Point of No Return
I still get a little amazed at the Internet.
As Labor Day passes and the summer season comes to an end, it’s time to take in a breath of fresh air, enjoy some satisfying moments outside and prepare to hole up indoors for the next several months to enjoy the National Football League in all its splendor on the television. And, inevitably, someone in the living room will say something about the game that makes absolutely no sense.
So, many in the state have been buzzing over the past week with reports that Sen. Joe Biden has been named running mate for Sen. Barrack Obama in the upcoming presidential election. Surely there are those who are excited because of Biden’s vast experience in foreign relations, and others who think the selection is prudent based on Biden’s long tenure in the Washington inner sanctum.
I live in a house of ill repute.
There’s just something missing with the Olympics.
Today I begin living a lie.
It’s a common thought that, in football, a referee or offensive lineman is doing a great job only if you never notice he or she is on the field. Oh, it’s thankless to be lauded for anonymity, but the only times those people tend to get attention is when there is a major mistake on the field of play.
There are certain points in life when we all know we’ve indeed hit rock bottom. For nudists in France, this could be that point. According to a Reuters story earlier this week, France’s data protection authority has granted permission to a nudist colony to “black list” certain guests, and bar them from the facilities.
It’s been argued that there are three entities that are uniquely American — the Constitution, baseball and jazz. For some, Budweiser should also be included on that short list.
We all want to be part of a group, right?
I once held a dream of becoming a stand-up comedian.
Ours is an ever-changing world. What was acceptable in the past may be frowned upon today. What existed in the past may not exist today. And what wasn’t there yesterday might be there today.
Life is filled with metaphorical peaks and valleys. Inevitably, we all face those sacred moments in time that lift us to great heights, or sink us into seemingly endless despair.
Cal Ripken Jr. and Eddie Murray each hit approximately 14,276 home runs in my neighborhood. Art Monk and Charley Taylor made about 10,000 touchdown catches apiece on the same pristine field. And Len Bias probably dropped 100,000 points on our local basketball court.
There are times when I’m seated at my desk with a vacant look in my eyes and a smattering of profanity dripping off my lips. The truth be told, that’s my general make-up at the office, but it just escalates on those uneasy Wednesday mornings when I can’t think of anything to write about at all for that week’s column.
“A firearms instructor in southern Massachusetts has been assigned to other duties after his gun accidentally went off while he was teaching a class on weapons safety.”
Have you ever had that metaphorical bucket of cold water poured on your head just when you thought things were going as well as they ever have?
How about 18 million gallons of cold water?
It’s been suggested that I’m a bit of a “Momma’s Boy.”
Despite my rampant cynicism and me-against-the-world philosphy on life, I’m somewhat easily astounded.
There comes a time in each man’s life when he must look himself in the mirror, take an honest appraisal of himself and come to terms with what he truly is in the grand scheme of things.
At first, I thought it was merely an aroma-induced mirage. There I was, sweating and cursing to myself as I was slogging through some yard work on Sunday, when the sweet odor overwhelmed my senses. My original thought was that I was having some kind of imaginary sensation coursing through my veins because my body wasn’t used to the physical toll I was putting on it.
Tired of hearing about Barrack Obama’s vile-spewing preacher friend? Fed up with stories about Hillary Clinton dodging imaginary sniper bullets on her way to a tea party? Has your stomach taken as much as it can when envisioning the very thought of John McCain having an affair with, well, anybody?
The world is just a little smaller these days.
We all encounter a wide array a people over our lifetimes. Be it in a social setting, religious observance, work or some other venue, we meet people — some that we really enjoy, and others that we could do without pretty easily. The majority of the people we meet are exactly that: People we meet.
I was talking to a good friend of mine the other day who is also in this strange business of newspapers. He was telling me that he was driving down the road for an assignment where he was to take up position outside the home of the mother of Ashley Alexandra Dupre, the alleged prostitute involved in the scandal surrounding former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer.
Can you feel it in the air?
Just in case you missed it, Brett Favre retired earlier this week.
I’ve managed to steal time.
I’ve been Betamaxed.
Actually, the realization just hit me that many of you might not remember Betamax, and the battle for technological supremacy it had with VHS during the 1980s. An even scarier thought is the notion that some of you might not even be familiar with the VHS format. So, in a nutshell, I got Betamaxed, and I’m getting old.