It’s very cool, mixing a film festival and film contest with industry summit and science conference. Who does that? People who believe in making disseminating information entertaining, that’s who.
I wrote a bit about it. It’s still going on—St. Pete hometowners, get out and about and learn some learnin’ things.
Yeah, so this happened again.
Look, if you are someone who is OK with having an unlicensed (and, apparently, un-gloved) stranger charge you a few hundred bucks to inject silicone or caulk or QuikCrete into your butt, you should probably just put on a heavy coat, fill all of its pockets with stones, and walk into the Atlantic Ocean. Because if the Seeping Krazy Glue Butt Infection doesn’t get you, something equally ignoble will, and probably very shortly.
Some people don’t consider Florida to be part of the Deep South proper.
They think of us as The Lower Northeast. As God’s Waiting Room. As A Wholly Owned Subsidiary of The Disney Corporation, with Promotional Consideration Courtesy of Tropicana, Uncle Owen’s Sunny Daze Industrial Postcard Production Complex and The Bail-Jumping Psychotics Local 913.
For these doubters — the ones who don’t believe Florida is down-home, backwoods, “earthy,” “bucolic,” twangy or racist enough to qualify for true Deep South status — I have two words and a number:
Python Challenge 2013.
Read the rest at Creative Loafing …
Jittery Dave didn’t have to look through the house, or even say her name again. A shotgun shell stood at attention on the beat-to-shit chartreuse cushion on the beat-to-shit chartreuse chair by the picture window, the one where she liked to sit and watch Buffy and put her feet up on the beat-to-shit chartreuse ottoman and do her nails and tell him not to worry about whatever had him worried at that particular moment, and to make her another shandy.
He glanced at it, and knew it was a 12-gauge. Winchester, Xpert High Velocity.
It fell over when he closed the door.
He took off his Rays cap, flexed the brim four times, put it back on, went into the kitchen and pulled a can of Natty Light from the fridge. Returning to the living room, he turned on another light and spent twenty seconds or so righting the shell on its brass rim before sitting on the other side of the coffee table, in the ochre chair facing the door.
The shell didn’t so much as wobble when the door opened again twenty-seven minutes later, and Haney slid into the room.
Becky and I were sick through the holidays, and got well just in time for her surprise birthday trip to New Orleans late last week. (Courtesy of the Greatest Husband in the History of Monogamous Romantic Love, naturally.) There’ll be more on that later.
While we were gone, I guess the greater Tampa Bay Area continued on exactly as it has and will, including the incident of a pellet gun-wielding sub-moron who mistakenly hate-crimed a non-Muslim outside a Walmart.
That the victim was armed with a real gun, and chose not to blow the sub-moronic attacker away, is a sainthood-qualifying miracle here in Florida.
(story via Gawker)