MY SUN DAY NEWS
November 20, 2014
NASCAR claims the second-largest viewing audience in America, right after pornography. And probably for the same reason: Sooner or later, somebody’s going to spin out and slam into the wall. I’ll never understand the appeal, because what’s the point of watching somebody on TV doing something you do every day?
There’s a truck parked in the street outside my house—a lime-green pickup truck with a little lime-green trailer attached to it, looking like a big shiny version of something you’d give to your grandson to play with in the sandbox.
Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to them—the Lion Boy, the Leopard Boy. It’s been nearly 50 years, and I wonder if it all worked out well for them.
I tried to staple a receipt to a bill this morning, and instead of the satisfying “ka-chunk” of a little silver staple being driven home, I heard nothing. The stapler pressed quietly into the papers with a metallic sigh, like an old man easing into bed.
You see them everywhere these days—those grand displays of young love meant to guarantee a long life together. You know what I mean—the airplane sketching “I love you Tori” in a tracery of wispy clouds across the blue sky above the beach.
On Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, I pulled into the parking lot at Maine South High School, my familiar morning stopping point for the past 30 years of my life. As I walked from my car to the building, I dawdled a bit to breathe in the fine clean air beneath the impossibly blue sky.
Somewhere in America, there is a college with lawns so green and perfect that no student would think of setting foot off the sidewalk to crush so much as a single blade of grass.
There is a commercial on TV these days that features country singer Kenny Rogers playing cards with some friends. I think it’s a commercial for insurance—or maybe orange juice—or oven cleaner. It doesn’t matter, because I’m not buying whatever they’re selling, and whatever they’re selling has nothing to do with Kenny Rogers.
There is a TV show on the Discovery Health Channel called “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.” I have never seen the show—well, not all the way through—though my wife watches it all the time.
“I wish they would just bring back—gesundheit,” my daughter Jenny sniffled. We were in the heart of allergy season, and since both she and I are allergy sufferers, the “Bless yous” were flying thicker and faster than the “Like, you knows” at her daughter’s sleepovers.
When I was a kid, we had three clocks in the house. An alarm clock sat on the nightstand next to Mom and Dad’s bed, of course, though I don’t think I ever heard it ring. Dad set it every night to ensure that he wouldn’t oversleep and be late for work at the Thompson Wire steel mill, but he always awoke in the dark and turned it off before it jangled the house awake.
According to a report published by the University of Illinois in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, Atlantic hurricanes with female names are far more deadly than male-named hurricanes. The researchers are quick to provide a reason for their sexist findings that will keep their scientific eyes from being scratched out. Female hurricanes, they say, are perceived by the public as less threatening, so people are less-prepared.
It happened several years ago, but every time I hear those three simple words I think of it.
If your father had been dead for 20 years and if you had few childhood photos of him (or none), how important would it be to you to see a lost picture of him at 13 years old?
Ask anybody what “Fido” means to them, and they’ll say without a moment’s hesitation, “That’s a dog’s name.”
It is spring. Today the windows are open and the wind whispers through the screens, setting the drapes all a-dance. And just that quick, I am blown back to the late 1950s, sitting in Miss Landoc’s English class in John Mills Grammar School in Elmwood Park, Il
It was early evening, and I had spent most of the day on the go—grocery shopping, cleaning the house, doing dishes and laundry, cooking meals. I wanted to put my brain and body on pause for a few minutes before opening the bills from the mailbox.
As Mark Twain tells it, he once had one of those nagging colds that just wouldn’t go away. He asked a neighbor what he should do about it. “Drink a quart of whisky,” the neighbor said.
I spend a lot of time in model homes. Way more time than a man should have to spend in one, especially since I live in a home less than five years old.
I grew up in a working-class Illinois Methodist home, and though I wouldn’t say my family was particularly religious, Dad was the poster-child for the protestant work ethic.
I walked up to one of those little food-sample kiosks at the grocery store the other day, where a lady was handing out a wedge of something on tiny paper plates. I didn’t know what she was doling out, but it didn’t matter because I have the discernment of a doberman when it comes to scarfing down free food samples at the grocery store.
Well, it’s about time. I never thought I would live to see it, but some scientists are finally breaking away from the herd of researchers obsessed with silly things like global climate change, genetically-enhanced food products, antibiotic-resistant bugs and the like.
I took a stroll down Main Street in Spamville early this morning. I was lucky enough to make it back home, but I’m still trying to regain my balance.
I stopped making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago, when I realized that they were all doomed to failure.
Look, it’s not as if I haven’t given it a fair shake, but this whole calendar thing just isn’t working out for me.
I knew you could be arrested for a lot of things, but I was surprised to learn that you could be hauled in for your taste in interior decorating.
When you spend close to 40 years in high schools — first as a student, then a teacher — you see a lot of hickeys. Or you see a lot of turtleneck shirts worn on 90-degree days, “Just because I felt like wearing one today. In fact, maybe I’ll wear one every day this week.”
This splendid autumn of ours can last only so long, and before you know it, snowbirds of every feather will be heading south. The hummingbirds dashed off a couple weeks ago, and the robins will start making their reservations soon.
It’s getting to the point where you can’t have any fun anymore. Unless, that is, you enjoy rules and restrictions. If so, then life is a laugh-riot.
I only knew Stephen for a bit less than a year. He didn’t give me the chance to get to know him better because he killed himself.
