Tropical depression

The flash and rumble of a rainstorm woke me at 5:00 AM. I shuffled into the living room and turned on the news, to see if there was a "named storm" brewing. That's important here in Florida because if the National Weather Service officially "names" a tropical storm, then your homeowner's insurance grinds into low gear. They'll only cover 80 percent of your losses, and you have to pay something like one and a half percent of your purchase price as a deductible. Or something usurious like that. There's nothing to be done about it by watching the news, of course, but at least you find out how much to worry.

Anyway, the weatherman didn't say anything about a named storm. He did, however, issue a tornado warning for my county and others. He said that he "wasn't trying to scare" me, but he wanted me "to take action". Such action, he noted, included hiding in a closet or under a bed! I wondered for a moment whether he meant I should actually stop watching his weathercast and leave the room, or just rest assured that he was concerned enough to offer the advice and thus prove that Channel 2 Action News is the caringest news organization in this one-ass town.

I did the only prudent thing; I went into denial about the tornado warning and punched up SportsCenter. I love football!

It's hot here.

Putting up Christmas decorations in Florida feels decidedly ridiculous. Although I did have to scrape frost off my windshield last "winter," it's just so damned balmy here that inflatable snowmen and polar bears and penguins seem as out of place as snowballs in hell, which figures. ("Florida--Like Hell, Only Hotter" reads the popular t-shirt.)

I went up to the attic to fetch the boxes full of seasonal stuff, and came back down looking like Harry Belafonte after the banana harvest. I was dripping. Then we started putting up stocking holders, snowman sculptures, reindeers, and the decorative fireplace screen. I love this stuff, but even when it's cold here, there is nothing remotely wintry about the great state of F.L.A.

I'll be spending Christmas and New Year's in Los Angeles, though...where the weather figures to be about the same. But at least on a clear day in SoCal, you can actually see snow-covered mountains from Redondo Beach. The only thing you can see from any beach in Florida is water and sand. In case you've never been here, it's flat as a flounder.

There's one born every minute.

The New York Dolls, or what's left of them, appeared on "Soundstage," which is the new "Don Kirshner's Rock Concert." To his credit, DJ was still slim, albeit a little creased, and long in the false tooth. The band sounded as good as they were supposed to, but it was weird seeing them on a high-tech stage with TV monitors all around. It was like they were a museum piece instead of a band with a new album out. Everything was too slick on stage and the camera angles came fast and furious. Well, hello? The band is supposed to be fast and furious! Which they were, so the camera work was totally superfluous and downright annoying. But then the band pulled the ultimate boner: they played "Personality Crisis" at much too fast a tempo. This is not uncommon with long-established bands playing their biggest--or only--hit. There's a tendency to rush through it, almost apologetically. But to make matters worse, DJ was laughing during it, as if to say "Hey, we're just doing this for a lark; I'm not taking this seriously." That's his prerogative, of course, and maybe I'm the pathetic one for expecting him to try to deliver a sincere performance. Maybe he was laughing because he knew he couldn't hit the high notes any more. But why would any performer purposely mock his own success? The only answer I can think of is that it was for the money--in which case, I'm the sucker for watching.