Halloween. Oct. 31. Period.

It seems some people just aren’t happy if they aren’t meddling in everyone’s affairs.

The latest case is a group of parent who supposedly brought pressure on the Okaloosa (Florida) County Sheriff’s Department to declare that Halloween would be celebrated in Okaloosa County on Oct. 30 this year.

According to an editorial in the Northwest Florida Daily News, Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department spokesperson Michele Nicholson said it would be better to have trick or treating on Saturday instead of Sunday because Sunday is a school night.

Go ahead, snicker. No, just laugh out loud at the absurdity of that reasoning.

Does Ms. Nicholson not realize that five nights of the week are school nights? By this reasoning (and I use that term loosely) five of every seven years the good sheriff should step in and declare the traditional day of Oct. 31 not Halloween, then pick a suitable Friday or Saturday.

Leave the parents and their kids alone you meddling do-gooders. You too, sheriff.

If parents don’t want their kids out trick or treating on Sunday night, it should be their decision. If they do, then we have to trust they will have them back inside and in bed at a reasonable hour so they are rested for school on Monday.

Frankly, such decisions are none of anyone else’s business. Of course, these are probably the same nosey neighbors that want to tell everyone what color Christmas lights they should display, what times their trash cans should be retrieved from the curb, and what books the library should carry (or not).

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I told you so!…in my head

Though I very rarely succumb to the temptation to blurt out “I told you so” to anyone (whether they deserve it or not), sometimes turning away from the bait can be a tough mental struggle.

On occasion the universe aligns so perfectly that the provocation for such proclamation seems, well, necessary. Demanded, even.

Yet I resist.

Sometimes karma just bubbles up with such a deep-seeded truth that I want to stand on a hilltop and shout, “I told you so!” Of course, the recipient of my smug decree would be shrinking into a sniveling, pitiful heap at the bottom of the hill.

Yet I resist.

Why do I resist 99.9999999654 percent of the time?

It’s rude. It’s gloating. It’s reprehensible.

But doggone, if it’s not tempting!

So I ask dear reader. Is there ever a time to boast in such a manner…either publicly or privately?

Leave your comments and share!

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If I never again…it’ll be too soon

If I never see another photograph of a water drop…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again hear the song “Fireflies”…it’ll be too soon.

If I never see another BK commercial with the creepy Burger King character…it’ll be too soon.

If I never see another N.Y. Yankees Facebook page suggestion…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again taste brussel sprouts or smell them cooking…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again smell Polo cologne…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again have hickory trees in my yard…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again live in a place where the humidity percentages are consistently higher than the rain chances…it’ll be too soon.

If I never receive another email from Umbiqua Denarielieas, Esq. wanting to deposit “the U.S. sum of $14,000,000 dollars U.S.” in my banking account…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again experience the insane itch that comes with a mosquito bite…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again hear the name “Snookie”…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again sit through a PowerPoint presentation and have each slide read to me…it’ll be too soon.

If I never again see anyone texting while driving…it’ll be too soon!

What would you add to the list? Put those in the comments section.

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Look like you belong at the beach, not in a bad-beach-fashion blog

This blog began as just beach fashion tips for the guys and gals. But as I began writing the fashion tips for the ladies, I realized that the likelihood of offending someone was quite high. I can handle the guys being hacked, but the scorn of a woman is never to be invited.

So I stuck with some basic rules just for us guys. Rules of conduct are at the end.

-          A bikini-bottom Speedo is never, ever a good idea. No matter what kind of shape you’re in, a bikini doesn’t work. It tells the world that (1) you’re a narcissist, (2) you don’t own a mirror, or (3) you’re blind.

-          The louder the print on your swim trunks, the younger you should be.

-          Board shorts are for guys with boards. Young guys. With surf boards.

-          A Gilligan hat doesn’t look good. On anybody. On any head.

-          Wearing your baseball-style cap backwards does not make you look cool. It makes you look like you’re trying to be cool…and it doesn’t work. Turn it around or take it off.

-          A bared chest sporting chains and chains of bling doesn’t make you look hip. It makes you look like a wannabe pimp or gangster. And a stupid one at that.

-          Cutoff t-shirts went out with tear-away jerseys.

-          If your boobs are bigger than those of any female on the beach, do everyone a favor and grab a shirt.

-          For heaven’s sake, if you must grab your wife/girlfriend/mother’s flip flops to wear, have the decency not to take the pink/silver/flowered ones. I shouldn’t have to explain why.

-          John Lennon-style tiny round sunglasses make you look misplaced. As in misplaced from the 60s. And besides, they do your eyes no good, no matter how dark.

-          Cut-off jeans went out with….ummmm…1973?

-          Keep your sunglasses up over your eyes, not down on the end of your nose or on top of your head. They disguise your roaming eyes. You’ll stay out of trouble as long as you just move your eyeballs and not your head. (See Corona commercials.)

-          If you insist on bringing your football, baseball, Frisbee or other throwing implements to the beach, have an arm and some skills. Otherwise, listen for the snickers.

-          Whistling at girls is way uncool, no matter how attractive they may be. Look if you must – and you must – and do so behind your sunglasses.

-          If you insist on taking your camera to the beach and trying to grab shots of the pretty ladies, be prepared for a middle-finger salute and be man enough to not get riled up about it. After all, you’re the perv.

-          If you’re heading to the water line with your wife/girlfriend/mother, carry the bulk of the load. Don’t grab your towel and beverage and leave the chairs and cooler for her. That’s just being an ass.

-          If red flags are flying, stay out of the water. As cool as you might be, dead is much colder and not near as macho.

Feel free to add more tips in the comments section. What have I missed in the 28 minutes it took to pen these?

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One week later, Coast Guard regs still make no sense

(NOTE: This blog posts appears both here, and on my other blog, “Journalism, Because It Matters.”)

A week ago today, the U.S. Coast Guard put into place new regulations designed to keep the public from coming within 65 feet of any response vessels or booms on the water or on beaches. And when you read ‘public,’ know that also means reporters and news photographers covering the Deepwater Horizon oil spill.

For the general public such guidelines may not seem like much of a big deal. Sixty-five feet? Oh that’s not far. No big deal. You journalists can still do your job.

Wrong. It is a big deal. And no, at 65 feet journalists cannot do the job the general public expects and demands.

As it stands, most booms are rigged at least 40 feet outside whatever they are trying to protect. Under the new guidelines, which the USCG calls a “safety zone,” anyone penetrating the perimeter could be fined up to $40,000 and have a Class D felony on their record. That’s a pretty stiff penalty for a journalist just trying to do his or her job.

A press release from Unified Command attempts to justify the action with this statement: “The safety zone has been put in place to protect members of the response effort, the installation and maintenance of oil containment boom, the operation of response equipment and protection of the environment by limiting access to and through deployed protective boom.”

If any of those processes had been impeded by the public or media, there would be less outcry over these rules. But no members of the response effort have been put in danger by the public or media. Neither the public nor media have interfered with the installation or maintenance of any boom. To the contrary, members of the general public have asked to assist in boom deployment.

The restrictions place photojournalists at a particular disadvantage as they continue to try to visually tell the story of the oil gusher’s harm. Imagine trying to photograph an oiled bird from 105 feet away, the absolute closest a shooter could get under ideal conditions. A photo with any impact will not be taken from that distance.

Imagine trying to tell the story of what a shoreline or marsh grass line looks like from 105 feet away. You can’t, because you can’t see the extent of the damage.

The government is limiting the public’s access to the most-impacted areas. More importantly — and more frightening — is the fact that the restrictions severely limit the media’s ability to tell this story that will continue for weeks, months and years ahead.

All of this plays out under the guise of safety. At one press conference, Coast Guard Adm. Thad Allen, the national incident commander for the oil spill, said the rules were also for the protections of the public and the media.

What Adm. Allen fails to realize is that most journalists accept a certain amount of risks in their jobs. We cover incidents and situations far more dangerous than an oil-soaked marsh every day. Fires, armed standoffs and hurricanes all have an exponentially higher degree of danger than anything associated with this crisis since the explosion that started it all.

While most local governments will fall in lockstep — mostly just to avoid confrontation or to maintain good relations — with the USCG on this issue, Plaquemines (La.) Parish President Billy Nungesser is not one to suck up to anyone, nor mince any words.

Nungesser is quoted on nola.com as telling a group of journalists, “I think somebody came up with a good reason of how to justify keeping the press away. But guess what? That isn’t gonna keep us away. Anytime you all want, you all can come in there wherever we go, on our boats.”

He believes it remains important that the media have reasonably unrestrained clearance to continue to tell this important story.

I and countless others fail to understand these new regulations. Instead of helping anything, they  severely hinder the media’s ability to do its job and keep the public informed.

This is not pretty work for journalists. They’re covering a catastrophe already taking its toll on countless thousands of people, including the reporters and photographers themselves.

But it’s their job. And for some odd, sometimes inexplicable reason, they love what they do. They excel, when they are allowed to do so, in the toughest of circumstances.

Remove the restrictions, Adm. Allen. You have that power. Allow all of the story of this disaster to be told. As CNN’s Anderson Cooper reminds you and BP every night, the media is not the enemy. I will add, “unless you make it so. It’s your decision.”

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Ignorance is bliss…and she was doing a happy dance

When I go to the beach – luckily just a seven-minute drive away – the plan usually is made up of one or more of the following activities: Catch some rays, people watch/listen, swim, walk the shoreline, read, or maybe strike up a conversation with someone else there. The last one occurs less frequently, but it does happen.

Without doubt the people watching/listening always proves the most entertaining, and occasionally annoying.

Yesterday Ms. Annoying – who happened to be a local, a fact she professed loudly and repeatedly – and two friends obviously from out of town set up camp about 10 yards from what was, until they arrived, my little piece of beach heaven. Flying gulls cried into the warm breeze. Laughter from dozens of children painted a huge smile over a perfect day. A group of males from 10 to 60 built a monstrous sandcastle complete with a moat.

Then she arrived, mouth surely running long before she was in earshot of the beaches of South Walton, spewing ignorance for all to hear.

The unfortunate part is that most who could hear – and God knows anyone within 50 yards couldn’t help but hear – probably had no idea how unenlightened she was. After all, she gushed with thunderous, robust authority on all things oil spill related.

And that is my beef.

Had she raved about or berated the latest bestseller she’d have been only mildly less annoying, but far less damaging.

But her repeated pronouncements of “I live here, so I know,” all either preceded by, or followed by, pure ignorance was like pouring poison on the surrounding visitors. You could see them questioning themselves for even being on the beach.

Unfortunately I don’t carry a pen and notebook on my beach jaunts. So I didn’t manage to capture all the venom from Ms. Annoying. But here is a sampling of her complete disregard for the truth:

  • Upon seeing a child with a tiny – maybe dime-size – tar ball on the bottom of her foot, she declared, “If those parents don’t get that mess off that child within 15 minutes, she’ll be sick before the day’s over.” What?!? The chances of a single tar ball making someone sick rests comfortably somewhere just south of nil.
  • “We need skimmers right out there right now,” she announced, pointing toward the Gulf of Mexico. “They need to be just the other side of the sand bar!” No, they don’t. Right now, skimmers need to be on the leading edge of the oil to prevent it from getting that close.
  • As a jumbo military plane flew fairly low and slow just off the beach, she pointed and exclaimed, “See that stuff coming out of the engines?!? That’s that coaxial dispergent (I swear, that’s what she said) that kills everything it touches on contact!” First, the faint ‘stuff coming out of the engines’ was exhaust. It’s common on the big props. Second, her mistaken identification was referring to Corexit, a dispersant. Third, even if she’d correctly identified the dispersant that wasn’t coming from the plane, it still doesn’t kill everything it touches. Nasty? Yes. Should it be banned? I’d agree, yes. Kill everything it touches on contact? No. Where did she get that?
  • “The oil in the bay…” I tuned out the rest of that statement. There is no oil in the bay. Hasn’t been any oil in the bay.
  • Upon hearing a young lady say the water was nice and cool, our resident know-it-all informed her quite matter-of-factly that it’s usually warmer, “But the oil is cooling it.” What the….?!?!? Surely one of the all-time dumbest things ever proclaimed.

There was more…much, much more.

I couldn’t stand it. I left. I’m sure a blood pressure check at that moment would have put me somewhere in the neighborhood of a personal medical disaster.

This blog post should have been written yesterday. But the truth is I don’t believe I could have written it rationally.

People like Ms. Annoying are dangerous to the public conversation surrounding the oil spill. And they are dangerous to the local, struggling economy.

She wallowed in her ignorance. Had she done so privately there would have been no need to cry foul. But she put down a soapbox in front of an unwitting audience. No matter her ego, it was just stupidly negligent.

My only hope is that those within earshot were smart enough to recognize just how much she relished her senseless declarations, and then discarded them when they left what was otherwise a perfect beach day.

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Hands Across the Sand: Movement’s soul lives in hearts of supporters

Hands Across the Sand is a movement made of people of all walks of life and crosses political affiliations. This movement is not about politics; it is about protection of our coastal economies, oceans, marine wildlife, and fishing industry.  Let us share our knowledge, energies and passion for protecting all of the above from the devastating effects of oil drilling.”

That statement of purpose for Hands Across the Sand comes directly from the movement’s website.

On June 26th, hundreds of people gathered on the beach in Seaside, Fla., for their event with movement founder Dave Rauschkolb in the middle of it all. Though more than 900 HAS events occurred across the globe, I call this the campaign’s Soul Center. Seaside is where Rauschkolb conceived the idea for HAS, and it is from here that it has spread — in a relatively short time — to gain attention and support worldwide.

Under a dazzling, bright sun and on hot, fine, oil-free sand, the army of supporters began assembling in earnest just after 11:30 a.m. local time. By noon, what some thought might be a slim crowd stretched for hundreds of yards just off the water’s edge.

The line wasn’t straight. Instead it followed the contour of the shoreline, precisely as it should have.

Locals were joined by visitors. Some chatted with old friends. New friends were made, too.

Some stood hand in hand and in silence, breathing in the salt air, listening to the gentle crash of the waves, scanning the day’s perfect water as so-called vessels of opportunity patrolled the Gulf of Mexico as far as the eye could see.

Some heads bowed. Some eyes closed. Some in prayer. Some in respect. Some remembering.

Some cried silent tears.

At 12:15 p.m., just as scheduled, the line broke and spontaneous applause erupted up and down the line. Smiles spread with the thunder of the clapping. Hugs were exchanged. Old and new friends shook hands.

And the mass that was one broke into families, groups of friends, and individuals who went their separate ways.

Those of us who stood in that heat, on that beach, for that 15 minutes, know the physical connection of that line might have splintered at 12:15, but the soul of that line lives.

It lives for a cause.

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All photos are the property of Eric (Rick) Thomason and may not be used or reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the owner.

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