Carlson

By John Carlson— Watching hard-working men or women go about their jobs never gets old for me. This is a reaction to my own newspaper career, I suppose. In thirty-nine years of journalism, my greatest level of physical exertion came from hitting the “shift” key on my word processor a couple hundred times a day. Well, unless you count my frequent trips to the vending machines for Cheez-Its and Hershey bars. But recently we hired Steve Massie and his guys from Specialty Tree Care to take down a Crimson King Maple in our front yard that had, sadly, given up…

By John Carlson— This morning I woke up seventy-years-old. All I could think was, “Uh–oh.” As ages go, seventy seems a sobering one. If you die at seventy, people who liked you will say, “Well, he lived a good long life.” People who didn’t like you will say, “It’s about time that nitwit bit the big one.” Either way, your mortality won’t surprise anybody. Also at seventy, you are acutely aware of time’s passage. Not that I haven’t already been acutely aware of time’s passage. I remember being seventeen when my college buddy Charlie turned twenty. The fact I had…

By John Carlson— Being cranky old duffers long set in our ways, Nancy and I follow an invariable routine for weeknight Netflix television-watching that illustrates something of the dichotomy in our viewing tastes. First we watch two or three short episodes of “Forensic Files.” This provides my daily minimum requirement of blood, guts, murder and mayhem. My having always been a fan of televised blood, guts, murder and mayhem, TV shows about cops and criminals are my favorite. Then out of deference to Nancy’s more refined taste, we watch an episode of “The Great British Baking Show.” What kind of…

By John Carlson— What is it about fiery food that makes some of us consider eating it a personal challenge? Moronity? OK, I’ll buy that. Beats me how many times I’ve entered restaurants anticipating a pleasant, filling but ultimately dull meal. Then something on the menu strikes me like a duelist’s slap across the face, daring me to try it unless I’m some kind of little wussy boy. Then, despite being some kind of little wussy boy, I do try it. The first time I remember succumbing to this self-imposed pressure was while packed around a table filled with family members…

By John Carlson— Countless people admire stately shrubbery sculpted to within an inch of its life, but not me. I am more into what you might call “impressionistic” shrub sculpting. This was not an artistic passion purposely pursued. Rather, the realization struck one day after gazing at the shrubs ringing our little circular driveway and noting they were what the uninformed might call “crappy looking.” In my defense, I had never owned shrubs lining a circular driveway before we bought this place. The very idea of shrubs lining a circular driveway seemed foreign to me, unnecessary. Therefore, they took a…

By John Carlson— There are certain beliefs and mannerisms most residents of Central Indiana are thought to share. We’re all Hoosiers. Most of us are devotees of Peyton Manning, high school basketball and breaded tenderloins. Plus, we believe when we die, we’ll be welcomed to heaven by angelic hosts singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” while handing us free 16-inch Pizza King Royal Feast pizzas for all of eternity. In keeping with that belief, we’re obviously not the sort of highfalutin snobs who think some patron saint of Indy steakhouses named Elmo will be plying us with heavenly T-bones. No, we’re plain…

By John Carlson— There was a time in my early adulthood when I fancied myself a future singer-songwriter, someone on the order of Gordon Lightfoot or Paul Simon. Then one day, the hard truth dawned on me: In my noble, artistic quest to become a sensitive, idealistic, highly paid professional troubadour whom women pelted on stage with their underwear, I’d bought and sold five guitars without managing to learn a single chord. Plus the noise erupting from my mouth whenever I sang was a dead ringer for the sound stallions make when they’re being converted into geldings. This explains why…

By: John Carlson— You know the coronavirus pandemic is getting to you when you start talking to tomatoes. It’s even worse when they begin talking back. In my life now, I am pretty much at that point. Oh sure, I talk to Nancy some. “Hi, B******,” I’ll say, using our embarrassing pet name for each other, which if I revealed it here she would quit cooking my suppers. “Hi, B******,” she’ll respond in kind. OK! OK! We call each other Booters. Guess it won’t kill me to lose a few pounds. Later on we’ll discuss how many steps we walked…

By: John Carlson— Nancy and I have recently been driving around town with a hitchhiker. Not someone with an outstretched thumb, though. It’s an on-line hitchhiker. Our insurance company hooked us up with this squat little plastic guy, who is stuck to our front windshield up near the rear-view mirror. On the plus side, he promised to help lower the cost of our car insurance and doesn’t ever call me names like Johnny Flabbyton, Mister Flabster or The Flabmeister. Nevertheless, in my more cantankerous moments, I was starting to think of him as a pain in the, you know, rear bumper….