My Life As A Hobby

Every house has at least one. Ours has several. There’s one beside my dresser in the bedroom. Another in the kitchen next to the knife drawer. The basement has one too. That one is more like a small archaeological dig. They’re junk drawers. Junk drawers are the great equalizer of American homes. Rich or poor, young or old, every family has at least one. They’re one part time machine, one part museum, and one part landfill. A junk drawer is where useful things go to wait until they become useless - or where useless things go because you just can’t part with them. Mine contains, among other things: four pairs of fingernail clippers, two pairs of toenail clippers, golf tees, dead watches, an expired driver’s license, charging cords for phones we got rid of three upgrades ago, pocket knives too dull to cut a  banana, an eyeglass repair kit, a VCR instruction manual, a half dozen mystery keys, enough loose screws to assemble a lawn mower, four old batteries,  three plastic pe...

  The floor lights  splashed the dim stage in a harsh white glow. Taking their cue, musicians walked out, picked up their instruments and, without a word, launched themselves into a song.  Instantly, the auditorium was filled with what some people called music. Guitars blared. Drums pounded. Vocals, boosted by the miracle of modern amplification, fought a losing battle against the wall of sound. It was like listening to the soundtrack of a Beavis and Butt-Head marathon. At center stage stood a whippet-thin man blaring out lyrics that very few people could understand. Yet he was the reason nearly everyone in the audience had bought a ticket. The singer was Academy Award-winning actor Billy Bob Thornton fronting his band, The Boxmasters, who have been together for more than 20 years.  The music was marketed as rockabilly with a nod to the vocals of the Beach Boys. Maybe that’s how it came across from the stage. From our row however, it sounded a lot closer to...

Before smartphones, GPS, and reclining seats, teenagers had a Camaro, an 8-track, and a quiet country road. If you ask people my age about parking, they are likely to respond, “What kind? Parallel? Angle? Backing in? Perhaps they will talk about some neer- do-well who pulled in a spot crooked, making them feel like a human tube of toothpaste as they tried to squeeze out of their car.  However, some of us have forgotten about another kind of parking. The type of parking that was not an adjective, but more like a noun. The kind you did in a car, not with a car.  It was the kind of parking we did as high school kids on a Friday or Saturday night. The kind of parking we used to do between the end of the movie and taking your date home. The kind that would elicit a question from your friends like,“Hey, did ya’ll go parking last night?”   Parking was an integral part of the dating ritual during my high school years. It involved finding an out-of-the-way road, pulling ove...

  I still remember when my son gingerly placed my first newborn granddaughter in my arms. Well…he tried to. Just as I reached out to hold her for the first time, a woman in a dark business suit carrying a clipboard and an air of authority stepped between me and the newest member of my family. “Before you take possession of your grandchild, sir, you’ll need to review and sign this document.” “Sign? What am I signing?” This was a baby, not an extended warranty on a Buick. “The Grandparent Contract. I realize you haven’t done this before, but it’s standard procedure nowadays. Just makes things easier for everyone.” She handed me a document that appeared to contain more legalese than a rental car agreement. I began skimming the highlights. Section 1: Rule Enforcement The Grandparent acknowledges that all rules established by the parents shall remain in effect. However, the Grandparent retains emergency powers, including authorizing cookies before supper, extending bedtimes, an...