[Breaking News: from another strangely irrelevant moment in our news room…]
A few moments ago, democratic congressman Peter DeFazio left our newsroom following a 45-minute visit. Congressman DeFazio comes to our office two or three times a year with the intention of treating us to an informative, low-key press conference of sorts. And each time, my editor takes an audible gulp whenever I open my mouth to speak. On today’s list of topics was dredging of small ports, school funding and helium reserves.
As you can see, these kids who crashed my birthday party can barely contain their enthusiasm. This week’s edition of Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing is brought to you by a 47-year-old man! [Please note the exclamation point! (Hey, there’s another one!)] Why am I excited about this? And why am I not calling in sick while lining up shot glasses on the kitchen table?!? Because, in addition to my birthday falling on an NWOW Friday, I feel GREAT!
I’m in my PRIME!
And I want the whole world to know how, through positive thinking and the repetitious use of exclamation points, you can believe it too!!
To celebrate, I dressed in my favorite AC/DC T-shirt, jeans and smokey grey Vans. Oh, and Dos Equis underwear. Um, to clarify, those are underneath my jeans, not on top (I haven’t had that much to drink). I also took a moment to record the occasion for posterity by taking a photo. Which isn’t to say I took a picture of my butt. But I did stand next to the only other thing in our newsroom older than me (until my editor gets here), which is The Door (of Shame, Blame and Brilliance). Continue reading It’s my 47th birthday and the excitement is tangible
My wife and I have been trying to come up with an explanation for the volume of dirty clothes that accumulates in our laundry basket on a daily basis.
In an attempt to explain this phenomena by utilizing mathematic principles, we went through the laundry, separated the clothes, subtracted how many days since the basket was empty, and then divided it by the number of children in our home — which lead to an important discovery:
We had become trapped in the bathroom after our pile of clothes fell against the door.
While it’s true we have four children between us, according to my calculations they are changing their clothes every 18 minutes. This includes through the night, when they apparently take turns changing EACH OTHER while sleeping in shifts. This would explain how they can have a closet full of clothes at bedtime, then wake up and have nothing to wear. It would also explain why their bed sheets are always untucked and strewn on the floor by morning; they are using the sheets to drag each other’s sleeping bodies back and forth to the closet. Continue reading Apparently, the laws of physics don’t apply to our family’s laundry basket
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
The Door, preserving journalistic history and restroom privacy. After getting Freshly Pressed last week, pressure from the major news outlets for exclusive access to The Door (of Shame, Blame and Brilliance) has only escalated in our newsroom. And speaking of Freshly Pressed, retired ABC News reporter Morley Safer is still sending faxes of his rear with the words You Will Crack scrawled on them, hoping we will succumb to what he threatened would be “my dogged and relentless pursuit to get the story, as long as I don’t have to leave my study.”
This morning, CNN’s Anderson Cooper was the latest TV journalist to contact us for an exclusive, explaining that The Door is as historically significant to journalists as “the Geraldo Rivera mustache clippings I have preserved in my freezer.” Cooper went on to explain he felt particularly suited to preforming what he referred to as “the big reveal” of The Door to the rest of the world, and how he envisions the segment beginning with him coming out from the other side. Admittedly, I considered the idea but felt the need to explain that the other side of The Door is the newsroom commode.
“It’s not a closet?” Cooper asked.
“No, just a commode and small hand sink. And toilet paper. Usually.”
(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 aboutFlashback 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 … ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzOur 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.)
[Breaking News: from another strangely irrelevant moment in our news room…]
It’s Friday. A deadline day. Tomorrow’s readers will benefit from today’s laser-like focus in our newsroom — plus whatever it is I do. Today, in addition to the normal pressures and distractions that accompany a deadline day, such as a phone call from the local bridge club or the unexpected arrival of free donuts, I have THIS to contend with… Continue reading … This Just In …
Imagine my surprise when, on Wednesday, I opened my email to find something other than a window full of male enhancement offers and senior dating website links? That’s right. Sandwiched between them was something totally unexpected; something that meant a window of possibilities was about to open. I’m sure you’ve probably guessed what I’m talking about:
An email from a dethroned prince in Mozambique looking for an American bank account to send his fortune to for safe keeping.
It was while contemplating the legitimacy of Prince Imgonna Takeyourmonee’s offer that I noticed another email, this time with a name that was much easier to pronounce: Cheri Lucas Rowlands. She informed me that my latest post (If you can’t fix it with gum and duct tape, it’s not a real VW bus), was going to be Freshly Pressed.
She also told me if the excitement lasted for more than four hours, I should see a doctor.
When I first heard about Volkswagen’s plans to bring back the Microbus, I immediately decided it would become our new family vehicle. That’s because no mode of transportation offers the same level of excitement as riding in a VW bus.
Except maybe riding in a runaway mine car.
But that was always part of its charm, just like the seat belts that had to be double-knotted to the door handle; the innovative heating system that blended engine heat and exhaust fumes with just enough outside air to keep occupants from blacking out; and a horn that never EVER worked — and when I say never-ever, I don’t just mean on mine. To this day, I have yet to meet anyone who has actually had (or witnessed the existence of) a working horn on a VW bus. Remember, this was way before side-impact bars, breakaway bumpers and so many air bags popping out of places that, last year alone, false sightings of Pamela Anderson rose by as much as 64 percent. Continue reading If you can’t fix it with gum or duct tape, it’s not a real VW bus
[Breaking News: from another strangely irrelevant moment in our news room…]
As our editor passes through the newsroom, a reporter looks up from her computer screen.
Reporter: “Have you assigned anyone to cover the Psychic Fair this weekend?”
Editor: “I was thinking about doing it.”
Reporter: “Really?”
Editor: “No, not really. And you’re obviously not psychic, so it won’t be you.”
Me: [remaining quiet and still]
Editor: “This sounds like you’re beat.”
Me: [Dropping back in my chair] “Really? Why me?”
Editor: “How did you know I meant you? Obviously you must be psychic. Therefore it’s your assignment.”
Me: “I think my life line just shrank.”
Editor: “You should get that looked at while you’re there.”
(Ned is a syndicated columnist with News Media Corporation. You can write to him at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at Siuslaw News, P.O. Box 10, Florence, Ore. 97439)
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