How We Get Down!

The Powells just burst into 3:45 of unstoppable group dance to this one. Man, that little thirteen-month-old girl can cut a rug. Thanks to A-ha for utterly killing it on this one...

I Love MY Ducks!

Nice work fellas. Let's go Oregon--time to get a win in the desert!

A Stone Hit Her on the Side of the Head...

They gathered on the dunes every August 10th, forever mindful of the power of tradition.
And when Allana drew the yellow bathing suit, she didn't complain.

"It isn't right, it isn't fair," the rest of the ladies lamented, but it didn't matter, for soon Allana was upon them.

Make a Left at the Dragon...

And so they sailed north, riding the wind from an arid island inhabited only my monstrous sea turtles, in search of a mythic pool of age-reversing water.

"Sir!" Ruiz said when they'd been at it for a few days, skirting the coast of a peninsula known for its fragrant jungles. "I believe we're lost."

He stabbed the chart in front of him with an accusatory index finger.

The captain, more than a little tipsy on rum, stumbled to the bow of the vessel. He pointed at the water, where a creature hued from blue muscle cut the water, leaving a wedge in its wake. "Follow that bullet-headed sea creature, Ruiz! He'll guide the way!"

"But he's not on the chart! There's a serpent down here in the corner, but..."

"Then add him!" the captain roared, and Ruiz slunk away to the cartography chamber where he was finally able to put his aqua pencils to good use...

The Barricade Wars: An Ongoing Saga

After a week's migration north, our outfit has arrived at the black roads of Mt. Pleasant; alas, our services are not required here. We left sixty traffic cones to cover our backtrail on St. Johns Bluff, and we'll now move east, heading for progress near the Wonderwood Expressway.

My colleague Road Closed, a flashing sawbuck with ice water in his screws, is massing his forces near Kernan Boulevard as I write this. Dispatches arrived in our camp yesterday; they delivered the picture to the left of your screen.

When his army is complete, there will be a shimmering ocean of orange--a force of Bob's Barricades so immense the very thought of it reminds me of that scene in The Lord of the Rings when all those orcs were lined up against the hobbits and their buddies.

Ah, the specific scene now escapes me. I recently loaned my three-disc set to my cousin (another blinking barricade, on my father's side). He shipped out to direct traffic at a new shopping center on the westside last week, so I'll have to wait a while before I can identify the scene.

But I'm sure you saw those movies--who didn't, right? You know the one I mean.

At any rate, we endeavor east. There has been evidence that ACME has scouted construction projects in Mayport Village, and time is of the essence...

The Barricade Wars: An Ongoing Saga

By the light of day, this photo appears innocuous--even placid--but make no mistake, lives were lost on this field last night. Orange was smeared on these unfinished roads.

Slash, ranking field general for the eighth lit-barrier brigade, had suspected an ACME attack for some time. When a pair of delineators dropped down from the highway, feigning injury, Slash had his medical personnel see to the enemy.

Alas, it was all a ruse.

Three dozen target arrows, flanked by two full regimens of traffic cones, attacked from the south. The skirmish was long and costly--thirteen brave barricades lost their lives.

Nine sandbags, hard, dedicated little soldiers, were drained on the side of the road.

Slash called in a water-filled barrier wall to end the skirmish, an awesome display of military might. By dawn, the ground was littered with crushed ACME traffic cones. By rush hour, the field had been cleared--Bob's Barricades had held the line.

Our group continues its migration north; we hope to soon join our comrades at Mt. Pleasant Road...

The Barricade Wars: An Ongoing Saga

I am called Blink.


For three years I've commanded a platoon of barricades--hearty, diligent barricades--who stood through rain and wind in our occupation of the northern portion of St. Johns Bluff Road.


Ours has always been a simple mission--to guide others in times of strife and chaos.


The only threat to our mission comes from those who would usurp our position. The armies of ACME Barricades have penetrated deep into the Southside, claiming projects on streets and in neighborhoods where once, only Bob's Barricades directed traffic.


There are those in our ranks who have questioned the direction of Bob's Barricades and our very king, Bob himself, has come under fire. Treason abounds, and jealous thoughts have invaded the core of even the bravest of the traffic cones.


My fealty, however, is resolute, and I will not slander our leader, regardless of our present dire circumstance.


We became suspicious after the first migration. The great machines of progress had worked their magic on the road, transforming a dirty expanse of cracked grey into a ribbon of smooth, black asphalt. I assumed the shift would be temporary, and I sent Slash and his platoon south, to the place where the road intersected with Atlantic Boulevard and the sidewalks were still a network of cracked concrete.


I never knew they would be replaced with cones. Foot soldiers--the smallest and most mobile of our kind--were installed outside of the BP near monument. On that first night, I sent a scout to discern their identities, and we learned for the first time that they were representatives from ACME.


Progress continued. My men were moved, despite our best efforts to maintain our position. We had endured all of the petty indignities: the men who put out their cigarettes on our broad shoulders; the motorists who knocked us askance without so much as a glance in the rear view.


And then we were moved. A re-location transport moved up and down the road, collecting the brave souls of our company and replacing them with ACME cones.


Oh, how they grinned as we were taken away.


It's been nine days. Three quarters of our company have stopped blinking at night. Some have turned on each other.


Our situation is grim.

Tomorrow, I will send an emissary to the north. The machines of progress are on the move, and there is word that the roads near Mt. Pleasant have fallen into disrepair.


We shall endeavor to move our forces into position before the enemy beats us to the punch...