Thursday, June 20, 2013
As the years pass, times change and kids get older, the days of primo Father's Day gifts are coming to an end.
Those tall, beautiful palm trees etched sharply against a gorgeous early evening orange sky over Los Angeles? They're full of rats.
There are food stamps offenders, and beer and cigarettes should always be cut, but come on, being down at the bottom isn’t as much fun as it appears, and sometimes, a Hostess cupcake can bring you up faster at the end of the month than a carrot, when loose change is all there is.
J.P. Devine laments the purchases he had already planned based on winning Powerball ... which he did not win.
As I close the garage doors, she, the Garage Sale Queen for a day, will be sitting in an unsold antique chair, reading a $25 best-seller everyone passed up for the five-dollar tag.
I don't like old people. Old people have scared me since I was a kid at my father's funeral. They kept coming by the row of chairs, hugging my mother, and then standing there smiling and staring at me. Then they'd take my hand and squeeze it. Their hands were ice-cold, and had big brown spots all over them. They smelled of talcum powder.
You can dance inches or feet apart. You can swirl and jab, punch at the sky and work up a sweat and it’s dancing.
Each week I try to make myself laugh in hopes that it will make you laugh, and when I do, it shatters the darkness.
As his empty nest soon sees the return of its matron, J.P. Devine's "Home Daddy" ways are about to change.
I had a good idea for a column this morning, but I didn’t write it down and then I forgot it. Maybe it’s the cold or the wind. I can’t ever remember not being a great rememberer.