Carlson

John Carlson: What I Ate On My Vacation

By: John Carlson— I don’t want to sound food-obsessed, but if I ever visit Giza, Egypt, and run into a street vendor pushing a killer shish-kebab cart, then somebody asks me, “Whadaya think of the pyramids?” I’m liable to answer, “What pyramids?” Shish-kebabs? Mmmmm… That’s also why if you ask me what I “did” on our last Gulf Coast visit, I’ll say I did four grouper sandwiches, eight spicy broiled shrimp, three bodacious burgers and a burrito big enough that…

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John Carlson: Ahhhhhhhhhhh-choo!

By: John Carlson— Today’s column offers the unvarnished truth about a basic bodily function, but don’t let that freak you out. It’s about sneezing. But first, some background … We all sneeze. I sneeze. You sneeze. Probably even Martha Stewart sneezes, except when she sneezes it’s into a two-hundred-dollar hanky she holds to her aquiline nose with her pinky fingers held daintily extended. But years ago I used to work with a guy who could only be described as a…


John Carlson: Tracking The Dweebs

By: John Carlson— You might not be, but I’ve been worried sick since seeing a recent TV news report that detailed how easily nefarious forces of technical mayhem can track us via our smartphones. Do I care they might follow me? Nah. I’m terrified they’ll figure out what a dweeb I am. After all, as a kid, dweebery was NOT a goal of mine. I grew up watching action-packed television shows featuring cool guys like “Superman,” “Sky King” and “The…


John Carlson: Turning The Tables

By: John Carlson— Music-wise, this Christmas was really “groovy” for me. What you might even call “boss.” I received a trip back through time via some cool old records, including a couple featuring that troubadour/minstrel kid you keep hearing about named Bobby Dylan. Another featured some far-out cats from the Los Angeles music scene who call themselves – get this – Buffalo Springfield! And there was another from a chick singer named Linda Ronstadt, who I predict is going places….


John Carlson: Whistling in the New Year

By: John Carlson— The other day, Nancy woke me up with the news she has decided to become a professional whistler. This didn’t surprise me all that much, for two reasons. First, she often whistles. By this, I don’t mean the way my Dad whistled back in the last years of his life. His whistle was an unconscious, toneless one – a single unvaryingly flat note – and if it started right after lunch, without intervention he could keep it…


John Carlson: An ‘Ap-peel-ing’ Artwork

By: John Carlson— For years I have despaired of ever achieving my original career goal of becoming a fabulously wealthy professional artist who drinks wine and sleeps all day, but recent developments have renewed my sense of hope. I owe it all to the banana that was duct-taped to a wall. You know, the one that was splashed all over Facebook and television a few weeks ago. On second thought, no. I owe it all to the artist who thought of…


John Carlson: The Big Day Is On Its way!

By: John Carlson— Every year about this time, I join the ranks of the Christmas-challenged. Things didn’t used to be that way. Years ago I got as excited about Christmas as any kid did, but you know how it goes. With the passage of time, the realities of the holiday set in. The frenetic pace. The bills. The disappointments. This year, for example, I once again seriously doubt Nancy is going to buy me the $70,000 Corvette I’ve got my…


John Carlson: Sewing Knowledge

By: John Carlson— In times like these – plastic times, fast times, digital-driven times that often seem like mindless, soulless, heartless times, too – I find a true sense of comfort in the act of sewing. Not sewing myself, you understand. I couldn’t sew a button on a shirt without poking my fingers full of tiny holes that’d bleed all over whatever unfortunate fabric was involved. Meanwhile, knowing my typically colorful vocabulary when under pain and duress, I’d be spouting…


John Carlson: What A Croc Of…Cool?

By: John Carlson— Crocs. They’re not just for dorks anymore. Oh sure, some touchy folks out there might take offense at what they consider my gross generalization of their favorite footwear. “How dare you say that! What proof have you that Crocs wearers were ever, as you so disdainfully put it, dorks?” All the proof I need, fella! Irrefutable proof! Undeniable proof! The kind of proof so damning, only a moron would challenge it. To wit: I used to wear…


John Carlson: Makin’ A List, Checkin’ It Twice

By: John Carlson— In the course of a relationship, there are certain familiar-sounding comments that loving partners typically address to each other. For example, there’s: “Love you loads, baby cakes!” which comes early. “You’ve made me the happiest individual in the whole U.S.A.!” which rings truest around one’s wedding day and early anniversaries. And as a married couple’s love matures, ripening into the fullness of each partner’s undying  commitment to the miracle that is holy matrimony, there’s, “For cripes sake!…