This week, I received a nifty piece of mail from the city of St. Petersburg: A lovely Microsoft Word-generated certificate, sparing no expense in office-grade, paper-quality ink. The certificate declared me a "Sunshine Ambassador" for St. Petersburg. This puzzled me. Look, I'm not arguing. I know better than anyone that I'm a goddamn ray of fucking light. So what confused me? Well, usually it's somewhat more challenging for other people to see that. Also, I live in Gulfport. Also, it came from Gulfport Elementary School, which is also in Gulfport. Please note the city on the certificate.
Maybe, I thought, it's for reporting on last year's Shitcocalypse in Clam Bayou? I know the mayor's office was super-thrilled with me about that.
Then I remembered: Calypso's a therapy dog and, on occasion this year she and I visited Gulfport Elementary to let kids read to her. She loves kids; they almost always have spilled food on their clothes. So, she gets to lick their hands and get petted and I get a certificate. Makes as much sense as anything this week. Look, I'm tired, I'm cranky and it's late. Let's stop trying to figure it all out and get a beer or something.
Because that's what sunshine ambassadors do, y'all. We're not thinkers; we're doers. We do things, like go get beer. Ten things, no extra words this week, because my internet's been a little bitch all day and I don't want to risk it. So go. Be your own sunshine ambassador.
Go see Weird Al tonight at the Mahaffey. His fans are Al-aholics. Get it?
Get Poky at the Tampa Bay History Center. Not that kind of pokey, poky. The little puppy. Jesus, people.
SOCCER tonight! We're going up against Columbia. Sure, we got this.
Be your own sunshine ambassador. Go to the beach, then grab dinner at Sola Bistro on St. Pete Beach.
Take a selfie with a tardis at Dr. Who Trivia in Pinellas Park Friday night.
The real genius of New Jersey: Jersey Boys. Much better than that other trash.
Push It. Push it, you know, real good.
Spring Cleaning. No, not that kind. The kind that attempts to help preserve Florida's springs from developers and politicians who don't care about saltwater intrusion, fertilizer runoff or, you know, the future of the land.
Get your plantains on. I love this place, I really, really do.
Reveal yourself in God's Waiting Room. Actually, don't. How about you simply go there instead?
This article appears in Jun 2-8, 2016.