Ah, yes, the middle of March. In Michigan. You know — that’s when the roadside snow is blackening, all cars have that same dusty-grey color, the ground is muddy one day and frozen the next, and a blustery sleet or, worse yet, a cold rain stings the eyes. Hey, March in Michigan may be uninviting,…
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There’s just something about the yellow lab.  They have those sad, droopy eyes. That tail-wagging, can’t-control-themselves-cuz-they’re-so-happy-to-see-you disposition. That Every Dog look about them. And, when they’re puppies – forget about it. You just want to eat them up. I had one of those labs. Her name: Jewel. No longer, though. Notice that I specifically used…
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You remember syllogisms, don’t you? They were those one-more-thing-I-gotta-remember behests your fifth grade teacher foisted onto your scholastic plate of youthful indifference. To refresh your memory-starved frontal lobe, here’s a classic syllogism from our old pal, Aristotle: All men are mortal Socrates is a man. Ergo, Socrates is mortal. You see, syllogisms are a way…
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Look out Michigan: here we come. Go East, (not so) young man. We’re baaaack! Could the clichés get any cliché-ee-er? But, yes, after absorbing the near-daily raindrops, inhaling the pine needles’ bouquet garni, and experiencing the maddening – nay, eye-popping – growth of the Pacific Northwest (or PNW, as the flatbellied, grunge-geek locals call this…
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Tiger Woods has one. Kermit the Frog has one. Hell, even The Clapper (remember: clap on, clap off — The Clapper!) has one. What is it — this one thing? What do they all have in common? Well, what each of these fame-trapped entities have in common is that they each have their own Wikipedia…
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There are lots of three-word sentences. We use them all the time, right? How ‘bout trying some of these on for size: I love you. Let’s get drunk. Please forgive me. Just do it. Let’s have sex. Maybe you’re right. I am pregnant. You didn’t think the above existed in the context of a single…
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His face: cherubic. His little nose: kissable. His ability to make my soul smile: infinite. And so it is with little Noah George Anter. All nine pounds of him. One month old. Sticky fingers? Fantastic. Spittle on the lower lip? Suitable for framing. Time spent just watching him watching me watching him? Yes … give…
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Most of my friends are, like me: upper middle-age, a little extra weight around the mid-section and — at least for the men — balding. Their Big Life Story involves graduating their last kid through college and thinking about how to re-decorate that now-spare bedroom into a rarely-to-be-used-again den. Good for them. But no, not me….
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“You’ve got 12 minutes.” That’s what one warning on the Hawaiian news agency stated. 12 minutes before the bomb was to hit, 12 minutes to live. What do you do? If there’s ever a statement that’d rip the cover off of life’s baseball, that one would do it. Pretty raw, right? 12 minutes. What if…
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