If you were to ask me how my wife and girls and I came to be sitting in the truck for an hour and a half on a Saturday night bouncing back and forth between Marty Robbins and Weird Al on the radio, I would have to honestly say, "Because my daughter wanted ice cream, and my 'I am busy' button does not function well around her."
The two black walnut trees by my barn near the river never fail to catch my attention each time I pass by.
When I heard that Nick Cannon, host of the show "The Masked Singer" on Fox, had declared that white people were basically savages, I knew that I had to check it out for myself.
It was the dreaded day of my daughter's attempt at earning her driver's license.
It was, I suppose, the most unorthodox of prayer meetings.
Dear America, happy birthday!
As we prepare to celebrate July 4th in this year of 2020, we do so as a people in turmoil.
To say that I was never going to make it to the NBA would not come as a shock to anyone who knows me.
As my very own tribe of one (half Puerto Rican, one quarter French, one quarter Lebanese) I am, these days, at a bit of a loss for guidance. No, not as to what to call myself; I gave up on that years ago. My suggestion of Pecanese was rejected because it sounds just like the terribly non-awe-inspiring froufrou dog the Pekingese. And, please, spare me the hate mail, you dear Pekingese aficionados out there. You know I am right about that description.
Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil (Exodus 23:2).
