There are these things called "Darwin Awards." If you are not familiar, it is a collection of those things that don't necessarily prove the evolution of our species, or any other. Instead, they are a way of tracking just how effectively we can ignore our programming and progress to say and do incredibly stupid things. There are plenty of sub-categories in this wide-open competition, but so many of these individuals who are working so hard to prove that Darwin was wrong were doing so on a dare, or to do something "just like the movies," it's disappointing.
Sure, the argument could be made that a percentage of the folks who find themselves in the running for each year's top prize are doing their idiot best to make their name surge to that pinnacle of Al Gore's Internet fame. Or infamy. Oscar Wilde would have loved the message boards. The opportunity to rise above the general anonymity of the online world may be reward enough for some. To this end, I blame the brain trust behind "America's Funniest Videos," or as I prefer to call it, "America's Funniest Pending Litigation." You can hear the voices ringing out, "It should say on the label: Warning - wading pool not for use as parachute."
And then there's the Mythbusters, who may have been high-minded and careful to remind us at the beginning of each episode that these are trained experts and not to try anything they attempt at home, but the number of seed that were planted in tiny minds is probably impossible to comprehend. Not the least of which would be the cannonball Adam and Jamie sent through a house in Dublin, California. What we do because we didn't fully understand or prepare is the stuff that winds up on television. Or YouTube.
There is a whole corner of the virtual world set aside of massive fails. Video evidence of which makes for thousands, if not millions of views. There have always been crowds of teenage boys willing to sacrifice potential fatherhood for a chance to ride that perfect rail or launch themselves over their parents' house via some hyper-slip-and-slide. And there's always someone hanging just off to the side with a smartphone waiting for their buddy to look up as the dust or canola oil is settling and say, "Didja get that?"
Just below this barely defensible "we wouldn't put it on if there weren't people dumb enough to do it in the first place," there is the "we are making it easier for people to lower their expectations of themselves" response. Then there's this: Snapchat has a filter that shows how fast your phone is moving. It's all a part of the too-much-information world that gives you the opportunity to confound people with posts that say five hundred miles per hour when traveling cross country by jet after weeks of posting five miles an hour when running around the block. The borderline evil part of this is how it immediately turns into "how fast can I make my phone go?" Christal McGee's phone was going one hundred seven miles an hour when the accident occurred. The one in which she struck another car with her Mercedes, causing permanent brain damage in the driver of the other car. Brain damage may be discussed during the pending lawsuit against Snapchat and McGee for creating an environment where going fast wins you prizes. Not real prizes, mind you, but that instant gratification that only emojis can bring.
I suggest a different strategy, if you really want to find out how fast your phone can go, drop it out of a window. You can decide if you need to follow it.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Friday, April 29, 2016
What's On?
A few months back, I was straining my spine to pat myself on the back for the way I had managed my cable TV account. I had utilized my connection with the Customer Loyalty department to haggle my way back down to what I felt was a reasonable price for seven hundred channels, about a dozen of which I watch with any frequency. Or fidelity. I had grown accustomed to a certain amount of "premium" in my channel lineup, and I wanted to believe that I could find a way to afford Home Box Office, HBO to us insiders, and Showtime was the cherry that my friends at the Customer Loyalty department dropped on the top of this video sundae. I ate it up greedily until this past Sunday. That is when the HBO and Showtime dried up and went away.
As it turns out, somewhere in the midst of negotiations way back around Super Bowl L, the deal that was made turned out to be a three month conditional deal. Just a taste. To keep me on the line. Going Cold Turkey with my expanded cable lineup would be untenable after I had established viewing patterns and favorites. My son, and many others, would scoff at this notion, pointing out that all that programming that I am so desperate to have come pouring out of that coaxial cable in the wall is available through all manner of methods. The least of these would be an antennae that would allow me to get a great mass of airborne signals that I had been avoiding for more than twenty years. The idea of twisting rabbit ears and moving things around until the picture was not a scattered mass of pixels did not appeal to me, having recently suffered through this experience with my mother-in-law's entertainment center. I had taken it upon myself to free her of the bonds that shackled her to the cable company along with its attendant fees. Free at last, except for that whole mess about tuning in her favorite channels.
I am a child of the video explosion. The MTV generation wasn't exactly me, but I got it. Television that never went off came in handy for a college student, and when I found myself working in a video store, the deal was sealed. I couldn't just turn the thing off.
And so, last Sunday, when the HBO and Showtime stopped, I called my buddies at Customer Loyalty. They were oh-so-sympathetic, but the line where it said "limited time offer" was lost on me. I wanted to keep the deal I had. The nice man on the other end of the line told me that I was free to send comments to the Vice President in charge of Customer Relations, and so I did.
The phone rang an hour later. It wasn't the VP, but one of his underlings. Still, it was a step up the food chain from all that loyal customer smoke and mirrors. This was the real deal. I imagined that this call wasn't coming from that endless row of cubicles but rather from a nicely appointed office. A vase with fresh cut flowers at the corner of the desk. This is where I wanted to make my stand. The rhetoric I got was of a higher and less rehearsed caliber. This was a customer service professional. I was soothed and then told that I could look forward to a whole year of those shows and channels I had come to love. Then I would be free to renegotiate with a special note on my account that said I was due a half-price deal on all that TV that I barely have time enough to watch. When I hung up, I felt used, but happy. I had gone fifteen rounds with the champ. I had gone the distance.
When I came home the next day, I was getting HBO and Showtime. On the bedroom TV, but not in the living room.
Back to the phones.
As it turns out, somewhere in the midst of negotiations way back around Super Bowl L, the deal that was made turned out to be a three month conditional deal. Just a taste. To keep me on the line. Going Cold Turkey with my expanded cable lineup would be untenable after I had established viewing patterns and favorites. My son, and many others, would scoff at this notion, pointing out that all that programming that I am so desperate to have come pouring out of that coaxial cable in the wall is available through all manner of methods. The least of these would be an antennae that would allow me to get a great mass of airborne signals that I had been avoiding for more than twenty years. The idea of twisting rabbit ears and moving things around until the picture was not a scattered mass of pixels did not appeal to me, having recently suffered through this experience with my mother-in-law's entertainment center. I had taken it upon myself to free her of the bonds that shackled her to the cable company along with its attendant fees. Free at last, except for that whole mess about tuning in her favorite channels.
I am a child of the video explosion. The MTV generation wasn't exactly me, but I got it. Television that never went off came in handy for a college student, and when I found myself working in a video store, the deal was sealed. I couldn't just turn the thing off.
And so, last Sunday, when the HBO and Showtime stopped, I called my buddies at Customer Loyalty. They were oh-so-sympathetic, but the line where it said "limited time offer" was lost on me. I wanted to keep the deal I had. The nice man on the other end of the line told me that I was free to send comments to the Vice President in charge of Customer Relations, and so I did.
The phone rang an hour later. It wasn't the VP, but one of his underlings. Still, it was a step up the food chain from all that loyal customer smoke and mirrors. This was the real deal. I imagined that this call wasn't coming from that endless row of cubicles but rather from a nicely appointed office. A vase with fresh cut flowers at the corner of the desk. This is where I wanted to make my stand. The rhetoric I got was of a higher and less rehearsed caliber. This was a customer service professional. I was soothed and then told that I could look forward to a whole year of those shows and channels I had come to love. Then I would be free to renegotiate with a special note on my account that said I was due a half-price deal on all that TV that I barely have time enough to watch. When I hung up, I felt used, but happy. I had gone fifteen rounds with the champ. I had gone the distance.
When I came home the next day, I was getting HBO and Showtime. On the bedroom TV, but not in the living room.
Back to the phones.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Pick Your Path
Maybe you really do have to be a rocket scientist to avoid some of the most common pitfalls in our American society. As Ben Carson has recently exhibited, being a brain surgeon may not have enough attendant brilliance to keep one from embarrassing oneself in public. The good doctor took all that education and mixed it up with his street cred and hoped to push himself out into the raging torrent that was the Republican Presidential field. He probably should have brought a paddle. That his campaign lasted into March certainly makes him more credible than non-brain surgeon Jeb Bush, but maybe a deep understanding of the mechanics of what goes on inside our skulls isn't what really matters to the race for the White House. It could be all about the Benjamins. Not the Benjamin Carsons. And you might think that a brain surgeon might have the kind of money that could be thrown around in some sort of concerted effort to become president, but those kind of dollars are found more regularly in the war chests of tiny-handed real estate moguls and cuckolded former Secretaries of State.
So what good is being a brain surgeon if you can't get elected President? That could be the reason Jethro Bodine chose to give up that particular career path to pursue his dream of being a double-naught spy. If your uncle is a billionaire oil tycoon, you can have your pick of what is out there, and running for President was pretty far down the line for the Clampett nephew. It could be that there is some sort of corollary to the "those who can't do teach" rule that suggests that those in the most desperate need of brain surgery become brain surgeons.
Take for example fourth year neurology resident Anjali Ramkissoon. She of the viral video shot back in January showing her assaulting an Uber driver in Miami. Doctor Ramkissoon made a scene for the pervasive camera phones as she screeched and tossed things around until the police showed up. The driver chose not to press charges, but the damage was done by the viral video: the doctor is no longer "in." The local hospital will no longer be requiring her services.
Maybe she could get some work as a medical consultant for the Trump campaign. She'd fit right in.
So what good is being a brain surgeon if you can't get elected President? That could be the reason Jethro Bodine chose to give up that particular career path to pursue his dream of being a double-naught spy. If your uncle is a billionaire oil tycoon, you can have your pick of what is out there, and running for President was pretty far down the line for the Clampett nephew. It could be that there is some sort of corollary to the "those who can't do teach" rule that suggests that those in the most desperate need of brain surgery become brain surgeons.
Take for example fourth year neurology resident Anjali Ramkissoon. She of the viral video shot back in January showing her assaulting an Uber driver in Miami. Doctor Ramkissoon made a scene for the pervasive camera phones as she screeched and tossed things around until the police showed up. The driver chose not to press charges, but the damage was done by the viral video: the doctor is no longer "in." The local hospital will no longer be requiring her services.
Maybe she could get some work as a medical consultant for the Trump campaign. She'd fit right in.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
What Goes Up
Back when our wars were less hot, and the concepts with which we found ourselves at odds were at odds were not drugs or Christmas, or even terror, I was terrified. I was terrified of the Cold War. For my entire youth, I lived in constant fear of The Button. The Button that would bring about Armageddon. End of Days. I was pretty sure that it was only a matter of time before someone lost their temper or reason or both and the missiles would be launched. I was in elementary school when I learned about Mutually Assured Destruction. The idea that there were enough bombs to melt the citizens of Soviet Russia and the United States along with a good deal of the rest of the planet's population creeped me out as much as any movie about giant insects crushing cities and the people in them. Of course, those giant insects were generated via some sort of nuclear explosion or "accident." Those big bugs were generally subdued in with the same big booms that brought them on in the first place.
I didn't expect that when the bombs started falling that they would be in the service of destroying a giant mantis or tarantula. I was pretty sure that all of that defense would turn into offense and the way a nuclear war could be won was pretty simple: the vaporization of the other country. That's why I finally decided to take some solace in my proximity to Cheyenne Mountain. For those of you who grow up at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, that's where the North American Aerospace Defense Command had their bunker dug to keep the bombs away. It was a big hole in a big mountain, but I had an idea that it wouldn't matter once all the silos had been emptied by both sides. I had pretty much decided by the time I was sixteen that, given the time, I would just as soon drive down to Colorado Springs and hang out there waving for a fair catch when the fire dropped from the sky.
These days, NORAD and their Space Command buddies aren't as concerned with watching for missiles coming up over the polar ice caps or running scenarios that come under the heading of "limited nuclear exchange." They are now more interested in tracking aircraft that have gone off course, that kind of thing. Missiles aren't the worry they used to be.
Neither are giant mantises.
I didn't expect that when the bombs started falling that they would be in the service of destroying a giant mantis or tarantula. I was pretty sure that all of that defense would turn into offense and the way a nuclear war could be won was pretty simple: the vaporization of the other country. That's why I finally decided to take some solace in my proximity to Cheyenne Mountain. For those of you who grow up at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, that's where the North American Aerospace Defense Command had their bunker dug to keep the bombs away. It was a big hole in a big mountain, but I had an idea that it wouldn't matter once all the silos had been emptied by both sides. I had pretty much decided by the time I was sixteen that, given the time, I would just as soon drive down to Colorado Springs and hang out there waving for a fair catch when the fire dropped from the sky.
These days, NORAD and their Space Command buddies aren't as concerned with watching for missiles coming up over the polar ice caps or running scenarios that come under the heading of "limited nuclear exchange." They are now more interested in tracking aircraft that have gone off course, that kind of thing. Missiles aren't the worry they used to be.
Neither are giant mantises.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Science Guy
I don't follow a lot of people on Twitter. That would require that I pay more attention to Twitter. I'm pretty good for a once-a-day peek at the tweets of those whom I continue to find fascinating, or at least worth a look at once all the important business of the day has been done. The business that is transacted with more than one hundred forty characters. When I'm done doing all that high-minded, verbose stuff, I take a moment to catch up on all the twittering, and the place I find myself most often is the account of one Neil deGrasse Tyson. You might know Neil from his frequent appearances on The Daily Show, That was back when that old guy Jon Stewart was hosting. I don't follow Jon Stewart on Twitter. He has a great big bag of degrees and it is doubtful that, in spite of all the all the fun TV appearances and glib one-liners about our place in the universe that Sarah Palin might suggest that she was as much a scientist as Doctor deGrasse Tyson. Ms. Palin, who has said plenty of which got my dander up, never said anything that made me doubt my own existence.
Doctor deGrasse Tyson did. It didn't come to me in a tweet. It wasn't a nice compact thought like, "The elevation difference between the Marianas Trench & Mount Everest’s summit is a mere twelve miles. Manhattan is a mile longer." These are the "oh wow" moments that I can take. The "that's kind of interesting" stuff that impresses in daily conversation. Factoids about our planet and its place in the universe that are just thought-provoking enough to remember them. This one, wasn't a tweet. It was a position held by my friend the doctor at the 2016 Isaac Asimov Memorial Debate. As to the question, "Is the universe a simulation?" Neil deGrasse Tyson took up for the affirmative. Sure, he says, it would be difficult to prove but he felt the likelihood of such a thing being true "may be very high."
Well, okay then. The words you are reading right now may just be the figment of somebody or something's imagination. We aren't stardust. We aren't golden. We aren't even billion year old carbon. Getting back to the garden won't be necessary because that garden is only real in the story of the creation of the universe that turns out to be a simulation in the first place. We haven't figured out how to simulate an entire universe. Not yet, but a very clever creature with plenty of spare time.
Maybe I should be following that creature with a great imagination on Twitter. But does that mean that Twitter isn't real?
You can just rock me to sleep tonight.
Doctor deGrasse Tyson did. It didn't come to me in a tweet. It wasn't a nice compact thought like, "The elevation difference between the Marianas Trench & Mount Everest’s summit is a mere twelve miles. Manhattan is a mile longer." These are the "oh wow" moments that I can take. The "that's kind of interesting" stuff that impresses in daily conversation. Factoids about our planet and its place in the universe that are just thought-provoking enough to remember them. This one, wasn't a tweet. It was a position held by my friend the doctor at the 2016 Isaac Asimov Memorial Debate. As to the question, "Is the universe a simulation?" Neil deGrasse Tyson took up for the affirmative. Sure, he says, it would be difficult to prove but he felt the likelihood of such a thing being true "may be very high."
Well, okay then. The words you are reading right now may just be the figment of somebody or something's imagination. We aren't stardust. We aren't golden. We aren't even billion year old carbon. Getting back to the garden won't be necessary because that garden is only real in the story of the creation of the universe that turns out to be a simulation in the first place. We haven't figured out how to simulate an entire universe. Not yet, but a very clever creature with plenty of spare time.
Maybe I should be following that creature with a great imagination on Twitter. But does that mean that Twitter isn't real?
You can just rock me to sleep tonight.
Monday, April 25, 2016
Not The Blues - The Purples
"Life is just a party, and a party wasn't meant to last." That's one of the challenges that comes with using words for your living. Prince was not a fatalist. Hedonist, maybe, but when you start to listen the words a path emerges.
But before we go too deeply into that, I should make this confession: I bought just two Prince CDs in my life. The rest of the Prince music that came into my life came as gifts and fortune. Good and otherwise. I bought 1999 from the bargain bin. Five dollars and ninety-nine cents. I had the triple disc hits and B-sides offered up to me by my brother-in-law as he converted his music collection to the cloud. The other CD of Prince tunes I owned was the Batman soundtrack. I confess that it was purchased more out of a sense of obligation to my Batmania than Prince fandom, but it was always a nice piece of purple obscurity to work into the mix.
The rest of the Prince pieces I enjoyed came to me via my buddy Darren. My college roommate and Okie from Muskogee was a Paisley Park aficionado. He was the guy who bought the first album. He didn't wait for the hits to be unveiled. He went out and tracked them down. He went to see Purple Rain on its opening weekend. He bought records by Morris Day and the Time and Appoloania. I lived with that record collection, and I confess that there were times when the steady stream of Minneapolis scene wore on me. It did until the PMRC started poking around Prince's music. My buddy Darren, besides being a Prince fanatic, was a proud and sometimes conflicted Baptist. What he told me was that he respected his idol's faith. All that dirty stuff that was being cherry-picked by senators wives was just the tip of a much more profound and thoughtful iceberg. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Prince couldn't be bothered to testify in front of Congress. He just kept on making music. Some of it was self-obsessed and nearly inaccessible, but even the forgotten bits you can dance to.
It's a shame my buddy Darren didn't live long enough to see Prince perform the halftime show at the Super Bowl. The sky opened up during Purple Rain, but it didn't dampen the spirits of the millions watching. Nor did it quell the fire burning from that guitar. It was magic. It was amazing. It was Prince.
Now Prince is gone too. Hard to imagine that such a force could be missing, but that seems to be the sad trend these days. So much loss, and still so many ears that haven't heard that sound. Here's something else the artist formerly known as Prince had to say:
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word, life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time. But I'm here to tell you there's something else - the afterworld. A world of never-ending happiness. You can always see the sun, day or night. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one, Dr. Everything'll-Be-All-right, instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby. 'Cause in this life, things are much harder than in the afterworld. This life you're on your own. And if de-elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy - punch a higher floor."
Aloha, Prince, danced across the Terra and you will be missed.
But before we go too deeply into that, I should make this confession: I bought just two Prince CDs in my life. The rest of the Prince music that came into my life came as gifts and fortune. Good and otherwise. I bought 1999 from the bargain bin. Five dollars and ninety-nine cents. I had the triple disc hits and B-sides offered up to me by my brother-in-law as he converted his music collection to the cloud. The other CD of Prince tunes I owned was the Batman soundtrack. I confess that it was purchased more out of a sense of obligation to my Batmania than Prince fandom, but it was always a nice piece of purple obscurity to work into the mix.
The rest of the Prince pieces I enjoyed came to me via my buddy Darren. My college roommate and Okie from Muskogee was a Paisley Park aficionado. He was the guy who bought the first album. He didn't wait for the hits to be unveiled. He went out and tracked them down. He went to see Purple Rain on its opening weekend. He bought records by Morris Day and the Time and Appoloania. I lived with that record collection, and I confess that there were times when the steady stream of Minneapolis scene wore on me. It did until the PMRC started poking around Prince's music. My buddy Darren, besides being a Prince fanatic, was a proud and sometimes conflicted Baptist. What he told me was that he respected his idol's faith. All that dirty stuff that was being cherry-picked by senators wives was just the tip of a much more profound and thoughtful iceberg. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Prince couldn't be bothered to testify in front of Congress. He just kept on making music. Some of it was self-obsessed and nearly inaccessible, but even the forgotten bits you can dance to.
It's a shame my buddy Darren didn't live long enough to see Prince perform the halftime show at the Super Bowl. The sky opened up during Purple Rain, but it didn't dampen the spirits of the millions watching. Nor did it quell the fire burning from that guitar. It was magic. It was amazing. It was Prince.
Now Prince is gone too. Hard to imagine that such a force could be missing, but that seems to be the sad trend these days. So much loss, and still so many ears that haven't heard that sound. Here's something else the artist formerly known as Prince had to say:
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word, life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time. But I'm here to tell you there's something else - the afterworld. A world of never-ending happiness. You can always see the sun, day or night. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one, Dr. Everything'll-Be-All-right, instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby. 'Cause in this life, things are much harder than in the afterworld. This life you're on your own. And if de-elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy - punch a higher floor."
Aloha, Prince, danced across the Terra and you will be missed.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
No Parking On The Dance Floor
Zero tolerance for parking violations. It's an easy enough stand to take, especially when the parking ticket isn't under sticking out from under your windshield wiper. Then you have to consider the way some of those signs are unclear: No parking the first and third Wednesdays of every month. This requires a working knowledge of a calendar and the date, which for many who have spent hours circling the block until desperation has set in and the only spot on a curb within a mile of your intended destination. All of that frustration wells up and becomes the cloud in front of your reason. It becomes that little voice that tells you that even numbered months allow you to park on the sidewalk on top of a fire hydrant.
Then there's that whole "speed limit" thing. What exactly are the parameters? If I can drive a stretch of road doing one hundred twenty miles an hour on two wheels, that would seem to be the limit. That's the Autobahn way. Fiery crashes tend to set their own limits. Here in America, we prefer to keep ourselves in check with that more mild reserve: posted miles per hour, signs with the suggested safe speed. Not that there are plenty of drivers and vehicles which are unsafe at any speed, but it creates another version of that reckoning we have with parking. How fast can I go before someone recognizes that I am going fast? How fast can I go before I reach that magic number that sets off all the alarms and dispatches a dozen patrol cars to bring me to justice? There's a whole branch of mathematics devoted to calculating how many miles above the speed limit one can travel before the bubble lights show up in your rear view mirror. I had been told that four miles above the legal limit would be safe. Later I was informed that radar was only accurate withing nine. This was around the time when I was told that the idea of speed being checked by aircraft was a silly thing. The bottom line is this: The posted speed is the law. Give or take, depending on the weather and the prevailing conditions. And excuses: "I was trying to get away from the cops."
Some laws aren't as easily enforced. Like the no-refills statute at your favorite fast food restaurant. Be careful in Arkansas. As suspect ordered water at the drive-thru window at a Springdale McDonald's. He then went inside and poured soda into the alleged water cup. His accomplices followed suit. The manager ordered them to drop the purloined pop, the two passengers complied. The driver of the car took his soda and ran, hopping into his car with his buddies and racing off into the night. Police later apprehended the youth at a nearby bowling alley where eighteen-year-old Cody Morris will face felony charges.
My guess is that he was probably parked on the wrong side of the street, too.
Then there's that whole "speed limit" thing. What exactly are the parameters? If I can drive a stretch of road doing one hundred twenty miles an hour on two wheels, that would seem to be the limit. That's the Autobahn way. Fiery crashes tend to set their own limits. Here in America, we prefer to keep ourselves in check with that more mild reserve: posted miles per hour, signs with the suggested safe speed. Not that there are plenty of drivers and vehicles which are unsafe at any speed, but it creates another version of that reckoning we have with parking. How fast can I go before someone recognizes that I am going fast? How fast can I go before I reach that magic number that sets off all the alarms and dispatches a dozen patrol cars to bring me to justice? There's a whole branch of mathematics devoted to calculating how many miles above the speed limit one can travel before the bubble lights show up in your rear view mirror. I had been told that four miles above the legal limit would be safe. Later I was informed that radar was only accurate withing nine. This was around the time when I was told that the idea of speed being checked by aircraft was a silly thing. The bottom line is this: The posted speed is the law. Give or take, depending on the weather and the prevailing conditions. And excuses: "I was trying to get away from the cops."
Some laws aren't as easily enforced. Like the no-refills statute at your favorite fast food restaurant. Be careful in Arkansas. As suspect ordered water at the drive-thru window at a Springdale McDonald's. He then went inside and poured soda into the alleged water cup. His accomplices followed suit. The manager ordered them to drop the purloined pop, the two passengers complied. The driver of the car took his soda and ran, hopping into his car with his buddies and racing off into the night. Police later apprehended the youth at a nearby bowling alley where eighteen-year-old Cody Morris will face felony charges.
My guess is that he was probably parked on the wrong side of the street, too.
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