My Life As A Hobby

I have to admit, when I first heard the story I was conflicted.  The Dad in me was very concerned that my son would behave   disrespectfully towards an authority figure.   But, in all honesty, The Comic in me was elated.   You may not know this, but all comedians rejoice when one of their own hammers a heckler that deserves it.   And when the person doing the hammering is your son, well, that makes it even better.   As many of you know, I have three boys. And I can see a little of me in all of them. My oldest son Matt loves classic rock n roll, and is very artistic.  His favorite medium is pencil and ink, just like his Dad.  My youngest son Brad loves practical jokes.  He also has a running commentary about stupid things he sees. And he’s competitive.  That’s me.  Then there’s my middle son Jeff. He has a lightning fast wit, and loves puns, jokes, and wordplay.  He’s skilled at all three.  My wife Carol laughs a lot harder at him than she does me.  If Jeff could’ve taken the reject

As I tend to the scratches and scrapes on my bare legs, I’m wondering if I should get a tetanus shot. I don’t think I was cut by the rusty barbed wire fence in the woods, but I’m not 100% sure. So, I guess I’ll just hope for the best while I try to scrape the mud off my new Nike’s.  It is still difficult to believe that all of this happened  as the result of a dog chase - but it did.  It started out innocently enough. I decided to take my pups, Reese and Roscoe, for a walk up the street.  No problem there.  The problem came when I  decided to play Caesar Milan, and take Roscoe off leash to see if he would still follow the pack. That decision ranks up there with eating jalapeños right after hemorrhoid surgery. In both cases, you’re gonna get burned.   And burned I was.  Roscoe hung kind of close to me until he fully realized he was not on the leash. Then, whoosh!  In seconds, he was  a hundred yards away. I think I heard a sonic boom. Now he was up the street in our neighbor’s ya

  Decision, decisions.   We have been seriously considering   taking the land line out of our home. That’s because now about the only incoming calls we get   are from a nice man who reminds us that our chance to get an extended car warranty has almost expired. It will also mean giving up the phone number we have had since the Eisenhower administration. Just call me sentimental. What’s holding us back is the spotty cell service we have in our neighborhood. Of course, taking out a land line is something that would have never been discussed 30 years ago. Back then, the thought that a house phone could be replaced by a telephone that’s totally portable, totally wireless, can transmit information, and is owned by everyone north of 9 years old was unthinkable. Nowadays it’s not even uncommon.    My granddaughter can’t even imagine that there was a time when a home only had one phone. And when I told her that THE phone had a receiver that was tethered to it’s main body with a cord she loo

I’m not a handyman.  I truly wish I was, but it’s just not in my DNA.  I can’t make a straight cut on a 2x4 to save my dog’s life.  If you give me a hammer and a handful of nails, all you’re probably gonna get are bent nails.   And I’m probably gonna get a smashed thumb.  Then everyone within a three block radius is probably gonna get to hear a combination of words they've never heard before. That’s about the only thing I can do as well as a construction worker. What’s so frustrating is that I have friends who are handy. They can do things like build decks, install windows, repair faucets, replace light fixtures and such. I’m so jealous.   I’m doing good if I put in a new furnace filter with the arrow pointing in the right direction.   My best friend Richard wired his house - his whole house!  It passed inspection with flying colors.  I have trouble putting batteries in a channel changer.  I got this ineptness from my father.  He couldn’t tell a flat head screwdriver from a x

It struck me when I was driving on a little back road near my house.  There in a small, well kept yard several forsythia were blooming.  (aka Yellow Bells).  Amid the unraked leaves the shrubs stood, flanking the dormant  Bermuda grass.  Their bursts of bright yellow were in sharp contrast to the muted colors all around them.  I’ve seen this before and I knew what it meant. Fake Spring is here. Fake Spring is a season that most Southerners are aware of, but don’t pay any attention to.  All they have to do is look around - the signs are everywhere.   It’s not just forsythia. Lots of plants are fooled by Fake Spring.  They start blooming, only to be frozen during the proverbial “Cold Snap”.   Look around.  Check the blooms!  You’ll see tulip trees, red buds, purple thrift, and last and certainly least, Bradford pear trees.      By the way, I’m not a fan of the Bradford pear. They’re not natural looking and they’re not pretty. They bloom too early, they seem to be in everyone’s yard,

I was going thru some old boxes in my closet when he surprised me. There, smack dab in the middle of a Nike shoebox he lay.  Like me, he has a few miles on him. That’s no surprise because we grew up together.  Most of his face is worn.  His ears are frazzled.  The stripes on his body are just about gone; I loved those off of him years ago.  Most kids had a Teddy bear.  Not me.  I had a tiger.  Tony the Tiger.  Tony was a much a part of my early childhood as Gerber baby food.  He went everywhere with me.  Tony slept with me, ate meals with me, even accompanied Mom and me when we picked up Dad from work. Yep, we only had one car.   Tony was involved with my entire family. I fondly remember my older sister playing games with me that involved Tony and my other beloved stuffed animal, Susie the cat.  All was well in my young world.   Then I got older.  Tony was still a part of my life, but he wasn’t the center of my universe any more. Television, climbing trees, playing army, and read