Carlson

John Carlson: Down Under’s No Place To Be

By: John Carlson— Every time I hear loud, mysterious noises coming from our crawlspace, I am thankful for being a fat guy. I don’t hear the noises all that often, though. Nancy, on the other hand, hears loud, mysterious noises coming from our crawlspace all the time, but  in its own way this is even worse for me. See, having been raised a conservative Baptist, I firmly believe in biblical absolutes, including God’s divinely mandated division of household duties by gender….

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John Carlson: Humorless Times Are Afoot

By: John Carlson— Not long ago I was at my doctor’s office when, following a quick knock, a nice young internist entered to check my ankles for whatever nice young internists check old guys’ ankles for. Lifting my pants legs a couple inches, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! Those are fun!” Meaning my socks. This, I must admit, struck me as a foreign concept. I’ve had a fair amount of fun in my life, but none that I recall has been…


John Carlson: Things Suck? They’ll Get Worse

By: John Carlson— When the end of the world arrives, I think it will come riding in on a Roomba. That’s my dire prediction, after talking with my friends John and Amy Mickle the other day. They have a new Roomba, which is one of those little circular robots that cruises around their house all by itself, cleaning the floors and carpets. Understandably, they love it. Of course, Nancy and I have a Roomba, too, except ours is one of…


John Carlson: Guy’s Key To Happy Dancing

By: John Carlson— The older and lazier I get, the more enthusiastically I embrace an innovative style of dancing which I developed back in my middle-aged years. The key to it? Don’t move your feet. It’s amazing how, for many guys, not moving your feet while dancing turns an otherwise onerous activity into a slightly less onerous activity. Not for all guys, though! Even way back at our middle-school sock hops, there were some guys who loved nothing more than…


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…


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…