Carlson

John Carlson: When Disappointment Hits

By John Carlson— I can still remember the day thirty years ago that Nancy and I took our kids to a popular amusement park, but when we arrived it was closed. In an instant, what had been a deliriously happy carload of Carlsons completely changed. Between the high-decibel caterwauling, pitiful sobbing and the uncontrollable blubbering, it was enough to drive a parent nuts. Finally, Nancy had all she could take. “Will you please shut up!” she yelled. But I’ll never…

Read More

John Carlson: Trying to Live Up to #56

By John Carlson— Last Sunday’s overwhelmingly putrid Indianapolis Colts performance notwithstanding, I still kind of, sort of, in a manner of speaking, like them, but I’m not a guy who owns an inordinate amount of franchise swag. Let’s see now … I’ve got a Colts ball cap, blue with a white horseshoe on it. I bought a Colts sun hat a few years back, too, but graciously gave it to Nancy when I realized it made me look like a…


John Carlson: Meatier Scent Preferred

By John Carlson— The other night my wife and I are watching TV when this skinny guy with a weird haircut appears on the screen playing power chords on an electric guitar, so I ask Nancy a question. “Who’s the twerp?” In answering, her eyes flash a two-part look, the first part threatening. Directed at me, it is nothing less than a withering glance that questions how she could have stayed married to such a classless jackass as yours truly…


John Carlson: Here’s to the Backup Bird!!!

By John Carlson— This being just one day away from 2022, I wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate an outstanding new advancement in American meat culture which 2021 brought my family. It’s the backup bird. But first, some background. If you combine the years we’ve been alive, Nancy and I have lived through 143 Thanksgivings. Even more impressive, if stretched end-to-end and measured consecutively instead of concurrently, those Thanksgivings would go all the way back to 1848, and I…


John Carlson: Carols Are Best Kept in Mind

By John Carlson— The tunes playing for me in IU/BMH’s cardiac rehab classes originate inside my head, not through some public address system. If this music didn’t originate inside my head, I’d have to find some outside source to provide it. One alternative would be to wear my hearing aids in rehab. Almost like magic, when connected to the tunes playing from my iPhone, these hearing aids deliver the sort of assault on my eardrums that I craved as a…


John Carlson: ‘Get Back’ Gets You at the End

By John Carlson— Nancy and I recently watched Get Back, the new Beatles documentary on the Disney Channel, and I won‘t lie to you; there were parts that reminded me of “The Long and Winding Road.” You know. Long, as in eight hours long. And winding, as in where’s this headed? Being a Beatles nut, part of me could hardly believe my reaction. But over the course of the three episodes of Get Back, there are hours of the guys…


John Carlson: Asteroids? Kiss ‘Em Bye-Bye!

By John Carlson— While walking nighttime laps around Yorktown High School’s football field about twenty years ago, I saw an incredible sight. It looked like an airplane at low altitude enveloped in flames, passing over the field from east to west. Having done a bit of flying myself, I knew any poor soul strapped into that thing was toast. But when no word of a missing plane came the next day, the truth dawned on me. It must have been…


John Carlson: Sniff. What the Heck’s That?

By John Carlson— Halloween was a month ago and Thanksgiving more than a week ago. This means by now, any pumpkins still sitting around your house are probably getting wonky. Nevertheless, as marketing professionals will tell you, the simple joy of making money out the veritable wazoo by embracing some weird olfactory fad means “pumpkin spice” is still inundating our honkers (aka noses). Why? According to articles I read while engaged in nearly eleven minutes of intense research on the…


John Carlson: Home Alone, Elderly Edition

By John Carlson— It started with a single stink bug. I’m referring, of course, to the stark realization of my temporary bachelorhood. Within a minute of our encounter, I had christened my new little buddy Stinky. In my heightened state of loneliness, apathy and depression, sitting there at my desk as Stinky made his perilous way across the windowpane before me, I somehow took comfort in his presence as another living being marooned in an uncaring universe. Then the truth…


John Carlson: Advancements In Snack Science

By John Carlson— So I’m making one of my rare visits to The Fickle Peach when my pal Willow tosses me what looks like a pack of microwaveable popcorn. “Thanks,” I say. I don’t say it very sincerely, though, wishing he’d tossed me a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken instead. But then I glance at the package a second time, my eyes locking on the word “chicharrones,” and say “Thanks!” again. This time, however, tears of gratitude are cascading down…