Strippers and puppets? That's just how we roll.
Need a preview of what's to come? I give you Diana, Queen of Nebraska Avenue.
They've gotta lay off the Sting and Lambrusco. It's like a reptilian Plato's Retreat out there.
Then again, Wednesdays are Business Time.
My buddy Al drops a little love on me in a new story he wrote for his cycling column that runs in the Examiner in Washington D.C.
Glad I could help, man. I'm a uniter.
I'm guessing this guy is related to the kite surfing guy in Fort Lauderdale:
When people don't ask me if MySpace of Facebook has any value, I don't tell them that it has very little value beyond helping you reconnect with co-workers that you see every day or high school friends you thought you'd shaken decades ago. Which perfectly explains why I have profiles on both.
I'm having to re-evaluate that crack bit of analysis now that I've reconnected with a friend I'd lost touch more than a decade ago, standup comic Michael Panzeca. (His signature bit was his opening line: "So, I'm stabbin' this guy...") As good a standup as he is, he's an even better person.
I met Mike while working on a story for the Palm Beach Post about the comedy traffic school he worked for. He'd go on to start his own chain of schools. But in the moving around process, we'd lost touch.
Last night, I got a friend request from him on MySpace. It was great to hear from him again. Thank you, MySpace.
Anyway, Mike had this video on his MySpace page. Apparently his brother, John, was at a Cincinnati Reds game and decided to get in a little face time on the baseball broadcast. The anchors decided to get their revenge:
When navigating traffic, it's important to be visible to other motorists so as to avoid collision.
It's also important to retain one's dignity.
Looks like someone drove through the car wash and took a souvenir home with him from the scrubbing cycle.
Something about this guy's melon adornment looks familiar...
Oh, wait. Now I've got it.
That's about right.
PREVIOUS ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
Get me a truck and make it snappy.
Color me bemused.
Costom mods are cool.
It's great to be a Florida Gator. We think.
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.
Readers of the Tampa Tribune were graced with the hyper-reactive emotive skills of male model Salad Boy today:
Salad Boy has had second thoughts since doing the photo shoot. This morning he told me it was "an insult to my nature."
This is just another in his ever-expanding modeling portfolio.
First, there was his hurricane Halloween costumes pictorial:
Then there was his front-page work last year for the start of school:
And the beach travel shoot he did a few years back:
Could a career in male modeling be ahead?
My friend Al and I used to prank newspapers by sending them ludicrous letters to see what they would run without checking. We were alarmingly successful.
One time, we wrote a senior citizen advice columnist in West Palm Beach, posing as a lonely older woman who was alarmed by the arousal she felt for a younger man who saved her from a foul ball at a minor-league baseball game.
It wasn't a total work of fiction; the young man in question was our friend Marc and the foul ball scenerio actually happened. The woman Marc saved from the baseball was extremely appreciative.
After receiving the bogus letter, the columnist politely, and correctly, explained in her next column that age did not diminish such physical reactions and that the writer should not feel ashamed for having felt those sensations. She then confessed to having experienced the same type of feelings. Ew. Al and I still laugh hysterically about it to this day.
I mention this anecdote so that I can happily report that, although I had nothing to do with it, the tradition apparently continues.
A newspaper in an adjacent county recently held a comics page poll to see which ones readers liked best. By the looks of things, they got lots of responses. Comics polls always do.
Hey, I know that name!
Funny. I always pegged Nigel as more of a Doonesbury dog.
When I was 10, my grandmother Josephine decided to take me on a summer vacation. She was going to pack me in her Buick Skylark so we could spend a week visiting Disney World, Cape Kennedy and Six Gun Territory in Ocala. I brought my Polaroid camera and stocked up on self-developing film.
We got in the car in St. Pete with her friend, John Harris, and drove to Merritt Island on Florida's east coast. We got within sight of NASA's gigantic Vehicle Assembly Building - the one where they put the rockets on the launch vehicle - before she decided she was too tired to go. We went to the hotel in Cocoa Beach and I swam in the pool instead.
Next day, we drove west toward Orlando to go to Disney World. We get to the Magic Kingdom and she takes a seat in front of Cinderella's Castle. "Meet me back here in an hour," she says and hands me a book of E tickets. I ran off to Tomorrowland and rode a couple rides. I met her back at the castle in exactly one hour. She told me she was tired and that we were going back to the hotel. I spent the rest of the day swimming in the pool.
Third day, we got up and drove to Ocala and Six Gun Territory. We spent the day in the wild west-themed cowboy attraction - a remnant of the time when every show on TV was either "Gunsmoke," "Big Valley," or "The Rifleman." The big attraction was the regularly scheduled gunfight in the middle of the fake western town, during which guys in cowboy gear pretended to fall off roofs after getting shot. Guys also pretended to fall off horseback. For variety, guys fell in horse troughs full of water. We spent the whole day there. Saw that show three times. Same guys died three times. Next day we went home after I swam in the hotel pool.
My point here is that Tropical Storm Fay is essentially executing the meteorological version of my summer vacation. Lots of drive-by action of quasi-famous Florida towns with very little in the way of real drama. The only thing she and I differ on is that she isn't swimming in the hotel pools.
This radar inidcates she's currently taking a gander at the Kennedy Space Center after spending the day traveling from Tampa to the east coast.
How much of Fay did we get yesterday?
This much. Which, you know, was fine, but we were expecting more.
Not that the old girl didn't look impressive, but we've seen clouds before.
Has there ever been a dumber activity than kite surfing?
You got me all revved up last weekend thinking that you were going to be all hot to trot. Now you're just taking your sweet-ass time waltzing across Florida. Now you're sidestepping me for Orlando. And you're not even a hurricane. What gives? You make me wait this long, and for what? Some rain?
Fay. You disappoint me, Fay.
I put the trash outside last night, Fay, thinking that even if they cancel the collection trucks today, at least you'd blow everything all over the neighborhood and get rid of it for me. Now I can't even rely on that kind of amusement.
You got guys making up religious signs, Fay, like you're some sort of freaking metaphor.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Into each life a little rain. Whatever.
You're making me wait, Fay. I don't like to wait, Fay.
We had big plans, you and me. We were gonna do things. Go places. Have fun. Now I know how my father felt when he would start the car in the driveway to force my mother to finish her makeup and come out of the house so we could go to dinner.
I don't like sitting in the driveway, Fay.
You want to know how bad things are, Fay? You're a tick's ear hair away from being an Ernesto. That's right. I said it. Ernesto. He was gonna be something, Fay. He and I had plans. And what did he become? A rain event. You weren't even good enough to give a guy a bump on the noggin.
You know what you are, Fay? You're not an Ivan. You're not a Charley. You're not even a Jeanne. You're an Ernesto. And a poor copy of one at that. Butterflies fart harder than the wind you're producing.
You know what else you are? This, Fay:
You coulda been a Frances, Fay. You and me, we coulda relaunched the Vipir 9000 News Kite. We coulda had a ball. Coulda.
I hope you can live with yourself, what with all the pain and nerves you caused. I can barely look at you now.
I'll be in the car.
Good News: Hurricane forecasters said Sunday night that Tropical Storm Fay was headed in a more westerly direction out over the Gulf of Mexico.
Bad News: Those same hurricane forecasters on Monday morning said, "Uh, oops, my bad." It's headed back toward Tampa.
Good News: I just bought a new gas grill on sale for use in emergency cooking situations.
Bad News: It won't work if there's no electricity.
Good News: It would appear that we live outside the designated flood zone.
Bad News: I may need to ride on the back of Michael Phelps to get to work on Wednesday.
So. Fay. Taking aim.
Sent: Saturday, August 16, 2008 4:34 PM
Yikes. But looks like just a 1 and maybe poor Punta Gorda will get it again before you do.
I hope not. I hope Fay gets indecisive, cops a squat in the middle of the Gulf and peters out after providing surfers from Corpus Christie to Cape Coral with some tasty waves.
Not gonna happen, but it would be nice.
Can't wait until the wind and rain starts to hit and Lincoln starts to lose his mind. We're gonna need the jaws of life to pry his nervous ass from under the bed. Little wuss.
Stay tuned for more catastrawhoriffic coverage here in the Salad. We're headed to the pool while there's still some direct sunlight.
How excited are people in Tampa Bay about the Rays' success?
Enough to rap about it and grab their package in a video, unfortunately.
It's almost as bad as this Tampa Bay Buccaneers rap.
Someday, maybe someday soon, this cap with a bottle opener in the bill is going to look great in a DUI photo.