Hank in Hollywood: Wouldn't it be great if they just walked in, blew right past everyone, like they were late for something, and nobody cared? If they did not stop to talk about their clothes, their morning wakey-wakey-eggs-and-bakey and what sort of breath mints they're contractually obligated to carry along in their bejeweled clutches? What if they simply used the red carpet as a conveyance, a path, from the limo to their Kodak Theatre chair? Wouldn't the world honestly be a better place?
Dan Barry in Newport, Indiana: The employees pull up to the gate, show their identification cards to the armed security guards and continue on. They drive past wooded stretches and open fields, past the occasional frolicking deer, and park before buildings of almost requisite ugliness. Shift time.
Kruse in Baldwin, Florida: Guy Ambrose says he sees it everywhere.
He says he sees it in town, at the IGA grocery, at the Kwik Mart, at Everybody's Restaurant across from City Hall.
He has seen it, he says, even in his own home.
So Ambrose, 54, a retired Army medic turned Town Council member, decided to do something about it.
"WHEREAS," begins Ordinance 2007-17, "the Town Council of the Town of Baldwin has found that the welfare of the residents of the Town of Baldwin is hampered and imposed upon by persons intentionally wearing their pants below their waist for the purposes of exposing themselves and their undergarments …"
Justin George in Tampa: He's in a cage. Drunk, sweaty, bloodthirsty spectators jostle in anticipation.
The crowd packs in like cordwood, and the fight promoter incites them, stoking a frenzy with the skill of a carnival barker.
The man in the cage is the champion, Chip Santiago, or "Demo" – Demolition Man – who arrived with the fanfare of a celebrity. White fedora, silver chain, two strippers and a trainer all tucked into a limousine. Santiago enticed the crowd – a little shadowboxing, a few roundhouse kicks and some handstand pushups – before disappearing into the dressing room to prepare for Jason "Short Dog" Jones.
Andy Meacham in St. Pete: The ashes lie in a tiny green urn, on the coffee table of a St. Petersburg living room. The room is filled with figurines and chiming clocks, beside cards and a photograph of a smiling teenage boy.
Olga Lindberg, 66, got the ashes by agreeing not to attend the funeral of her grandson, Dennis Lindberg. Her daughter – Dennis' aunt and guardian – made the offer in what has been their last communication.
Leave a comment