There went the neighborhood

Well, we've finally had it. We're giving up and moving out. We just can't take it anymore. It's such a shame because this used to be such a nice place. Until the volcanoes moved in.

We tried. Honestly, we did. We're open-minded people and pride ourselves on accepting others different from us. So when the first one moved in, we grinned and beared it and thought we could make a go of it. Even though there were signs that there would be trouble ahead right from the start. You know, the noise at all hours, the themal updrafts, the expulsion of steam and magmatic gases and the lava. Mostly the lava. It sounds like a stereotype but honestly, we almost never had lava problems before. Still, we turned the other cheek and went about our business. I mean if someone is not directly bothering us, there's no reason we can't all get along. Live-and-let-live, right? But then more of them showed up. And before you know it, it was non-stop chaos and destruction. Property values were dropping out of sight. I'm sorry but nobody who in their right mind is not going to be bothered by a neighborhood covered in volcanic ash? As it turns out, more volcanoes, that's who. I guess we should have seen that coming.

Still, we smiled and went about our business and tried to make the best of it. What finally tore it for us is when we found out that our youngest, Doug, was secretly dating one of them. Again, we're open minded people. In college, I even had volcano friends. But my folks, Doug's grandparents, just wouldn't understand. Trust me. So we put the old homestead up for sale (sold it for a fraction of what we should have gotten for it) and are moving out. Not so much because of how it affects me but because if my folks found out that Doug had a volcano girlfriend, it would just kill them. So this is really for the best.

Anyway, we have high hopes for the future and we're all excited about this opportunity for a new beginning. I'll write again once we get settled in at our new home in Earthquake Heights.

A short conversation about modesty

"Look at this! The bagger didn't put the toilet paper in a bag. Now everybody in the parking lot is going to see me lugging a 12 pack of Charmin to the car. How embarrassing."

"What's the big deal? You don't think everybody uses toilet paper?"

"I happen to know for a first-hand fact that not everybody uses toilet paper."

"That's the most disgusting thing I have ever heard."

"Let's just say there are a lot of people's bathtubs you would not want to eat a meal out of."

"Yet again, I stand corrected."

This weekend in crazy crime

Because you know you love this stuff...

Why Don't We Do It In The Road?

Well, because we'd probably get arrested, dumbass. Like these two world champions:

'One couple's passionate interlude came to an end, quite literally, at the hands of the Hillsborough Sheriff's Office. Deputies arrested Richard J. Augat, 26, and Denise J. Mignone, 44, early Friday on charges of disorderly intoxication and lewd and lascivious behavior. Someone spotted the couple having sex in the parking lot outside the LA Hangout at 16411 N Florida Avenue in Tampa. The couple didn't stop, even when deputies arrived. Two deputies had to pull them apart, said sheriff's spokeswoman Debbie Carter.' --St. Petersburg Times

For those of you who've never been to Lutz (pronounced "Loooots"), it's difficult to explain how being there might cause a couple of people in love to be utterly overwhelmed with passion to the point where they completely lose all their inhibitions. It's, uh, a lot like Paris. Yeah.

Brick (dah-da-dah dah) House

'Chango Peeler, 26, of Largo stopped breathing and died in police custody about 9:15 a.m. Friday after several baffling minutes during which he crashed through two glass windows, ran around in his underwear and struggled with a Tampa police officer.

Friday's chain of events began about 9 a.m. after Jim Crank, a member of Zion Lutheran Church, returned home from watering plants on parishioners' graves at Woodlawn Cemetery.
Confronted by a man, Peeler, screaming "Help me! They're gonna kill me!", Crank offered to call police, but Peeler was unmoved. "He was wild. Lord have mercy," Crank said. "His eyes popped out of his head."
Peeler ran toward Crank's porch, and Crank tried to grab him. A man across the street yelled for Crank to leave him alone for his own safety and called police.
To Crank's astonishment, Peeler dove head-first through a window into the living room. He smashed several angel figurines atop the television as he landed and left his shorts at the windowsill, Crank said. As police called to Peeler, he crashed through a rear bedroom window and ran from Crank's house through an alley, police said.'
A man working in the neighborhood waved a brick at Peeler in an attempt to detain him, McElroy said. In the commotion, the brick-wielding man disappeared, McElroy said. --Tampa Tribune

Ok, so we may have lost a nutjob but gained a (albeit, ineffectual) superhero in the process. Metropolis has Superman, Gotham City has Batman and now Tampa has...The Brick Wielder. "Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly and lazy lot so my disguise must be able to strike terror into their hearts. I must be a creature of the construction industry, hard, heavy, often reddish in color but not necessarily so...I know! I shall become a brick! Or at least carry one around with me to wave in a menacing fashion."

Back to the flea market

I made a return visit to the good ol' Oldsmar Flea Market this weekend. This time as a buyer, not as a seller (as I've written about before here, here and here). I went to peruse the gamut of goods and services available to the consumer. Because seriously, if you ever need to pick up a couple of pounds of shrimp, a copy of the June 1984 Penthouse, some sunglasses, lingerie, baby food, empty aftershave decanters, a complete set of The Thorn Birds on VHS, some tube socks, golf clubs and a child's bicycle, there are precious few one-stop-shopping options available to you. Plus, where else are you going to see a one-armed mannequin in a camouflage bikini holding a toy M-16? Come to think of it, that may not have been a mannequin.
Anyway, if you go, prepare to be hot. Very hot. There are fans and some of the older, established booths have air conditioners but for the most part, the place is hotter than Satan's scrotum. The heat is so oppressive that I saw one woman at a booth labeled "Nut'n but fun" who looked like she was praying for nut'n but a quick death.
Sure, the people watching is unparalleled at the flea market, but what's the most fun is looking at all the merchandise. You can't say it's all junk because it's valuable to somebody (personally, I'm guilty of intentionally and without duress spending hard-earned, American money on baseball cards of Rob Sperring, Steve Dillard and Mike Lum). But you have to wonder where they got some of this stuff and who they think is going to buy it. For instance, one of many vendors that sells weapons advertised "Authentic Ninja Throwing Stars". Now how on earth did a flea market vendor in Oldsmar, Florida get their hands on something like that?
Setsuko Futaba: I find myself low on funds this month. Have you any suggestions as to how I can generate some cash quickly?
Shichiroji Ogata: Well, under other circumstances I would suggest going to the hospital and selling some blood. However, we are ninjas, and thus, do not bleed.
Setsuko Futaba: I was thinking of going to the Oldsmar Flea Market and selling some weaponry, perhaps these throwing stars.
Shichiroji Ogata: Excellent idea. Pick up some tube socks for me while you are there please.

A short conversation about personal philosophies

"One thing you should know about me is I go for it all the time. The credo I live by is caveat emptor, which is Latin for seize the day."

"Really? I'm not sure that's what that means..."

"Of course it is. It's basic Latin. 'Caveat' means 'at the cave' which is, unfortunately, where most cavemen would be seized by dinosaurs and 'emptor' means 'emperor' who decreed that there should be seven days in a week."

"Well, I don't think that cavemen invented Latin, or that there was such a thing as emperor of the cavemen. I'm pretty sure that caveat emptor means buyer beware. Carpe diem means seize the day."

"No, carpe diem is the money they give you when you travel out of town for work. But buyer beware is a pretty good credo to live by too."

Tamsterdampa

Today, I was thrilled to begin day one of a four-day weekend with a seven-hour visit to my mechanic over in Drew Park to have my car's brakes replaced (and if you know how rare it is for me to get a two-day weekend, you can imagine just how thrilled I was). Normally, brake jobs only take about a quarter of that time (not to mention a quarter of the price) but Jeeves is an extremely rare and unique model of car, commonly referred to as a "shitbox", so special care and handling like this from time to time is to be expected.
Now there is only so much Tetris a person can play on their cell phone (and I play it like it's 1986 and it just came out) so out of sheer boredom I took a nice long walk and explored the neighborhood. I can tell you that I don't know much about Drew but I sure didn't see a park. Unless by "park" you mean "lingerie modeling studio". And by "lingerie modeling studio" I mean "seedy whorehouse". I saw a whole bunch of those. I also saw low-income apartments and some houses but I was struck by how there sure are an awful lot of adult entertainment establishments in a residential area. The marketing slogan for the Drew Park Convention & Visitors Bureau must be "Come for the whores, stay for the houses". Drew Park might be the oddest neighborhood I've ever seen, as it seems to be comprised of equal parts adult entertainment, auto repair shops/small, non-descript manufacturing plants and people's homes, all scattered among each other, with several of each on every street just randomly strewn about with no apparent thought given to placement. This must be the land that zoning laws forgot.
I find it interesting because as long as I've lived here, there has been almost constant hand wringing over the rampant prostitution problems on Nebraska and east Hillsborough avenues. Yet, there's a thriving red light district within walking distance of Raymond James Stadium, Legends Field and Hillsborough Community College that nobody seems to know (or is it care?) about. Maybe it's because these are all professional, licensed businesses where nothing untoward happens (I know ; ) ; ) are the emoticons for wink, wink but what do you use for nudge, nudge?). Or maybe since both the Tampa Police Department and Florida State Highway Patrol have substantial bases right in the heart of the neighborhood, we all rest assured knowing that no illegal activity of any kind takes place there. Or maybe we just kind of like having it tucked away there; you know, close to the airport, hotels and the, um, show bars that cater to (and collect sales tax from) a certain segment of tourists but not on the main drag where the nice people who live here would have to worry about it. But ladies, if you come across hubby's credit card bill and you see charges from a business located on Lois, Alva, Osborne, Hubert or Cayuga, you might want to know the going rate for a brake job before you ask him about it. I'm just sayin'.

Oh my god, I killed my kitchen!

A while back, I recounted how I destroyed my oven. Well, after a prolonged period of anguished contemplation over how I should proceed, that dilemma has passed (I cleaned it). However, a bigger, more serious crisis has risen: my entire kitchen is out of commission. The picture featured here is not actually my kitchen (proof: I don't currently own any Pepsi or watermelons); but it's how my kitchen feels to me right now. Here's what happened...

Last week, I made some spaghetti. Spaghetti is a frequent favorite meal of mine because it can be done in the crock pot and it results in mass quantities of leftovers which, if managed properly, can be a huge asset to a single person. In this particular case, I'd made more spaghetti noodles than I had sauce. No worries, I figured, I'll just dump the excess down the trusty ol' garbage disposal. Previously I have fed carrots, celery and potatoes into my disposal, all without incident of any kind. Now, keep in mind I'm talking about spaghetti noodles only in this case. No sauce, no meat, no stray vegetables, nothing but noodles. What, I ask you, is softer, more malleable than cooked spaghetti noodles? Jello or some pudding-esque dessert substance? Ok. But what else? Nothing that can be scientifically labeled a solid, that's what! So the disposal starts out all right, it's making it's regular grinding noise. Suddenly the noise changed pitch and the sink started backing up with disgusting grayish-yellow water. I shut the disposal off and thought "that's odd". What I said was either "shit!" or "damn it!" but really, I was thinking it was odd. I stuck my hand down the slowly emptying drain to see what possible obstruction could be there but found nothing but thick, soggy, mechanically masticated spaghetti pulp. It was like reaching into the mouth of an old man with dentures eating macaroni and cheese. Presuming everything was fine, I turned the disposal on again. This time, the disposal shuddered heavily, shaking the entire kitchen counter. And it made a much deeper grinding noise. Plus, a sickly grayish-yellow waterspout started forming in the sink, which was no longer draining at all, and was in fact, filling rapidly. I turned it off again, quickly, and went and sat down, figuring I'd look at it later because often if you ignore a problem, it actually will go away and solve itself. When I went back, I saw that the water had not receded at all and it was now obvious that the disposal was on the fritz (yes, I tried hitting the reset button...nothing.) and the drain was clogged (yes, I tried plunging it...nothing.). Now, what I didn't mention earlier was that prior to disposing of the excess spaghetti, I had loaded and started the dishwasher. So while I was in the kitchen anyway, I figured I'd unload it. I opened the door and the trapped steam hit my face like it always does when I empty the dishwasher...except it smelled like dishwater. I looked at my dishes and they were just as dirty as when I had put them in. In fact, upon closer inspection they were actually worse. Because now they were all spackled inside and out with tiny particles of shredded spaghetti. "My god", I thought, "my entire apartment's digestive system has the flu!". Well, actually it's just the upper digestive system. Thankfully, the lower digestive system (if you know what I mean) is still in working order. Otherwise, I'd be in a hotel right now.

As it is right now, 75% of my dishes are filthy and I can't use the other 25% because, unless I get really creative with the bathtub, I don't have anywhere to wash them after I use them. I really hope the trusty Cooper's Pond maintenance staff can get this repaired tomorrow. I really don't need another excuse to eat takeout food.

Minor Weekend

I absolutely love minor league baseball. I have felt as long as I have lived here that the abundance of minor league baseball in the area is the single least appreciated resource the Tampa Bay area has. One of my first memories of moving here way back in 1986 was finding a huge stack of coupons for free tickets to a Tampa Tarpons game at the cash register of the Wags restaurant (now a Denny's) by the stadium. I was sure there had to be a mistake. Surely someone wouldn't leave so many valuable (FREE!!) coupons in one place. I grabbed two of them and was blown away when I got to Al Lopez Field that night and found less than 1,000 people there. Anyway, going to the Tarpons games became my thing to do. And while the Tarpons and Al Lopez Field are both loooooong gone, I still go to minor league games every chance I get...which isn't very often, unfortunately. But I found myself with a very rare full weekend off so I went over to Clearwater to see the Threshers take on the Sarasota Reds Saturday night.
You hear a lot of people compare the cities of Tampa and St. Petersburg to sisters bickering over who's prettiest. I've always thought of Clearwater as the third sister who, while not as traditionally gorgeous as the other two, is certainly cute in her own right with a great personality, making her actually the most attractive of the three. Although, she's currently pretty heavily involved with a sketchy religion which admittedly takes off a little of the luster, but I still enjoy going to Clearwater. Heck, I liked going there to watch baseball at old Jack Russell Stadium (almost a carbon copy of Al Lopez), but Brighthouse Network Field is simply amazing. For starters, it features an open concourse, meaning you can get up from your seat and go get food or whatever and still see the game. I don't know why every new ballpark doesn't have this feature but they should. Seems like a no-brainer. Secondly, unlike just about every other spring training/Florida State League park, it's open all the way around. If you want to sit in the outfield (on a grass berm) you can. Third, and this is big, Frenchy's operates a full service tiki bar (margaritas!) out in left field. On top of all this, there was going to be free postgame fireworks. So I was all set for a great Saturday evening of minor league baseball in one of my favorite places.
Top of the second inning, I went to get food. Because the Threshers are an affiliate of the Philadelphia Phillies and the Phillies train there during the spring, they serve Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwiches there. I had one and I guess it was ok but I think cheeesteaks are overrated. I don't know why Philadelphians are so fond of greasy, cheese-soaked meat on a roll that they made it the signature food item of Philadelphia, but then I consider myself a Chicago guy and I hate doughy "Chicago style" pizza and the idea of hot dogs with pickles and tomatoes on them makes me gag. So what do I know?
In the 3rd inning, I took the long way around to Frenchy's for a margarita and passed the bullpens in left field below the concourse. Both teams share the same space with a waist-high chain link fence separating them. But the Threshers pitchers, displaying an entrepreneurial spirit, had set up their own unofficial, unauthorized in-game promotion. Someone had placed cups of water and written in the dirt "MAKE QUARTER, WIN A PRIZE". The idea being that fans standing on the concourse could throw quarters at the cups and if they made it, they'd win. The more difficult the shot, the bigger the prize. Putting a quarter in the closest cups, pretty much a straight drop over the rail, would win you a baseball. The intermediate cups would get you a Threshers cap. And nailing the far away cups would score you a bat. I asked the bartender at Frenchy's if they did that every game and he said "Usually, but they got shut down the other night. Something about taxes." There had to be at least $30 on the ground while I was there so I could see the money adding up. That's another beautiful thing about the minors though: the players will actually take time to pick up quarters. The bartender actually won the bat (one toss...I'm guessing he practices a lot) while I was standing there and promptly gave it to a nearby kid, which was nice.
From there, I went to the seats along the 3rd base line to watch the rest of the game. Now, I have been to, let's see if my math is right here...about 2 million baseball games in my lifetime and I have never, ever caught a ball. I've never even come all that close. Once, when I was kid, a Cecil Cooper home run into the right field upper deck at old Comiskey Park landed about three rows right in front of me, but that's as close as I've ever come. Until Saturday, that is. 8th inning and Reds catcher Chris Kroski blistered a screaming foul right at me. I stuck my left (glove) hand out and plucked it cleanly right out of the air. Ok, it probably wasn't hit that hard and I juggled it...slightly...but still. My first ball! I got a nice hand from the fans, bowed appreciatively and immediately looked for a nearby kid to magnanimously give it to. Because the thrill is in making the catch and there's nothing more pathetic and ridiculous than an adult catching and keeping a ball. Besides, you get an extra ovation when you give it to the kid. So I graciously offer it to the first tyke I see, and he shakes his head no. What? He's...he's shaking me off? "Here sport. You can have it." "That's ok", he says. "You caught it, you keep it. Good job." What the..? This is my big moment and some brat in a Countryside Dodgers shirt is showing me up! I've waited my whole life to catch a ball and then make the grand gesture of giving it away and this ankle-biting crumb snatcher won't take it! So I actually had to hunt down a small child to take it, by which time the moment had passed and my secondary ovation was lukewarm at best. But the game was good (Reds over Threshers in 10 after the Threshers rallied in the 9th to tie) and the fireworks were great. Maybe not Epcot great but definitely on par with any minor league baseball fireworks I've ever seen. Plus, they didn't play Lee Greenwood or any other tired fireworks standards.

The Last American Bad Ass

I happened to hear the song "American Bad Ass" by Kid Rock earlier today and I started thinking, who right now is actually an American Bad Ass? I knew right away it was definitely not Kid Rock. Sorry, but some skinny dude in a wifebeater who looks like he should have a sign on his back that says 'Follow me to the methadone clinic' is no Bad Ass, American or otherwise. I thought about it for a while and I don't believe there is one right now. Don't get me wrong, there are lots of people doing some seriously bad ass things on a fairly regular basis, but that's not enough to qualify for the title of American Bad Ass, which to me, is sort of a czar of Bad Assedness, someone that everyone can turn to when something Bad Ass needs to be done. In order to qualify, you should be able to accomplish amazing things in a difficult and demanding job and have done so over a prolonged period of time. Note: I said job, as in something you're paid to do. I don't care how many times you've crashed your mountain bike while doing something 'xtreme', no stupid weekend adrenaline junkie weekend hobbyists need apply. You should have also achieved some level of notoriety because of your exploits and you should also do your own stunts. There are currently no actors who meet this criteria. You should also have done at least one socially meaningful thing. This means no current athletes are eligible. Last but not least, an American Bad Ass should sincerely not give one red rat's ass what anybody else thinks about them. Sadly, this eliminates all politicians, writers and musicians.

No, I'm afraid our last American Bad Ass was Ted Williams and he died in 2002. Actually, now that I think about it, Muhammad Ali more than qualifies under the criteria cited above and he's still alive. But I already looked up Ted Williams' accomplishments so here's some of those:

• Was named after Teddy Roosevelt, himself a legitimate American Bad Ass in his own time.


• He was the last man to hit .400. In 1941 with an average of .39955 on the last day of the season, his manager gave Williams the choice of sitting out the season-ending doubleheader which would have locked him in at a rounded up .400. Williams opted to play both games and went 6 for 8, giving him an average of .406.


• Interrupted his baseball career twice for military service during times of war (World War II and the Korean War). Did he spend his stints posing for publicity photos to induce the public to buy war bonds? No, he flew fighter planes, including 38 combat missions.


• Hit a home run in his final at bat in 1960.


• Was a world class fisherman and was inducted into the International Game Fish Association Hall of Fame in 2000.


• Chuck Norris was granted a brief audience with Williams in 1998 and curtsied daintily in deference when they were introduced.

The last one (probably) isn't true. But it could be.

Naughty S words!

An article with the following headline from the St. Pete Times came to my attention earlier today (thanks, Denise):

Clash ends in stabbing by sword

As if my interest wasn’t piqued sufficiently, this was the sub headline:
A man confronts his wife and her new lover - sex offenders all - and it quickly turns deadly.

Helloooo nurse!
It looks like what happened was Mr. Willie Tarpley, a one-legged, black belt martial arts expert (I know, yet another story about a one-legged, black belt martial arts expert, but bear with me) found out his estranged wife Jacqueline had begun dating Lee Alexander, a convicted sex offender who was convicted in 2000 of a lewd and lascivious act on a person under 16. Apparently Willie, a convicted sex offender himself, either unable to appreciate irony or simply a hypocrite, took umbrage and went to the home in Brandon he had formerly shared with Jacqueline (also a convicted sex offender), and got one (as in “of many”) of the swords he kept in the garage to confront Lee. Now normally I’d say that three convicted sex offenders going at each other with swords is an idea with no discernible downside, aside from there being no actual guarantee that there would be no survivors and post-event cleanup. Except in this case small children are involved.
Willie went inside, picked up his 14-month-old daughter and menaced Jacqueline with his 42-inch katana, a Japanese samurai sword. Still holding the child, he held the blade to Lee’s neck and threatened to cut off his head if he didn’t leave. He did, but in his understandable hurry to do so, backed his car into Willie’s Corvette in the driveway. That’s when Willie came out and stabbed Lee through the open window of the car. There’s some values for you: Pose a threat to the family and get your life threatened but ding the ‘Vette and you will find yourself actually dead.
Willie claims he didn’t realize he’d actually stabbed Lee, just that he’d jabbed the sword in his general direction to make a point. I’ve never seen an owner’s manual for a samurai sword, but I’ll bet there’s a chapter that covers things like this: “WARNING: When making flamboyantly threatening gestures towards your foe, be careful not to point too far. The resistance you feel against the stabby part at the end of the sword is probably that person’s skin, bone and internal organs and continued over-gesturing of this type could result in severe trauma. Unless, you know, that’s what you were going for.”
Offered as proof that Willie didn’t realize what he’d done was the fact that he laughed when Lee got out of the car and attempted to run down the street, because everybody knows that nothing is more hilarious than threatening another person’s life when your toddlers are present. Of course, when Lee collapsed in the street a few feet later, the yuks stopped.
And what was fair Lady Jacqueline doing while all this was taking place? No doubt flashing back to better, happier times. Maybe like the prison sentences she and Willie served for the 1987 kidnapping and sexual torture of a woman who had apparently stolen some of Willie’s belongings: “Oh Willie, we had it all back then. Except for the stuff that woman stole, I mean. What went wrong?”

Gosh, you have to wonder, if they couldn’t make it work…

I'm on (in?) The Sticks!

I've been invited to be a regular contributor to Sticks Of Fire, Tampa Bay's pre-eminent blog. Check it out and see if I can screw this up somehow. In the meantime, enjoy the other writers you'll find there and what they have to say about what's going on in Tampa Bay.

Good Grief

At various times in my life, I've wanted to be this generation's Walter Payton, this generation's Bill Murray, this generation's John Lennon and this generation's Bill Veeck. However, more and more I'm resigning myself to the fact that I am going to have to settle for being this generation's Charlie Brown.
The other day at work, Billy and I were looking at our four digit phone extensions, wondering if they spelled anything or not. His spells out "Mr. B.L.", which is pretty cool because that's actually his initials. Mine? It spells out "Mump".
* sigh*

Where have you gone, Betty Smith?

There's a framed portrait on the wall of the local Village Inn of a woman named Betty Smith, who worked as a waitress there from 1962 until 2006. 44 years as a waitress? In one place? Holy crap! I'm 43 so it's literally impossible for me to conceive of doing anything, other than maybe breathing, for 44 years, let alone doing it one place. The root word of waitress is wait. So Betty waited for 44 years. What was she waiting for? Mostly, for you to decide what you want with your pancakes already! Get a move on, sugar!

Anybody who has ever worked for any time at all in a restaurant and has been committed to an insane asylum will tell you that restaurants are just like insane asylums. But the picture on the wall features Betty in her Village Inn uniform (with apron) with a little bit of a beehive hairdo, little glasses and a sweet grandmotherly smile, which indicates she survived by being nice to people while being tougher than she looks and probably didn't sweat small details. The inscription on the bottom of the picture says "A valued employee". Well, no shit. She probably should have been given her own Village Inn. No doubt Betty saw (and took) a lot of crap from people over the years but I'm guessing it never really got to her. Of course, I could be wrong. I suppose it's entirely possible that on day one of year 45 she just snapped: "You know what, I have had it with this place! 16,071 days of this shit is all I can take!" and stormed out.

One has to wonder why Betty never got promoted. As noted waitressologist Mr White points out in 'Reservoir Dogs', waitressing is a hard job. But they do make tips, and Betty looks like the kind of waitress who had people coming to the restaurant and asking to be seated in her section for years and years. The kind of people who would rather wait than be seated in some other waitress's section also known as The kind of people who tip out the ass. Besides, as a waitress, where is there to be promoted to? Cash register attendant? Yawn. And no tips. Hostess? Come now. Is there a less apt named position than 'hostess' in a restaurant? A real hostess should engage you in lively cocktail banter while serving hors d’œuvres and introducing you to other interesting people who are there, maybe playing a little piano. What kind of 'hostess' does little more than find a table that's relatively clean, gives you some menus before handing you off to someone else and then disappearing for the rest of the evening? A restaurant hostess, that's what kind.

I asked the cashier about Betty on my way out. "She was a waitress for a long time. Is she, uh, still around?" "Well, she's not dead, if that's what you mean. She's just retired." I said I was glad and she rolled her eyes and said "people ask that all the time". I was glad not to give her a tip; it's a fair bet her picture won't be hanging on the wall in 40 years. And I hope whenever Betty goes out now, she always gets a clean table, fresh coffee and never has to ask for refills.

Where the streets are insane

I'm convinced that the traffic czars of Tampa Bay are making a concerted effort to drive us all nuts. Consider the following:

• Kennedy Boulevard is closed just west of North Boulevard for some long overdue resurfacing. However, there's no advance notice, at least westbound, that the road is closed until you encounter the sign that says so. No "ROAD CLOSED AHEAD" or even a "DETOUR" sign a half mile or so in advance. Instead, you drive right up to the closure and the only option you have is to turn right on to a circular dirt road that turns into other circular roads that run you past some storage facilities and the University of Tampa varsity softball field. It's like Wile E. Coyote is in charge. I half expected to see one of the roads dead-end at a pile of ball bearings labeled "FREE BIRD SEED!".
• I wind up behind a dump truck every day. It doesn't matter where I'm going or what neighborhoods I'm driving through, I am guaranteed to be stuck behind at least one very slow moving dump truck every day. Whether the trucks are full or not, they only go about 30 MPH at top speed on an open stretch of road. Sometimes you'll see two dump trucks pass each other in opposite directions, and they'll both be empty. You'd think if they were actually doing something productive that they'd flag each other down when that happens: "Listen, don't bother going that way if you're looking for rocks and dirt to carry around. I just came from there and they got nothin'". Since they're not being productive, what are they doing? Torturing me, that's what.
• Consider the intersection of Twiggs and Morgan streets in downtown. I've been driving to my job downtown at least five days a week for more than a year and I always wind up southbound on Morgan and have never, not once, made this light. That's right, I have never just driven through it green. Not one single time in over a year. I am not exaggerating. I get stopped at that red light EVERY...SINGLE...DAY!! How is that even mathematically possible?
• Red lights in general are designed to reduce your brain to a puddle of pulsating goo. If their purpose is to regulate the flow of traffic, why aren't all of them on sensors and not timers? There's a light at the intersection of Jackson and Franklin streets that will stop you at least 50% of the time, even though Franklin is a pedestrians-only walkway between City Hall and a couple of banks at that point and even on Sunday when City Hall and the banks are closed. How often have you found yourself sitting at a red light where maybe one or two cars pass in front of you and you find yourself staring at the back of the car in front of you, your attention drawn to the red glowing taillights, focusing intently on the intricate pattern of the tailight itself until you see...hey, that's the face of a kitty! And...and it looks like it's winking at you and...Meanwhile, there's drool running down your chin, your eyes are half-crossed and you've just been held hostage for four-to-six minutes during which you were incapable of accomplishing one single worthwhile thing.
• Then there's the intersection of Morgan and Kennedy. Drivers in the westbound traffic on Kennedy routinely get caught blocking the north-south traffic on Morgan at this intersection, which is within plain sight of the Tampa Police Department headquarters. They don't have to put a car or even a cop on foot there. Just open the window and yell across Lykes Park to knock it off already.

Before I continue...

... I'd be remiss if I didn't take a moment to sincerely thank a few people. So if you don't mind, I'd like to take a just a moment to say a quick, but heartfelt Thank You! to...



THE GUY WHO SUDDENLY PEELS OUT
Thank you so much for showing me what cool really is. When you suddenly stomp on the gas pedal of your little piece of shit Toyota for no real reason whatsoever, unleashing the unholy earsplitting whine that only a maxed-out six cylinder engine can emit, it allows me to grasp how truly inadequate I am. Watching you fishtail away, I look forward to the next time I can bask in your close proximity...most likely, one block away at the next red light. Thank you!

THE WAITRESS WHO DECIDES TO TAKE MY ORDER AFTER ALL
You know, I heard you arguing with the other waitress over who had to wait on me and it actually looked like it got kind of heated there for a sec. I sincerely appreciate you taking the high road, rolling your eyes, sighing heavily and stomping over to my table so I can have some scrambled eggs and bacon. After all, I know you're having a crappy night dealing with a bunch of assholes all the time; you told me so when, in an attempt to be polite and make casual conversation I asked you how you were doing. Thank you!

THE DRIVER OF THE ROLLING BOOMBOX
I want to thank you for sharing the gift of music. Specifically, the gift of heavy bass music. Even more specifically, the shitty, muddled, distorted, shitty, heavy bass music that only you enjoy. Whether it's because you stupidly bought and installed chintzy speakers or you stupidly bought and installed great speakers in your chintzy car, the rattling of your plastic quarterpanels tells us that what you lack in taste you make up for in generosity. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

The 'Brero

I went to the Devil Rays game Saturday night, where the theme was the celebration of Cinco De Mayo, which is like Mexican St. Patrick's Day in that everybody pretends to be, and pretends to care about being, a member of a different ethnic group for exactly one day out of the year. A bunch of people from work went and our boss had gotten a suite for us. Now I'm normally not really a suite kind of guy, however I am definitely a sombrero guy, which was the giveaway item at that night's game, in keeping with the theme. I had to have one.
Unfortunately, I was running too late and they had run out of them by the time I got there. I was absolutely crestfallen. However, I don't give up easily and I pride myself on being resourceful. When I really want something important and valuable, be it a tin toy robot or a cheap straw hat, I will ultimately not be denied. I noticed the staff had their own sombreros, so taking a page from the Ed Belfour playbook, I approached a suite attendant named Brandi and said, "Brandi, I will give you one billion dollars for your sombrero". She laughed and declined, which was good because, like Ed Belfour, I clearly did not have one billion dollars nor the ability to get my hands on that much money if called upon to do so. I tried again with an offer of $20 and she said "Oh, you don't have to do that. If you really want it, you can have it". I gave her a business card and said if I could ever do anything for her, she should look me up. That was a pretty easy trade to make since somberero or no sombrero, any time a woman named Brandi ever looks me up for a favor, I'm going to say yes. So I had my own sombrero and it was instantly my most prized and treasured possession, an honor it was sure to hold for at least the next few hours.
Now suitably festively adorned, I felt good about rooting the Rays on to victory (in extra innings) over the Oakland A's. I only had one margarita, very early in the game because I absolutely refuse to drive impaired, but the sombrero helped me feel authentically Mexican enough to cheer in Spanish. As it turns out, I speak world class caliber Spanish and there can be no doubt that my cries of "Arroz con pollo!" and "Diablo frijoles!", "Vios con queso!" and "¿A qué hora es un perro?" helped inspire Ty Wigginton to hit two home runs. That, and the sombrero of course.
Afterwards, a group of us went across the street to Ferg's for chicken wings and more camaraderie. It was fight night in Vegas and Ferg's had the pay per view showing, so I got to witness Floyd Mayweather Jr. enter the ring wearing what? A sombrero! I can't believe a big time boxer was ripping off the Devil Rays for promotional ideas, but there he was. During the fight, we listened to commentary from a man in the back of the room who sounded exactly like Louis Armstrong. I already found this hysterically funny so I didn't turn around to look at him because if I caught a glimpse of anyone standing there wearing a tuxedo and holding a trumpet I would have wet myself. Anyway, Mayweather went on to win the fight, further validating the mojo of the 'brero.
Upon arriving home, I was walking up to the apartment when a woman in the pool noticed the sombrero and yelled out "Happy Cinco De Mayo! Come have some margaritas!", which resulted in Cinco De Mayo lasting deep into Seis De Mayo.
Viva El Sombrero!

Stand Off In The Office

Here's what happened:
Billy has an iPod and a docking station, so he controls the music in the office, which most of the time is fine. Today, he decided we would listen to Jack Johnson because it's very soothing, gentle music. Now, I like Jack Johnson. But there's mellow and then there's mellow. Six hours of nothing but Jack Johnson is please-hook-me-up-to-some-machines-so-my-internal-organs-will-continue-to-function-while-I-fall-ever-deeper-into-a-coma mellow. So I said, "Billy, you've got to put something else on." Of course, since anything either of us ever says is nothing but fuel for an argument (and usually, eventually, a fistfight), he instantly got defensive about it. "Why do you hate Jack Johnson?". I replied "I don't hate Jack Johnson. But we've been listening to him all day and I am literally falling asleep over here." So he said "Fine", which, of course meant "Not fine" and I knew what he was going to put on...sure enough, The Mars Volta. Granted, The Mars Volta's music is not soothing or mellow in any way, but Billy knows that unlike Jack Johnson, I actually do hate The Mars Volta. I have made it crystal clear that I loathe, despise, detest The Mars F'ing Volta. I have threatened on more than one occasion to take his iPod and FedEx it to Vietnam, screeching The Mars Volta the whole way, in the hopes that FAA authorities would actually destroy the package before it ever got on a plane.
I didn't do that today though. Instead, we have one of those soft rubber office toys that you're supposed to squeeze to relieve stress. Except this one has been altered by jamming the butt ends of about 30 pushpins into it so the pointy ends stick out of it at all different angles. I like the irony behind taking this item, designed to soothe and relax and turning it into something you really can't even pick up without hurting yourself and whose only real use now is as a weapon. Anyway, I picked that up and cocked my arm, ready to fire it as hard as I could at Billy. In response, he grabbed his cup of iced tea and aimed it in my direction, ready to douse me and everything in my work area. "Bro, we have fought before", he said, "and we may actually get in serious trouble this time, but I swear to god I will drown you if you throw that thing at me". I glared back at him. "Turn off The Mars Volta and I'll put it down" I wasn't intimidated in the least; I mean I really hate The Mars Volta. This went on for a while, neither one of us willing to blink, let alone give in. But then I think one of us eventually remembered it was our turn to get off at 4:00 so we shut everything down for the day and went home. Or maybe we started fighting about something else. Maybe we actually worked on something. I don't really remember what happened.
I'll tell you what though; he better not start up tomorrow morning with The Mars F'ing Volta or Jack F'ing Johnson.

Stop Big Media

Public Hearing

Date: Monday, April 30, 2007

Time: 4:00 p.m. -11:00 p.m.

Location: Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center

Louise Lykes Ferguson Hall

1010 North W.C. MacInnes Place

Tampa, Florida 33602

http://www.tbpac.org/

Directions: http://www.tbpac.org/welcome/directions/directions.html

The purpose of the hearing is to fully involve the public in the process of the 2006 Quadrennial Broadcast Media Ownership Review that the Commission is currently conducting. This hearing is the fourth in a series of media ownership hearings the Commission intends to hold across the country.The hearing is open to the public, and seating will be available on a first-come, first-served basis. The hearing format will enable members of the public to participate via “open microphone.” There will be two panels, each followed by a period for public comment. The first panel will provide an overview of the Tampa, Florida media market. The second panel will provide perspectives on media ownership.

http://www.stopbigmedia.com/

I love this bar

I had dinner and drinks tonight with K & R at Skipper's Smokehouse while watching The Bogus Pomp Low Budget Acoustic Orchestra. It was a nice, relaxing way to wind down the weekend and once again, I left Skipper's wondering why I don't go there more often. I have never not had a good time there. The place itself is funky, in that it looks like it was built (actually compiled might be a better word) one wall at a time. The music is always great, the food is good and I love the people who go there. I don't actually know any of them, but that doesn't matter. I love them because as a group, they're thoroughly saturated with un-full-of-shit-edness. And when it comes right down to it, that's really all I want out of people, which isn't that much to ask, if you think about it. I mean honestly, black, white, Jewish, Muslim, Protestant, straight, gay, conervative, liberal, hell, even Canadien, I don't care. Be that, be those, whatever you want. I don't need to find common ground between us; just don't be full of shit about being that/those that you are and you and I will get along fine. Oh, that and don't try to convince me to be one of whatever you are. Thanks. Now, try the crab cakes, don't forget to tip your server and be sure to enjoy Walter Trout.

Dry Erase Board

In a professional office environment, a dry erase board is an excellent tool to help keep you organized. Want to know what's written on the one in the office Billy and I share?

THINGS TO DO:

• Something work related
• Something else work related
• "KILL CLARK"
• "TAKE OVER THE WORLD!"
• "Get a brain"
• "Not be gay (this is for Clark)"
• "Blow up the building - Twice"
• "Destroy Heather Billy"
• "FIND WISHING MACHINE, WISH TO BE BIG LIKE TOM HANKS (This is for Billy)"
• One other work related thing

I highly recommend this extremely useful tool for your professional office environment.

Me Against The Mighty Beast

When I first saw it come into view, most of it's hulking body was still beneath the surface of the oily water. It sat there, unblinking and unseeing, it's proximity daring, mocking me. I readied the metal trident in my hand and hoisted it to the attack position. I picked out what I thought to be the most vulnerable spot and thrust the trident downward with great force, my shoulder straining as I did so. Not with a sense of anger, but a sense of purpose the shiny steel tines found their mark and pierced the tight, blistered skin of my adversary. So true was my aim that there was no resistance, no attempt to escape. Victory, this day, was mine uncontested. So I put it on a bun with some brown mustard and chopped onions. Man, I love hot dogs!

A short conversation about nutrition

"You shouldn't drink so much soda. Soda has zero nutritional value"
"You're wrong. It's made from fruit like grapes and oranges and the meat from the exotic cola tree, so it has all the cool food groups in it. Plus it tastes good."
"Well, did you know that drinking a soda every day will result in an additional two pounds of weight gained over the course of a year?"
"Wow, seriously? That's pretty good!"
"What's good about gaining two pounds from drinking soda?"
"Are you kidding? I can eat whatever I want and as long as I drink a soda every day, I'll only gain a measly two pounds over a whole year? I'll take it!"
"You're not listening. What I said was..."
"So, I could order, like, five whole cheeseburgers..no, cheese pizzas...no! Five whole cheeseCAKES at one sitting and as long as I remember to wash them down with a delicious ice-cold Pepsi, I will gain virtually no weight whatsoever!"
"Of course not. That's stupid."
"You said that drinking soda every day is an important part of effectively managing your weight."
"That is not at all what I said."
"I believe your exact words were 'A soda a day keeps more than 2 pounds of fat a year away', which is a very catchy slogan. Nice job."
"Listen to me and this time pay attention..."
"Oh have a soda and relax, fatass."

iHate My iPod

The funniest (heh-heh) thing happened tonight. I had (giggle) plugged my iPod into my computer to upload some new media and when I came back to see how it was going, I (chuckle) looked at the status bar and thought "My, that's odd...I shouldn't have quite that much storage space left". But guess what (ha ha!)? When the update was finished and I went to access the new stuff, well, that (HA HA HA HA!) was the only thing on there. AT ALL! EVERYTHING ELSE WAS GONE GONE GONE GONE GONE!!! DO YOU HEAR ME?!?! GONE!!!! HA HA HA HAAA!!! ISN'T THAT FUNNY?!?!? GYAAARRRRGHHHHH...

Sorry about that; my brain just exploded a little bit.

Say what you will about cheap crappy AM portable radios, but I've never heard of one losing a couple thousand songs and videos.

Just when I think I'm sophisticated...

...something comes along to remind me just what a big, dumb ham-and-egger I really am.

Ten at the Top in Tampa Bay was selected to be part of the program at the 5th Annual Ybor Festival Of The Moving Image so I have spent good chunks of the last few days (Thursday night, Friday night and all day and night Saturday) with the Ten at the Top team wandering around Ybor City and experiencing everything. We saw some truly amazing films, met some interesting people and saw some very cool things in Ybor that I didn't even know existed. But just when I thought maybe I wasn't completely out of my element among talented, intelligent sophisticated people, I attended a performance by Pat Oleszko, 99% of which sailed completely unobstructed over my enormous empty cranium. Highlights included inflatable clothing, a short film about Napoleon performed entirely by knees and dance students dressed as cigars that marched, wiggled and rolled around on the floor under the direction of Oleszko. All of this was met enthusiastically by the clever and creative people in the audience. I, on the other hand, was stuck clicking my little brain remote control back and forth between channels "Huh?" and "Wha...?". It ended with an interpretation of the classic fable 'The Emperor's New Clothes" where Olezsko took a pair of scissors and cut the suit off of a man made to resemble George Bush to the tune of patritic marching music and then spit red, white and blue paint on his naked body. Even I was able to get that one.

This isn't the first time I've felt frustrated and insufficiently intelligent by art. I once saw a performance of "Jaques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris" that made me feel the same way. Oh well. I suppose it's good to be reminded of your inadequacy now and then; it keeps you grounded. So I guess it's back to fart jokes.

Other notes from the festival:

• Screenings and performances take place all over Ybor City in some fantastic venues, including the Silver Meteor Gallery, a 55 seat black box theatre named for the Amtrak passenger train that passes within feet of it's front door.
• "Ten at the Top..." is offically being presented today at 3:30 and I can't go because I have to work, a fact that has me literally feeling sick because I feel like I am letting my team down.
• Artist/writer Dr. Ferdie Pacheco (aka"The Fight Doctor") is a storytelling machine. I got to spend time with him last night and once he got rolling, it was like he had no off switch...not that I minded. He was fascinating, ribald and hilarious! And he barely touched on his relationship with Muhammed Ali. My personal favorite was his recounting of bandleader Artie Shaw's four month marriage to Lana Turner: "Once they got out of bed, he realized he'd married a flower pot". Somebody (Tampa Theatre?) needs to set him up with a lecture series.
• Ybor City is also hosting a biker weekend. So mingling with the filmmakers, artists, film geeks and one guy who dresses like a pirate for some unknown reason, are scads of leatherclad, tattooed biker people.
• I'm a huge supporter of shameless self-promotion but planting an audience member to ask questions for the purpose of hijacking a panel discussion on filmmaking just so you can pimp your film is tacky and classless ("I want to hear more about the mockumentary, that I'm in, by the way"). Yeah, I'm looking at you, bumper-sticker hander-outers.

I want to fight everyone in the world

I firmly believe that the world deserves a completely undisputed champion fighter (me). For once and for all, we must be able to point to someone (me) and say that person (me) is the best in the world at fighting. I want to earn this honor, not merely have it thrust upon me (me). But how can we truly say that someone (me) is a world champion if they don't beat every single opponent in the world? There is no other way: I (me) must fight every person in the world.
This will take a long time, a number of years probably, but I have it all planned out. I will start by fighting babies. They'll be easy to defeat and I can save time by fighting four and five of them at a time. Plus, there's a lot of them and I will want to vanquish as many as possible before they're capable of sitting upright, walking and otherwise defending themselves. That way when they get older and come to me seeking revenge, I will be able to say "Nuh uh, Junior. I defeated you fairly and squarely when you were but a mewling milk-fed infant. No rematches, no do-overs". Then I will fight the elderly and the infirm, again for the sake of practicality: I should be able to defeat them two, maybe three at a time, saving me some time. After that, it will become considerably more difficult.
I've spent a great deal of time weighing the pros and cons and have decided to fight all the women in the world before taking on the men. This is because it's been my experience that most times when men fight, it's always about preening and posturing and not being embarrassed. However, when women get angry enough to fight, their intent is to accomplish nothing less than total annihilation of their opponent. I'll need all of my strength to fight them. Afterwards, there's little doubt that I'll be wounded and short of breath but should have plenty left in the tank to take out a bunch of guys whose entire concern begins and ends with "dude, not the face". Besides, ladies first.
Then, I will face my final opponent, Shaquille O'Neal, in a worldwide cable tv pay-per-view spectacular. Everyone in the world will be rooting for me, in spite of the fact that I will have beaten every single one of you up. You'll say things like "you know, that guy whipped my ass when I was a baby but I totally respect him and everything he stands for" and "yeah, me too". Because nobody wants to see the guy who beat them up get taken by some chump who can't even hit 50% of his free throws. Damn Shaq, bend your knees!!
After it's all over, I will take a year off to drive around the world in my new Cadillac convertible, wearing my gold crown and signing autographs, not fighting. Finally, you'll have a world champion you can all be proud of (me).

Charlie horse!!!!

Saturday night, I was climbing the stairs to my apartment when I suddenly felt the back of my right thigh bind up in a knot. I froze in place immedately. It wasn't a full blown charlie horse at that point but I could tell that moving as little as a single inch one way or another might get it there. If you've never had a charlie horse, consider yourself lucky because they hurt like few things in life hurt. I've had them in the middle of the night where my leg seized up so bad it literally threw me out of bed and on to the floor. The guy in the picture there to the right knows what I'm talking about. I've never tried putting on satiny lime green shorts and dragging my butt along the ground as a remedy, but if I thought it might work I would. Take a pair of giant needlenose pliars made out of live hornets, grab hold of one of your muscles and twist as hard as you can and don't stop for at least an hour and you'll get some idea of what 45 seconds of a charlie horse feels like.
So there I was, like one of those poor doomed bastards in a war movie who realizes he's stepped on a land mine and that as a result his next move will be his last. I'm taking quick, shallow breaths ("ohshit, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit..."), standing motionless in mid stair-step like I've been cornered by a cobra waiting to strike. "It's a cramp", I think. "So what I need is a quick shot of pottassium. Do I have bananas upstairs? Shit. No, I'm all out of bananas. It might just be dehydration. Do I have Gatorade? Of course not, unless by Gatorade I mean Heinekens. Hell, just let me have some water!", as though ingesting the first mouthful of any of these substances would instantly save me from cramp hell. I was even willing to drink tap water at this point (tap water in Tampa comes from the Hillsborough river...there are cleaner cesspools).
I eventually eased my way slowly and gingerly up the stairs and got inside without a full-blown charlie horse seizure, even though it was always kind of *there* the rest of the night, like a Russian submarine lurking a few miles off the coast, it's presence reminding you that it could destroy you and your happy American way of life if it decided that it felt like doing so just out of spite.
And that's why I spent $60 on bottled water, Gatorade and fresh bananas on Sunday.

Ranking the ginormous banners of Tampa

If you have something you want to advertise, a product or a service perhaps, a good way to do that is by hanging huge banners on your building. For instance, if Waffle House wanted to let people know about their delicious scattered, smothered and covered hash browns, they could do so by putting a banner featuring the hashbrowns on their building. This would do the trick because the picture on the banner would look soooo delicious, but Waffle Houses are small, one story buildings and the banners I'm talking about would cover them like a pest control tent. And also everybody already knows all about the scattered, smothered and covered so why bother? And so for no purpose whatsoever, here are arbitrary, unneccesary and unintelligible rankings of some of Tampa's incredibly large advertising banners...





WTVT (Channel 13) Tampa's Fox affiliate

For years, Roy Leep was the preeminent weatherman in Tampa. When the radar tower pictured here was originally built, we used to joke that Roy Leep and his dog Scud were inside actually making the weather ("Yes, make it rain for one hour yet again today! More humidity, more! Bwa ha ha ha ha ha!!!"). Now that Roy has retired, there are huge banners of the two guys who do the weather now. I think their names are Paul Dellagato (sp?) and Some Other Guy. That just doesn't seem right. Hey, you two guys, get your faces off of Roy leep's radar tower.
GRADE: 6.58


(PS: This is easily the most phallic photo I have ever posted. Good god, look at that thing!)





ST. PETE TIMES FORUM
The Forum, home of the Tampa Bay Lightning "boasts" a six story high banner of goalie Marc Denis, who was acquired from something called the Columbus Blue Jackets in exchange for Freddy Modin last summer. Last summer, that was a great deal! This spring, all you can say is "oof". Maybe "ouch".
GRADE: P+



WFLA (Channel 8) Tampa's NBC affiliate
I didn't bother looking to see if they have any banners. I should have because I'll bet they do. But I didn't. Shame on me.
GRADE (on me): # @ % &


RAYMOND JAMES STADIUM
Ray Jay is banner nirvanner. Humongous banners featuring logos, players and sponsors are everywhere you look, inside and out. But about that logo: this is a big, bad NFL franchise. They even won the Superbowl a few years ago. So what's with the skull guy's combover? Look at him; he's got swords, a football and scary grin on his face...and two sad little wisps of hair inadequately covering his boney pate. I bet he drives a sports car or a massive SUV too. Hey, skeleton logo; you're popular, successful and you have huge advertising banners. Stop being so insecure!
GRADE: X = B2TP> 5.6798

Moonlight Chopper Serenade: All paranoids please report to the dance floor

There has been a police helicopter flying around in my neighborhood, looking for something or someone, for the last 2 1/2 hours. Earlier it was much nearer to my place, with the droning 'neeeooOOOWWMM!' sound coming and going in wide, low flying cricles. Now, it seems to be hovering in one spot, a bit further south but I can still hear it. This isn't the first time this has happened, but it always makes me feel uneasy. For one thing, the sound of helicopters overhead reminds me of the scene in Goodfellas where Henry Hill is constantly seeing them overhead as he tries to go about his business; the best capture of pure, raving (and ultimately, totally justified) paranoia ever captured on film. The other thing is, when the cops are looking this long for something or someone in your neighborhood, you can't help but wonder what the hell is going on. Who's out there and what have they done? I'll watch the news tonight and look in the paper tomorrow but there probably won't be a single mention of it. And that's pretty creepy in it's own right.

A short conversation about sharing

"Hey, I'm starving. Can I have some of these chips?"

"No, those are mine and I don't have very many left."

"Oh really? (picks up can and shakes it violently 10 or 12 times) There, now you have lots. But I don't want any though. Thanks."

Live to ride, ride to crash

The girls and I celebrated Easter this evening with dinner at Rick's On The River. Rick's has, easily, without question, the most culturally, racially, whatever you want, diverse clientele of any dining/drinking establishment in Tampa Bay. Young, old, white, blacks, hispanics of all persuasions, bikers, boaters, bankers. If you're looking for some or all of those people, Rick's is the only place you'll find them.
Another group that enjoys Rick's? Assholes!
Tonight during dinner, we were treated to the sight of some...well, asshole riding his obviously very expensive motorcycle through the crowded patio dining area. He took a left turn between two tables to ride down the steps you see in this picture. He hesitated at the top of the steps, as though he was contemplating whether or not this was a good idea. But come on, this is an asshole we're talking about here! Assholes don't do contemplation so you know he'd already made up his mind that this was the greatest idea ever. He gave it a little gas and the front tire went off the top step. However, the angle of the steps is about 45 degrees, which was steep enough for the cycle to bottom out with the rear wire still on the ground and the front wheel hovering. What to do, what to do? Well, if you're an asshole, you already know the answer; give 'er more gas!! HELL'S YEAH!, which he did. This got him down the stairs where he then turned the cycle over on it's side just before smashing into some parked cars that were right about where the person who took this picture must have been standing. It was like "Jackass" as dinner theatre! The wannabe biker (I call him a wannabe because I don't think actual bikers treat their obviously very expensive motorcycles like that. Plus, actual bikers who witnessed this were laughing at -not with- him). After some extended negotiation, his wife or girlfriend (no doubt he refers to her as his 'bitch'...when she isn't around) got him to give up the keys and ride home with her in their obviously very expensive Cadillac Escalade, leaving the obviously very expensive motorcycle behind. I was disappointed, hoping he'd try it again (you know he wanted to), this time launching the cycle at full speed off the top step, missing the cars and plowing full speed into the river. It would have been the best Easter ever.

Up on the roof - 5

Well, one of the other folks spending the night up here just woke up and yakked on himself. The fact that he chose to stay here instead of driving home intoxicated is admirable so I don't really want to make fun of him. But when he sat up and stared at me all pie-eyed, wearing what looks like a shirt with a collar made of chunks of strained squash, I couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh. I reasoned with him to go change his shirt but it still smells kind of like a cider mill gone bad. I hope I can ignore it because I think it's time to shut this down for the night and go to bed, so to speak.

Up on the roof - 4

A woman asked me if I was really going to spend the night up here and I said "yep". I told her I had been in the army so it was no big deal. She asked, "does army training condition you to deal with the elements?" and I said, "no, but it conditions you to be able to fall sleep anywhere".

Downtown Tampa really does have a pretty impressive skyline. If you didn't know better, you might think there was all kinds of exciting activity taking place in those twinkling steel and glass towers.

Up on the roof - 3

I forgot to remember that I'm not crazy about heights. We're on the 6th floor with a waist-high guard rail to keep us safe. We all had to sign waivers to be up here. That's to keep people with a financial stake in the building safe.

It's strange, I didn't use to have problem with heights. I used to love roller coasters and in the army, I rappelled out of helicopters. I don't know how or when it happened but now a 10 foot stepladder makes me queasy.

Up on the roof - 2

Poor Thunderbug. There is no way anybody is going to let him sleep tonight. It's a big party up here and there are quite a few people having a good time. It would be even more festive if the Lightning game that preceded this gala hadn't been so godawful (7-2 loss to the Florida Panthers aka the Shitty City Kitties). Of course, that means I probably won't be sleeping tonight either. No biggie. I kind of figured that would be the case. It's not like I have to work tomorrow. Oh wait, yes I do.

It's kind of nice up here. There's a couple of leather couches, an end table, a fridge, a flat-screen TV with cable and a tent for Bug to sleep in. There's also tons of food and drinks. If you had to live outside, you could do much worse than this.

Up on the roof - 1

I am on the roof of the St. Pete Times Forum. In case you weren't aware, it's become a yearly tradition for Lightning mascot Thunderbug (pictured here) to ascend to the roof of the Forum and live there until the first home playoff game sells out. Through various associations with various associates, I got an invitation to come up here tonight. I figured it would be fun to have 3 or 14 beers and see what goes on when you spend the night on the roof of a large building in downtown Tampa. So here goes nothing.

Coming soon: Something cool!

Tonight, on this very site, I will be blogging from the top of a prominent Tampa landmark. Outdoors, against the elements, with the majestic Tampa skyline as my nightlight. I can't tell you where (yet) or how this is going to happen but the experience will be documented right here, on this blog. To my knowledge, this is something that has never happened before so I think it's going to be awesome! It could be, anyway. It should at least be interesting. I hope it will be. It might suck. No telling.
Anyway, somewhere between awesome and suck, tune in to see for yourself.

Laundry time is coming up again...

...and I'm seriously considering washing my towel. I've only had the one since I moved in here last summer, and while I do laundry at least once a week, for some reason I keep forgetting to throw the towel in there. I think it's probably ok, it still does the job. But lately it makes this disturbing creaking noise when I try to fold it and sometimes I cut myself on it's sharp edges. So I should make a point of washing it one of these days.

Of course, tomorrow is pay day. Maybe I'll go nuts and just buy another one.

Bat wings

Last night, we had dinner at the Proud Lion Pub (I wish they had a web site. I'd have posted a link) where we tried one of their signature menu items: Bat Wings. I don't know if they're called Bat Wings because they're darker than a regular chicken wing or if they're actually made from the wings of small flying mammals that feed on insects or fruit juices, unlike chicken wings which are made from cattle. I think it's probably because of the dark color (mass quantities of bats are probably hard to catch and are not available from most food service suppliers). I don't know the exact recipe, but apparently these wings are fried, then coated with some kind of topping or light batter (HA!) and then fried again. That's right, a restaurant here in Tampa serves double fried chicken wing. Say it with me now: "Praise be! There is a God!!"

Hiss! Scratch! Claw! Meow!

My two best friends in the whole world are both women. We spend a lot of time together. But as is the case any time human beings spend a lot of time together, it becomes easy to get on one another's nerves. More importantly, it becomes easy to know how to get on one another's nerves. As a result, these two women about whom I care so very deeply will sometimes get in fights. It's never a big deal. They don't happen that often and they never last very long. Here's the problem though: I don't enjoy it. And I think I'm supposed to. A lot.

In spite of commonly held belief, there is not a printed manual that catalogs the standard male responses to visual stimuli, but if there were, I'm pretty sure "WOMEN FIGHTING" would get it's own chapter, with huge thumbs (among other appendages) up for approval. But I just don't like it. It makes me uncomfortable. I've never enjoyed seeing people I care about in conflict. And I don't want to pick sides, even though I usually think one of them is right, or at least a little more right, than the other. Sure, it might be because these aren't actual physical fights. There's no hair pulling or hitting or garment tearing. But I honestly don't think that would make me feel any better about it. I think I'd still feel awkward, only now I'd feel obligated to keep a supply of Bactine and gauze pads to apply to any fresh wounds. No, these are verbal fights, where words are used to inflict as much harm as any blunt or sharp object. Maybe that's what it is. I enjoy words, written and spoken, and respect the impact they can have, both positive and negative. And maybe hearing them used as tools of destruction by people I care about is just too unsettling. I know what you're going to say ; "Just tune out whatever it is they're saying and pretend they're fighting over you, Clark". Well, of course I've tried that. It doesn't work. Possibly because they often are actually fighting over me. But that's another story.

March Madness, April Sadness

Gambling, even on a relatively small scale like a seemingly benign office bracket pool, is illegal and the handiwork of Satan himself and thus something I would never even condone, let alone participate in. So if a person found themselves watching the championship game with a shot at $1000 only to see it slip right through their fingers, they'd have nobody to blame but themselves, in spite of certain people who rooted for Florida even though this person would have bought them something really nice, like anything she wanted had he won, especially if that person, being originally from Michigan, was born and bred to damn well know better than to ever count on Ohio State being worth a shit when it mattered.

Right?

Yeah, that's what I think too.