I am tired of violence and vitriol and bad news. I bet you are, too. So a couple of days ago I posed a fun question to my Facebook friends. I mean, really, it was about fun. I asked them to tell me the most fun they had ever had without breaking the law or taking off their clothes.
I love to travel. I love getting home even more.
I am bad to procrastinate. Always have been. When I was in the eleventh grade I missed a chance to see Pistol Pete Maravich play because I had put off doing a project for Mrs. Meyer’s world history class until the last minute and had to stay home and make a poster about the Middle Ages.
How are you going to cook your ham for Easter?
I was standing in the wings at the Ryman Auditorium Thursday and found myself in awe of the ghosts there. By ghosts I mean the spirits of all the magnificent country artists who had stood right there, in the same spot I occupied, waiting for their opportunity to grace that hallowed stage for the first time — or the hundredth.
Nothing beats revising some old, enjoyable meals.
I am coming to you today from Tiberius, on the Sea of Galilee., and what a week I am having. Remember when you used to write postcards from the beach that would get home before you did? Sure you do. They all read, “Having a great time; wish you were here. Well, I am having a great time, and I do wish you were here. I wish everyone could be here in the land where Jesus walked and taught and performed miracles.
Andy Warhol predicted that in the future, everyone would get his — or her — 15 minutes of fame. Another way of putting it might be that every dog will have his day. My friend, Jesse Kenney, had his two weeks ago at the Georgia-Auburn basketball game.
Ah, Valentine’s Day. The romantic holiday when we honor St. Hallmark and line the coffers of florists everywhere. You talk about price gouging? I don’t want to hear about Home Depot increasing the prices of plywood and generators after a storm until somebody does something about the price of a dozen roses being jacked up about 400 percent in the middle of February every year.
About a billion-and-a-half Chinese couldn’t care less about what happens in Phoenix this weekend. As a matter of fact, I don’t much care myself, but there are those amongst us who won’t sleep a wink Saturday night because they will be so hepped up about what is going to happen on Sunday, and I ain’t talking about church, either, not even the one where I am preaching.