Flashback Friday: Monsoon’s Hoff to Summer Vacation Forecast (June 5, 2007) - Part Two
And now, the exciting conclusion to the previous post, in which I began explicating DH’s autobiography.
Self-congratulatory drivel about touching the future and his dedication to visiting/inspiring/curing sick children
David, King hoff Self-Promotion, never misses an opportunity to mention how his work as an actor and singer has meant the world to a sick child—or just children in general. Now, I was a kid when “Knight Rider” was on, and meeting him would have rocked my world. But his perceived power to change the lives of ailing youngsters is undeniably delusional and egocentric. He can seldom mention his trip to another city or country without noting a digression to a pediatric cancer ward or involvement in Race for Life or Make-a-Wish Foundation programs. To wit:
“Kids ran up to me and wrapped their arms around my legs and refused to let go. ‘KITT is like ET to children,’ I told one reporter. ‘He’s a source of non-stop love and affection – and a protector.’”
David of Nazareth was once riding in an elevator in Vancouver when he greeted a mother and her teenage daughter; the daughter began “freaking out” and days later, the Hoff of Perpetual Healing got a letter from the mother stating that her daughter had attempted suicide the very morning they’d seen him in the elevator, and that she vowed never to make such an attempt again “because I believe that he was sent to me for a reason.” He wraps this episode up neatly by proclaiming that “God does send angels and sometimes we are his angels.”
While delivering wheelchairs to Vietnamese children as part of Wheels for Humanity: “We handed the chairs over to children suffering from cerebral palsy. It was a small thing for me to do, but it made a world of difference to the children. I loved making people happy. Life should be about love, about being happy.”
About the child who visited the “Knight Rider” set and initiated his commitment to sick children: “Randy, the boy who showed me that my true purpose in life wasn’t fame or money but helping less fortunate people, is still my wingman to this day.” Wingman? I think that means something different from what he thinks it means.
Reading over this section it occurs to me that I may be taking a slightly cynical view of DH’s charitable work. Perhaps so. But jeez, we get it already—you are a good guy who apparently never passed up an opportunity to spread your Hoffing Light across the globe…
An alarming number of instances in which he denies being homosexual, seems to inadvertently arouse suspicion that he is gay, or comments on the homosexuality of another
The sheer volume and virulence of David’s insistences that he is not gay, and dalliances with gay individuals, falls into the category of “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
On his sensitivity: “My daughters are always saying, ‘Dad, are you gay?’ I say, ‘No, why?’ They say, ‘You cry at everything.’ It’s true: I cry at game shows. A new car? – I break down.” He later defends his emotional demonstrativeness when discussing the fact that he got misty-eyed in the audience of the American Idol 5 finale: “Why is it regarded as a sign of weakness in America for a heterosexual male to cry? If you’ve ever seen the final of soccer’s World Cup, you’ve seen grown men sob like babies because they’ve lost—and you’ve seen the other side crying tears of joy because they’ve won. It’s a perfectly natural reaction and I’m not ashamed of it at all.”
When he saw his girlfriend after having been away at college: “Next time I came back to Chicago I had grown a moustache and had an Afro haircut. Sandy, who had gone to a very conservative university, thought I was either gay or out of my mind on drugs. I was neither – I had just turned into a long-haired thespian who loved blacks, greasers and hippies.” It’s unclear whether by “greasers” he means 1950s street gangs or he is using a derogatory term for Mexicans; neither would particularly surprise me. Whatever the case, you don’t get much better than that for ridiculous statements.
Soon thereafter: “I traveled to Manhattan and stayed with an actor friend who was pursuing his dreams on Broadway. On my first night, he informed me that he was gay and took me to a gay bar, the Pickle Barrel, to meet his buddies.”
Der Ladykiller and his friend Buddy were in New Zealand boogieing the night away: “Buddy and I went off to a nightclub and were having a few drinks when a good-looking girl started flirting with me. Buddy pulled me to one side. ‘David, it’s a guy.’ ‘She’s really cute, Buddy.’ ‘David, it’s a guy.’ ‘No, it’s not a guy.’ ‘Yes it is, David, look at her shoes.’ I looked down and said to Buddy, ‘Get me out of here!’ ‘She’ was wearing open-toed shoes which revealed big thick masculine toes.”
Poor, luckless Buddy had another brush with mistaken identity when an amorous kangaroo thought he saw the look of love in Buddy’s eyes during a trip to a Sydney zoo: “The kangaroo had taken a fancy to him and before he could duck out of the way, it got up on its hind legs, placed its paws on his shoulders and started making sexual advances to him. I dragged the roo’s claws off Buddy, but the beast had got so excited that he sprayed sperm all over him. He became known as ‘the Gay Roo’ and Buddy turned seven shades of red.” I wonder at least two things after reading this: first, given the unclear use of pronouns in the second and third sentences, it is unclear which “beast” was doing the spraying, and which became known as the Gay Roo; second, considering the fairly tactless nature of his description, I can only imagine what the first draft of this little anecdote sounded like!
Finally, there is his longtime friendship with the fabulously, flagrantly flamboyant pianist Liberace – not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Bold actions, funny situations, and embarrassing moments, some of which involve his singing career
As a young teenager, Hornyhoff finds that he finds the strangest situations arousing: “In church, I became aroused every time I kneeled down prior to taking communion. It was incredibly embarrassing. I wore long blue pants, shirt and tie and I’d try to arrange my clothing so no one noticed. Luckily, this only lasted for a short time, but I missed a lot of communions.” Now…why would you decide to put this in your autobiography? It’s more creepy and inappropriate than it is amusing and endearing!
Davey Boy relates some close calls: once, he invited a young lover to move into his San Fernando Valley home and he woke up one morning with her perched above him with a knife, saying “I could have killed you in your sleep.”
He relates tales of his great stardom abroad, his first concert tour in which he emerged from backstage in a KITT replica, and of course the American Pay-Per-View concert that was foiled by the O.J. Simpson Bronco chase: “The slow-speed chase was the most widely watched event in American television history, bigger even than the Moon landing. O.J. got 90 million viewers. I got 30,000. I had paid and nobody viewed. It cost us $1.5 million.” In my more honest moments, I think it’s rather quaint that he thinks the O.J. chase was the sole reason he didn’t hit it big with his Pay-Per-View special. His vocal chops are, however, vetted by a professional vocal coach: “My voice coach [for Jekyll and Hyde] was Trish McCaffrey, who had coached many Metropolitan Opera artists. Trish told me I was a born singer who, had I been classically trained, would have made a great opera singer.” By the same token, I, Monsoon, would have been a great basketball player, had I been taller and been gifted with athletic ability, quickness, and court vision.
The context of the following quote is irrelevant; just enjoy its linguistic poetry and the tragically inescapable imagery: “Next morning, with my wiener dogs in tow, I walked down the drive of my home in my underpants to get the newspapers. I picked up Variety magazine and read that Susan Lynne had been surprisingly fired after the read-through of News to Me. I looked down at my wiener dogs and said, ‘This isn’t a good sign.’”
The Hoff wrestles a 25-foot-long eel for an episode of “Baywatch.” He finds himself at a cock fight in the Philippines, inadvertently bidding on the action when he waves at spectators whom he believes to be fans. Tussles with Brandy on the set of “America’s Got Talent” when he professes to hate rap music. Nearly comes to blows on the same show when Piers Morgan “made an offensive joke about my singing. I told him, ‘You don’t want to do that again.’”
Name-dropping to associate himself with those whose wealth, fame, and/or talent eclipse his own
Name-dropping is a favorite pastime of the insecure and the grandiose, and it would appear that Mr. Hasselhoff qualifies in both respects. Paula Abdul and Sandra Bullock were both rejected for the role of C.J. Parker on “Baywatch” that eventually went to Pam Anderson. Hobnobbed with Russell Crowe in South Africa, where the latter was making Gladiator. Was slapped during a scene by Telly Savalas, who was seeking to teach the Hoff the importance of listening to another actor. Leonardo DiCaprio, who was turned down for the role of Mitch’s son on “Baywatch.” The Clintons. Lou Rawls. Nancy Reagan. Muhammad Ali, who greeted him with “You’re pretty Knight Rider, but you’re not as pretty as me.”
I have saved what I feel are two of the most baffling, memorable, goofy—Hoffabulous, in other words—passages in the book for last. First is his description of a role he played in between “Knight Rider” seasons opposite Joan Collins, whom he had heard was an egomaniac who demanded the sexual attentions of her male co-stars. The made-for-television film was called The Cartier Affair, and in the film, they are lovers. Take it away, Cyrano:
“The only way I could overcome my nervousness was to go on the offensive. I knocked on her dressing-room door and walked in, carrying a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. I slammed the champagne down and said: ‘I hear you’re a bitch but I love your work and I respect you and I’m terrified.’ She just roared. ‘Oh, I like you!’ she said. ‘Sit down and pop that cork.’”
And finally—His Royal Pomposity claims that Princess Diana flirted with him during a meeting in 1993: “‘You look good with your clothes on,’ she said to me. ‘And so do you,’ I replied. Diana laughed, blushed and then looked coy. It wasn’t my imagination – she was flirting with me. … Then she introduced me and I walked on stage. ‘Do I curtsy or kiss you?’ ‘Do whatever you want.’ So I gave her a big kiss. She smiled and blushed and sat to one side with her hands on her knees and a pert look on her face. The Princess was perspiring, her bosom heaving with desire, as she sat like a sex-crazed leopard watching my speech hungrily from the edge of the stage.” OK—I wrote the last sentence. But the rest of it is all Hoff.
My friends, thank you for indulging my prattlings and twaddlings for yet another year. Have a safe and happy summer vacation. Remember—if you’re heading on a trip and want the straight dope on what to pack, drop me a line in advance and I’ll try to give you some idea of what to expect!
Monsoon Martin’s Definitive Taste Test of Carbonated Soda Alternatives (Mostly Sparkling Water)
Friends,
I find myself in the throes of a gustatory overhaul - I can no longer drink most of the beverages I had been drinking (OJ, POM, lemonade, etc.). And of course, my beloved Pepsi, which I’d been drinking for decades.
For years I regarded sparkling water (and its aficionados) with something between pity and scorn. Well before I had ever tried it, I heard people describe the taste of sparkling water as “like TV static,” “like drinking static electricity,” and “like hitting your funny bone.” My favorite is something to the effect of, “it’s like quietly invoking the name of a fruit whilst someone else is aerating water down the block.”
Once it became clear that I needed to at least try to become a consumer of sparkling water, I decided I needed a colossal taste test to separate the FOHs from the MEHs from the GR8s. My methodology was simple: taste as many of these drinks as I could, rate them with an overall score (out of ten), and share these findings (and my anecdotal observations) with you fine people.
Several points of order I want to discuss before we dive in to the list:
In everyday conversation, we often use the terms “seltzer” and “sparkling water” interchangeably. But did you know there’s definitely a difference?
Seltzer is purified/filtered water that is artifically carbonated. It has no mineral content, often has a sharper or harsher taste/mouthfeel, and is present on the palate only fleetingly before it up and vanishes like a fart in the wind.
Sparkling water is water sourced from a spring or well and containing carbonation that may be naturally occurring and/or artificially aerated. Sparkling water has rich mineral content, which produces a milder—and many feel, more pleasant—mouthfeel and smoother taste.
Throughout the course of this taste test project, I have come to loathe the obfuscations that many sparkling water purveyors employ to expand their share of this lucrative market. These will be noted throughout, and the transgressors shamed.
The most healthful products are those whose entire ingredient list reads something like “Carbonated Water, Natural Flavor.” The Nutrition Facts label can also help ensure that it has 0 calories, 0 fat, 0 sodium, 0 carbs, 0 total sugars, 0 added sugars, and 0 protein (see below). The can also typically boasts of “0% juice” content as well as no caffeine.
I tried sparkling waters from various brands in various flavors (including plain). I decided to also try prebiotic/probiotic sodas like OLIPOP and POPPI, whose advertisements claim that they offer a new kind of soda—one which tastes great and helps fortify the body’s digestion system.
What I did not include on this list: zero-sugar versions of popular soft drinks like Pepsi (which I hate because they contain artificial sweetners); and carbonated energy drinks like Celsius and Bloom (which I have tried, rejected, and moved on with my life). Beverages in those two categories in particular contain not insignificant doses of caffeine, and I’m not looking to get re-addicted to a substance that makes me (even more) jittery and anxious.
As you’ll see throughout the list, I was duped a few times—not realizing a product contained artificial sweeteners, which are so nasty that my considerable powers of histrionics and hyperbole fail me here. Anywho, for those of you who scan ingredient lists, here’s a list of artificial sweeteners to avoid if you wish to:
Acesulfame potassium (Sweet One, Sunett)
Advantame
Aspartame (NutraSweet, Equal)
Neotame (Newtame)
Thaumatin (Talin)
Saccharin (Sweet ‘n Low)
Sucralose (Splenda)
And now, the taste test results. I’ll be starting from 50 (the worst!) and working my way up to 1 (the best!). Each beverage comes primarily in a 12oz. can, unless otherwise noted. Enjoy!
50. OLIPOP Vintage Cola. Tastes like someone spilled a can of off-brand soda onto a dirt track through an overgrown meadow, then scooped the soda (and dirt, rocks, branches, dead bugs, etc.) back into the can. And then sealed it up and shipped it off. 0/10.
49. OLIPOP Classic Grape. Tastes vaguely (and almost inoffensively) of grape, but right on the grape taste’s heels is a kind of black licorice/fennel taste that made me nearly spit out the ghastly concoction. 0.2/10.
48. POPPI Classic Cola. Tastes just like a skunky Pepsi (one that has sat around in its case too long and has acquired a musty, stale flavor. Inadequate fizz, too. Not remotely potable. Dreadfully vegetal. And frankly, unforgivable. 0.2/10.
47. POPPI Lemon Lime. Tastes like a Sprite if it had been homemade by a sullen vegan who has never tasted Sprite, but who has heard rumors. Unfortunately, the sullen vegan was not listening carefully, and the rumored recipe is filled with half-truths and vague, alarming AI proclamations. 0.225/10.
46. OLIPOP Classic Root Beer. Tastes only vaguely like root beer and has very little carbonation to boot. An unholy, resinous mélange of ill-advised ingredients and wholly unearned hubris. Gross. Is there sulfur in here? Months-old romaine? 0.225/10.
45. Wegmans Wonder Pop (prebiotic soda), Grape. So many strange flavors have been assembled in an attempt to recreate grape soda. These efforts were in vain. There is the passing hint of (artificial) grape flavor, but not nearly enough to save this. Not by a long shot. 0.4/10.
44. Wegmans Wonder Pop (prebiotic soda), Lemon Lime. My best guess at the manufacturing process: they took five or six off-brand Wet-Naps, added some AJAX lemon-scented dishwashing liquid, and let them soak in a vat of tap water for 72 hours. The resultant potion was then robustly flatulated into—thereby creating its carbonation—then it was adjudged ready for comsumption. 0.425/10.
Friends, I have to interrupt myself here and tell you that I was excited to try these new prebiotic/probiotic sodas, as they have low sugar and are relatively low in calories. (And they’re everywhere, suddenly.) But these entries from 44-50 are the nastiest beverages I have ever had the misfortune of ingesting. 🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮 They are—with no hyperbolic or theatrical flourishes—quite simply a crime against humanity. Additional note: these prebiotic/probiotic sodas are supposed to be great for gut health, but instead often cause bloating, gas, and abdominal pain.
Now back to the list!
43. Splash refresher (wild cherry). Here is the first of several duplicitous sparkling water-adjacent frauds. It is called “refresher” (rather than sparkling water), but shares shelves with legit sparkling water, so it was promising. Sadly, I neglected to read the ingredients. For true sparkling water, the ingredients should be carbonated water and natural flavors (or, if it’s plain, just carbonated water). Had I read the ingredients, I would have realized it had sucralose before I tasted it and was rendered mouth-sad by its artificial, engineered sweetness. Gross. 0.475/10.
42. Giant Clear Splash white grape sparkling water beverage. (1-liter plastic bottle.) Again, I missed the harbingers of faux-sparkling water calamity: the fact that it’s called “sparkling water beverage” and its ingredient list containing aspartame. This product comes in one-liter bottles that stand athwart legitimate sparkling water, entrapping the negligent browser. In my notes for this product, I wrote that it “has aspartame in it and is therefore unequivocally nasty as shit.” 0.475/10.
41. Wegmans blueberry nectarine sparkling water. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) Wegmans makes some respectable sparkling water (forthwith and hereafter abbreviated as “SW”), but this is not one of them. This unholy alliance presents with an acrid taste, then devolves into a caustic assault on the taste buds (and, I dare say, common decency). 0.6/10.
40. Waterloo lemon lime. Tastes like a (bad) chemical approximation of citrus that is—despite the fact that it’s water—dry. “I do not want this is my mouth,” I said. “That’s what she said,” I replied. 1.1/10.
39. Bubly lime. Phenolic notes with harsh mouthfeel. And a soapy aftertaste(?). Bubly makes some outstanding SW, but this is not one of them. Hard pass. 1.5/10.
38. LaCroix Pamplemousse. Right off the bat, the name pisses me off. It’s fucking grapefruit. Cut the shit. The taste is an acrid, faux-cirtus abomination that somehow also manages to taste musty. 1.7/10.
37. Giant lemon lime. Tart faux-Sprite that is both tasteless and overwhelming. A true contradiction. Also, a contraindication, in the immortal words of Claudius: “Gertrude, do not drink.” 1.8/10.
36. Giant lemon. Nearly indistinguishable from Giant lemon lime. Tastes like lemon meringue icing on a gas station snack cake that expired several months ago. 1.8/10.
35. Wegmans lemon. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) Why does he keep trying lemon SW if he hates it so much? you may ask. Because he is ineducable, I reply. This reminds me of getting a n unwanted nasty-ass lemon wedge on the rim of my water glass in a grimy diner. I also recorded in my notes: “this tastes like Pledge smells.” 2/10.
34. Bubly blueberry pomegranate. Here’s another disappointing Bubly offering—far less tasty than either of its flavors might be on its own. Like medicinal cardboard. 2.1/10.
33. Giant mandarin orange. Not terribly different from other mandarin orange SWs, but I do not like this flavor, so I spurn it. 2.2/10.
32. Wegmans grapefruit. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) No. Marginally better than the Pamplemousse horseshit, but still not quite pleasant. 2.3/10.
31. Wegmans mandarin orange. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) See #33 above. This at least approaches the general region of a drink that could—in some minor, almost accidental way—quench my thirst. 2.75/10.
30. LaCroix strawberry peach. No, the flavor clash is unexpected and devastating. I love strawberries but hate peaches, so there we are then. 2.8/10.
29. LaCroix tangerine. Tastes like tangerines and plastic. I hate tangerines but often dig the smell of new plastic. So it’s a conundrum. 2.8/10.
28. Good & Gather (Target brand) tropical cherry. Tastes unlike any other SW I have tried. Not in a good way, but in a profoundly hinky way. 2.8/10.
27. Sanavi organic sparkling spring water (Very Berry flavor). This is a hoity-toity, ludicrously overpriced SW whose only claim to fame seems to be the use of only organic natural flavors. The mouthfeel is right, with pleasant carbonation, but its taste is too reminiscent of cough syrup to be something I’d reach for. If there are no other liquids available, I’d deign to drink this. 4.6/10.
26. Vintage Seltzer pomegranate. (Sold in 1-liter plastic bottles.) It’s decent, but has far too harsh a mouthfeel. Nah. 5.2/10.
25. Polar Seltzer Jr. Yeti Mischief. (Sold in teensy 7.5-ounce cans.) This one tastes like fizzy Hawaiian punch, so the nostalgia factor makes this almost desirable. 5.6/10.
24. San Pellegrino Sparkling Natural Mineral Water. (Sold in 25.3-ounce glass bottles.) The bottle is cool-looking. But it’s downhill from there: such a dearth of fizz that it was almost imperceptible. The taste is slightly salty with a dry finish and an astringent aftertaste. And there’s 20mg of sodium per bottle—not excessive, but why is sodium in there at all? 5.7/10.
23. Topo Chico carbonated mineral water. (Sold in 600mL plastic bottles, 12-ounce glass bottles, and some are available in cans.) This is fine. I had heard that this brand, produced exclusively in Monterrey, Mexico, would change my life. My socks are still on. 5.9/10.
22. VOSS Sparkling Artesian Water from Norway. (Sold in 27.05-ounce glass bottles.) This one was a major disappointment. VOSS in its still form is pure perfection: a crisp, clean, and completely refreshing elixir. This sparkling version—while still housed in the iconic cylindrical bottle that’s a triumph of Scandinavian minimalism—has small, angry bubbles that dissipate quickly; by the third sip, the carbonation had all but abandoned this forlorn libation. It lacked the smooth self-assuredness of VOSS in still form. And it has 35mg of sodium per bottle, which isn’t going to break most diets, but—why is it there? 5.975/10.
21. Wegmans green apple. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) It’s acceptable in a pinch. I almost want more. Almost. 6/10.
20. Wegmans cranberry apple. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) This is a seasonal concoction that boasts a nice flavor combination, but fails to distinguish itself in any meaningful way. 6.2/10.
19. Rambler Wild Cherry sparkling water (limestone mineral blend) is made in Austin and is the subject of much adulation among SW drinkers. It was not bad, but the taste is ultimately uneven and a tad harsh. Bottom line: didn’t change my life. Another strike against it: Rambler is only available at one retailer—Walmart. 6.4/10.
18. Waterloo black cherry is aight. The flavor is a bit too thin—and the carbonation a bit too aggressive—to make this a staple. Not a huge fan of Waterloo as a brand, and rearranging its component parts gives it a revealing, and more accurate, name: LOO WATER. 6.5/10.
17. Wegmans black cherry vanilla. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) This SW tastes more like vanilla than cherry; it’s decent, but I’d really have to be in the mood for this specific taste. 6.8/10.
16. Wegmans orange pineapple. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) The pineapple balances out the overpowering citrus flavor profile. It’s like mayochup: it’s a mash-up that has no earthly business working, but it god damn does. I liked this more than I thought I would. 7/10.
15. Polar pomegranate. (Many Polar SW varieties are available in 1-liter plastic bottles in addition to 12oz. cans.) This hard-to-find flavor is not exciting enough to warrant the effort it took to procure it. Harsh with a generic taste. 7.2/10.
14. Wegmans raspberry. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) This is OK, but a bit harsh. I don’t want my taste buds to be jostled around in a mosh pit. I want them to be coddled and refreshed. 7.2/10.
13. Wegmans mixed berry. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) Similar to polar pom: unremarkable, but serviceable. The mayonnaise of SWs. This SW is suffering from an identity crisis. 7.3/10.
12. Wegmans passion fruit. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) This variety is fine, but it has a faint but noticeable peachy aftertaste that I would find periodically objectionable. Mood-dependent. 7.3/10.
11. Wegmans plain SW. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) I think the absence of flavor will be a nice change of pace now and again. No-frills, old-fashioned, competent SW. 7.7/10.
10. Wegmans ginger. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) Has a nice, piquant after-dinner flavor—heady, but with just a touch of mellow smoothness. (Bonus points if you can place the movie reference.) Honestly, I can’t distinguish this from the plain. 7.7/10.
9. Polar black cherry. (Many Polar SW varieties are available in 1-liter plastic bottles in addition to 12oz. cans.) Milder and tastier than the Loo Water version. 7.85/10.
8. Maison Perrier Ultimate unflavored. (Sold in 11.15-ounce cans as well as 16.9-ounce plastic bottles.) Delightfully neutral taste and mouthfeel; has a bit less carbonation than I’d prefer, but it’s a solid option. 8/10.
7. Maison Perrier forever strawberry. (These come in 11.15-ounce cans.) This delicate wonder has milder carbonation and a subtler strawberry taste than its American cousins. Oui, I dig it. 8.2/10.
6. Bubly blackberry. This is pretty, pretty, pretty good. 8.3/10.
5. Bubly srrawberry. I really like this one. Crisp, refreshing, and authentically evokes the flavor of my favorite fruit. 8.8/10.
4. Bubly cherry. Even a hair better than the strawberry. The flavor is rich but not overpowering. In the same way that grape flavoring tastes nothing like actual grapes, cherry flavoring tastes nothing like actual cherries. It matters not. WTG, Bubly. 9/10.
3. Wegmans cherry pomegranate. (In addition to cans, most Wegmans Sparkling Water flavors are also available in 1 liter and .5 liter bottles.) This SW is the quintessence of the age-old idiom “Greater than the sum of its parts.” I don’t like it; I love it. 9.8/10.
2. LaCroix Pure (plain) SW. This SW is nigh flawless: clean, refreshing, and delightfully effervescent. The carbonation is spot-on. 9.9/10.
1. Saratoga Sparkling Carefully Curated Carbonated Spring Water. (Sold in 28-ounce glass bottles as well as 28-ounce, 16-ounce, and 12-ounce plastic bottles.) Friends, I was just itching to hate this one because of the pretentious mouthful of a name. But that pretentious mouthful of a name has been fully earned. Hold on to your tighty-whities, because this shit is TRANSCENDENT. Perfection itself. The carbonation is potent but not overpowering; the SW is almost preternaturally crisp and refreshing (nay, that’s too pedestrian a word; revivifying is a better adjective). A positively enchanting libation. The nectar of the gods. 10/10 no notes.
So where do I go from here? I’ve heard good things about Canada Dry Original Sparkling Seltzer Water and Trader Joe’s sparkling water, so I intend to try them. Aldi’s SW brand, called Belle Vie, has its fans and its detractors.
And there’s a very hard-to-find Saratoga flavored sparkling water called Untitled Berry No. 3. I have procured this, and am practically vibrating with anticipation.
And you, Dear Reader - please send me an email (or leave a comment here) if you have a carbonated soda alternative that you love. I will try it!
Flashback Friday: Monsoon’s Hoff to Summer Vacation Forecast (June 5, 2007) - Part One
And now that the forecast is out of the way, let me get to the real man-meat of my forecast: it is time for me to deconstruct, explicate, summarize, excerpt, and gushingly review the David Hasselhoff book, Don’t Hassel the Hoff: The Autobiography (released in Europe as Making Waves).
Sir Beefcake of Hasselhovia is gearing up for a second season of “America’s Got Talent,” which boasts two new cast members: Sharon Osbourne replaces the witless Brandy from last season; and Jerry Springer replaces the genial but stiff Regis Philbin. The show is bound to be screamingly awful—but it might just be awful enough that it veers into the realm of watchability…
About the autobiography, let me say this to begin: it was all I could have hoped it would be. In a sense, I’m doing you a favor here; I am going to tell you all you need to know about this book, saving each of you the $24.95 you would surely have spent on the tome yourselves. You are welcome. And, you can remit these funds to my attention at the high school.
BONUS CONTENT: This is an image of the Hasselhoff Homestead (what I call the place where Hoff grew up), at 3631 Kimble Rd. in Baltimore (right near the site of the old Memorial Stadium) taken by Monsoon in 2024. Yes, I went there. Incredibly, I did not have to fight my way through hordes of adoring fans gathered at the property.
The book is rather typical of any show-biz autobiography: it’s got details about producers and budgets and other production minutae that would put the average person to sleep; it’s got plenty of glossy photos of the star with co-stars and associates (Hoff as a child; Hoff’s parents; Hoff as Garthe Knight; Hoff with Simon Cowell; Hoff and Pam with the Clintons at the White House, etc.); droll recollections about growing up; struggles with alcohol abuse; and the like.
But the real “guts” of the work can be roughly split into seven categories:
Cliché (but seemingly profound) statements, trite platitudes, and idiotic turns of phrase
Sexist and ribald comments, claims of being a sex machine
Racist and borderline bigoted statements
Self-congratulatory drivel about touching the future and his dedication to visiting/inspiring/curing sick children
An alarming number of instances in which he denies being homosexual, seems to inadvertently arouse suspicion that he is gay, or comments on the homosexuality of another
Bold actions, funny situations, and embarrassing moments, some of which involve his singing career
Name-dropping to associate himself with those whose wealth, fame, and/or talent eclipse his own
I will tackle each category in a manner that seeks to both convey the sense of his statements in that regard, and maintains a conciseeness so as not to bore you all to death.
Cliché (but seemingly profound) statements, trite platitudes, and idiotic turns of phrase
“From the age of nine, I had blind faith that I was going to make it. I never doubted I would be a star. ‘Yes I can’ were the words I lived by then – and still live by today.”
About his father, Joe Hasselhoff: “He’s still my best friend, my mentor and my guide; to this day, we see each other or talk on the phone every day. His positive attitude and sense of humour have always seen me through rough times. He is The Man.” This was heartwarming until he called his dad “The Man.” That’s the best he could come up with?
“I was clued-up and had a certain amount of Southern charm that could get us into clubs and parties.” “Clued-up”? Clued-in, maybe, or hopped up?
“Catherine and I were beautiful California people living in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills with a pool, Jacuzzi, screening-room and four dogs and three parrots.”
Regarding the actor who played his son on “Baywatch”: “Jeremy Jackson got the part because of his every-boy innocence and because he was like the son I never had.”
On one page, he claims to have had a premonition before the San Francisco earthquake. Almost unthinkably, the earthquake still had the temerity to occur.
The admixture of understatement and the ridiculous in the following passage is intoxicating: “Baywatch might not have been the show Shakespeare would have written if he’d lived in Malibu, but we covered a third of the world’s surface – and the rest was water.”
“I was high up in the Wasatch Range of the Rocky Mountains, and as far as I could see there were peaks, some snow-covered, some green, some covered in mist. I cried out: ‘I get it. I get it.’ I was looking at my destiny.”
Arianna Hoffington claims that the majority of his supporters come from “red states” rather than “blue states” – say it ain’t so, Hoff!
He ends the book’s Epilogue in this way, and I swear I am not making this up: “As the song goes, ‘I’ve been looking for freedom, I’ve been looking so long …’ Now I’ve finally found it. I’ll see you around. I’ll be there somewhere, making waves. The best is yet to come … see you in Vegas.” He managed to squeeze in references to three of his songs, and plug his stint in Mel Brooks’ “The Producers” in Las Vegas in one closing, cliché-ridden paragraph. Astounding.
Sexist and ribald comments, claims of being a sex machine
This category is, as you might suspect, the most extensive of them all. Brace yourselves.
About “Baywatch”: “Every week we had a girl coming to work with a different breast size, or a different tattoo that had to be covered up, or a different personal crisis that had to be resolved. … I’d look out of my trailer when the assistant director shouted, ‘Rolling!’ and the girls would drop their towels and I’d go, ‘Thank you, God.’”
About a relationship early in his career: “It was a dramatic relationship, very wild and passionate. We were young and free and full of young hormones.”
The first time he laid eyes on his future first wife, Catherine Hickland: “At the Emmy party, about twenty guys were hitting on a beautiful blonde in a cowboy hat. She was a picture of lust – mine.”
One time he was on a plane that hit some turbulence; he was wearing pants with many zippers, and each one contained funds from a “Knight Rider” merchandising trip. “‘If this plane goes down,’ I told the girl sitting next to me on the flight back to Los Angeles, ‘and I don’t make it, grab my pants – it’s not what’s in the pants but what’s in the pockets that matters.’”
He was feeling sorry for himself after his first marriage ended: “Suddenly, I decided to go to a pet store and buy a wiener dog – I’d always wanted a wiener and I bought one. I brought him home and said, ‘Well, Wiener, it’s you and me against the world.’” Some jokes just make themselves.
About the opening sequence of the first episode of “Baywatch” ever aired: “After just five seconds … the first blonde appears on the screen and precisely three seconds later the camera lingers on the first cleavage in a close-up of a sunbathing bikini girl in a straw hat.” The first of many…
His first meeting with Pamela Bach, who would later become his second wife: “she was beautiful and, as she liked to say, ‘all girl.’”
Quoting himself from an interview that he gave at the height of “Baywatch’s” popularity: “Turn on MTV and you’ll see true garbage – Baywatch is kindergarten stuff compared with today’s music videos. Look at Madonna – she makes videos about getting laid in hotels and these are shown to twelve-year-old girls.” Shame!
At times, the Hoff seems to veer into feminist territory, making a statement or taking a stand that shockingly aligns him with the likes of Gloria Steinem or Andrea Dworkin. One such instance involves the Hoff standing up to his production partners: “I told my partners, ‘If I see another gratuitous shot of a girl’s crotch, I’m out of here. We don’t need that – there’s a way to shoot women without exploiting them.’” Several pages later, though, he seems to revert back to his knuckle-dragging, Neanderthal views of women, when he describes Pam Anderson’s screen test for “Baywatch”: “Pamela was wearing a halter top and skirt. When we asked her to read a page of the script, she stood up, stripped off her top and skirt to reveal a swimsuit underneath. The guys couldn’t take their eyes off her breasts because they were beautiful and they were real.” First of all, so much for evaluating an actor on her acting ability; second of all, as has been well-documented, no, they are not real!! He also refers to Pam as “Venus in Spandex” in one of his more memorable turns of phrase.
Several pages later, he seems to be back to his bra-burning self, as he describes Alexandra Paul, who was hired to play the role of Stephanie Holden, an old flame of Mitch Buchannon’s on “Baywatch”: “Built like a tall gazelle, she was an eco-warrior and an American triathlete. In a world of double-D cups, she was proud of her athleticism and the fact that she had small breasts.” I can only assume the “world” to which he’s referring here is the make-believe world of mammarical plenty known as “Baywatch.”
Soon, however, the Hoff Dawg is back as he recounts his performance and participation in the Miss Universe pageant one year in Australia (a reminder here that he was very much married at the time). One evening he filled his Rolls-Royce with contestants: “After a few cocktails, my companions suddenly changed from sweet little princesses into vixens whose one intention was to party and find men. We ended up in a bar called the Cauldron. … Later that night I decided to see how many countries I could visit. I visited Canada, then I visited South Africa. I told Miss South Africa that I’d be right back and headed off to see Miss Canada again. Unfortunately, I had some of Miss South Africa’s lipstick on my cheek and Miss Canada punched me out.”
Jayne Kennedy and David Hasselhoff host the 1985 Most Beautiful Girl in the World pageant, Sydney, Australia
The pièce de résistance in this category occurs when the Ambassador Hoff of Hirsutopia was jogging with President Clinton in a park: “So what did the President say to me while we were jogging in that park? He said, ‘Did you ever think Baywatch would be as big as this?’ I replied, ‘I never thought a President of the United States would utter the two syllables Baywatch.’ Bill Clinton liked Baywatch. Wonder why?”
Racist and borderline bigoted statements
This is one of the smaller categories, but it’s one of my favorites; those who know me well are aware of my connoisseurship of racism—racism and intolerance of a bold and forthright manner that are not often seen in these days of veiled and institutional bigotry cloaked in polite language.
He lived and enrolled in an acting school in Detroit, “a racially tense area.” “My abiding memory is how angry the blacks were with their lot in a white-dominated society.” “The blacks”? He might as well have said “Those people”!
On a trip to South Africa—which he’d undertaken in defiance of the UN sanctions against that country, which was still under Apartheid—he insisted on going to see Soweto for himself. “I said, ‘Get me five black armed guards – I’m definitely going.’” Once he reached the townships, he was struck by the humanity of the people. “Yet despite living in these disease-ridden slums, the people were beautifully dressed and were singing harmoniously as they set off for work. It was an inspiring sight. I realized this was where Motown began.” They’re enduring unimaginable poverty and oppression—but they’re happy! What a simple jackass.
On another trip to South Africa, this time to shoot a movie, he went “to a Zulu village in Natal to was a tribal dance” and became aware that some of the Zulus had seen him on the chief’s TV as Michael Knight: “As a gag, I looked down at my watch and shouted, ‘Hey KITT, come pick me up.’ In the middle of the dance, every Zulu head swiveled to the right to see if the Knight Rider car was coming. I laughed and laughed.” Those gullible natives! A similar scene is recounted when Hoff is on safari with his family in Kenya, and he keeps pestering the Masai about whether they have ever heard of him.
In at least one instance, though—as with the quasi-feminist dabblings noted above—he seems sympathetic to the complaints of Greg-Alan Williams, the lone black actor on “Baywatch,” who “complained that we hired only blond, blue-eyed Aryans so that European viewers would identify with the show.” His response was to add Traci Bingham as the show’s first Black lifeguard, but he took no further steps to remedy the apparent racial disparity.
Part Two will be released shortly.
Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Four
My plantive cyber-remonstration concludes…
The Blazing Bringer of Blindness. Plenty of cars come standard with these floodlights—the blue-white LED headlights that shine much more brightly than halogen headlights. Halogen headlights shine at around 1500 lumens, whereas LED headlights emit 60,000 lumens of retina-searing light. (OK, that number may be high. I think it’s actually around 4000 to 6000 lumens. But still!) Note: I realize people often don’t have a say in what headlights they’ll have. I still hate them. Did I say every item on this list would be rational? Indeed, I did not. (And when the driver retrofits or modifies the headlights illegally, it only serves to deepen the intensity of my white-hot incandescence of my OH MY GOD I CAN’T SEE SHIT.)
The Jalopy. This is the car that stopped being roadworthy several years ago, and yet it still, somehow, runs. I’ve seen cars with no front or rear bumper, no headlights, one windshield wiper, one or more flat tires, severe chassis damage, a significantly cracked windshield, and a profound will-to-live deficit. Aside from trying to extend the life of a car for financial considerations, the principal reason for this parade of wretched wrecks is that in Maryland, a car needs to be inspected when it is first registered—and never again. (Only yearly emissions testing is required to maintain registration.)
The Drifter. No, this isn’t a reference to a transient person. It refers to vehicles that drift near or across the yellow line (or seem to drift in and out of their chosen lane, apparently at will). My outcry when encountering these drifters: “Pick a lane, Dickshirt!” (Sometimes I am so flummoxed by the outrageously bad driving that I actually begin to lose the power of coherent speech.)
The “I Shan’t Deviate From My Chosen Lane” Mulish Driver. This mulish meathead refuses to pull over to the next lane if someone is stopped on the shoulder of a highway.
Corollary: The self-absorbed suck-lord that doesn’t yield the roadway to emergency vehicles—or barges into funeral processions. Or don’t pull over for emergency vehicles, barge into funeral processions, or don’t stop—or even slow down—when a school bus is stopped with the red lights on. This variety of traffic turdlet apparently believes that neither life nor death shall supercede their own convenience.
The Zoomer. My time is more important than yours! In fact, my time is more important than your life!!
Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Three
My exercise in road rage catharsis continues…
The Inconsiderate Parker. This is the narcissistic dick who patks athwart two (or even three! or four!!) spaces. Some Brits call them Parking Wankers (there’s even a hilarious Instagram page devoted to shaming such transgressors).
The People-Pleasing Courtesy Hound. Something between a doorman and a doormat. This is the driver who lets car after car go ahead of them in bumper-to-bumper traffic, presuming that all the drivers behind them are glad to cede the road. Sometimes they are almost aggressive in insisting after you. Disrupts the flow of traffic and doesn’t feel like kindness. Prepare to feel the wrath of my huffy, protracted horn.
Stupid-Assed Cyber Trucks. Self-explanatory, really. Every time I see one, I make a face as though I have unexpectedly eaten a mushroom. I have, out of decency, refrained from making you look at a picture of one.
The Turn Signal Disuse and Misuse Corps - aka The Misdirection Squad. This is a proud and ceaselessly creative group, comprising:
Drivers who seem to have forgotten that the turn signal is there
Drivers who give the turn signal a perfunctory flip just as they’re beginning their turn, helping no one
Drivers who inexplicably deploy the turn signal as they are about to commit an infraction noted elsewhere (e.g., the weaver, the zipper merge jagoff, and the middle-lane abusing shitbird)
The Bicyclist on a Rural Road, where hills and bends make it difficult for a driver to pass them. (In fact, I just learned that the typical hobby bicyclist is called a MAMIL—middle-aged man in Lycra—and I am here for the dismissiveness and incisiveness of this term.) Even worse: a pack of these grinding tryhards taking up an entire lane. (Yes, I know that bicyclists have a right to be on the road, blah blah blah, but they fill me with rage. I—with no hyperbole or histrionics—hate them.)
The “I Will Kill Us All to Avoid Missing My Exit!” Tom-Fool. This highway menace realizes at the last moment that they are in the wrong lane, so they cut across (however many it takes) lanes to make it.
Corollary: The Forking Idiot. This is when someone thinks they may have missed their exit, but they’re not sure, so they stop right at the crotch of the exit ramp. In extreme cases, this person will pass the exit by 200+ yards and then reverse on the highway or careen down the grassy knoll to take the proper exit.
Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Two
My list of complaints continues…
The Unrepentant Off-Cutter. You cut me off by pulling out in front of me—so suddenly, in fact, that I have to apply my brakes vigorously. Rest assured, I will be applying my horn quite vigorously as well. This is particularly maddening when there is no one behind me for at least a quarter mile and that person could have waited 1.5 seconds, then pulled onto the roadway after me.
Related: my nana was a verbal wizard, especially when it came to traffic commentary. My favorites: “Where’d you get your license, Pep Boys?!” and “Blow it out your ass!” and “Get bent, ya crumb!” Maximally concise, yet breathtakingly incisive.
The Drivers (Riders? Straddlers?) of Motorcycles and electric bikes (and even scooters) creating their own lanes, flouting most traffic laws and generally behaving as though the rules of the road don’t apply to them.
The Zipper Merge Jagoff. Two lanes narrow to one. Plenty of notice. The sensible thing to do: stay in your current lane, then zipper merge in an orderly and civilized fashion. Instead, Turd Ferguson next to you is jockeying for position like it’s the Indy 500. Untwist your knickers, Turd. Do you really need to get there 2.67 seconds sooner?
Corollary: the shoulder jammer. In one of these zipper merge situations, there’s often a daredevil who decides that the shoulder is an extra lane. They zoom up, bypassing car after car, until they are thwarted by one of these Highway Justice dingleshits who feel it’s their duty to patrol the shoulder and block transgressors.
The Extreme Tailgater. Especially charming on one-lane roads. Where do you want me to go? I shall proceed at the pace I feel I can safely navigate. You can gesticulate and crowd me all you want. Also, your mom. Note: I often say “Hey, why don’t you just climb inside my asshole!” when encountering this situation. Another common yawp: “Get fucked, bumper humper!” (Disclaimer: I never said my responses to these rage-inducing driving behaviors is mature, advisable, or child-appropriate.)
The Distracted Driver. I have seen drivers engaging in the following activities whilst driving: texting, watching videos, eating, applying makeup, reading, playing cards, flipping through a large CD carrying case, yelling at children in the back seat, using a woodturning lathe, playing a video game, and sleeping. Shit you not. (Alright, shit you a little. I made up the lathe. But all others I have seen with my own two eyes.) How many times have you been behind a car at a red light and they don’t budge once the light turns green? In fact, how many times today? The frightening truth is that driving a potentially lethal weapon often garners the least focus and attention from drivers.
Related: When my “gentle nudge” beep comes out as a “testy bellow,” I look in my rear-view mirror as if to say, “What impatient pissypants has just breached the aural peace (and rules of etiquette) by sounding the horn so aggressively?” So if the person in front of me (at whom the nudge was directed) looks back indignantly, they will see me looking back indignantly and assume it was someone behind me.
The Red Light Optional Brigade. I have seen many drivers for whom a red light is a traffic convention from which they are exempt. And I’m not just talking about folks who see a yellow light, speed up, and careen wildly through the intersection. I’m talking about the light is RED RED and I’m watching agape as these speed demons just sail on through. I generally respond with “I guess he was in a hurry” or “slow down, speed demon!” or “muhhh-thaaaa-ffffucka.”
Monsoon Martin's Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part One
Hello, Baltimoreans. I have driven among yous for several years now. To quote Frank Costanza, “I've got a lot of problems with you people, and now you’re gonna hear about it!”
I have found the people of Charm City to be, by and large, lovely and welcoming. But the same person who will hold the door open for you at Wawa - smiling broadly - will also, once driving, cut you off and unleash a shitstorm of profanity toward you. Often, that is also done while smiling broadly.
I present to you my list of grievances, many of which rise to the level of irrational loathing, and regarding which I have been told by mental health professionals, "When something is out of your control, the thing you can control is your reaction to it."
This is a worthy goal, my pursuit of which has been, to date, an utter failure. A work in progress, I suppose.
The list:
The Weaver. This is a driver who thinks he (let's face it, almost always a male) is playing a first-person rally car video game. This driver cuts it razor-close, but is long gone once I lay on my horn and gesticulate wildly as if to say, "What the fuhhhhh??!!" (Note: often accompanied by actual words and coarser gestures to that effect.) The weaver gives no shit. He is engaged in a road race with his friends (real or imagined) and we are all NPCs.
Corollary: Road Racers. These are packs of 4-5 numbnutses who believe that they are engaged in a high-stakes contest, whose winner earns glory and a handsome prize. In reality, they are just knuckle-dragging knuckleheads in shitty cars terrorizing other drivers.
Corollary: Car Farts. Some of these addle-pated blunderbusses actually modify their cars so that they produce deafening backfires, accompanied by jarring showers of sparks. The backfires sound very much like gunfire—especially when they happen right as one of these cars passes, as happened to me. Damn near soiled my pants, I did.
Note: This is a lengthy video. But it’s cued up to the right spot. (In case it isn’t, watch from about 2:40 to 3:10.)
The Maddeningly Polite Weaver. This is a conventional weaver, but with the addition of conscientious use of turn signals. Why does this aggravate me? If you're going to be an asshole, lean all the way in. Adding turn signals to narcissistic, unhinged driving is like shoving someone down the stairs and yelling “Sorry!” as they tumble along.
The Sociopathic Double Parker. This craven douchenozzle has stopped their car in the middle of the road—and if we’re lucky, put on the hazards as an irrelevant nod to traffic decorum. This driver is particularly infuriating when there’s an open area at the curb where they could have parked without disrupting traffic. Most infurating is when a driver double parks on a one-way street (or a street only wide enough for a single lane of traffic. No one can get by, and the sociopathic double parker give zero shits.
The Shitbird who treats the middle turn lane of a busy road like it's the shitbird’s own special onramp. This happens often on roads like Reisterstown, where you typically have two lanes going each direction and a center lane to assist with left turns. The lane is there to facilitate left turns leaving the roadway—not as your own personal onramp to help you make a left turn onto the middle=lane road.
Corollary: Ding-dongs who use the middle lane as an extra travel lane to become a bonus passing lane. I’ve seen several accidents that stemmed from center turn lane misuse.
The Backer-in. Friends, this list is not in any order—but if it were, I’m sure this infraction would be near the top of the list. This spree of sociopathy is particularly infuriating when deployed in a busy, crowded parking lot. Some dingus seems to have driven past a spot, but then suddenly throws it into reverse. Now every other car behind the dingus has to wait while said dingus executes this operation.
Corollary: the dinguses who do this are very often the least skilled at driving in reverse, necessitating several passes—each accompanied by fiddling ineffectually with the side mirrors—before the car is safely ensconced.
When I see a driver back into a spot that could have easily been a pull-through, it takes a great deal of restraint not to accost them and confiscate their license.
People who don’t have any idea how to act when encountering a blinking yellow (slow down and proceed with caution, yielding to other vehicles already in the intersection) or blinking red light (treat it exactly like a stop sign).
Nor'easter - February 22, 2026
Snow.
After a couple of days trying to sort out Sunday's storm (track, precipitation type, etc.) - and wading through the many (and often wildly different from one another) forecast model runs, which now include AI forecasting of varying types and proclivities - I have a better idea of what we might see.
W. H. Auden, born 2/21/1907So here is something approximating an informed stab a respectable amateur meteorological take.
First, the snow is going to be heavy and wet, periodically mixed with rain, as noted below.
Baltimore - Washington: precip begins early Sunday morning, say sometime between 5 and 7. Rain could mix in a bit in the afternoon, driving down accumulations. I think we'll see mostly snow due to lower temperatures aloft, along with periods of heavy snow that will cause prodigious accumulation. Winds will begin moderate, but by late afternoon and evening (and even into Monday morning), we'll see them kick up to 15-20mph sustained with gusts up to 30-35mph. Nothing catastrophic, but there could be isolated instances of tree damage and power outages. And of course, some areas (mostly on the NJ-DE-MD coasts) will see periods of blizzard-like conditions.
Nina Simone, born 2/21/1933
Accumulations - 5-8 inches generally in the DMV, but that number could be reduced if a significant portion of the precipitation is rain. Isolated areas could see as much as a foot!
School Monday? - No.
When will it end? - continues overnight from Sunday to Monday, tapering by noon and ending by mid-afternoon.
Barbara Jordan, born 2/21/1936Norristown - Bucks - Philly: similar observations about the timing (Sunday early morning through Monday late morning) and winds. Should be spared from blizzard-like conditions.
Accumulations - 7-10 inches with isolated areas approaching 14-16 inches.
School Monday? - No. Probably not Tuesday either.
When will it end? - tapers and then comes to an end around noon Monday.
Alan Rickman, born 2/21/1946Jersey Shore, Delaware beaches, Maryland's Eastern Shore: increased likelihood of blizzard-like conditions (higher winds than described in the forecast areas above) which could bring greater indicidence of power outages.
Accumulations - could be in the 9-12 range with several inches more possible in isolated areas. The snow forecast numbers for this region could fall dramatically if there is more rain (or even mostly rain).
Tituss Burgess, born 2/21/1979
School Monday? - No. Could be more days off if there are widespread power outages and/or flooding.
When will it end? - starts as a wintry mix by mid-morning on Sunday, winding up a bit later than the other regions (tapering and ending by around dinnertime on Monday).
Jennifer Love Hewitt, born 2/21/1979Reading - Berks - Lancaster: similar to Norristown - Bucks - Philly. An increased risk of blizzard (or blizzard-like) conditions, which can result in more quickly deteriorating road conditions, blowing and drifting snow.
Accumulations - 6-12 inches, more in isolated areas.
School Monday? - No, although it seems to be increasingly popular for schools to deploy and two-hour delay even when the road/lot conditions remain treacherous.
When will it end? - noon Monday (or shortly thereafter)
Jordan Peele, born 2/21/1979
And there you have it. A good, old-fashioned bomb cyclone to round out a miserably frigid and snowy winter.
Enjoy!
💓 Monsoon