Before setting off to regale you with yet another one of my fascinating stories of growing up in the snake-infested swamps of southern Louisiana, I feel compelled to reveal that I have, in fact, used fictitious names in previous Spiewings. I would tell you that my attorneys have advised me to not use real names in Spiews, as this could open the door to all kinds of …
I’m beginning to wonder if my car insurance company is secretly plotting against me.
Those of you who know me, know I’m certainly not the type to come up with unwarranted speculations or outlandish conspiracy theories. I consider myself fairly grounded in reality. (If I could just find reality first.)
By Sean Pearson I don’t get joggers. Trust me, I’ve tried. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s not even called “jogging” anymore. It’s just called running. And I still hate it. Granted, running in Alaska can certainly afford you some of the most stunning vistas of mountains, glaciers and a wide variety of cute and [...]
Is it just me, or do we seem perpetually stuck in some sort of weather “Twilight Zone” recently?
It could just be me. I haven’t completely ruled that possibility out yet. Despite my keen skills of observation and awareness, one or two things have been known to slip by me on occasion: A person’s name, a phone number, an entire year. That’s why I have to wonder if this idiosyncratic fluctuation between heavy snows and warm sunshine is nothing more than a figment of my overactive imagination. Kinda like when John Lithgow watched that gremlin tear the airplane wing apart in the Twilight Zone movie. (Cleverly re-enacted by Bart Simpson on a school bus in “Terror at 5-1/2 feet.”)
In light of the Kansas Jayhawks’ recent and quite embarrassing exit in the second round of the 2010 NCAA Tournament — (I’m sorry, Northern Iowa who?) — I decided to look at what can only be categorized as coaches becoming way too easy on their players these days.
By the time you read this, I should know whether my next grandchild is going to be a girl or a boy.
I don’t really care, mind you. I know it’s politically correct to say that – along with the disclaimer, “I don’t care, as long as the baby is healthy.” But this time, I really mean it.
OK. So maybe a boy wouldn’t scare me quite as much. There’s something to be said for attending a Pop Warner football game over a cheerleading competition, but I try to be open minded.
As a young child, I always seemed to have a relatively active imagination. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that this was either the product of too many Gilligan’s Island reruns, or a pathetically limited experience of school field trips during my formative years. And while the often harrowing, always hilarious adventures following the demise of the S.S. Minnow were certainly entertaining and oddly educational, I’m thinking it was the fourth-grade field trips to the sewage treatment facility that made for such an active imagination.
I have this thing about long sleeves. I really just don’t like them. I guess you could call it a personal preference — that is, if your “personal preference” is to spend your day straight-jacketed into an arm-clinging, static-laden, sweat-inducing sleeve of itchy, prickling synthetic wool.
I find it hard to believe that I have actually driven a car more than 200,000 miles without wrecking it.
That being said, watch out for me on the road for the next few weeks, as I have no doubt I will soon suffer the ill effects of bragging about my remarkably stellar driving record. You just can’t tempt fate.
I am endlessly amazed by what people in Alaska come up with to keep themselves entertained in the wintertime. (O.K. So we’re not talkin’ jaw-dropping, head-spinning, awestruck amazed. I mean, it’s not like I see people out creating three-story ice castles or taming herds of wild moose.)