Month: June 2014

Of alligators and erotica: Revealing myself to Marcia Meara and Eden Baylee (Part 1)

image It’s Friday, and we all know what that means… That’s right! It’s time to call in sick for a three-day weekend! It’s also time for Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing, which many bosses, especially editors, accept as a legitimate cause for illness. So go ahead and read this before making that phone call! For those who might be visiting for the first time, I should explain my weekly NWOW is when I take what I’ve learned from 15 years as a columnist and filter out the impurities, much like that water filter in your refrigerator that hasn’t been changed since you bought it, and offer you a refreshing glass of slightly sulfuric-smelling wisdom.

But don’t take my word for it! Publishers Digestion has called my NWOW, “…Writing advice you can’t find anywhere else. And we’d like to keep it that way…” and what The Master of Horror® Stephen King has heralded as “…Writing wisdom that keeps me awake at night…”

But enough accolades! Continue reading Of alligators and erotica: Revealing myself to Marcia Meara and Eden Baylee (Part 1)

It’s not just the smoke in my eyes this morning

image When you’re driving an axe into the door of a home on fire, a lot of things run through your mind. Is there anyone inside? Will the introduction of oxygen cause the fire to flash? Do these turnouts make me look fat? But when my pager went off this morning at 2:30 a.m., jettisoning me out of bed after a kiss for my wife and then out the door to the station, I had no reason to believe that I would experience something I had only experienced once before as a firefighter, early in my volunteer career. As we stood at the door in our three-man team prepared to enter the burning, single-level structure, I suddenly felt claustrophobic. My gear, strapped tightly over my turnouts and sealing me into my Nomex fire-proof hood and oxygen mask — things meant to protect me from the dangers I was about to expose myself to — felt more like a straight jacket. I felt my heart begin to race. My breathing rate increased. Inside my mask, the three green indicator lights displaying a full air supply dropped to two. Continue reading It’s not just the smoke in my eyes this morning

Helpful tips for Southerners dealing with Fornicating Locust

(Today I’m actually coming to you from the offices at Long Awkward Pause, where we like to say “offices” instead of climate-controlled storage units…)

image It’s June 2014, and that means a new generation of newlyweds in The South will be racing past family and friends while being showered with frantically mating cicadas. What are cicadas you ask? Think really big crickets.

No, think grasshoppers on steroids.

Actually, think “Hopper” from A Bug’s Life.

For those who haven’t experienced cicada season, it’s easy to imagine if you keep one thing in mind: For six weeks, wherever you go and whatever you do, you will be doing it within the general vicinity of at least 200 cicadas, each of which will be participating in something generally reserved for late night cable. To make matters worse, thousands of male cicadas will be attempting to attract disinterested females by repeating a series of deafening mating calls, which entomologists, after years of research, have finally translated to mean: hey baby hey baby hey baby… (Click here for more at LAP)

New trend in grad gifts has parents going for bust

image After reading about how the parents of LuLu Diaz gave their daughter $6,000 breast implants for her high school graduation gift, I couldn’t help but be shocked by the idea of a father agreeing to anything that would make his teenaged daughter more enticing to teenaged boys. As luck would have it, I actually spent several years in my teens. Because of this I can tell you there are many teenaged boys who still haven’t made it past the “breast” portion of this column. Sadly, some may never finish reading it because, in order to break them out of their current hypnotic spell, it will become necessary for a close friend or family member to light them on fire.

Let’s face it: This is the nature of most men until the aging process inspires a level of physical maturity that dethrones sex as the main motivator. While there is no set timeline for this transformation, most experts agree it begins anywhere between six and eight months after death.

Until then, at least from a father’s perspective, men can’t be trusted. Continue reading New trend in grad gifts has parents going for bust

Thank You

As I flipped open my iPad, sipping my morning coffee, my wife nudged me and pointed to this before I could explore my WP Reader:

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While coffee was brewing in our cluttered kitchen here in Florence, Ore., blogger Aman Shrivastava, a freshman engineering student at the Indian Institute of Technology in Roorkee, Uttarakhand, India, pushed the “follow” button — and became one of 4,500 people who have contributed to this blog reaching more people than I ever thought possible. I am constantly amazed and just as often humbled by all of you; your generosity of spirit; your witty and insightful comments that never fail to elicit a laugh (sometimes more than the actual post); your support of me and each other throughout the world; and your endless creativity, wisdom and acceptance, even when… Continue reading Thank You

By not following my own advice, I think I may have pulled a blog muscle

image As Kevin Spacey once told me, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” Granted, he told me this while imitating Clint Eastwood, during a mock interview, at a fictitious nacho bar restaurant called Casa de Papitas (House of Chips). But that doesn’t make the message any less poignant. Especially when you consider how, that same week, my Nickel’s Worth on Writing compared writing to weight lifting — and how it’s easy to hurt yourself by trying to lift too much.

I can honestly say I’ve never injured anything other than my pride at the gym — an incident I blame on an unfortunate combination of Mexican food and an ill-timed squat that cleared out an entire row of stationary cyclists. However, in terms of my writing commitments — combined with my commitment to family, firefighting and the newspaper — I feel like the guy on the bench press who has suddenly realized, on the fifth rep, that he shouldn’t have added that last 10 pounds while his spotter was in the bathroom. Do I keep trying to lift, hoping I get the bar back into the holders before my arms give out? Do I bring the weight down onto my chest and wait for help from my spotter, knowing he suffers from IBS and could be on the commode for 20 to 30 minutes? Or do I, in a loud voice, announce that I had Mexican food again and allow the entire gym to clear out before dropping the bar-bell onto the floor? Continue reading By not following my own advice, I think I may have pulled a blog muscle

Falling into a tuba is no excuse for missing your high school reunion

image Welcome to the first-ever post of Post Traumatic Monday! Regular readers of this blog will notice this new, one-time feature is almost exactly like my Post Traumatic Sunday posts, except, in this case, it’s a day late. Other than that, they’re pretty much the same. However, I do have an excuse for yesterday’s missing assignment, which is… my dog ate my blog? Actually, I really do have a good excuse, which I will explain later this week. Before we get started, I should explain to those visiting for the first time that these weekly posts were written during my first marriage. None have appeared on this blog before, and only a couple were included in my book. 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 day to laugh for the right reasons. It’s good to laugh with you now — for all the right reasons…

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When it comes to receiving unsolicited material in the mail, few things are more frightening than an invitation to your 20th high school reunion.

Except maybe a voodoo doll made from your own clothes and hair. Continue reading Falling into a tuba is no excuse for missing your high school reunion