Category: Flashbacks: Reader favorites that may cause numbness

Over the course of 10 years, these columns have spawned the biggest response from readers across the United States and parts of Canada, covering topics from germ-fighting underwear to the very real threat of fruitcake proliferation.

First step to becoming a man requires a plunger and a box of Fruit Loops

If you’re reading this, Congratulations! You are part of a selective group of individuals who, like yourself, have met a basic standard for visitors to this blog, which is that you must be irrefutably awake. Around here, Sundays are for Flashbacks. This has nothing to do with tequila, getting older or this morning’s proximity to Saturday night — and everything to do with the combination of all three. In addition, it also has to do with a Flashback Sunday tradition that began almost a year ago… assuming I’m not having a flashback right now. Either way, join me as we dig back into the archives to 2002, back when I thought “blogging” was slang for something inappropriate between loggers…

image There are certain things all males must learn before they can become a man. This knowledge is passed from father to son, and includes fundamental life skills such as shaving, car repair, burping the entire alphabet, and making fart sounds with your arm pits.

However, there is a crucial first step along the road to manhood that every male must eventually make alone. In a cruel twist of fate, this usually occurs around age three, when fluid intake is high, and hand-eye coordination is equal to that of a wild chimp.

Our son began taking this important step soon after we discovered we did not actually have a leaky toilet. Unfortunately for my wife, she was on the receiving end of this discovery after walking into the bathroom and startling our “man-in-the-making.” And I’m pretty sure I don’t need to explain what he was making. Suffice it to say, I was immediately informed of the situation. Not in so many words, but in a sudden scream that, in my opinion, really didn’t help things.

What did help is that I kept this opinion to myself. Continue reading First step to becoming a man requires a plunger and a box of Fruit Loops

Computer acting up? Backhand it with an anti-static wrist strap

It’s Sunday, which God reserved for rest, reflection and — I’m pretty it’s in the Book of… something — “Sunday Flashbacks on Ned’s Blog.” The fact that I am still typing proves He has a sense of humor. Or is quite possibly reading someone else’s blog. Either way, I’ll take it as an affirmation to reach back into the archives, to a time before Creation — at least in terms of this blog — when he looked upon what had been made and said in a mighty voice, “Meh.”

Today’s post is a column from 2004, when I was having some computer issues on a regular basis. On an unrelated note, I also got my gun permit about that time…

As a last resort, you may chose to place you computer on top of a trash receptacle and threaten it at gunpoint. Remember: Threatening the monitor is a waste of time. (And yes — sadly, this is a current photo of my computer system)
Today, we will be covering basic troubleshooting techniques for your computer. By the end of this column, you will know how to identify a problem within your system, and then determine whether you can:

a) Fix it yourself, or

b) Save yourself the trouble by taking your computer somewhere and shooting it.

To begin with, most of us have absolutely no idea how a computer works. This is illustrated by the fact that, when there’s a problem, we get really mad and yell at the monitor. This is sort of like yelling at the refrigerator because the container we thought was “Cool Whip” actually turned out to be refried beans left over from last year’s Cinco De Mayo party. Continue reading Computer acting up? Backhand it with an anti-static wrist strap

Snoring is just one sign of a seasoned journalist

Good morning and welcome to my first post-turning-47 Sunday Flashback! The fact that I’m even able to say “post-turning-47 Sunday Flashback” proves that 1) I am still quite dexterous, at least verbally, and 2) there wasn’t nearly enough tequila involved on my birthday. But one thing I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older is that you don’t need a lot of alcohol to have a good time. In fact, I can experience that same lack of inhibition and disorientation just by getting up from the couch too fast, or having a Red Bull with my Twinkie. Speaking of being disoriented, I believe it’s time we get to this week’s Flashback. As always it comes from long ago, back when I thought “Freshly Pressed” was a website for people with a fetish for naked dry cleaners; back when my only followers were WordPress sites I opened for my pets; back when the only comments I got were things like “Back to work, Hickson!” and “Honey, can you grab some milk on the way home?” Some of you may recognize the photo, which is from my “About” page. And yes, we do have flies that big in Oregon…

What may appear as sleeping to the untrained eye is actually the complex routine of a seasoned journalist focused on a Pulitzer … or possibly a Putziler.
Every journalist has a routine. For example, I always write my column early in the morning. The earlier the better. That’s because, generally speaking, I’m not awake yet. Sure, I may be drinking coffee and typing, but if you were to monitor my brain activity, it would register somewhere between an earthworm and the average American watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.

Admittedly, my brain doesn’t open for business until about 10 a.m. By then, I’ve been at the keyboard for three or four hours with no real memory of what I’ve been writing. I assure my editor this unique quirk is the sign of a seasoned professional.

And she assures me the reason we need to keep replacing my keyboard is because, at least once a month, she finds me face down drooling on the return key. That may be true, but I tend to do my best work under pressure. And there’s nothing like the pressure of trying to finish a column before saliva short-circuits your keyboard. Continue reading Snoring is just one sign of a seasoned journalist

Insurance premium up? You can thank my clumsy dog

Sundays always include sleeping in late, breakfast in bed and a deep tissue massage — as long as we keep in mind this only applies to the new royal baby. Which isn’t to say Sunday mornings around here aren’t just as glamorous, depending on the kind of T-shirt and underwear I have on while standing at the coffee maker counting the drips. However, the one thing the Royals DON’T have are Sunday Flashbacks (Not counting Prince Harry). This week, we are again digging deep into the archives, back to 2003, when I still thought blogging was yet another intimate activity that raised more questions than answers. So pull up a chair, grab some coffee and let’s agree to move on from that image of me in my underwear…

This is the face of rising homeowner’s insurance.
Each year, we gather as a family to have our pets blessed on St. Francis Day. We do this because we want to give our pets every advantage, particularly if there’s a chance — through divine intervention — that our Chocolate Labrador’s IQ could be raised above that of a standard carrot. I know this is supposed to be a general blessing situation, but I think God would agree there was a serious oversight during Stanley’s creation process.

I know He is very busy.

I know He sees all.

But maybe He was also trying to catch the season finale of “Hell’s Kitchen.”

Whatever the reason, somewhere in the world there’s a dog with two brains. Undoubtedly, its owners are very happy. They don’t care that their dog’s enormous cranium causes people and other dogs to stare. That’s because their dog is smart. Their dog has an instinctive understanding of things like gravity. These owners give thanks to St. Francis each day because their dog, in spite of its bulbous cranium, would never high-center itself on a coffee table in front of company. Continue reading Insurance premium up? You can thank my clumsy dog

Through self-hypnosis, you can become a better golfer — unless you think you’re a chicken

(Regular readers of this blog — or even readers dealing with irregularity — know Sundays are reserved for flashbacks. And I’m not talking about something that comes as a result of too much tequila the night before. I’m talking about Flashback Sundays, which is when I dust off a post or newspaper column from long ago, back when I was building a readership through the promise of free Sea Monkeys. Today’s flashback is from 2005, when I was asked to return to the scene of a crime where, a year earlier, I had committed the act of golf. I chose this post because now, eight years later, I have been asked to do it once more. The only explanation I have for this is that my publisher has started drinking again…)

Golf is so much more exciting than bowling … OK, not really. Well maybe. Actually, now that I think about it … ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Our universe is full of mysteries:

Easter Island.
The Bermuda Triangle.
California.

And perhaps the biggest mystery:

Why I was chosen to captain our office’s Relay for Life golf team for a second time. Being asked the first time could be attributed to office members not realizing how bad a golfer I really am. Though none of the injuries sustained during last year’s tournament were life threatening, having six golfers (two of whom were playing the hole behind me) knocked unconscious by balls with my initials on them — I thought — would become my golfing swan song.

(Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.)

Because of this, I fully expected a letter from the American Golf Association (and PETA) denying me access to any course that doesn’t include a windmill and tokens for a free hot dog. Continue reading Through self-hypnosis, you can become a better golfer — unless you think you’re a chicken

Geographically speaking, I have no idea what I’m talking about

(Somewhere in the world, it’s already Monday. Ech! But for those reading this, it’s still Sunday! Now, before I start getting appreciative calls and emails, I can’t take all the credit. It probably has as much to do with our position in the hemisphere and rotation of the sun as it does with my power to post Flashback Sunday. Although, yes — it is a compelling coincidence. Regardless of the reason, I’m glad we can share Sunday morning together. Come to think of it, I should go put some pants on. In the meantime, here is this week’s flashback, which comes from a time long before I even had a blog, back when I thought “Freshly Pressed” was a new coffee shop and dry-cleaning chain…)

image When my youngest daughter entered middle school, I knew it was only a matter of time before my worst fears were realized and, as a parent, I would have to help her with geography. As many of you know, I suffer from acute directional dysfunction — a disorder many famous historical figures also suffered from, including Christopher Columbus, who discovered America completely by accident while looking for… if memory of sixth-grade history serves me…

A faster trade route to WalMart.

I’m the kind of person who must enter and leave somewhere the same exact way in order to keep from getting lost, even if it means walking backwards out of a public facility, such as the men’s room at Safeco Field. I’ve actually had nightmares about being a contestant on The Amazing Race. In it, I am partnered with my friend David, who spent six years in the Marines, and therefore still refers to distances in terms of “clicks,” which is a unit of measure based on kilometers and the use of a special clicking device. Were I trying to find my way out of enemy territory, this device would be about as useful to me as, say… a Superball. Because of this, my Amazing Race nightmare always starts and ends the same way, with everyone getting the first clue and then excitedly running off in the same direction. Except for me, who excitedly runs in the opposite direction — and off a cliff with my “clicker.” Continue reading Geographically speaking, I have no idea what I’m talking about

Impress your friends and family! Freak out on a carnival ride

(If you know what today is, raise your right hand. Great! If you know what we do here each Sunday, raise your left hand. Fantastic! Now, with both hands in the air, walk to the medicine cabinet and take your medication — because if you believe I can actually see what you’re doing, there are more important things you need to deal with than reading today’s Flashback Sunday. For the rest of you, it’s time once again to delve into the Flashback archives, back to a time when all comments left by readers started with “I am liking your site very well!”; back when I made the empty promise of a free kitten to every new follower; back to a time when I thought “Freshly Pressed” was website offering the latest weight lifting records…)

Squirrel Cages I have a basic rule of thumb when it comes to carnival rides: If the person running a ride, such as the Squirrel Cages, keeps a garden hose available for spraying out the seats, I stay away.

That’s because this person’s sole ambition is to make me — and others like me — vomit. I realize this person may be a trained professional who, on a daily basis, makes countless split-second decisions on whether to push the red or green button to stop the ride. And, yes, I realize this individual has nothing but the safety of his passengers in mind when he secures a safety latch by removing his boot and whacking it until his arm gets tired, at which point, being a trained professional, he bolsters the confidence of his nervous riders by hacking up a cheekful of phlegm and shrugging his shoulders before walking off. Continue reading Impress your friends and family! Freak out on a carnival ride

Answering your painful questions about my softball season

(If you’re someone who doesn’t normally have flashbacks on a regular basis, but wants to start having them, this blog can help! And without expensive prescription medication or those annoying side effects, such as abdominal bleeding, thoughts of suicide or liver failure! That’s right! Welcome to Flashback Sunday, when we dig into the archives to a time before I had any readers who weren’t in the coma ward at Hackensaw Hospital; back when talking openly to a woman about your blog led to slap in the face; back when “Freshly Pressed” was a dry cleaners on Crenshaw Blvd. Today’s flashback is from 2004, when readers of my newspaper column wanted to know how my first season of men’s softball was going. You’ll be sorry they asked. I know I was…)

imageA few weeks ago I mentioned joining a men’s softball team after not participating in anything athletic since (conservative estimate) the golden era of dodgeball in the early ‘70s. In response, I have received letters and emails offering encouragement, support and, in an isolated incident, a lucky athletic cup from someone named “Derek.”

Admittedly, I was curious as to what qualified this particular cup as “lucky.” His response should be a lesson to us all regarding the dangers of continuous baseball usage.

“I used to get hit — there — almost every game,” Derek explained. “Sometimes two or three times. But my [censored] never got hurt.”

Though he didn’t mention it, I suspect Derek also has a “lucky” batting helmet. Continue reading Answering your painful questions about my softball season

Behind every country music star is a great soda wrangler

(Think of this week’s Flashback Sunday as my own version of “Looper,” where we encounter a younger version of myself from a mind-bending span of… two weeks ago. That’s when part one of this post, “Shooting a Music Video? Avoid the Black-eyed Four-Step” first materialized from 2004 in our Sunday flashback. As you may recall, depending on how you spent last night, I was invited to the making of Adam Marshall’s country music video “Cowboy Hat,” which I quickly took him up on — and he just as quickly regretted. So now, as we do each week, let’s go back in time, back to when the only followers I had were promised free Sea Monkeys — and when I thought Freshly Pressed was a magazine for snooty French coffee drinkers…)

image As I mentioned several weeks ago, I was invited to participate in a music video by country singer Adam Marshall during the filming of his music video for “Cowboy Hat.” Though I haven’t actually seen the finished video yet, I can tell you the music is great, that everyone in it is attractive, and they can all dance really well. Which is why I can say, with some certainty, I am not in the final cut.

Yes, I was wearing a cowboy hat and boots.

Yes, I met Adam Marshall.

And no, I didn’t realize “Coyote Ugly” was a euphemism for someone at a singles bar who is highly attractive; at least not until I met my dance partner and politely introduced myself as “Wowwy.” Continue reading Behind every country music star is a great soda wrangler

I repeat: Your children have not been invaded by aliens — it’s just Father’s Day

(For the second week in a row, I am utilizing the power of Flashback Sunday to stay ahead of the space-time continuum and avoid actually being late on my post by convincing you, the reader, that Stephen Hawking says my columns are like a black hole, devoid of the confines of time, space and, as he put it, “Any actual content.” So journey with me now back to 2004, back when I thought Freshly Pressed was prison jargon for a white collar criminal who is added to the general population…

And in all sincerity to you Dads out there: Happy Father’s Day.)

image As any father will tell you, today is a very special day. That’s because it allows you to see what it would be like if your children came from another planet. On Father’s Day, children are required (And I’m pretty sure this is an actual law) to do things they would otherwise only do if there was some serious chocolate involved.

It is essentially a day similar to how you envisioned each day would be, back before you actually HAD children; back before reality set in, and you came to realize that, although insanity didn’t previously run in your family, there was a good chance it would be starting with you.

For example, on Fathers’ Day, there’s always enough hot water for my shower. That means plenty of time to wash-up, shave, and even get the mirror foggy so that, by squinting really hard, I sort of look like George Clooney in the shower, squinting really hard.

That’s on Fathers’ Day.

On normal days, the hot water lasts just long enough for me to realize that, in the time it takes for me to squint, I’m ALREADY OUT OF HOT WATER. Continue reading I repeat: Your children have not been invaded by aliens — it’s just Father’s Day