Once upon a time, I went to Michigan, again.
What I remember most about my recent trip to Michigan—though, there’s a part of me that would like to tell you what happened at the casino in Saganing, but it’s too soon—is the fact that I counted nineteen dead raccoons along the highway in a single two-hour ride from Lansing to a lakeside neighborhood outside an almost undetectable town called West Branch. Well, I remember that and also this: I discovered fried green peas. They were at a small grocery store known as Jay’s, which was next to an auto plaza known as Carl’s, which was just down the road from...
When I grow up, I want to be a box of crayons.
I’d like to share with you the conversation I had with a man from Maintenance, on campus, this morning, hardly an hour and a half ago. Let me set the scene, for you: I’m teaching my Theatre Appreciation class, which is held each Monday and Wednesday morning in the small theatre studio, a few rooms down from my office. I’m in the middle of my lecture, standing in front of several large benches, set pieces for our upcoming production. My back is both to the door and the darkened stage. One of my students, who insists on being called Poonie May, suddenly...
So, you know…I really like a potato log.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, family, food, health, humor
Is there anything, even remotely, more wonderful than a gas-station-deep-fried potato log? I don't think so. No. I. Don’t. Think. So. I am, personally, mad-dog in love with the potato log. I look upon its tasty goodness as a drowning man would a life raft. (I wrote that and then had this visual of being a drowning man and seeing a life raft and then, in that life raft I saw, like, hundreds of potato logs and my heart started beating really fast and I almost had to take half a Xanax). So, you know...I really like a potato log. It has taken a place of supreme...
I guess Boston has everything.
The other evening, Amanda and I were enjoying a small visit with some dear friends. We were sitting around their hip-looking, modern-esque living room (its style is one I envy: its openness and clean lines), and we were sharing a good bottle of Riesling, a bucket of something called Chivda, and a plate of chocolate and peanut butter squares, made by yours truly. Amanda was recounting her recent trip to Boston, in which she was finally able to satisfy a small bit of her boundless love for ethnic foods: Cuban, German, Haitian, Indian, to name several. I guess Boston has everything. And as...
Isn’t everything always in the trunk?
It wasn’t a lot of ice, but still, this morning, stuck to my windshield, there it was. Even more interesting to see, as it glinted in the waking sunlight, was that it had formed itself to the shmear, shall we call it?, left by my windshield wipers from the evening before; I’d used nearly the last of my washer fluid to clean the windshield. So, this morning, I had crystals galore, streaked in long, fluid (and a little tattered-y, because my wipers are in jeopardy of learning cursive handwriting, so bad are they) rivers of frozen delight. I know this is going to...
I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, humor, life
I have realized, lately, that I am, at best, a third cousin once removed from my own definition of self-awareness. I like to think I'm savvy and a smooth operator, most of the time, but I had a bit of a bitter pill to swallow yesterday, when, on my way back from Scooba (perish the thought!), I had to stop and get gas. This is hardly a new thing for me, but unlike my usual stop-and-gos at the Scooba Junction gas station, I had neglected to look at my gas gauge until I was in Brooksville, about twenty minutes north. I had no choice but to pull...
I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor, life
I like to think I’m a good guy. I know I’m not, but still…it’s nice to pretend. Heck, every now and then I even convince myself. I do try and go through the motions, you know, on a fairly regular basis: being nice, opening doors for the elderly, picking up the random piece of stray litter, speaking when spoken to, lending a dollar on occasion, offering gum…you get the picture. I try and do these things with some consistency. However, there is a very real part of my Daily Routine in which I flat-out, no-holds-barred hate people. And that part is driving. I absolutely hate...
“We’ll just draw names again. Except for the babies.”
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, food, humor, life
I’ve never really cared about the gift exchange element to Christmas. Time and time again, as a child, I’d be asked what I wanted and time and time again, I’d say I didn’t care. I’d be pressed until I crumbled and rattled off some random item. A typewriter (which I ended up loving), board games (which I’ve since donated to high school theatre departments), books (I still have every one of these), a video recorder (I used it once six years ago to document a living will). I’ve never really put that much focus on material things. Not to say that I...
Not tonight, dear, I have a checkbook.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, humor, life
I will not turn around for anything or anyone, once I’m on the road heading to my destination of choice (be that New Mexico or Kroger), unless the circumstances are so dire that I have no choice: I need gas, I left my two-year-old nephew sleeping on the couch, you know things like that. For instance, last Thursday when I drove up to Taste of China, because I prefer their cream cheese wontons over China Garden’s, I was determined to get out of the car and walk in the door and eat like a king. Except I had left my wallet at...
I’m not sure if you know this or not, but it’s never wrong to steal a pen.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, faith, family, humor, life
I can count on one hand the number of things I’ve stolen in my entire life: four. I’m holding up four fingers, at this very moment, even though you can’t see them. But, that’s it: four items. Four, random though purposeful, inconsequential items. One of those items was a candy bar. A Kit-Kat, actually, and it was easily stolen because I used to run the “candy store” between class periods, at my high school. The smart kids got to do everything fun, especially when it involved cash handling. I only stole one candy bar and only the one time because I had convinced myself that...
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