1978, such words stand out like shiny commandments. But there was so much more that made us laugh harder and deeper.
Nobody loved words more than George Carlin. He'd use them like cat toys. He'd slash you with them like sabres. He'd roll up a loose, fragrant word and smoke it with you. Sometimes he'd grab a word by the handle and bang you in the forehead. You felt like you were in the hands of a master craftsman. You didn't know if you were sailing for silly waters or angry, but you knew it would be okay.
George Carlin introducted me to words. And then the words came and sat in my lap, whispered in my ear, played with my neck and asked to go home with me. I've been in love ever since. The words handed me off to Steve Martin and Sam Kinnison and Bill Hicks and Steven Wright and Mitch Hedberg. The words fill my wallet twice a month. I have Carlin to thank for that.
Be careful how you use them, people. George showed us that in the hands of the feeble or the misanthropic, words used incorrectly might as well be babies playing with hand grenades.
Or, you know, bloggers with too many metaphors at their disposal.
Saw this car on the ride home last night.
What does the tag say?
I hate it when I'm forced to involuntarily read.
Is that supposed to be an amalgamation of "GATOR?"
Because it could so totally be something else.
I'm imagining this conversation which never took place:
HIM: I put the new custom plates on the back of the BMW today.
HER: Great! Let's go see.
::::walking out to the four-car garage::::
HER: [frowns] Why does it say "GAY HATER?"
HIM: What? No. It's "GATOR."
HER: No, it's "GAY HATER." GY is "gay. H plus 8 plus R is "hater."
HIM: No. Read it again. See? "GAAAAAAATOR."
HER: No. "GAAAAAAAY HATER."
HIM: [groans in disgust] That explains why people have been snapping my photos at stoplights.
PREVIOUS ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
The ball cops are here. They have a warrant.
We've got wood.
Timing is everything.
Haten and hogs.
Jimi Hendrix Edition.
Sit on it and rotate.
I'm your private antenna dancer.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Welcome to Springfield.
Orange you glad you're not this guy?
Everything's better when it sits on a Ritz.
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.
Nicotine is my crash helmet.
Jazz hands moms.
Ugly lug nuts.
My honor student can kick your ass.
Horse and buddy.
The crepe myrtles are exploding in the front yard.
Lots of critters are finding safe haven among the foliage.
Like this little guy.
What little guy?
This little guy.
I really gotta get outdoors more often.
I wonder: Has he met the kung-fu panda?
Summer's back. Yay.
I'm dying to see their annual Christmas card.
I'll be the first to admit it. Sometimes I fixate and can't let go.
Invariably, I'll see something that makes me laugh...
...an item or items which, when taken out of context, ...
...can be misconstrued wildly to great comedic effect.
At least to me, anyway.
Having said all that...
The idea of SpongeBob with roid rage is pretty messed up.
In these changing times, it's comforting to know some things about our social fabric remain constant:
The family ...
...that tattoos together...
"When did the Cat in the Hat sprout pubes?"
I searched for a "Spider-Jesus is my co-pilot" license plate to no avail.
The Tampa Bay Rays are in first place. Still.
That I can write those words on June 2 makes me a little woozy.
I speak for all fans in saying that it's all very new to us. We barely know how to act.
That said, it might take us a while to get used to writing better off-the-cuff slogans for our walk-off home runs.
We're even way too nice when we call someone a loser.