Sunset Over the Gulf
My sorry ass may be back home in Jersey, but my mind is still here.

My mind is still on vacation, as it were, even though today I returned to truckloads of work to do.

With that in mind, I thought I would share something, which, for me, is quite a rarity – namely a celebrity sighting.

As I was walking toward the gate at Fort Myers – Sanibel Airport, I noticed a tall man walking in my direction. He was wearing a blue blazer, tan pants and dress shoes, which is no big deal. But, he was also wearing a close-fitting baseball cap. As we passed each other, it still hadn’t registered. Once he was a dozen paces past me, it came together. It was James Patterson, the gazillion selling author of the “Alex Cross” series and several other page turners.

I said to The Original Bill who was already seated at the gate, “Yo, I think I just walked past James Patterson.”

Bill looked at the people walking away from the direction of the gate and said, “I know who you mean. The blue blazer guy. James Patterson does live in Florida, you know.” (I didn’t know that, or, at least, I didn’t recall that.)

He looked, to me, like his photos on the back of each of his books (with the baseball cap), except he was a big guy. Yeah, I know. Stoopid, to gauge someone’s height and mass based upon a head shot on the back cover of a book.

That’s where this exciting story ends. I am not a person who would chase the guy down and say stuff like, “Yo! You’re James Patterson, right? I’m a big fan. blah, blah, blah, so I never got around until a couple days later even mentioning to Mrs. Parkway (also a Patterson fan) that I believed that I had seen the guy.

The only other airport celebrity sighting I can claim was the time I saw Al *spit* Sharpton at the San Francisco Airport waiting to board the flight to Newark. Unlike, James Patterson (at least, I think it was James Patterson), Sharpton was prancing around the gate area, obviously hoping to be noticed. I noticed him all right, but I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire.

Did I mention that the “Reverend” Al was flying first-class? I was flying coach, so I had to wait while the “Reverend” lumbered his fat ass on the plane. I couldn’t help but wonder who paid for his ticket.

That’s about it, except to note that I was a bit disappointed that James Patterson (at least, I think it was him) didn’t stop dead in his tracks and say, “Yo, are you Jimbo from Parkway Rest Stop? I’m a big fan blah, blah blah …”

Maybe next year.

Update: I just remembered that I was on a flight to Jacksonville with this guy and blogged about it here. He didn’t recognize me either, but I have better hair.

This year was quite special. The Grand Marshall of our parade was a member of our Post, Sol Lipkin, who is a WWII Navy Vet and who is 102 years old. I have written about Sol before. He is slowing down a bit, but he still manages to walk away a winner in our regular penny ante poker game.

After the parade, members of our Post fire the ceremonial volleys while taps is being played, and, I must say, we looked pretty farookin’ good out there firing our 1903 Springfields (unplugged). One of the shooters will be deploying to Iraq next month.

Once the ceremonies were done, we returned to the Post for a veritable feast, which is open to the public. We were joined by the Junior ROTC, a couple Girl Scout and Brownie Troops and Revolutionary War Re-enactors. (They say those clothes are not hot, but I’m not buying it.)

When we were left pretty much with Post members and spouses, I dragged out the guitar and played with “Chuck,” who is Captain Arthur’s seriously tattooed son-in-law. Turns out that he plays very much like I do, and I have a blast playing with him. (Sol loved it, and managed to do a bit of dancing – at 102).

I had been looking forward to playing with Chuck again. In fact, while in Florida, I idly suggested, “Yo, Chuck and I could probably go out on the weekends and turn a few bucks.”

Mrs. Parkway remarked, “Oh yeah, you could call the act, ‘Chuck and the Old F**k.’” After laughing my ass off, I decided I kinda like the idea. I could wear a tee shirt that says “Chuck.”

It was a good day, particularly since, despite the party atmosphers, we all know what Memorial Day is all about.

I am still afflicted with vacation lag and have yet to regain my blogging groove. Maybe it’s because I have managed to avoid listening to, watching or reading much of any news. While in Florida, I did hear a news blurb about Ted Kennedy’s illness. I’m feeling compassionate today (probably the lingering effects copious amounts of chocolate vodka over the previous week), so since I have nothing nice to say about Senator Kennedy, I shall say nothing.

I also heard that Hillary gorilla stomped Barack _______ Obama’s ass in Kentucky but that Barack _______ Obama won rather handily in Oregon. No surprises in either case. Hillary is staying in. Sweet. I’d love to hear what each has to say about the other in private.

Oh, and lest you think I worry needlessly about alligators, during the week I was in Florida, some sorry ass damned near lost his arm to one of those pre-historic monsters. I believe that people who live near fresh water in Florida are a bit nutso. Case in point. A perfectly normal looking and sounding woman bartender told me, “Oh yeah, we have one [a farookin’ gator] that lives in the lagoon behind my house. We just crack open the door to check the yard before we go outside. It’s not a problem.” Nutso.

The same bartender told me that, in her neighborhood, wild boars (those ugly bastards with the tusks) are a problem. Wild boars? Nutso.

Oh, and there was a headline in the local paper (I read it in one of those news boxes while doing a ground pound) that said that coyotes are gobbling up people’s dogs (presumably small dogs) in Southwest Florida. Nutso.

So, in Florida the peeps deal with alligators, wild boars and dog-eating coyotes. Nutso, nutso, nutso, I tell ya.

Yo, Jimbo. The title of this post is “Corporal Wood Sealer,” and you’ve written about goofy shit that has nothing to do with corporals or wood sealer. WTF?”

OK, here’s what I intended to say about three-hundred and twenty five words ago.

I had no idea that the joy and Macht I experienced as Captain Power Wash would be followed by the frankly pedestrian task of smearing wood sealer on the deck. No one can ever be “Captain Wood Sealer.” It’s just not possible, given the nature of the task. Hell, it’s not even like painting, because with painting, when you are all done, the thing you painted looks different than it did before you painted it. With wood sealer, you can’t appreciate the fruits of your labor until the next rain, and only then can you marvel at the beads of water on the wood. “Look Myrtle! Check out them beads! Get the camera!”

I have nothing else to say at the moment.

The Usual Suspects arrived back in Jersey after a week sunshine, power drinking, power eating, and power pool bobbing. Far from being rested, I’m farookin’ exhausted.

I began the process of reading a gazillion and deleting about three gazillion e-mails. I also read through the Wiseass Jooette’s posts (and all you finks who thought they were da bomb), about which I will surely have something to say once I can properly focus my eyes for more than ten minutes.***

I must admit that after leaving the beautiful, clean Fort Myers–Sanibel Airport, returning to Newark Airport is a bit like being hit in the moosh with a bag of shit.

I’m too tired to make much sense at the moment, or to do much of anything other than scratch my “peel” somewhere under which is something resembling a tan.

Later, Peeps.

*** I would like to thank the Wiseass Jooette for keeping the place popping while I was gone, even though most of the content was pure baloney, particularly the shit about Jackie Robinson being safe and the alleged bald spot.

Sadly, yet mercifully, my time here guarding the House by the Parkway from stealth toilet-papering attacks at the hands of malevolent Brooklynites must draw to a close. Yes, I know…pass the snotrags.

Our pal Hairboy, who we all miss very very much (no disclaimer), shall return to the GAHden State, Vulgarian Capital of the Universe, in just a few hours and Parkway Rest Stop shall resume regularly scheduled blogposts of PRS Operatives transcripts of bugged conversations between Nancy Pelosi and Sven the Swedish Masseuse as they drink lotsa Cristal, smoke doobies, and he walks her around the house on all fours wearing nothing but a Gucci leash and diamond-encrusted dog collar.

But before that time comes, seeing as my email has served as a receptacle of sorts for Hairboy while he’s sipping umbrella-garnished adult beverages on the beach and wowing all Da Goils in his Speedos, I thought I’d share a few of the goodies that some fans of Mr. Parkway have sent my way.

First off, we have this cute little feller, sent to me a whiles back from El Capitan,who I give credit for even finding a baby photo of Hairboy, when Wiseass Jooette Operatives was unable to:

Completely perplexified since, in spite of having fabulous hair (and trust me, boys and girls…never, EVER mention Da Bald Spot to him, as he’s a bit sensitive about it), the little guy doesn’t appear to actually possess the fair Irish / Polish complexion our man on the Parkway has, so I asked El Cap how to explain to readers the obvious lack of resemblance. Without missing a beat, he replied: “Hell, it’s Jersey! Blame it on toxic waste or something!” Ding, ding, ding — we have a winner!!

Second up, knowing the special place in his heart Hairboy reserves for Killa Klowns, fellow Blown-Eye Zonker passed along this link, because nothing screams “FUN!” quite like a clown with an AK47 and blossom of hand grenades.

Also from Zonker and Randy, The Bandit Monco, I mean…you just cannot make this shit up:

Perhaps West Point cadets will also go digging for explosives in Belmar and Wildwood, where I hear one takes their life in their own hands while building a sand castle. I’ll take my chances with the Coney Island Whitefish, thankyouverymuch.

This one comes from Montana Dave, who I guess thought Hairboy’s PRS banner needed a little springtime sprucing:

Cute, right? I think this new banner would aptly showcase Hairboy’s sensitive side, but I have to say Dave, between you and me, the pink and gray might clash with his already eye-pleasing peach, brick red, sherbet, and Kelly green décor.

Oh, and I don’t know WTF is up with Hairboy and chainsaws, but Florida Blown-Eye Guyk was kind enough to build this fool-proof, Hairboy-friendly “chainsaw,” which only a dooshbag would hurt themselves using:

You can’t buy this specially-built hardware in any old Wally World, so I thought it was particularly thoughtful of Guy, who always looks out for his friends, even if they are a Yankee.

This one wasn’t actually sent to me, but I figure since Suzette’s a Jersey Girl and we’ve been Alligator-Lite all week, who could resist posting “butter molded into the shape of twin alligators.”

Truly unique.

A whiles back, Leslie the Omnibabe sent me a Chicago Sun Times link, which I just checked and is now borked, but no worries since I found that the New York Times, socialist birdcage liner that it is, also had the same story (which originally ran in 1997). Are you ready for this? Howsabout we all celebrate national Be Nice To New Jersey Week:

This year, among the “suggested activities” Ms. Barnett proposes for the celebration, is a national apology to New Jersey. “If you have friends or relatives in New Jersey, call or write them to tell them how sorry you are for picking on their state,” she suggests. Those who don’t know anyone in New Jersey, she adds, can still atone by addressing their apologies to the Governor’s office at the State House in Trenton.

Bwahahahahahahahaha!!! Be nice to Jersey?? Good grief, and then where would that leave me? Out of blog fodder, that’s where! I’d lose my freakin’ street creds, ferchrissakes.

Well sweet kadiddles, I’ve milked this long enough. Time to say ‘Buh-Bye,’ — hopefully we could do this again real soon, but in your spare time, do find time to drop by this website…it’s one of my favorites and really brings the muse to life. And this website, too, since a year and many FAILs later, I am reminded once again why Craig is “The Nicest Guy in the Blogosphere.”

Later, peeps…it’s been real.

I’m told by The Joanster, who I see has embraced her inner Brooklyn by incorporating urban artistry into her vast repertoire (ah, brings back memories of seeing “Breakin’ II: Electric Boogaloo with my Mom at the Oceana Theater on Brighton Beach Avenue), that “nobody knows how to flog a dead horse better” than me.

Baby, I could flog live dinosaurs if I’m given just cause, and speaking of dinosaurs, how many of youse remember when Hairboy went on (and on…and on…and on) about New Jersey’s 127 miles of beautiful sandy beaches?

Well, gentle New Jerseyites…while all of New York’s pristine and sparkling beaches — including my beloved Coney Island — are slated to open this Saturday in time for the Memorial Day weekend, “munitions experts” are feverishly working to rid New Jersey’s 127-miles of sea and sand of “explosives” and “World War I-era military munitions that were pumped ashore during a beach-replenishment project last year.”

Peeps…did you read that closely? EXPLOSIVES! In the sand! Gee, that don’t sound like much fun.

I particularly delighted in this part: “People are banned from digging more than a foot into the sand and are not allowed to use metal detectors.”

Sorry kids…looks like you’re gonna hafta Wait Till Next Year (hmmm, I wonder where I’ve heard THAT before).

Oh, and in his comparative treaty about beaches, Hairboy admonishes to “Be watchful for floaters coming from Sheepshead Bay.” Ironic, that, since a reader just today inquired: “Elisson tells me you’re the expert on explaining Coney Island Whitefish. So, what’s the deal?”

Without going into too many deets, and trust me, I am no expert, here’s the dealie, my good man: Coney Island Whitefish are disgusting, revolting, abhorrent little floaters (the non-caca variety, iffen youse catch my drift) that have a tendency to find their way up the legs or down the groodies of ones swim trunks, or hanging over the bridge of ones nose when they come up for air after a dip in the waters.

And yes, the thought has occurred to me more than once that in order to bait unsuspecting and potential bennies and lure them to the promise of pristine Cape May beaches, only to make life utterly miserable for them once there, Jerseyites will embark upon covert operations to dump mass amounts of the secondhand little buggers into Brooklyn’s slightly less rank than Jersey’s waters.

Sabotage! I swear, I wouldn’t put anything past Jersey peeps.

So, to you Jerseyites planning to trek down to the beach this Memorial Day weekend, unless you want to have munitions experts also collect your detached extremities from a vast swath of polluted sand, I’d rethink those plans a little more carefully.

Mmmmmm-kay?

You know what I really love about The South, and I will venture to guess that our vacationing pal Jimbo feels much the same way: The peeps who live there. Plain and simple.

Southerners — at least all the ones I have met — are some of the gentlest, and most hospitable peeps around, some even going out of their way to concoct for you a refreshing, chilled, homemade glass of iced coffee (a Brooklyn staple), because it’s a thing that might not have been so readily available the Sonic or the rest of rural Tennessee. That meant a lot. In fact, best iced coffee I think I’ve ever had.

What particularly makes a weekend in The South so enjoyable is that time seems to move at a completely different pace. While the length of a New York Minute is about 1/20 the time of an actual minute, peeps in The South just seem to taaaaaaaake it niiiiiiiiiice and eaaaaaaaaassy. What’s the big rush anyways, right? Relaaaaaaaaax.

The short order meal, I’m almost certain, was conceived of in the Northeast, if not New York itself, to accommodate the bustling workforce in our vigorous metropolis, where peeps need to eat their egg and cheese on a Bialy “On-the-Go,” while dealing with the stuff like rush hour and alternate side of the street parking, which comprise the grind of daily life in The Big Apple.

And New Jerseyites? Well, they just stick a slab of greasy Taylor Ham (or whatever the farook that dreck, I mean Breakfast of Champions is called) on a roll and guzzle it down with some kawwwwfee in anticipation of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for three hours, whereas Southerners? They let their grits simmer on a low boil sometimes for as long as 45 minutes! Mmmmm-mmm. Just like Aunt Bea used to make. They ain’t in no rush.

And while the average Southern gentleman is only more than happy to sit down, crack open a Bud, and take all the time that is needed to enjoy a nice conversation (unless I am merely, and incorrectly, summoning a stereotype), your average New Jersey wiseguy, well…not so much. I’m guessing that’s where curt expressions such as “Ay,” “Yo!”, “Fuggheddaboudit,” and “Haya doin’?” — all showing little regard for lengthy answers — originated.

Almost makes you wonder what would happen should a nice farm boy — say Jerry Wiley, who divides his time between shoveling shit outta barns in Indiana, and doing God knows what Texas, for instance — were to walk into a bar in Jersey. It almost has the makings of an excellent joke: “A farm boy walks into a bar in Jersey…” In fact, why dontchouse just watch the video, instead:

Side-splitting, that.

Some of you may recall, Jimbo wrote a post a few weeks ago about a website he enjoyed called “YOUNGME – NOWME,” in which (in his own woids), “people submit a picture of themselves in their youth (often as small children) alongside a picture of themselves as they appear today, often striking the childhood same pose.” Clicking on the link, I noted in the comments on how I did not see a before and after photo of Hairboy, hisownself.

There’s a reason for that, which I’ll get to shortly, and it’s not because the camera hadn’t been invented yet (I’m sorry, but anyone who would say that, that’s just mean).

What many of you peeps do not know, probably because he’s such a private, non-boastful kinda guy, is that Hairboy, currently a lawyer, wasn’t always the big shot attorney youse know and love, and in his yoot had to do some pretty heinous things on the way up to be able to afford to put himself through law school. I gotta hand it to the guy, in spite of a very checkered past, he’s really made a name for himself.

While I wasn’t able to get my hands on any still photographs of Hairboy in his yoot, Wiseass Jooette Operatives (think: the Boris & Natasha to PRS Operative’s Rocky & Bullwinkle) was able to obtain raw video footage of a Geico™ “celebrity” commercial Hairboy was paid about $20 to make, back before he was more famously (in Jersey at least) known as “Jimbo” but went by the stagename “Sal Cucco.”

Note: Due to F-Bomb droppage, this video — which, for some reason, WP isn’t letting me embed — might possibly be NSFW, so watch with caution.

Undoubtedly, this brief stint on the telly-vision served as the future fodder that helped create such PRS classics as “The Deer and Da Joisey Guy.” I know many of you are wondering, though: “Yo, Wiseass Jooette…Jimbo keeps a mostly anonymous web presence, so most of us don’t even know what he farookin’ looks like. How are we gonna even recognize him?”

Well, dear PRS readers, wonder no more, for Wiseass Jooette Operatives also managed to procure a recent snapshot of the guy, and lemme tell youse, he was not impressed. Without further hesitation, I give you a candid photograph of the former Sal Cucco-turned-Jimbo…but nowadays everyone just calls him “Paulie Stindeens.”

Most impressive. Am I right? I tell ya, though…what I don’t understand is why someone with such Great Farookin’ Hair™ would want to hide this magnificent bouffant from the rest of the world.

T — New England blogger extraordinaire, and friend to both Hairboy (a.k.a. Jimbo) and the Wiseass Jooette — has an awesome post up at her site, which examines her drinking profile, her “alcohoroscope,” if you will. A snippet from T’s alcohoroscope:

“They can amaze you by conversing with finesse and allusion, then doing something to belie an extremely advanced state of intoxication, like puking in your shoe.”

*blink*

Anyhow, since Hairboy is giving his liver a bit of a workout in the Sunshine State (oh, boo farookin’ hoo, if you’re sucking wind tomorrow morning, dooshbag), I thought it would be oodles of fun to examine his alcohoroscope and, perhaps if there’s time, we can also take a look at mine and maybe even compare and contrast a little bit (What? Don’t tell me you were expecting a treatise on the Jersey Political Swamp while he’s away. Surely, youse dooshbags jest.)

Well, I’m seeing some serious FAIL! right off the bat. I don’t know much about Hugh Jackman, Sting, or Martina Navratilova (aside from the vocations they are obviously famous for), but I gotta be honest, I’m not so sure I feel entirely comfortable with Hairboy — a genuine Libra — having anything in common with “drinking buddies” Jimmah Kottah and Janeane Garofalo.

Let’s be honest, people…that’s just skuzzy, right there. And as for a Libra’s trademark cocktails:

Aesthetic Libras like pretty, pouffy drinks like a pink lady or a brandy Alexander. That’s the influence of Venus, their ruling planet, which also gives them a horror of crudely named potions like Sex on the Beach. They’re fine with “normal” guzzles like apple martinis, but every Libra secretly just wants Champagne, and lots of it.

Don’t tell me. He also lifts his pinky up when he takes delicate sips of Cosmopolitans or Bay Breezes at the Post on Sunday afternoons. I could just see fellow Usual Suspect, Paulie, drinking a manly “Bud” nearby, and recoiling from the Post’s “Bar Chairman” in horror. Personally, I think he uses the whole chocolate vodka thing as a diversionary tactic.

And then there’s the whole “Libras are notoriously lacking in self-control…which can get them into all sorts of trouble” thing. What kinds of trouble, you may ask. Well…I hate to bring up the past, but it seems our Jersey Laddie had a few too many Adult Beverages one night and confused the Laddie Loo with the Lassie Loo. Oh, I understand alright. We all make mistakes from time to time. No big whoop.

Obviously, our Hairboy has not been dealt an easy hand in life.

Myself, OTOH…I’m a Sag, tried and true, and so far it’s been smooth sailing for me:

Tactlessness aside (Ed. Whaddaya tawwwkin’ about, tactlessness??), Sagittarius is just plain fun to drink with. This is a sign of serious partying (what else would you expect from the sign of Sinatra, Keith Richards, the Bush twins and Anna Nicole Smith?). They’re the people who chat up everyone in the room, then persuade the entire crowd to travel somewhere else — like a nightclub, or a playground, or Cancun. Good-natured hijinks are sure to ensue.

Those are some punches I could definitely roll with. And “given how much Sag can put away and still stay vertical,” while I’m personally more partial to Black Russians, Chocolate Martinis, and “Vile Green Shit,” I’m downtown with giving Moscow Mules and Singapore Slings a shot (or five).

Now then, let’s compare and review, shall we?

The Wiseass Jooette: Good peeps from Brooklyn who is fun to drink with and says, “Hey, let’s all go to Cancun!,” accomplishable depending, of course, upon whether she can stay vertical long enough, or will instead require the more sober and able-bodied assistance of pal, T.

Hairboy: A dooshbag from Jersey who drinks froo-froo cocktails in girlie martini glasses with Jimmah Kottah, and then uses the lavatory with the clearly-indicated word “LASSIE” on the door. Illuminating information, that.

By the way, because I should make it a rule never to trust guys who fuss so over their hair, don’t be at all surprised when he comes back if this post gets deleted and I am never heard from again. All I ask is that a team be ready, with shovels and pickaxes, to extricate my possibly dismembered remains from beneath the bowels of the Meadowlands.

Additional H/T to LeeAnn, the Baby Wolf herownself, who, were the Queen lead singer actually alive, woulda had a chance to get blotto with Freddie Mercury.