Brimstone and Icicles

After living my entire life up in the frozen tundra of Western New York (with the exception of a two year stint at the University of Miami), I have spent the last seventeen years in the paradise known as Miami, Florida.

After dreading the coming of winter for so many years, I am now in the enviable position of looking forward to it.

Summers in Miami are hot, humid, and sticky; whereas the winter time is sunny, dry, and comfortable…well most years anyway. This year Miami has experienced record high temperatures in both the months of November, and December this year. We are in the middle of winter and still running our air conditioner! This is not right! I am supposed to be saving money on the electric bill by giving the air conditioner a much needed rest, but not this year.

In contrast, the northern states are getting hammered with bitter cold, and snow fall being measured by the foot not by the inch. There are many people I know up there that would love to change places with me. With the exception of the higher than normal electric bills, I guess I have no reason to gripe.

When I first moved to Miami many people told me that it is ungodly hot and humid here in the summer time. My response to them was “I would rather gripe about the heat than the cold.” I still feel that way. There is no way I would want to change places with anyone up north in the winter time. I feel for all people that have to put up with frigid temperatures, no sunshine and piles of snow for over four months a year.

However I don’t feel so bad for them that I won’t rub it in every chance I get.

I admit I get a fiendish kick mentioning on Facebook that we had a record high temperature of 89 yesterday after reading them moan about the cold and snow. I love to read their responses (I would print a couple of these remarks, but this is a family column) it makes me feel all warm and evil inside. I love to causally mention that it is 85 and sunny here, after my friend tells me they just got sixteen inches of snow; just so I can hear him tell me to go screw myself.

Does this make me a bad guy? Am I really evil? When I die will I be sentenced to become one of Satan’s minions because of this?

Perhaps, maybe it would be fitting to have one of my old friends up in Heaven causally mention over the phone that it is beautiful and 75 there after I got done griping that it is 2500 degrees and raining flaming brimstone.

I wonder; do you have to shovel brimstone out of your driveway to get to work in hell?

The True Adventures Of Wilbur the Pig...Chapter 7 "Party Animal"

Wilbur quickly learned that he was living high on the hog in our house. Every morning he would get his favorites for breakfast; a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and a banana. Then through out the day he would get many slices of bread, and anything else we happened to be dining on that day. Wilbur would eat almost anything he was offered. The only things he would refuse would be sour or bitter things, such as dill pickles. Wilbur loved apples, salad, and even meat. He would even devoir pork (he loves pork) when it was given to him. We all thought it ironic, that Wilbur was being a cannibal, and that he never knew it or cared.

We never really thought about the nutritional needs, or the best diet for a pot belly pig. Wilbur was happy, and that was all that mattered. Within two weeks we had to put both Tony, and Bluedoe to sleep, so you would think that our family was starting to shrink. Well the number of our family did shrink, but not the size, because Wilbur was growing…quickly. By the end of October, Wilbur had doubled in size.

At this time I received the notice that my employer (a major airline) of almost twenty years was closing in Rochester, and replacing us with their low cost spin off airline. I had the choice to stay in Rochester and work for them, or to exercise my seniority and to bump into another station. To stay in Rochester, I would have had to take a ten dollar an hour cut in pay, and forfeit all of my health benefits. Since I had twenty years invested with this airline, and could not find a job that would pay as well, Rhea, and I decided we had to move. Since I went to the University of Miami back in the seventies, and adored the warm sunny weather; Rhea and I chose to transfer to Miami, Florida.

We only had three months to get our affairs in order before the station closed. Those three months were a whirlwind of activity as we had to fly down to Miami to find a new house, and to put our present house up for sale. There were many ups and downs, and things were very hectic. We found a nice house just north of Homestead that we loved, but the housing prices were much steeper than in Rochester. I found myself with just two months to raise 16,000 dollars for the closing in early February. Every available penny was getting socked away, and we never got around to get Wilbur fixed. If I knew what we were in store for, I would have begged someone for twenty five dollars.

We had a very nice real-estate lady trying to sell our house. She thought it would be best if we were not at home, and that we took the dogs with us when she showed the house to prospective buyers. That was not a real problem; the problem was what to do with Wilbur? We couldn’t exactly take Wilbur with us for fear that he would get scared and run away, so we decided to put him in the back yard when we left. It was late November by this time, and already getting mighty cold outside, but what were we to do?

On the day of the big showing we packed up Toby, and Dylan, and drove down to the boat launch to let them run around while the house was being shown. In the back sun room, we had a pair of sliding doors that led to the patio, and the pool. The real-estate lady, wanting to show off all the amenities of our house took the prospective buyers to the sun room to show them the back patio, and pool. Imagine their surprise when the real-estate lady threw back the curtains to the sliding doors to discover a very cold pig standing at the top of the steps waiting to be let in! I guess we should have told her about the pig; either way the house eventually got sold.

With just a month before the big move, we decided to have a big “New Year Eve-so long” bash at our house. We decided to have the party in our basement, as that was the only room big enough to accommodate everyone. We decided that this would also be Wilbur’s big coming out party for all of our friends and relatives who had not yet met him. Since Wilbur’s hooves were not designed to go up and down a whole flight of stairs, I had to carry him down. Wilbur weighed about forty pounds at this time, not too heavy for me to lift; and fortunately he gave me only a minimal amount of squirming.

What a bash it was! Everyone was drinking, eating and having a good time; especially Wilbur. Everyone loved to feed Wilbur! Wilbur was in hog heaven as he dined on nachos, pizza, chips, pretzels, and beer. We put a party hat on Wilbur, and he looked very festive going up to all the partiers looking for, and getting hand outs. This pig was definitely a daddy’s boy because he loved beer! He looked like Caesar at a Roman orgy as he made his way around the party feasting and drinking. Eventually the beer got to him, and he started to teeter as he walked among the guests. After a couple of hours of partying Wilbur managed to stagger to a corner of the basement where he collapsed and slept the rest of the night. The next day I went down to bring him back up stairs. Wilbur was so hung over that he did not put up any fight when I picked him up. Oh well, that’s what you get if you want to be a party pig.

Next episode: Road Hog!

Loaded Hot Dogs

This year like many people I went back to my hometown on vacation to visit relatives and old friends. Upon my return I opened my bag to begin unpacking and found a note left by the T.S.A. saying they opened my suitcase and went through my things because their x-ray scanner showed that I had some suspicious items in there. The only thing I had in my bag coming home that I didn't have going there was fifteen pounds of hot dogs.

There are probably many readers that are asking two questions: 1) What could the T.S.A. possibly find suspicious about hot dogs? And 2) Why would this dummy have fifteen pounds of hot dogs in his suitcase? These are both very good questions, and I will try to answer them for you.

First of all as someone who works for a major airline and has been putting up with the T.S.A. since 9/11, I am not surprised by anything that they do. I can only speculate that when the hot dogs showed up on their scanner they must have thought that I was attempting to transport several cases of large caliber ammunition in my bag. I am not very knowledgeable about guns, so I am not aware of many guns that would fire a six inch long by one inch wide round; perhaps a fifty caliber machine gun, but neither I, or anyone I know owns one of them. Maybe they thought they were loaded small sticks of dynamite. Like I said, I can only speculate on that one.

As to the question of why I would carry fifteen pounds of frozen hot dogs home in my bag; let me start by saying my hometown is Rochester, NY. Most people are not aware of this but Rochester is the only place in the world where you can buy white hot dogs. My family is partial to the Zweigles’ brand in the natural casing called “pop open” because the skin pops open when you grill them.

Most folks who have never heard of, or eaten white hot dogs are repulsed by the thought. Trying to explain a white hot dog to someone not familiar with them (which is anyone not from Rochester) is difficult to do. They are not a sausage, or a bratwurst, but a hot dog that is spiced differently than your normal red hot dog, and put in a white casing so you can tell the difference. When I was a kid I did not care for them, but as I got older and my tastes changed, I grew to love them.

My family and I are not the only ones who love them, but so does anyone here in Miami that has been daring enough to try one. Whenever I go home to Rochester I am besieged with requests to bring a pound of hot dogs back for them.

I have become a hot dog smuggler.

I love to have my hot dogs loaded with mustard, onions, and Rochester style hamburger based hot sauce.I would love to have you try one, but I simply don't have enough room in my bag.

I Am An A-Hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.

I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.

I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.

Three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.

That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.

Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.

There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.

If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-holeness, I have a guest room, give me a call.

Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

I Am An A-hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.

I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.

I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.

Three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.

That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.

Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.

There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.

If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-holeness, I have a guest room, give me a call.

Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

Loaded Hotdogs

This year like many people I went back to my hometown on vacation to visit relatives and old friends. Upon my return I opened my bag to begin unpacking and found a note left by the T.S.A. saying they opened my suitcase and went through my things because their x-ray scanner showed that I had some suspicious items in there. The only thing I had in my bag coming home that I didn't have going there was fifteen pounds of hot dogs.

There are probably many readers that are asking two questions: 1) What could the T.S.A. possibly find suspicious about hot dogs? And 2) Why would this dummy have fifteen pounds of hot dogs in his suitcase? These are both very good questions, and I will try to answer them for you.

First of all as someone who works for a major airline and has been putting up with the T.S.A. since 9/11, I am not surprised by anything that they do. I can only speculate that when the hot dogs showed up on their scanner they must have thought that I was attempting to transport several cases of large caliber ammunition in my bag. I am not very knowledgeable about guns, so I am not aware of many guns that would fire a six inch long by one inch wide round; perhaps a fifty caliber machine gun, but neither I, or anyone I know owns one of them. Maybe they thought they were loaded small sticks of dynamite. Like I said, I can only speculate on that one.

As to the question of why I would carry fifteen pounds of frozen hot dogs home in my bag; let me start by saying my hometown is Rochester, NY. Most people are not aware of this but Rochester is the only place in the world where you can buy white hot dogs. My family is partial to the Zweigles’ brand in the natural casing called “pop open” because the skin pops open when you grill them.

Most folks who have never heard of, or eaten white hot dogs are repulsed by the thought. Trying to explain a white hot dog to someone not familiar with them (which is anyone not from Rochester) is difficult to do. They are not a sausage, or a bratwurst, but a hot dog that is spiced differently than your normal red hot dog, and put in a white casing so you can tell the difference. When I was a kid I did not care for them, but as I got older and my tastes changed, I grew to love them.

My family and I are not the only ones who love them, but so does anyone here in Miami that has been daring enough to try one. Whenever I go home to Rochester I am besieged with requests to bring a pound of hot dogs back for them.

I have become a hot dog smuggler.

I love to have my hot dogs loaded with mustard, onions, and Rochester style hamburger based hot sauce.I would love to have you try one, but I simply don't have enough room in my bag.

I Am An A-Hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.

I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.

I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.

Three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.

That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.

Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.

There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.

If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-holeness, I have a guest room, give me a call.

Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

I Am An A-hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.
I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.


I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.


Three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.


That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.


Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.


There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.


If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-holeness, I have a guest room, give me a call.


Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

I Am an A-Hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.

I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.

I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.

Three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.

That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.

Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.

There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.

If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-holeness, I have a guest room, give me a call.

Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

Untimely Interruptions

It’s a real drag to get interrupted when you are doing something you really like. You know what I mean. I’ll stomach the traffic jams, I’ll wait in lines at the bank, I’ll even handle a root canal, but, I hate it when something messes up my free time

Being interrupted is like being violated. Nobody likes being violated.

Everyone is familiar with the “calling at suppertime, sales pitch guy”. I know everybody needs a job, but these people should be tied up and forced to listen to Yoko Ono records for forty eight straight hours (I wonder what level of hell that would equate with?). I mean we have to get serious with these people!

Some of you might know the “friend who always calls when you are getting nookie guy” I had a friend in college whose clairvoyance was astounding. He always knew when I was getting laid. It got so bad that I finally learned to take the phone off of the hook (remember when you did that?), whenever I got lucky.

Other people are familiar with “I live in the middle of the approach for a major runway”, or “I live next to the railroad track” problem. When I worked at a major airline in Rochester, NY, I had a very nice top half of a house to live in. The only problem was it was in a direct line with runway 22 (short for 220 degrees.). Every night when the best television shows came on, that’s when all of the jets would decide to land. “What did he just say!?” Is what we would yell to each other as lines of our favorite show were blotted out by the screaming jet engines. As if that wasn’t bad enough, every morning about 6:30 am they would all take off again roaring right over head, shaking the house, and rattling the windows. And it was even worse if you were trying to sleep off a hangover. (Ugh!)

Last but not least is the “Asshole dog next store, barking all night long” situation. You really want to get up, walk next door, and throttle the owner. “Are you deaf man! Muzzle that dog, stupid!” I would yell as I was shaking him by his throat. Fortunately, I am way too lazy to do that; I just swear at the dog all night as I toss and turn.

Let’s face it, untimely interruptions suck. Like I was saying, give me your best shot, water boarding, Chinese water torture, and flaming bamboo shoots up my fingernails, just don’t bother me!

Wilbur and Us Chapter 8 "Road Hog"

At the end of January my station at Rochester closed. I was the last employee to leave except the supervisor assigned to lock the doors. It was a bitter cold night, and as I walked across the ramp for the last time I took in the scene. It was snowy, and everything was white; there was a bitter wind blowing across the open area of the airport. The snow on the ground crunched underneath each foot step. I turned to bid Rochester one last farewell; I blew her a kiss, then, walked out the freight door to go home.

I knew the next time I went to work, everything would be different.

Back at home everything was in turmoil; everything was on the verge of change. My son Mitchell decided that he didn’t want to move to Miami, so he had made arrangements with his mom for him and Toby to move in with her and my daughter Nicole.

I had smartly taken a vacation week after the closing to give myself nine days before I had to report to MIA.This was not going to be an easy transition for anyone. The plan was that I would leave on February 4th by myself with Dylan, drive down to Miami, and stay with my old roommate Tom, until the house closing on the 7th. Then I would live in the house by myself for a month until Rhea closed the house in Rochester in early March. Then Rhea, Sean, Jeff, Wilbur, and Samantha the cat, would drive down to meet me.

Bright and early on the fourth, I kissed Rhea goodbye, and left in an old Thunderbird that Gerry had restored and given to his mom. This car was loaded to the gills with everything I would need to spend a month by myself. I had a mattress, a TV, clothes, uniforms, stereo, myself, and Dylan crammed as tightly as possible into this sports car. The car was so packed with things that I could not move the driver’s seat back far enough, and would have to make the 1500 mile drive a little scrunched up. Dylan had to lay on a pile of bedding and pillows that took up the other front seat. Dylan and I made the drive in about a day and a half, with a stop over in South Carolina, where I snuck Dylan into my motel room when no one was looking. Fortunately my trip was pleasant and uneventful; much easier than Rhea’s. I guess that’s because I didn’t have to transport, and worry about a seventy five pound pig and a cat cooped up in the back of a truck.

In early March, after Rhea and Jeff had got all the furniture ready for the movers, and the house closed up, they were ready to make the big trip. The plan was for Rhea and Sean to drive her Mustang, and Jeff to drive my old Dodge truck with Wilbur, and Samantha in the back. The problem with transporting a pig, and a cat, was that once they were put in the back, they would be there for the duration of the 1500 mile journey because we could not take the chance of an escape by either one of them. I had a cap on the back of the truck, so the animals would be sheltered from the elements, and relatively warm for the drive. There was one problem with the cap; the latch to keep the back window closed would not stay closed, as the vibration from the road would loosen it. They did not think it would be a big problem.

On the trip down Wilbur and Samantha got along reasonably well considering the tight quarters. Samantha had her cat box, and Wilbur had the rest of the bed to do his thing in. Every rest stop Jeff would check in on the two, feed them McDonald’s hamburgers, and water them; but the further they went, the stronger the odor in the back became.

While driving through Georgia, Jeff noticed the drivers behind him flashing their lights, and waving at him. The drivers kept pointing at the back of the truck as they passed by. Jeff got worried that something was wrong with the truck, and motioned to Rhea to pull off at the next rest stop. After they pulled off and got parked, Jeff went to the back of the truck to see what the problem was. There was Wilbur; he had his front legs up on the tail gate, and had pushed the window open with his head. I don’t know if his own smell had finally got to him, or if he was just sight seeing, but all the cars behind them were looking at a pig looking at them! Fortunately the tail gate latch held Wilbur’s weight, and we did not lose either of the occupants back there. Jeff closed and locked the rear window for the rest of the journey.

What a relief it was for me to get home from work that day and to see that they all had made the trip safely. Samantha, was glad to be out of the back of the truck, and was already exploring her new home; mean while Wilbur was out back snouting his new yard. I was fearful that Wilbur would not remember me after a month away; but those fears were quickly dispelled when he saw me, and came up to rub against me. My pig remembers me!

We all had a great reunion with a barbeque on our new back patio. Everyone was a little sick of hamburgers by that time, so we celebrated with beer and pork ribs. Everyone, especially Wilbur feasted well that night.

Next: Wilbur meets the neighbors.

Fire and Icicles

After living my entire life up in the frozen tundra of Western New York (with the exception of a two year stint at the University of Miami), I have spent the last ten years in the paradise known as Miami, Florida.

After dreading the coming of winter for so many years, I am now in the enviable position of looking forward to it.

Summers in Miami are hot, humid, and sticky; whereas the winter time is sunny, dry, and comfortable…well most years anyway. This year Miami has experienced record high temperatures in both the months of November, and December this year. We are in the middle of winter and still running our air conditioner! This is not right! I am supposed to be saving money on the electric bill by giving the air conditioner a much needed rest, but not this year.

In contrast, the northern states are getting hammered with bitter cold, and snow fall being measured by the foot not by the inch. There are many people I know up there that would love to change places with me. With the exception of the higher than normal electric bills, I guess I have no reason to gripe.

When I first moved to Miami many people told me that it is ungodly hot and humid here in the summer time. My response to them was “I would rather gripe about the heat than the cold.” I still feel that way. There is no way I would want to change places with anyone up north in the winter time. I feel for all people that have to put up with frigid temperatures, no sunshine and piles of snow for over four months a year.

However I don’t feel so bad for them that I won’t rub it in every chance I get.

I admit I get a fiendish kick mentioning on Facebook that we had a record high temperature of 89 yesterday after reading them moan about the cold and snow. I love to read their responses (I would print a couple of these remarks, but this is a family column) it makes me feel all warm and evil inside. I love to causally mention that it is 85 and sunny here, after my friend tells me they just got sixteen inches of snow; just so I can hear him tell me to go screw myself.

Does this make me a bad guy? Am I really evil? When I die will I be sentenced to become one of Satan’s minions because of this?

Perhaps, maybe it would be fitting to have one of my old friends up in Heaven causally mention over the phone that it is beautiful and 75 there after I got done griping that it is 2500 degrees and raining flaming brimstone.

I wonder; do you have to shovel brimstone out of your driveway to get to work in hell? I know there are plenty of folks up north reading this that hope I will find out.

I Am An A-hole

I am evil. I know I am evil, but I can’t help it. In fact I take a fiendish glee in being evil.

I wasn't always evil; it just came upon me about six years ago. That’s when I moved from the frozen tundra of Rochester, NY, and relocated in Miami, FL.

I remember my last day working at the airport up in Rochester, it was 5 degrees, and colder than a witch’s left bosom. In fact, the last two months I worked there, were the coldest I could remember. I really didn’t want to leave my family, and friends, but, I was forced to travel to new horizons, in order to keep my job of twenty years.

It was three days later, from the back of my friend Tom’s boat, which was harbored in the Florida Keys, that I discovered my evilness. It was a beautiful evening, about 70 degrees, with a gorgeous sunset off to the west. I was nursing my sixth or seventh cold brew, when I got a call from my step son on my cell phone. He told me that it was a minus 4 degrees, and snowing like a bastard up in Rochester.

That’s when I turned evil. I couldn’t help but to tell him how warm, and beautiful it was in my neck of the woods. Just to hear him tell me to go f#&k off made me feel really good. I realized that I took extreme pleasure, in pissing him off about how nice it was to live in paradise. In fact I took pleasure in pissing off everybody from up north about it.

Sometimes I would just causally mention, how it was 82, and sunny; after they told me they just got 15 inches of snow, other times I would complain that we were going through a cold spell, and that we would hit a low of 55, with only a high temperature of 72, just to hear the responses I would get from them.

There is something about living in paradise that brings out the a-hole in a guy.

If you life up north, and want to bring out your inner a-hole, I have a guest room, give me a call.

Did I mention that we are going through a cold spell? It is supposed to get down to 60 degrees tonight. I better put on my flannel pj's tonight! Brrrr

Loaded Hot Dogs

This year like many people I went back to my hometown on vacation to visit relatives and old friends. Upon my return I opened my bag to begin unpacking and found a note left by the T.S.A. saying they opened my suitcase and went through my things because their x-ray scanner showed that I had some suspicious items in there. The only thing I had in my bag coming home that I didn't have going there was fifteen pounds of hot dogs.

There are probably many readers that are asking two questions: 1) What could the T.S.A. possibly find suspicious about hot dogs? And 2) Why would this dummy have fifteen pounds of hot dogs in his suitcase? These are both very good questions, and I will try to answer them for you.

First of all as someone who works for a major airline and has been putting up with the T.S.A. since 9/11, I am not surprised by anything that they do. I can only speculate that when the hot dogs showed up on their scanner they must have thought that I was attempting to transport several cases of large caliber ammunition in my bag. I am not very knowledgeable about guns, so I am not aware of many guns that would fire a six inch long by one inch wide round; perhaps a fifty caliber machine gun, but neither I, or anyone I know owns one of them. Maybe they thought they were loaded small sticks of dynamite. Like I said, I can only speculate on that one.

As to the question of why I would carry fifteen pounds of frozen hot dogs home in my bag; let me start by saying my hometown is Rochester, NY. Most people are not aware of this but Rochester is the only place in the world where you can buy white hot dogs. My family is partial to the Zweigles’ brand in the natural casing called “pop open” because the skin pops open when you grill them.

Most folks who have never heard of, or eaten white hot dogs are repulsed by the thought. Trying to explain a white hot dog to someone not familiar with them (which is anyone not from Rochester) is difficult to do. They are not a sausage, or a bratwurst, but a hot dog that is spiced differently than your normal red hot dog, and put in a white casing so you can tell the difference. When I was a kid I did not care for them, but as I got older and my tastes changed, I grew to love them.

My family and I are not the only ones who love them, but so does anyone here in Miami that has been daring enough to try one. Whenever I go home to Rochester I am besieged with requests to bring a pound of hot dogs back for them.

I have become a hot dog smuggler.

I love to have my hot dogs loaded with mustard, onions, and Rochester style hamburger based hot sauce.I would love to have you try one, but I simply don't have enough room in my bag.