As a kid, I always wanted to be a skateboarder. I had a skateboard, but I was never a “skateboarder.” See, there’s a difference there. Having a chunk of shaped plywood with four worn-down wheels doesn’t make you something. It only makes you the OWNER of something. I wanted to glide and feel one with the board. To effortlessly fly about the streets, weaving in and out of cars, just missing their speeding fenders. I wanted to jump over drooling, carnivorous, child-eating dogs. I wanted to sail through the air, feeling as if I was carried by the winds — not four little spinning chunks of rubber.
Do-it-yourself projects? They’re for dummies
I’ve come to a grand conclusion — one so profound it shakes the very fabric of society. May I share it with you? It is this: do-it-yourself projects are for fools. Yes, fools! Dummies. Imbeciles. Ignoramuses. People afflicted with a deadly disease that I like to call “manure for brains.” Don’t be offended. No, no. Don’t get so upset. Listen, I’m the king of do-it-yourself. The “King of the Ignoramuses.” My manure is brought in by the truckload.
Searching for answers in a South Florida homeless shelter
It was a question that had to be asked. It screamed for an answer. Something to make sense of it. But first someone had to speak up. Had to ask the uncomfortable, the probing, the prying question that was on everyone’s mind. The young journalism student hesitated. Like she thought better of it. Like she thought maybe she shouldn’t go there. Then she dove in: “Why won’t your family help you?” she asked. There wasn’t a dramatic pause. There wasn’t any drawn out thinking about it. The woman quite simply — quite matter-of-factly — replied: “I won’t ask.”
Ants, and that 10th circle of hell
And the ants went marching through. Right through the house. Of course they did. Because we’ve had it all this year. Termites. We tented them. A critter under the downstairs tub. I ran him off. Now ants. Big, gnarly fire ants. The size of ponies. All marching through. As with most invasions — Martian, zombie, whatever — it started out innocent enough. A few scouts wandering around the house, looking at the curtains, making toast, using up all the toilet paper and not putting out a new roll.
The back to school quickstep
Hurry, hurry. Pack, pack, pack. Quickstep, quickstep. Rush, rush, rush. Pivot. Box step. Grab the lunch. Kick. Heel turn. Hop the dog … EEEK!!!! Dog!?! Did anyone walk the dog? GASP! Start again … Hurry, hurry …
A letter to that guy in the future … me
Dear future self, I am writing you this letter in hopes that you will learn something from your past self — me. Next year you turn 40, and as such, I think it time you grow up a bit. Shake up that bag of rocks on your shoulders. Overcome some of the obstacles that always get in your way. I’m here to help you with that. So here are some things I think you should always remember: • Don’t do major outside projects in August. See, August is the middle of summer. The height of summer. By “height,” I mean your hindquarters will spontaneously burst into flames if you go outside. You’ve lived here long enough. You hear your neighbors say things like, “So, you’re not going to be a dang-blasted fool again and do that fence in August, are you?” Heck yeah. ‘Cus I am a dang-blasted fool. But let’s show ‘em. Let’s do a project in … I don’t know … July. When the heat won’t melt the elastic in your underwear. When the mosquitoes haven’t set up blood donor tables for you. Just think about it.
And the graceful, gliding hurdler went BAMMMM!!!
Graceful. Gliding. Effortless. Precise. Powerful. Poetic. Beautiful. See, these were words going through my head. I was watching the Olympics. Hurdlers, actually. A special breed, the hurdler. They are like no other. Don’t categorize them with track and field athletes. No, they belong in a special grouping of adventure-seeking sportsmen. Like hunters who wrestle bears. Motorcyclists who jump through rings of burning gas. Snowboarders who race avalanches down mountainsides. You know, idiots. But in a good, thrill-seeking, “hey-look-my-pants-are-on-fire” kind of way.
Old house living and the thrill of critters
The thing about an old house is it’s built like a block of Swiss cheese. There are holes everywhere. Nooks and crannies. Gaps. Entryways the size of mountain road tunnels. Critters climb through them. Invite friends over. Order pizza. There are many wonderful things about an old house. Critter holes are not one of them. We’ve been in our Lincolnville house for almost 15 years (if the counting on my fingers is correct.)
The goat man cometh … and the world went nuts
Can’t a man dress up like a goat without causing a national stir? Come on, people. It’s America! Modern America. We’re a civilized land of understanding citizens. It’s about time we stop judging and start accepting. Men who dress like goats are just like the rest of us. They just smell a little different.
Suffering from those vacation adjustment blues
The VAB has set in. Oh, and it’s a mean one. Made worse by California jet lag. A three-hour time difference that socks it to you after the flight back. It was past midnight when we all settled down and got the eyes to rest the first couple nights. And God only knows what time we woke up. That’ll do wonders for work. And it doesn’t help in getting over the VAB — the “Vacation Adjustment Blues.” That’s when you come back from a particularly amazing trip and the real world seems … well … a little too real.