As my Blogstream profile indicates, I picked up a journalism degree back in the Last Century at a place called The University of Florida.
Perhaps you've heard of it.
While I haven't written for a living in a number of years, I still appreciate good reporting when I see it...even if it comes from the Orlando Sentinel.
Despite pretensions to the contrary, Orlando isn't really a major media market. There is one daily paper, the Sentinel, and one "news oriented" radio station of note in this town, and that's it. (I used to work for the only real NewsRadio station, before it turned into another SportsTalk station.)
The only way Orlando is like a New York, Chicago or LA, is that the television news is more "personality" oriented than reporter driven.
People don't believe me when I tell them John Tesh was once a TV anchorman here.
You can look it up.
So when reporters like April Hunt and Walter Pacheco take that little extra step to make a story more interesting, I take notice.
Let me say right here that I don't know either reporter. It's been years since I knew anybody at the Sentinel.
The editorial department has always had the reputation of being reluctant to hire locals, preferring, instead, to bring in people who had worked at small papers in other states.
A friend of mine, also from Orlando, who had also graduated from the J-School at Florida, said he just couldn't get in the front door at the Sentinel unless he was willing to cover High School Sports. He did manage to land a job with the Associated Press, that would base him in Memphis, Tennessee.
"It's probably a good place to start out", he told me, "since nothing ever happens in Memphis."
A week later, Elvis Presley died.
Today's story in Orlando was about three people dying, probably last Tuesday.
The TV and Radio newsies talked about how the bodies were only found today, and that the number of homicides in Orlando hit 44 for the year 2007. This incident would make it 47.
Numbers are easy...real reporting is hard.
The Sentinel reporters checked with the Orange County Property Appraiser's office to find out who actually owned the house where the murders took place. (This is something anyone can do by going to the site and typing in an address, or the suspected owner's name. In my job, I do it all the time.)
Suddenly, the headline went from "Triple Murder in East Orlando" to "Bodies found at Home of GOP Strategist".
That would be Ralph Gonzalez, a former Executive Director of the Republican Party of Georgia, who's Florida consultant company (The Strategum Group) has helped in the campaigns of State Reps Andy Gardiner and Sherri McInvale. Ms. McInvale was a Democrat, turned Republican, indicted last week for allegedly using tax payer funds for her own newsletter. Mr. Gardiner has always been a Republican, but has never been indicted for anything.
Orange County Sheriff's Deputies said they found weapons in the house, a few dogs and a trio of new vehicles; a couple of BMW's and a nice little SUV.
Now these details may mean something, or they may mean nothing when the full story comes out. Personally, I smell scandal...really big scandal.
But what do I know?
I'm just grateful that it appears there are still some honest to goodness reporters working in this town.
Grateful...and more than a little surprised.

** update--apparently one of the victims actually is political consultant Ralph Gonzalez.

A couple of amazing things happened recently.
First, I find it almost hard to believe that it was 38 years ago today, that the first units of the British Army were deployed to Northern Ireland.
Mid-August of 1969 saw a peaceful Civil Rights Movement degenerate into a time of street fighting among Nationalist Catholics and Loyalist Protestants.
Don't worry if you can't keep the names of the players straight, or if places like The Bogside, Falls Road, Derry and Belfast all run together with IRA, UDF and RUC thrown into the mix.
For most Americans, their images of "The Troubles" are of burning buses or young people tossing petrol bombs in grainy black and white film footage. More recently, we remember the incongruent image of the heavily armed British soldier, constantly turning to face from where he has just come from, while walking carefully among women and children going about their business in the city.
It was our first glimpse of a modern army conducting an operation in an urban setting, and the Brits had a name for it.
They called it "Operation Banner".
People are often surprised today to find that the original mission of the troops was to guard the minority Catholic communities from attack by the Protestant majority. Nationalists welcomed the Brits as protectors against the local police, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, whose ranks were filled almost exclusively with Protestants.
Within a year, that feeling would change. The British Army was soon perceived to be, as Irish journalist Fintan O'Toole put it,"both militarily and ideologically...a player, not a referee."
By July of 1970, the army had imposed a curfew on the Catholic Falls Road section of Belfast. Subsequent widespread gunfire resulted in the deaths of four people. A policy of internment without trail was followed, in January of 1972, by the famous "Bloody Sunday" incident in Derry. Here 28 Catholic protesters were shot, 14 fatally, by members of a Parachute Regiment.
300,000 British soldiers would eventually serve in Northern Ireland. 763 would die, with another 6,100 injured, before it was all over.
The other amazing thing is that just two weeks ago, it really was all over.
The British Army pulled out of Northern Ireland on the last day of July.
According to the BBC they did so without the usual "pomp and circumstance", or ceremonial lowering of the flag. Nobody claimed victory...or defeat.
After 38 years, they just left.
You may have noticed that, over the past two weeks, nobody is accusing the British Army of cutting and running.

It's been a while since I last checked in with Barry Crimmins.
In case you don't recognize the name (which is likely), Barry is a smart man from upstate New York, a few years older than I am, and also a former altar boy. He started a comedy club in Boston, and has apparently been a curmudgeon since he was in his teens.
In my mind, there is an ever lengthening list of people whose writing I find awe-inspiringly inspirational. The people on this list write in a way that I wish I could, and Crimmins is often at the top. For others, see the "Sites I Like" box on the right of the page.
In his old website "Crim Quips, he wrote short, punchy lines that got at the very heart of what he thought was wrong with George Bush's version of America. I usually found him to be very accurate and very quotable.
For a while, he worked as a writer for Air America Radio, and that kept him from keeping up with his own blog. I've worked both on the air and behind the scenes in radio, and will tell you that the people you don't hear of are often the ones working the hardest.
Lately, I'm not sure he's still doing that.
If not, it's their loss.
Recently, I was pleased to find him with a new site writing in more of a traditional long form, rather than the quick shots I remember from before.
I admit I was not prepared for the emotional impact of the last three postings regarding his friend Lloyd the Dog.
His comments are short and simple, yet deeply moving to a former dog owner like myself, describing what happens when Lloyd becomes seriously ill. Yet Crimmins cannot keep his own sense of humor completely submerged in seriousness, even when describing the benefits of just petting the shepherd-lab mix.
Crimmins says the theory that petting a dog releases endorphins, positive feelings, in humans appears to be correct...

"I feel as if I'm on some sort of miracle tranquilizer that soothes and allows me to think clearly about difficult matters, rather than fog me up so I can't think. I guess I shouldn't mention the pleasant buzz or they'll start a war on dogs. And please, no one let Big Pharma in on this! Ask your doctor if you need Fidosyn!"

I strongly recommend you take a few minutes and read the posts.
Like me, you'll be glad to see that Barry Crimmins is back.

***UPDATE***
Apparently Barry keeps updating his blog at a faster rate than some of us...for the articles in question, please look to the right of the page, under the heading "Lloyd the Dog". Of course, his other stuff is pretty good too. TC

***FINAL UPDATE***
You can read it here.

The plan was to get up in the dark, and be at the beach to watch the sun rise on my birthday.
I had done it years before at Playalinda Beach, but not this year.
First of all, Playalinda lies within the Cape Canaveral National Seashore, which in turn lies within the Kennedy Space Center complex. I knew that, while the shuttle Endeavor was on the pad, the gates would be closed at least ten miles out.
Secondly, I had forgotten how much I hated getting up before dawn. Only fishermen or people who deliver newspapers, or who are on morning radio, do it on a regular basis. I used to do the radio thing, only because I got paid for it...and because it let me slack off the rest of the day.
Fishermen are another species entirely.
So I watched the sun come up as a red ball, surrounded by the morning haze, as I headed east on State Road 44.
It had been years since I'd been here, and was pleased to find the old back road I remembered, had been transformed into a newly resurfaced four-lane with minimal traffic. On the outskirts of town, I stopped at a new Publix grocery story, next to a new Wal-Mart, for provisions: 45 SPF sunscreen, that smelled like berries, and a couple of bottles of Zephyrhills water.
Back on 44 east, after a couple of miles, I made a left and headed over the north causeway (a fairly high one...I notice these things) that set me down right onto Flagler Avenue in the heart of downtown New Smyrna Beach.
I drove up the ramp to the small guard shack to pay my beach toll, only to be told that the beach wouldn't be open until 8 o'clock.
"So where can I get a cup of coffee before then?" I asked the man in the booth.
"You could go back a block to the Beacon Restaurant", he said "but the coffee's better at the place around the corner from there."
"Where's that?", I asked.
"7-eleven", he said, with a smile.
Fifteen minutes later I was back, and handed him a five dollar bill, in exchange for a pink card I put on the dashboard. The convertible top on the Miata was down, and I was ready to cruise. I asked him how far I could drive along the beach.
"Two point five miles north", he said "and two point five miles south."
"And about 50 yards east", I replied, as I put the car in gear.
He gave me a little smirk...as one smart ass to another.
It was a Tuesday, and I seemed to be the first car on hard packed sand, aside from the big SUV's with "Beach Patrol" painted on the side. Each was driven by a guy with an impossible tan.
I traveled in second gear at 10 miles per hour, and headed north.
I passed a summer surf class for kids, some dragging surfboards twice as tall as they were, and drove for two more miles, until I came to a rocky outcropping.
This was where the road ended and the real surfers had gathered.
It was almost like an updated version of one of those 1960's beach movies, except these kids didn't dance as much and probably couldn't sing in harmony, because of all the irony.
The rocks jutting out into the Atlantic apparently serve two purposes; they give a bunch of people with fishing poles a place to stand a hundred yards away from the shore, and they break up the incoming tide to give surfers a rip current out, and a really good ride back.
I turned around and drove back to the middle of the beach, watching the sun burn off the remaining haze as it rose ever higher over the water. I found a place where the sand wasn't too deep and parked the car.
This was it.
I took off my shirt and lathered on more sun screen. (It was supposed to be water-proof, and smelled like berries.)
This was the actual going into the ocean ritual.
Slowly, I walked in the direction of the rising sun. The tide was out, so it was a pretty long walk.
***
The TV weatherpersons had said the water temperature was 80 degrees, but that's still 18 degrees lower than my body temperature, and I've never been one to just jump right in.
I try to establish a "relationship" with the ocean...first, I get my feet wet, then the ankles...up to the knees, ever wading out...until a large wave inevitably comes out of nowhere, blind-siding me, and knocking me down into a wet state of full commitment.
So now, the preliminaries are over, and I am completely submersed in the blue-green brine.
At some point, I feel the sensation of being pulled rapidly out to sea in what appears to be unusually calm water. This is the much publicized "rip current" effect, that has created panic in beach goers for generations.
I immediately remind myself that I am not likely to be pulled out far enough to be a hazard to shipping lanes before landing on the coast of Liberia.
Rip currents can move up to two feet per second, or 120 feet a minute, or faster than you can swim. It should be obvious that you don't want to try and swim against the current directly back to shore.
Obvious, yet a hundred people a year drown trying to do just that.
I decide to flip over onto my back (people float better in salt water than in fresh water, remember) and sort of ride the waves to shore. I end up safely in water up to my knees, albeit a hundred yards north of where I started.
I take this little adventure to be a subtle suggestion that it is time to get out of the ocean. Despite our growing relationship, she has turned possessive and somewhat dangerous. I had spent a little over an hour in the sea, and didn't want to get too exhausted. I also didn't entirely trust the water resistance of the sun screen called Hawaiian Tropic "Sun Junk" I had spread on myself earlier (even if it did smell like berries).

The AC has been running since I got back from the beach, and I'm glad for it, despite the fact that it is feeding my electric bill like it was a Weight Watchers group at an all-you-can-eat sundae bar. If you have the chance, invest in Progress Energy stock, and do it now.
Next to a hurricane, this is the kind of thing the TV weather kids like the most, as it allows them to talk about the heat index. I've noticed they don't actually use the term "heat index" anymore; they just talk about what the temperature feels like, using the new term "real feel".
Yes, I already hate it.
Currently in Orlando, the temperature is 98 degrees, but the weather guy on Channel 9 (who delivers his forecasts like Mister Rogers would...if Mister Rogers were a tall black man with a shaved head) says the "real feel" is 104.
OK, let's have a quick show of hands as to how many of you know what a hundred and four actually feels like.
I thought so...
As I write this, I am drinking vodka and Rose's Lime Juice, and planning on jumping into the shower, as soon as I finish, to wash off the sand and sea salt that is clinging to every inch of my body.
Unlike the nasty episode of the Scottish Festival back in January, I did remember to bring the sun screen this time. (SPF 45, which I think could have saved lives at Hiroshima, if properly applied.) So the freckles of my childhood have returned, but there is no sunburn.
I got up at 4:30 this morning, but fooled around for a couple of hours, and didn't actually hit the road until 6:30. Before leaving, I looked at the map and realized that there is no real direct shot from Altamonte to the coast! You either have to go up I-4 to Daytona, or down I-4,through Downtown Orlando, (to the 408) to get to Cocoa.
I sort of "split the difference" and went to New Smyrna Beach.

Usually, I don't give tips to tourists who are visiting Central Florida. I go under the assumption that you, or your travel agent, has already done the research, and you just want to go to see The Mouse anyway. There's nothing I can say that would help you once you get here, since, from the moment you land at OIA, you are under the care and guidance of someone else.
"Keep together, and follow the bright red Mickey Mouse pennant!"
If, on the other hand, you find yourself in Central Florida with a rent-a-car and a certain amount of independence, and want to go to a beach the locals frequent, your best choice really is New Smyrna.
I'll have details in my next post, because, right now, that shower just can't wait.