Recently probed (and potentially sore) subjects – Page 4

No Safe Harbor — Chapter One

**A novel in the making, join the mystery — and feedback — each Saturday at 9 a.m. as I release a new chapter in the final draft of my latest book**

As flashing red and blue erupted across Lynda Bettington’s rear window, her panic turned to desperation. Dampness just short of rainfall blanketed thin layers of oil, creating a slick skin over the asphalt. Hands trembling, she fought to hold the road as the balding tires on her rusted Dodge squealed through fishtails over the slick streets. She pressed the accelerator closer to the mat anyway, racing onto Highway 99 toward Lake Washington. She knew she’d never outrun them — but if she could make it there, the roads were dark with streets spurring off every few blocks.

Losing them was her only real chance.

In the back seat, suitcases bounced and shifted, slamming against the rear doors as the car careened onto another pitted avenue along one of Seattle’s many industrial districts. The strobing police lights reflected in the rearview mirror grew wider across her face as the cruiser steadily closed the gap. Bettington spun the wheel into a hard turn, causing the car to pinball off of a concrete barrier before she righted it and accelerated through pale lamplight into a maze of narrow back alleyways. Glancing quickly into the rearview, she saw only darkness sliced by yellowy streams of alley lights. A shallow breath of relief escaped her as she turned her eyes back to the alleyway.

“Shit!”

[Read more by clicking on the book icon or HERE…]

Into every life a little… snow? … must fall

Intrepid reporting from my front yard

We don’t get much snow here on the Oregon coast. For example, the closest thing we have to a snowplow is our neighbor’s Ford Fiesta, which has a plastic sand disc tied to the front bumper, and can be used for pushing snow or a directionally-challenged elk out of the way.

We tend to push more elk than snow.

Regardless, this past Thursday our small coastal community experienced a massive winter storm that dumped — and I’m not exaggerating — a good 2 inches of snow. In some cases, people actually had to use plastic spatulas to clear their windshields before backing their vehicles out of the driveway and into their neighbor’s mailbox. Though it’s been nearly two years since I left the newsroom, my journalistic instincts took over and, with adrenaline coursing through me (thanks to my blood pressure medicine) I immediately put together a weather update to let the world know our dire situation…

Well, on TikTok anyway.

And yeah, “dire” is probably a bit strong.

Because Lynn asked me to…

After seeing my latest post offering survival tips for parents attending high school bowling tournaments, Lynn at “Life After 50” asked to see photos of how one of my tips — bringing a lifeguard chair instead of a foldable chair — can improve your viewing experience.

Here are just a few examples of how the experienced parent can avoid the rush for a good seat by showing up anytime they want… as long as they have their own lifeguard chair…

Why rush to stand in line at 6 a.m. when you can bring your own “Best Seat In the House?!?”

Survival tips for parents of teen bowlers

Today, in anticipation of the upcoming junior bowling leagues next month, I’m passing along a few tips to parents who may attempt to suffocate themselves with an empty bowling bag after listening to 24 lanes of crashing pins for five hours. Especially if, for personal reasons, you aren’t comfortable spending those hours drinking in front of teen bowlers.

My first suggestion is to invest in a tall folding chair. The taller the better. In fact, consider purchasing a portable lifeguard stand if possible. That’s because getting a prime seat to watch your son or daughter bowl depends on how willing you are to take the life of a complete stranger. Getting a good spot at the bowling alley during a tournament is like the Oklahoma Land Rush; once the doors open, parents stampede (some on actual horseback) to the most valuable territory, i.e., the mid-point between 1) the center of the bowling lanes, 2) the bar and 3) the restrooms.

Parents then frantically stakes their claim by jamming giant folding chairs together until the result is something similar to how homes are wedged together in poor sections of Hong Kong. Should something unexpected cause a panic — such as an earthquake or 300-game — it’s doubtful anyone will survive the inevitable catastrophic folding-chair collapse.

Empty nest syndrome? Fill it with a baby kangaroo.

I generally only watch nature shows on television when I want to appear as though I’m educating myself about something important, like the plight of the prematurely balding Rogainian monkey, when in fact I’m actually planning to do an independent study of the REM sleeping pattern on our couch.

However, while watching a documentary about the Kangaroo Sanctuary in Alice Springs, Australia, I discovered something I never knew:

I want…

We NEED our own kangaroo.

As I watched three babies snuggle together in a blanket and play with each other’s big floppy ears, I inadvertently let out a sound that my wife mistakenly thought was a joyful whimper.

“Was that you?” she asked from the dining room.

“What? No WAY! Ha Ha! It was the kangaroo babies on TV.”

“It sounded like it came from the couch.”

“Nope! Must be the Surround Sound,” I said.

Life lesson learned from a train car

First, let me put your fears to rest; I’m not living in an abandoned train car. I’ve been passing this graffitied relic for quite some time on my travels between our home in Florence (Oregon) and Cottage Grove (still in Oregon), shuffling between newspapers for which I was once editor. As I mentioned a few posts — and yikes, months — ago, I left journalism after 23 years back in 2021. For the next year-and-a-half, I worked as a mail carrier with the U.S. Postal Service (Motto: Bringing your Amazon packages… Oh, and the mail!). But this past October, I left the USPS after a year of 6-day, 70-hour-plus workweeks with no end in sight. Time with my family had been nearly non-existent and, after coming home one day and finding our dog had been given my spot on the couch, I knew it was time to make a change.

The dog had to go.

Just kidding.

We got a cat and now no one can sit on the couch.

Ok, not really. My end game had always been a simple one: Eventually retire and spend my days helping other writers with their manuscripts, short stories, memoirs, etc., IN BETWEEN time spent smooching my wife, making key lime pies, traveling in a fifth-wheel together and making sure the dog doesn’t get my spot on the couch again.

Proven tips on how to fail at your New Year’s writing resolutions!

For those who might be visiting for the first time, I should explain that I literally wrote the book on how to fail at writing. No, seriously. It’s an actual book. In it, I drew upon my 16 years as a columnist to offer tips that Writer’s Digest once called “… a shining example of why some writers go on to have successful careers as plumbers…” and what Master of Horror™ Stephen King has described as “The antithesis of precise literary implosion.”

See? I’m shucking an oyster, so it HAS to be good!

But enough with the accolades!

No doubt, many of you have begun formulating your New Year’s resolutions:

“I’m going to lose weight.”
“I’m going to drink less.”
“I’m going to change careers.”
“Ned is going to stop referring to himself in the third person.”

Ok, maybe that last one was just me.

Still looking for that perfect Christmas gift? These won’t help.

[Warning: This blog post contains gift ideas of an explicitly stupid nature and may not be suitable for some readers. Particularly anyone who might actually consider buying one of these items for a friend or loved one.]

It’s time for a special holiday feature: Gifts That Say Santa is Getting Senile.

As always, we spared no expense when it came to assembling a team of gift experts with the talent and skills necessary for this helpful feature. And, as always, we wasted those talents by spending our entire operating budget of $32 on lottery Scratch-Its. As a result, our plan to provide you with exciting Christmas gift ideas quickly deteriorated into this list of really dumb products that, if given as gifts, will surely lead to more than one hospitalization this holiday.

So, let us begin!

Are you a whiz in the kitchen? Do you have a knack for creating culinary masterpieces? These next two items were designed to turn an average meal into the kind of dining experience people will be talking about for years…

…with their therapists.

Never turn your back on a turkey

Inquisitive?

Naw, this bird is just sizing you up.

In my early days as a reporter at Siuslaw News, I was once given the assignment of visiting a local turkey farm to write up a special Thanksgiving piece. As it turned out, “special” wasn’t really the right word after becoming the victim of an unprovoked turkey attack. In my defense, there were five of them (technically known as a “gang” of turkeys) involved in the assault, which started because of my proximity to a preening female turkey named Lucy who had apparently snubbed her suitors in favor of me.

Possibly because she was confused by my chicken legs.

Whatever the reason, the male turkeys didn’t take well to this and decided the best way to handle the situation was to join forces and — one by one — take turns flapping their giant wings at my [censored]. Before I knew it, I was being circled by an agitated turkey gang and wishing my editor had assigned me to something less dangerous, like maybe a Blind Axe Throwers convention.

The reason I was in this situation was because I was a journalist committed to getting the story, even if it meant risking my own safety by putting myself in harm’s way on the front lines just like those reporters in Ukraine, South Africa or Black Friday shopping at Walmart.

Bad hair is better than no hair… uh, right?

Sometimes, a long look in the mirror is more frightening than you expected…

I start each morning by taking a long look in the mirror and reminding myself of the goals I have for the day, whether it be “Take out the trash,” “Be the change you want to see in the world,” “Chew your food before swallowing,” “Don’t run a social media platform into the ground in less than a week” or, as with this morning, “Dude, do something with that HAIR!“

In my defense, I am growing it out for our upcoming community Christmas show where I play an Elvis-like elf named (what else?) “Elfis.” I will also be dying my hair black which, while adding a level of believability to my character for those three performances, will undoubtedly fuel rumors that I am suffering from a midlife crisis every day between now and opening night. I briefly considered just wearing my Elfis jumpsuit any time I have to go out but, as my wife thoughtfully explained, “That is a really terrible idea.”

I’ve simply accepted that my hair will remain taking on a life of its own, growing like a nesting tribble on my head for the next three weeks. But as they say, “When life gives you melons, you might have dyslexia.”

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