Outside Orlando, McDonald goes upscale. But in an Orlando kind of way.

Here’s a shot of the lobby. That’s a big-ass aquarium in the foreground and a big-ass flatscreen TV mounted on the far wall. Family seating, dark wood tables, some kind of reed or stick centerpiece. And is that fake thatch I see overhead?

Unfortunately, they don’t do a good job of introducing their new decour. The first hint that you’re not approaching a regular old molded-plastic Mickey D’s is this Ronald McDonald sign out on McCoy Road. Everyone knows Ronald’s a bit creepy, but what’s up with the inflateable-sex-doll facial expression? “Come in, children, and be molested.” Yeesh.

For me, the crowning touch is this bird statue. Have you ever wondered what Jimmy Buffett would look like if he were reincarneted as a giant parrot and forced to serve cocktails at a McDonalds? Now you know.

In Boston’s Logan Airport, rocking chairs and laptops go together like that city’s famed baked beans and cream pie.

Seconds after I gook this photo a shrill, painfully loud alarmed ripped through the waiting area for Gates B22-26. I had a flash of panic–had my picture-taking set off some kind of Homeland Security alert? Had I unwittingly raised the threat level to ochre? An excrutiating minute later, the alarm fell silent–no explanation offered.

That, and having my leather jacket disappear from the 3rd floor lobby of the Westin Copley, and having half the city of Boston sneeze on me really blew a hole in my enjoyment of National Methamphetamine Awareness Day. Hopefully, you spent the holiday with family or loved ones sharing a full and untroubled awareness.

Saw this on a W. North Avenue sidewalk in Chicago recently. The caption reads “falling for you.”

They say “tragedy plus time equals comedy…” so exactly how long will it be before 9-11 humor makes its way to the mainstream? I tried to work this out by recalling the first time I heard a Pearl Harbor joke… and realized that I’ve never heard a Pearl Harbor joke. Nor a Hindenburg joke. You’d think the burning of a Nazi airship would be fair game after 69 years.

On the other hand, I remember when I heard the first Challenger joke following the loss of that space shuttle in 1986. It went like this: “What color were Christa McAuliffe’s eyes? Answer: Blue. One blew this way, the other blew that way…”

Tasteless, I know, but stay with me. What inspires people to tell jokes about one tragedy but not another? An obvious answer is the number of people who die. But look at the numbers:

Hindenburg: 36
Pearl Harbor: 2,403
Challenger: 7
9-11: 2,973 (not including hijackers)

So, are we to believe the cutoff falls somewhere between 7 and 36? I’m not buying that. I think the difference lies in the type of disaster.

Taking a clue from the above joke, here’s a hypothesis:

Blowing up = funny.
Burning up = not funny.

As proof, I offer Wile E. Coyote. As many times as you’ve seen him blow up, have you ever seen him on fire? No. No, you haven’t.

I’m glad we’ve gotten to the bottom of this issue. Thanks for your input.

Here’s a bit of found art from the long, long drive to Colorado. I took this in a convenience store in one of the vowel states. (Ohio, Indiana, Illinois… I can’t remember now.) A machine extruded this cheese-like substance for your nachos. Tasty.

On the drive back, we stayed a night in a West Virginia Day’s Inn. The next morning at breakfast, we overheard this snatch of conversation:

woman with a rural accent: Yeah, I got them to do my nails, but they didn’t do as good a job as that other place… they filed my toenails all the way down to the meat!

That moment marked the official end point of our vacation.

So we come down from Lost Lake smelling like we’d been camping for four days, which we had. We drive into Estes Park for burgers and wander into the Wapiti Pub and Restaurant. And we notice that all the young waiters and waitresses working there seem to have Eastern European accents.

We order our food–they offer elk burgers, but we both stick with beef–and I ask the waitress where she’s from. And that’s when the universe serves up a supersized coincidence with extra dippin’ sauce.

Moldova!

I badgered the poor young lady with questions. What was she doing in Estes Park, Colorado? She and her fellow Moldovans were on some kind of summer work program. She’s a college student in the capital city, Chisinau.

What did she know about Transnistria? Apparently, the place is a real dump. Poverty, poor infrustructure, etc. They’ve declared themselves an autonomous republic, but they’re still mooching off the Moldovan goverment for help with things like schools and roads. I asked her to explain how an “autonomous” republic could do that, and she said she didn’t really understand it herself.

I told her I was investigating Moldovan spammers. Did her country have a lot of spam? In response, she would only flash her crooked-toothed smile.

However, she was forthcoming on the subject of Moldovan booze. Young men back home will go to a bar and order whiskey and apple juice. (Google identifies this as cocktail called “apple jack.”) Young women drink something called “Martini Blanco.” (Though I located a picture, I still don’t know what it is.)

Slowly but surely, a picture emerges of life as a Moldovan spammer. Sipping apple jack while the giant junk servers hum late into the night, one eye on the window, knowing a mob of vigiliante bloggers could show up any minute. Transnistrian lay-abouts snatching at every Leu you make. (Current exchange rate: approx. $0.08 U.S.) Girls with expensive tastes in liquor in need of orthodontics.

Of couse, it’s possible the spammers there are women, in which case they have to feed their own white martini craving. Either way, I have sympathy for these people… a sympathy counterbalanced by the fact that I now have 63 junk comments in my moderation cue.