Holiday Road: Southern Florida

You might know Debbie from such band camps as Usdan or such islands as Long.  Or you may not know her at all.  Regardless, Debbie sent in this sighting from the highways of Southern Florida, where she makes her home.

I don't know that this is blog worthy but I thought you'd laugh.  I was driving down the Florida Turnpike (or "Florida's Turnpike" as the sign says) on the way home from work the other day.  It was about 4:30 and I was driving north and had made it just north of Fort Lauderdale at this point.  

I glance out the window and find myself sidling up to an old Oldsmobile station wagon—you know, the kind with the wood panels but not the traditional "Woody," as they used to be called.  This was white metal halfway down then solid wood paneling the bottom half.  A very brief but shockingly productive bit of research would probably peg it as a '73 Vista Cruiser.  Far rounder than the Griswold's. 

More like this.

The car in question. Not this...

I turned on the radio to make sure there weren't any time warps in the area (which would be strange because time warps are usually on US1, not the Turnpike).  I'm singing "Holiday Road" as I pick up speed to get a closer look and see a sticker on the rear window which reads, "The Griswolds."  Wow.  Either it's really them filming some horrible Vacation spinoff or just some crazed fan.  I tried to catch a picture with my phone for your blog, but you know, the whole safe driving thing got in the way..... [ed: that's not my problem]

This is where the image of the care would have gone
had the author gone the extra mile to capture photographic evidence.

As to the family within in, alas there was only the driver. With a big handlebar mustache. Talking on his cellphone. All the windows were down. I'm assuming that was for lack of air conditioning as most people find it dificult to talk on a cell phone while going 70 mph in the rain while on a cell phone.  There were a whole bunch of era homages going on here:

• Handlebar mustache: 1920s or early 1970s
• Vista Cruiser: Early to mid 70s
• Cell phone: Anywhere from mid 90s to present

That's what really did it for me.  Guy with a 1920s mustache driving a 1970s car and speaking into a 2000s device.  The guy's crossing centuries.  I spend away because that can't be good.  That's how wormholes happen. 

The Driver (artist's rendition)

Another Day, Another Commute

Tuesday August 9

This message seems a little more aggressive than previous ones.


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Monday August 8th

Apparently there's a difference between traffic volume and regular volume.





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Location:W 42nd St,New York,United States

Rainy Days and Port Authority Always Get Me Down

Nice days (weather-wise) have been few and far between around these parts, with the forecasts ranging from ridiculous heat to biblical-type rainstorms.  The weather tends to be a good predictor for the kind of commute I'm going to have but common sense has gone out the window when some of my longer commutes have occurred on some of the hottest days.

It was raining a few afternoons ago and I braced for another of Port Authority's famous notices about the traffic.  But I surfaced from the subways to see this: 

Still, I was suspicious because the lines told a different story.  And then I found my line and, well, take a look for yourself.

The Daily Excuse—AM Edition

Information that could've been brought to my attention YESTERDAY A HALF HOUR AGO!!!!

Seen on the Streets

Bank window. 6th and Waverly, NYC.

Wander around any city and you're bound to find any number of...interesting signs.  This one seems to imply that people in wheelchairs are welcome, as long as they're not smoking or packing heat.  I'm surprised that in this day and age of political correctness, you can get away with singling out wheelchair-bound patrons like that.

Michael Collins—your intrepid photographer

London's West End vs New York's Broadway

Michael Collins—your intrepid author

Whilst in London last month (the reader will note that I’ve taken care to say ‘whilst’ instead of ‘while’ to give this opening sentence a bracing British flavour, and will further note that I’ve written ‘flavour’ instead of ‘flavor’ for a double shot of Englishness so potent as to make one wonder whether the author is in point of fact Stephen Fry writing under a pseudonym),  I took in a revival of Simon Gray’s play The Butley at the Duchess Theatre. The play, starring The Wire’s Dominic West, was a ruthless delight, bitterly funny and suddenly sad; but this isn’t a theater blog, is it? No; no, indeed. It’s a blog about travel. And here’s a tip for the traveler preparing to take in a play on London’s West End: you can bring your drink to your seat. And not just if you pay extra for one of those adult sippy cups offered for an extra fee at some Broadway theaters – any drink at all, at no additional charge. You can take in a pint of beer. You can take in a Pimm’s Cup. You can take in a glass of champagne. And people do – I’ve attended stock car races with fewer frat-house-style plastic cups of beer in view. Such enlightened liberality makes theater once again what it was originally meant to be: something diverting to watch while downing pint after pint of ale. The groundlings taking in the latest offering from that upstart crow Shakespeare at the Globe Theater across the Thames half a millennium ago with a turkey leg in one hand and a cup of mead had it right. Theatre is entertaining; theatre plus a pony keg is transcendent.