A hand jam straight to the heart.
Last evening, 10 pm/9 pm central, the World Surf League, in collaboration with ABC television, dropped its first episode of The Ultimate Surfer. Jen See covered masterfully here and you both can and should read. I only tuned in for a few minutes, as 10 pm/9 pm central snuck up in the middle of a intimate dinner party, catching the less-than-inspiring surfing at the end though was left with one firm impression.
Joe Turpel will be the breakout star.
Sitting there, behind a desk, wearing his classic short-sleeved Hawaiian button-up, skin buttery tan, chestnut hair coiffed around headphone microphone combination, blue eyes flashing, voice pure single batch Mrs. Butterworth syrup, Turpel owned the screen, undeniably, and is now, officially, on a collision course with fame, fortune, a raging cocaine addiction that he will conquer, inspiringly, in rehab.
Joe Turpel.
I’ll be honest, I did not that coming but there is no way television executives are not clamoring for his agent’s phone number right now. He is like Ryan Seacrest except not a Keebler elf. Like Dick Clark except alive-adjacent. Bob Eubanks except made from butter not wax.
Turpel will be called upon to host the Golden Globes, grand marshal the Rose Parade, master of ceremony New Year’s Eve New York City ball drop. His will be the face of America and the voice of America and will comfort us in our dark days with his proprietary blend of Mrs. Butterworth.
A hand jam straight to the heart.
I’ll be honest, I did not see that coming but it is undeniable.
And we will all say we knew him when.