Month: May 2014

Age can be relative with the help of an all-beef patty

image As I think I’ve mentioned, I’m turning 48 this year. The good news is I have a friend who just turned 60. So, relative to him I am a young man — something I will keep reminding him of until that sad day when, unexpectedly, he knocks out my front teeth with his walker. My point is, when it comes to age, what seems relative can quickly change.

Yesterday, for example, I was eating at a fast-food place when I noticed a pair of college-aged girls taking glances at me from another table. This has happened before, which is why I instinctively went through a series of mental checkpoints drawn from previous experience:

1) Is there condiment blowback in my hair, on my chin or around my nostril(s)?
2) What am I wearing today, and is there any part I forgot to snap closed, zip up or buckle down?
3) Did I unknowingly allow any part of my body’s internal gastro intestinal process to be heard externally?
4) Am I slouching, hunched or otherwise postured in a manner that makes it appear I’m protecting my $3.99 Value Meal, possibly to the death?

And last,

5) Is there someone much younger and better-looking sitting directly behind me? Continue reading Age can be relative with the help of an all-beef patty

Something wickedly wonderful this way came — and left much too soon

(Each year when I hear the first echoes of hammering reverberating near our home and harkening the arrival of the Davis Carnival, I think of my friend — and the memory of a warm, terrible spring evening more than a decade ago…)

This view from our office's back door for five days each year is always bittersweet.
This view from our office’s back door for five days each year is always bittersweet.

It’s a strange juxtaposition I find myself in each year, watching the arrival of the carnival and seeing the excitement in the eyes of our children. But as the rides are hammered together late into the evening, I am reminded of the night 13 years ago when I got the call from my best friend telling me he was coming back home to Oregon — because he was dying.

He was 30 years old. Continue reading Something wickedly wonderful this way came — and left much too soon

Skippy the rabid squirrel is coming to a town near you

Skippy the Rabid Squirrel's last known location.
Skippy the Rabid Squirrel’s last known whereabouts.
Everyone needs to get away sometimes. Even rabid squirrels. For those who noticed The Box was missing from last week’s line-up, there’s a good explanation for that — and you may or may not like it, depending on your proximity to a blogger named Kerbey at I Don’t Get It. That’s where Skippy was headed last Tuesday when, following my weekly cry of “RELEASE THE SQUIRREL!” he skittered out the newsroom door and hopped aboard a casino shuttle headed to the Eugene Airport.

As many of you know, Skippy is a crucial part of helping me make a weekly random selection from The Box, which contains dozens of submitted photos that have remained unclaimed and unidentified in our newsroom since the 1980s. To ensure impartiality, I wait until my fellow reporters are deep in thought (deleting all traces of inappropriate Google searches) before spreading the photos on our newsroom floor and releasing Skippy. The photo closest to the first person to scream is selected as our mystery photo. Continue reading Skippy the rabid squirrel is coming to a town near you

Mother’s Day cards have no rhymes for ‘episiotomy’

(With today being Mother’s Day, I felt it appropriate to skip this week’s edition of “Post Traumatic Sunday” and, instead, post a different kind of flashback to say Thank You to all the mothers who sacrifice so much each day, many of whom still have their own kind of flashbacks whenever they hear the words “breast pump”…)

image For many of you, Mother’s Day means sending a flowery card that says all the wonderful things you’d say if only you had a thesaurus and someone from Hallmark breathing down your neck. The truth is, the meaning of Mother’s Day has been lost over the years thanks to stupid greeting cards filled with heartfelt phrases like:

If your love was an ocean, you would’ve drowned me as a child.
Or,
When I think of love, I think of you. Because of this, you have no grandchildren.
Or,
With every smile, I remember a special moment that will never ever be forgotten — Happy belated Mother’s Day!

The true meaning of Mother’s Day, as any mother will tell you, has absolutely nothing to do with flowery cards or fond memories — and everything to do with sacrifice. That’s right. You want to let Mom know you really care? Forget about comparing her to “a beautiful rose laden with thorns of caring,” and remember all the stuff she endured for you even before you HAD a memory. If you’re not sure where to begin, I have two words for you: Breast Pump. Continue reading Mother’s Day cards have no rhymes for ‘episiotomy’

Remembering a writing mentor who probably never knew it

A mentor every writer should've been lucky enough to have.
A mentor every writer should’ve been lucky enough to have.
Anyone who follows my weekly Nickel’s Worth on Writing knows Publisher’s Digest and The Master of Horror® Stephen King are frequently among those offering accolades touting the value and importance of this weekly writing feature.

JK Rowling, E.L. James and many other famous writers with initials for first names have also offered their condolences kudos for writing tips that have been called “…Hemmingway-like, at least in terms of questionable sobriety.”

But long before literary giants and their lawyers began using court-appointed messengers to send accolades requiring my signature, there was someone whose kudos and opinion meant more than any other — and still would if she were alive today. I’m talking, of course, about Barbara Walters.

Ha! Of course I’m not actually talking about Barbara Walters who, as we all know, once called my writing tips “Kwap.” Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s still alive.

No, the person whose opinion and laughter always meant the most was my grandmother, who would’ve celebrated her 102nd birthday today. That photo of her was taken on Mother’s Day in 2008, one day after turning 96, and three days before she passed away. As I sat down to write this week’s NWOW, I thought of how I’ve written about finding your muse, the importance of establishing your voice as a writer, and how being a writer really comes down to believing in and accepting yourself as one. And while the examples I offered in those posts were purposely general enough to be accessible and relatable to everyone, in my own life it was my grandmother’s encouragement and example that set me on an early path to finding those things as a writer. Continue reading Remembering a writing mentor who probably never knew it

Another example of why I will eventually get fired

imageEvery press release that comes here to Siuslaw News crosses my desk and computer monitor at some point. That’s because, among my duties as a humor columnist is typing up things like obituaries, ambulance reports and other things that fall under the “humor umbrella.” At least, that’s how it’s been explained to me. This also includes public service announcements, which sometimes arrive as a hand-written note on a stained cocktail napkin.

When I asked why this is considered part of the coverage area under the “humor umbrella,” my editor explained it’s because my having to figure out someone’s scrawl on an ink-bled napkin “IS FUNNY!” Continue reading Another example of why I will eventually get fired

Motherly insights include how to control children with a jalapeño

image This year perhaps more than any other, my wife deserves something special for Mother’s Day. That’s because in spite of our youngest daughter’s many pre-pubescent mood swings, my wife has somehow managed to avoid what I’m sure has been a strong (some might even say natural) urge to eat her young. This hasn’t been easy. As I mentioned, our daughter is experiencing the physical and emotional challenges that accompany adolescence. One minute she is merrily talking about her favorite kind of cheese; the next minute, she is blaming cheese for ruining her life. As a father, my instinct is to fix the problem by addressing the root of the issue by going directly to the refrigerator and throwing out everything that is — or has the potential of becoming — a cheese-like substance.

My wife, on the other hand, understands there are complex emotional issues at work, and that, in spite of my good intentions, the likelihood of me being able to resolve such issues is akin to having a bomb successfully de-activated by a goat. Thanks to her motherly intuition, my wife was able to explain to me that what our daughter says, and what she really means, are two completely different things. Continue reading Motherly insights include how to control children with a jalapeño

Dude, where’s my blog tour? Oh, right — it’s at #mywritingprocess

Coming to a blog near you! (Unless we break down)
Coming to a blog near you! (Unless we break down)
That’s right! It’s time once again for Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing, when I draw from 15 years as a newspaper columnist to offer insightful writing tips that Publisher’s Digest has heralded as:

“Wisdom ahead of its time, assuming you’re running late…”

And what The Master of Horror® Stephen King calls:

“Writing affirmations that keep my lawyer on speed dial…”

But enough accolades!

As I mentioned in last week’s NWOW, this week’s edition was going to be a little different thanks to fellow blogger/columnist/Canadian friend Ross Murray at Drinking Tips for Teens, who invited me to be a part of the #mywritingprocesss Blog Tour. There are several reasons I’m both excited and flattered to be a part of this blog tour, which highlights the creative process of different writers each week. I’m excited because sharing my process might be helpful to other writers; I’m flattered because Ross admitted I was “On a short list of writers, after my dog chewed up most of it.” Continue reading Dude, where’s my blog tour? Oh, right — it’s at #mywritingprocess

Nine days in a mental hospital; it’s time for our family vacation

image Welcome to Post Traumatic Sundays, which are posts written during my first marriage. None have appeared on this blog before, and only a couple were included in my book. What these posts aren’t about is venting or vindictiveness.

So what’s the point, you ask? Simply to offer reflections from someone dealing with an unhappy marriage in the best way he knew how: with humor. Eight years later, I am happily re-married to someone who inspires me each and every day to laugh for the right reasons.

It’s good to laugh with you for the right reasons as well…

* * * * * * * *

By the time you read this, our family will be on its seventh day of a nine-day road trip to California, which means that, by now, I will have been institutionalized somewhere outside of Fresno for almost a week. Yes, even with 11 years of marriage and seven years of child rearing under our belts, our combined wisdom wasn’t enough to save us from a plan that essentially locks us together with our children for nine days in a confined space roughly the size of an Altoids box. Continue reading Nine days in a mental hospital; it’s time for our family vacation