A drum set, and other gifts not to give to children.
tweet this
I found myself in a conversation the other evening in which the topic of Santa arose, and with it came the typical, post-adolescent baggage: How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? It seems that Santa has a very thin line of discussability (today's word du jour). Either you are six, or thereabout, and Santa conjures up images so explosively potent that you have to lock yourself in a bathroom until the feeling passes, and though the whole messy Santa business only lasts for about twelve total hours on the night of his imminent arrival, you still swear...
Or, in layman’s terms, a fist.
I’m guessing you’ve never thought about this before, and until recently, it had been ages since it’d crossed my mind, but I’m going to ask you anyway: What kind of finger-pointer are you? I’m not sure how, but I think it’s probably very important that we ask ourselves this and learn how knowing what type of finger-pointer we are unconsciously dictates our lives. I was first brought to the attention of the power of the finger not, as you might imagine, by a rude driver showing me his emotional state caused by my “granddaddy” style of driving along our nation’s roadways. No,...
Gary makes me hungry.
I had a long, fun conversation with my friend Gary the other day, Sunday actually, over the telephone, and we quickly started talking about food, as our conversations tend to do. Gary, now a famous playwright/critic, who spends most of his days on a plane, as opposed to by a plate, always wants to hear about what Nana has cooked, created, invented, resurrected from her kitchen shelves. Nana’s kind of magical that way. And she has become something of folklore in my social circles, and many of my friends eagerly await for my Sunday dinner details. (I can think of one person who...
After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.
This past Sunday, my youngest nephew, Wynn, who by the way is a few months shy of three and has already rightfully earned the nickname of “Chunk,” turned to me and asked for coffee. “What…did you…say?” I implored of him. “Coffee,” he responded, and then with a nod of the head as if recognizing that he’d forgotten the magic word, added, “pease?” It’s always precious when the little ones remember that fading concept known as “manners.” But, precious aside, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I went in search of his mother. She wasn’t a bit thrown off by what I felt had...
So, that one time, I committed a crime, OK?
Let me tell you why I like Lowe’s. They’re not afraid to bend the rules, for you. I can’t say how far they would bend them—sharing trade secrets, “extras” given rather than purchased—but I will tell you this: they’ll go the distance to help you get mint. Every year around this time, this humid, wet, hot time, I get the notion that, once again, who I really am has nothing to do with theatre, writing, or teaching. No, who I am, in fact, is a Farmer. I drag out the tools from the side of the house and cultivate the small...
Phenergan’s Wake
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, food, health, humor
I’ve had an ill-behaving stomach, as of late. Which has kept me up at nights, uneasy and nauseous. I couldn’t eat much of anything yesterday; I had to practically force myself to eat the leftover cheese sticks, a bowl of soup, and half a chocolate bar (with hazelnuts). So, I did. But, I couldn’t bear to go another night with fitful sleep; so last night, to combat this, I took a Phenergan. It’s a pill prescribed for upset stomachs, etc. We fear I might have IBS. (That’s quite a conversation-starter, there, is it not?) It took a couple of hours, but it did the...
Pointing, by the way, is not polite.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, food, health, humor, life, theatre
I’ve become a little too close to the janitor, at the college. And it’s not that I mind, not one bit; it’s how we’ve become close that I find amusing and uncomfortable. It involves Miller Light. Sort of. Before I go any further, I want you to be plainly aware that this is not about an academic caste system. And I have a previous story to prove it. Though I rarely tell this story from my Disney Days, prior to having the high-class job of character entertainment and the allure of being an Attractions Host at Disney Studios, I will come clean and tell you that...
Five foods that made me who I am.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, food, health, humor
I’m still stuck on the potato log. Meaning, since confessing to you about my lust and love for the said potato log, yesterday afternoon, I’ve not been able to think about anything else except food. And so, at the risk of offending some of you, I feel I’ve no choice to move myself past this obsessive food-thinking other than to write about it. So, I’m going to spend the next few moments with you, making one confession after another about a few dishes, recipes, snacks, and various other, sundry foods that I not only grew up with, but that, I feel, have defined who...
So, you know…I really like a potato log.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, 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...
Advertise With Us
