I found two cool shirts on the clearance rack at Wal-Mart.
Remember when it was fun to fly the friendly skies? Back when flight attendants were called stewardesses, traveling by airplane was special. Meals were served and the cabin crew was glad to see you. Passengers dressed up, there was plenty of seat room and screaming babies were strapped to the wing. (Just checking to see if you were paying …
There’s a Facebook post going around that features a 91-year-old woman who is A) Lovely, slender and blonde and B) Dancing up a storm. She’s gliding across a slick dance floor, shagging like there’s no tomorrow. She’s dancing with guys in their 20s and wearing them out. It’s a beautiful thing.
Once you’re in the news business, you’re never really out of the news business. Which is why I’m still obsessed with the news business.
I’ve been paying a lot of attention to advertising signs and billboards while on the road lately. I don’t text and drive during my frequent travels, but I do take the occasional peek at the signs along the way.
Isn’t it funny how we obsess over the little things?
I was lamenting time’s passage the other day in a Facebook post, about how a person seems to have all the time in the world when he has nothing to look forward to, but the moment you find someone you really like and would love to spend all your time with, somebody upstairs hits the fast forward button and before you know it, your time’s up, she’s …
I’m clumsy. Awkward. A klutz. Always have been.
It is well documented that I am not a handyman.
I hate heat, so this is not my favorite season. Actually, in South Carolina we have only two seasons: Hot, and Christmas. It’s not Christmas.
We live in a pastoral little hamlet, Widdle Baby and I.
The defiant cry of outrage, “I’m not going to take this lying down!” you all have heard before.
Life as I know it has become manifested in the dim, blinking brake lights in the distance, having left me behind.
I have to stop watching HGTV. It’s giving me a complex.
Never let it be said that I’m not a sentimental guy.
Last year it was the Summer of Monopoly – a golf shirt the color of every street on a Monopoly board.
Remember the mean kids in high school? The ones who did mean stuff to impress their mean friends, then laughed about it, because they were mean?
In my defense, it looked cool and refreshing. Cool as in temperature wise, not style, and refreshing, as in maybe a little aromatic relief from this ridiculous heat.
There’s never a dull moment at Crazy Acres.
Thanks to Facebook, I know now which Brady Bunch kid I’d be, what kind of dog I am and how long I would survive a zombie apocalypse. (Jan, beagle and forever—my husband is handy with a shotgun, and I swing a mean cast iron skillet. I think we’d be OK. You thought I was going to say I don’t believe in zombies, didn’t you?)
I drive a lot between here and Atlanta, sometimes twice in a month.
This is an update on my very first Fanfare for the Common Man column titled “An Ode to Jeffrey.”
I’d like to thank all who have written, called, visited, emailed and texted since my mother’s death. You’ve soothed me and made me remember the good times. Some of you posed interesting questions. So, here are the answers — and a few memories you might enjoy.
A look at some news — recent and not so much — that made me shake my head…