One of my favorite all-time comic book superheroes flourished in the decade before I was born. A spunky orphan boy who was the world’s youngest radio newscaster met a wizard named Shazam who gave the boy the power to switch places with the awesome Captain Marvel simply by saying the wizard’s name, which was an acronym that stood for the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the courage of Achilles, and the speed of Mercury. Continue reading “Shazam! It’s Captain Marvel”
I had an English teacher early in life, probably in sixth grade – they didn’t call it middle school then – who had a problem with substituting the word “like” for “as,” such as in the advertising jingle, “Winston tastes good like a cigarette should.”
I thought it was silly at the time to get your undies in a bundle over it, but as years have passed, I think my teacher and I are like minded.
My brain feels a discordant jolt when someone uses “impact” as a verb. Once upon a time, my teacher’s concerns had an impact on me. It would have been improper to say her words impacted me, as if I were a tooth. Continue reading “A small rant concerning concerning”
When I was a 9-year-old boy in New Jersey, a brand-new National League team started in New York. Now, to my knowledge, there had never been a National League baseball team in New York … there was only the prideful American League team, the Yankees. Nine-year-old boys like shiny new things almost as much as they like battered old things, and so I was instantly a fan of the New York Mets.
Years later my brother gave me a cassette of a 1965 game between the New York Mets and the Milwaukee Braves. It was wonderful to hear Lindsey Nelson, Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy calling the Mets game again.
Two things struck me after the top of the first inning. The first thing was that Lindsey Nelson read a commercial for Viceroy cigarettes. Cigarettes! You can’t even advertise cigarettes anymore. Continue reading “How to fix baseball”
There is no reason for this post except that folks in my little corner of the world might appreciate a reminder that in a few months the cold and snow will be a memory and dogs will be back to chasing rubber discs across fields of clover.
It was 22 degrees below zero, officially, on Saturday morning in our neck of the woods.
I’ll always remember a sunny morning in Ripon, Wisconsin, my freshman year of college and my first winter in the state I made my home. The weather had been brutal for many days – my memory says it was below -10 for as much as two straight weeks, but that may be fuzzy recall – all I know is it was ridiculously cold for too long. Continue reading “Wisconsin assimilation”
The day had come and gone without his notice. He had buried his face in the everyday and could not say whether the sun had shone all day or if snow had dusted the neighborhood. It was as if he had slept all day, but he remembered waking.
Outside, he knew, there was a cold colder than the coldest cold and a land anxious for spring, but he hadn’t glanced out the window, as far as he could remember, so he couldn’t say if the ground was softer or harder or ice-covered or some lingering grass was visible. He thought he may have communicated with the outside world but couldn’t remember the details. Continue reading “A day lost and found”
Writers are afraid to die, so they scrawl messages to the future that they hope will survive their mortal bodies.
“Here I am!” the messages scream, or at least, “Here I was!”
Everyone has something to say. Writers have ego enough to write it down for posterity.
You never know when something you write in 2019 will be useful to someone in 2061.