Carlson

John Carlson: In A Pickle Is The Place To Be

By: John Carlson— In a week or so my wife, Nancy, will be joining her sisters on a trip to Europe, leaving me alone to wallow in a morass of self-despair while struggling against long odds for simple survival. Not that she should feel guilty about it or anything. It’s just that, before she goes, we must stock up on some basic necessities I will require to get by while left to my own devices. This is so that when…


John Carlson: A Visit To The Fittest City

By: John Carlson— We were up in Madison, Wis., for Nancy’s family reunion when I decided it would be the perfect place to film a Martian invasion movie. That’s because you wouldn’t need any extras to play the “people running their butts off in terror” scenes. The folks up there always run their butts off, just for the heck of it. It was kind of unbelievable. We drove into the city past some little lake and there on the shore…


John Carlson: A Guy You Don’t Forget

By: John Carlson— There is a world of difference between growing up near big water and being on big water. This came to mind over a couple beers the other day, when my buddy John Pinckney and I began reminiscing about Doug Krabacher. Since Pinckney and his wife, Carol, are landlocked Munsonians like the rest of us, I don’t know the details of how Krabacher, a charter fishing captain on Lake Erie, came into their lives. Come into their lives…


John Carlson: For The Love of Slurping

By: John Carlson— Along with sipping bourbon, playing cutthroat card games of Go Fish, and continuing my quest to find the world’s greatest coleslaw, I have taken on a new hobby. Making soup. Making soup is not an endeavor a man enters into lightly, it turns out. There are a zillion soups out there on grocery store shelves, and I could buy any of them without trouble. But with a couple possible exceptions, none of them would rock my world….


John Carlson: Gone But Not Forgotten

By: John Carlson— A backyard garden like ours is supposed to be a place of peace and contemplation, but it isn’t when my wife is taking her caterpillar count. Then things get a trifle tense. Several evenings ago, Nancy found nine caterpillars stuck to a couple of our plants out back. This was cause for celebration. After all, butterflies – which magically spring from caterpillars, if I remember correctly – aren’t nearly as profuse as they once were. Come to…


John Carlson: They Don’t Write ‘Em Like…

By: John Carlson— While listening to music recently, it struck me that someday we’re going to wake up and learn that Brian Wilson, founder of The Beach Boys, has left us, and I’m going to get real depressed. Ditto for Beatles Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, as well as Rolling Stones Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. That’s assuming Keith isn’t dead already, and what’s been walking around the last 20 years is actually his hologram. But The Beach Boys? Their…


John Carlson: Are There Pathetic Ninjas?

By: John Carlson— Though not a regular viewer, I do enjoy watching those modern-day ninja competitions when I encounter one while channel surfing. Frankly, in these sad days of video-game and electronic-device addiction, it’s almost hard to imagine there are young Americans who are that physically fit anymore. As they navigate the obstacle course, I am always reminded that when those outstanding physical specimens were school kids, mymother wasn’t packing their lunches. Back in the day, she kept way too…


John Carlson: To Dream The Impossible…

By: John Carlson— The recent announcement that the Miss America contest was scrapping its swimsuit competition came as a welcome victory to us non-sexist pageant people. We’re not just pieces of meat, ya know? By now, some of you may be saying, “Pageant people? Did I miss something? Is somebody starting a new pageant to pick, like, Mister American Chunk-Butt USA?” Ha-ha. No. It’s just that, for the last five weeks or so, I have felt giddy as a pageant…


John Carlson: Hummingbird! Duck!

By: John Carlson—  With only one hummingbird regularly flocking to our feeder these days, I nevertheless relish evenings spent on our back deck, watching it cavort. It’s an activity that follows a familiar pattern. Pour some bourbon into a glass. Carry the glass out to the deck overlooking our hummingbird feeder. Pull down my goggles. Sip the whiskey and watch nature’s show, all while giving thanks for this place where a hummingbird lives in perfect harmony with wild turkeys. I…


John Carlson: Off Into The Wild Blue…

By: John Carlson— Why, yes! As a matter of fact, I do own an airplane! Sixty-seven years. My whole life. That’s how long I’ve waited to say that. Well, OK. Technically, it would be 67 years had I wanted an airplane the moment I popped from Mom’s womb and some doctor flipped me over to smack me on the butt. But I have waited a solid 52 years, since the day I took my first flying lesson as a kid….