If you want people to act, you must tell them exactly what to do, and how to do it.
This post is about how I’m accumulating almost as many sunglasses as shoes, stupid shit that kids do, and what my cat Wilkie has in common with a certain famous cannibal.
We have all gotten the message by now that sitting is the most dangerous activity in the world besides commercial tuna fishing. Here’s how I pedal a bike and do computer work at the same time.
I reported last month that Jeff and I are a Perfect Couple. As has since been pointed out to me, there is no such thing as a Perfect Couple — if "perfect" means never disagreeing. But though our relationship is more akin to a storm or a mess, I still maintain we’re the Perfect Couple. (And we might actually stay that way provided I stop writing about the poor guy without his permission!)
I wrote a news article that cast the lowly stick figure as a superhero — or, more specifically, a hastily summoned helper that could potentially save your brilliant idea when your boss, spouse or some other nitwit is trying to squash it. But when I tried recently to use pictures to prove a point in an argument, negotiations broke down. And my foe took my pen away.
CBS MoneyWatch on Nov. 3 published a piece on 5 Career-destroying Email Blunders. I don’t think any of the blunders are as career-threatening as allowing a cat to co-author an email, which I’ve done on numerous occasions.
Traveling back and forth from East Texas to Chicago as often as I do, I am overly familiar with the contents of SkyMall. The tagline for the inflight catalog should be “Because useless crap looks irresistible at a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet!”
Part of me has always thought it’s a shame I don’t want kids because I’d be so good at helping them with schoolwork. Not long division or algebraic functions, mind you, but artsy projects involving poster board, glue sticks, Magic Markers and shoe boxes.
Often when reporting stories, I uncover a story behind the story that lack of space or relevance precludes me from pursuing. Sometimes, it’s not so much a story as further evidence that I am not normal, which, now that I think about it, hardly qualifies as “news.”