Florida

Do you remember when Robin Williams attempts to teach Nathan Lane how to be a real man in The Birdcage? It’s one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies. Williams asks,

How do you feel about that call today? I mean the Dolphins! Fourth-and-three play on their 30 yard line with only 34 seconds to go!

Today it was the Gators and fourth and one with a little under a minute to go. Either way it’s the same. I just can’t believe it. Again. How does the Heisman trophy winner fail to get a single yard? You really can’t blame Tebow, though. That game was lost on the sidelines.

It was another brutal early season weekend in college football. (Didn’t this happen last year, too?) Yes, seven of the AP top twenty-five teams lost, but that doesn’t make it any easier if you happened to be on the losing side.

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GAINESVILLE, Fla. - The University of Florida can raise a glass to another national title — best party school in the country.

The Gators, known for wild celebrations following national championships in football and basketball, wrested the party title away from West Virginia University and beat out the University of Mississippi and Penn State University, in the Princeton Review survey of 120,000 students released Monday.

The university has made the top 20 party school list for the past 15 years, but has never been No. 1.

I read Carl Hiaasen’s comedy Skinny Dip on the flight from Denver to Vegas to Los Angeles on Monday morning at the suggestion of a friend at work. I don’t want to reveal too much of the story, but it’s basically about an idiot who attempts to murder his wife, who was the captain of her college swim team, by tossing her overboard while on a cruise ship. Needless to say, dark hilarity ensues. It’s not exactly Shakespeare, but Hiaasen is a powerfully funny author. I thought this novel was wonderful and I recommend it highly.

Congratulations to my little sister-in-law! Last night she was named the State of Florida’s 2008-2009 Seminole County Teacher of the Year!

I graduated from Father Lopez Catholic High School in Daytona Beach, Florida in 1991. I was, if I remember correctly, the Vice President of my Senior class. I was on the Model United Nations and in the drama club. I spent a few months on the swim team and on the track team. I was in and out of the French club. I was in and out of detention much, much more frequently. I loved my teachers. I loved my classmates. I had a great time in high school.

When I graduated they put a plaque with my photo on it on the wall of the cafeteria, the first “Crest of the Wave” award … er … awarded. I took all the honors classes offered. I had a stellar GPA and I produced, wrote, and starred in our Homecoming pep rally. I got suspended once for lighting the door to the teacher’s lounge on fire. I had — literally — the keys to the campus and would go on weekends to help teachers with projects. Over the course of one semester I managed to methodically and surreptitiously steal each and every one of the bathroom hall passes. I was voted “Most Intelligent” in my Senior yearbook. I was the DJ for our school dances. I was the star of the theater department.

We were the Fighting Green Waves and we had a ridiculous cheer about “rolling, rolling, rolling” over the competition:

Deep down in the ocean (Deep down in the ocean!)
I heard a great roar (I heard a great roar!)
Was a mighty mighty wave (Was a mighty mighty wave!)
And it went like this (And it went like this!)
Rolly-rolly-rolly roll! (Rolly-rolly-rolly roll!)

I didn’t just love my high school. I ruled my high school.

So it was with some sadness today that I read that they’re tearing down my old school. It will soon be replaced by a Super Wal-Mart. They’re building a new school way out on LPGA Blvd. It’s an odd feeling. I no longer keep in touch with any of my classmates and I haven’t visited the campus since about a year after I graduated. But it was my high school, dammit. My parents were divorced when I was very young so I don’t really have a “home” from my childhood. Both my maternal grandparents have died and their home is not in our family any more. My mom seems to move to a new house every four or five years. My paternal grandmother sold her house in Massachusetts a few years ago and moved to a new place in Rhode Island. My dad got divorced (from his second wife) so the house where I spent my summers is now owned by some randoms. I am very much a man without a past. Now that my high school will soon be gone, there is not a single physical location from my youth remaining. That’s kind of a bummer.

Superman wears Tim Tebow pajamas.

People naturally worry about splashier threats, such as shark attacks. However, the Marons’ research found there were 16 sand hole or tunnel deaths in the United States from 1990 to 2006 compared with 12 fatal shark attacks for the same period, according to University of Florida statistics.

The “assisted living facility” where my grandmother lived — Indigo Manor in Daytona Beach, Florida — just sent my mom and uncle an automated form letter. It was something along the lines of, “Please tell us how satisfied you are in the care we gave your loved one.” They’re really not very bright over there.

If my mom and uncle are still too upset to do so, I’m going to be the one sending them a reply: “We were completely satisfied … right up until the day you dropped her and broke her femur, then allowed her to spend over 36 hours in agony before telling anyone what had happened. Y’know. Right before she died because of complications from the emergency surgery. Aside from that, though, you were terrific.”

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I saw this sign on A1A in Daytona Beach while driving back from my grandmother’s wake. It’s the kind of thing she would have thought was pretty damn funny.

I really can’t think of a better name for a “gentlemen’s club” on the ocean.

Anna S. Albanese
10/28/1920 - 05/04/2007

My grandmother passed away died this afternoon. I hate “passed away”. It’s so … passive. Nana was not a passive person. She was incredibly, astoundingly active. She’d been pretty limited for the last few years, but that’s not really how I’ll remember her. When I was in elementary school I used to be very proud that she was the president of the local Italian American Association. She could crochet like a mother#$@*; she was an amazing cook; she was in all sorts of women’s clubs; she had a full-time job for a long, long time after she should have been … I don’t know. She just didn’t “pass away”.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. But I hate the thought of seeing the obituary in the paper when I get to Florida. I remember when my grandfather died I hated the obituary. Hated it. My uncle (or someone) had a bunch of them laminated and made into bookmarks and I just hated the idea that a life could be summarized in two or three column inches like that. So here goes …

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Now that is an awesome headline! As my friend Kelly, who sent me the link, said, “Only in Florida …” This is one hell of a story to read. You can file this one as “Reason #419 Not to Get High on Crack and Fall Asleep Next to a Lake in Central Florida”. I love the line, “It was not clear why Apgar was in the lake.”

“A 45-year-old man was hospitalized after four sheriff’s deputies rescued him from the jaws of a nearly 12-foot alligator Wednesday, while he was naked and high on crack cocaine.”

I can tell you from personal experience that there are few things in life as scary as being confronted with an alligator in the dark. There were probably a half-dozen times while I was in college that I came within three or four feet of a gator while on my morning runs. Crew practice started at five a.m. and Lake Newnan is in the middle of a swamp. I remember one time my crewmates and I had to sit in the boat on the water for a good half hour while we waited for a nasty-looking gator to get bored with sunning himself on our dock …

I‘ve decided that Goodbye in Gasoline has overtaken How’s My Driving, Doug Hastings? as my favorite Less Than Jake song. It’s a tough call to make. I’ve had How’s My Driving posted here for download since early 2000. That is a seriously long time to have been awake late every night, nervously waiting for the RIAA to take me away. My site actually continues to receive an R rating (from the sort of people that rate blogs) purely because of the F word in the lyrics.

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The threat of an earthquake hitting southern California is not really something that can keep you worrying all night. For all intents and purposes an earthquake is unpredictable. There is little to no humidity, and I haven’t seen a cockroach in four years now. I honestly must admit, though, that I miss this sort of thing. My uncle, aunt, and their kids took a forced vacation to Mississippi. I’m keeping my fingers crossed hoping that my mom and grandmother are going to be okay. Could Frances make it all the way to Gainesville? That’s what they’re predicting, but I doubt it. Kickoff is Saturday, for Zook’s sake.

The wedding of Melissa Overton and Ryan Tober was Saturday, May 18, 2002. I was the Best Man and had a terrific time. This is a photo of the Brothers Tober that I took shortly before the ceremony. They are three really great guys and I was honored to be in the wedding party. I shot almost 300 digital photos and some of them are, IMHO, excellent. I’m working on getting them all onto CD so I can send the images to their families; let me know if you’re interested in a copy.