Stuever: The trick is to watch TV as if your mother never allowed you to watch all the TV you wanted (or never allowed it at all), and she is about to come into the room and tell you to turn it off and go outside. In that frame of mind, all television becomes so much more enticing, because a television with junk on it looks great compared with the horror of a television that is off.
An ode to a copy editor, by Phill Casaus: My favorite journalist in The Trib newsroom is leaving us Monday, and I wanted you to say farewell before she shuffles out our door.
Her name is Barbara Kerr Page.
Barb.
Sue Carlton: When a real estate appraisal business was about to move into a new office in Tampa a few years back, the new owner was told of the building's quirks: There was a bit of a problem with bees, and there was Mary who lived in the stairwell.
That was what they called her, Mary, though some who saw the 60-something woman on her daily forays around busy Cypress Street, to the 7-Eleven or the dry cleaner where they let her spruce up, knew her as Speedy. Or Linda. Or Sarah. Or the Homeless Lady.
But at the BayOne building, she was Mary.
If you missed this, check out Ruben Castaneda: I should've turned and walked away when Carrie didn't answer the door. But I was on a mission, and my judgment at the time was less than sound.
Carrie was a lithe, blond Arkansan with a sweet demeanor and prom-queen looks. Instead of her, I was greeted by a large man wearing a dirty white T-shirt and bluejeans. He had a wild, uncombed Afro.
"What you want?" His eyes were bloodshot. His expression was suspicious. He was north of 6 feet tall and well over 200 pounds.
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