The Daily Riff.
Humor, Reviews, Sports Picks, and whatever else invades my mind.
A Senate hearing confused the Hawks with the Hawkeyes, and somehow nobody checked the bird before printing the poster board. El Charro, Ford’s working hawk, might be ready for a promotion.
An $80 motel room in North Carolina became a laboratory, complete with marsh water, bedside microscopes, and a toothbrush bristle glued to a colored pencil. The scientists found two new species that could help explain the origins of photosynthesis. I’m still wondering what the front desk thought was going on behind that “Do Not Disturb” sign. Plus, Monday’s picks autopsy and today’s four playoff picks.
Ford tried speakers and fake predator eyes to keep pigeons out of its Hermosillo factory. Then someone apparently asked, “What if we got the rest of the predator?” Meet El Charro, the Harris’s hawk patrolling the plant, frightening the pigeons, and making a strong case for Employee of the Month. Plus, the Sunday picks autopsy and tonight’s lone football pick.
I have a habit of taking control of an unattended bar jukebox. I listen for clues about what people want to hear, then play the song before they know I was paying attention.
Last night, that led to an impromptu Erykah Badu performance, followed by a Bee Gees duet with one of the regulars. I had the high part. I did not have every word, but those seemed like separate responsibilities.
Benihana says lobster is a “Flavor of Fall,” provided you put enough pumpkins and pinecones around it. Hidden Valley has made ranch dressing black for Halloween and put it in a glow-in-the-dark bottle. And today’s Tennessee–Texas game gives us the Ella Langley Bowl of Orange, reportedly attended by one more shade of orange. At this point, I’ll have the lobster—but I’d like someone to explain when it became autumn.
The other apartments had ordinary carpet lines. Then I opened one bedroom door and found a cleaner who had apparently decided the floor needed a composition. There’s always one employee who does too much. I met two yesterday: one at the Raising Cane’s drive-thru and one I now consider the Michelangelo of carpet.
I started watching Survivor behind my desk at Allstate Ticketing, on a little TV that required antenna origami. Fifty-one seasons later, Jeff Probst should be my emergency contact. The television is bigger now, but my toughest challenge is building enough of a buffer to escape the political commercials.
Bryan Ferry makes me want to dress better. Damien Rice makes me want to sit down and reconsider a look somebody gave me in 1998. A conversation about perfect opening tracks becomes an unscheduled emotional audit. Plus, a 2–2 autopsy, the Dodgers earning me bragging rights, and four fresh picks.
Warner Bros. gets a merger, journalism gets a supervision committee, and a company named after ketchup reminds Hollywood what movies are for. Somewhere, Wile E. Coyote is looking like the responsible businessman. Plus, an ugly 0–3 autopsy and four baseball picks we hope didn’t come from the Acme catalog.