When I’m not renting myself out as one of those super tall, waving, inflatable things at car dealerships, I can often be found emceeing benefits for worthy charities. And the most recent benefit was my church’s talent show with all proceeds going to our youth group.
I'm Just Saying
I have a friend that I’ll call ‘Jon’ (appropriate, really, because that’s actually his name), and he travels. A lot. Endlessly. It has to do with his job and I can’t explain what it is he does because even though he’s patiently explained twice, I’m too stupid to actually get it, so I just nod and pretend I’m following.
When my student and friend, Laurie, arrived for her weekly riding lesson on Wednesday, she pulled back the neck line of her knit top to expose her necklace.
“Look,” she said, “I’m wearing my pearls.”
I stared blankly, not following. They were pretty indeed, I thought, but during a lesson?
Usually, if I’m in front of a mic, it’s because I’m performing stand-up in a theater somewhere, a benefit, or a corporate booking. I can’t see myself ever doing nightclubs again. The unpaid bar tabs alone make that too awkward.
It was sometime in the late 70s that I first heard the astrological term, ‘Mercury in retrograde,’—probably from newspaper horoscopes that warned to hold off signing contracts, travel, or operate heavy equipment as chaos would ensue.
In a move that feels like sadly letting go of a beloved, elderly pet, it appears it’s time to send our old farm truck to that big garage in the sky...or more likely, a nearby junkyard.
After tuning into a radio station featuring ‘Hits From Yesterday and Today!’ during a particularly long drive, I was struck by the fact that I could sing along (hence the baying dogs along the way) to nearly every tune.
How is that possible?
Watching the third nor’easter in two weeks pummel residents up and down the coast of New England made me shiver slightly with the sudden realization that it was our own 25th anniversary of the ‘Blizzard of ‘93.’
In a move that feels like sadly rehoming a beloved, elderly pet, it appears it’s time to send our old farm truck to that big garage in the sky...or more likely, a nearby junkyard.
I (and perhaps many of you) don’t really consider myself a writer.