From the garage is where talk usually centers on mundane things like fantasy football or where I lose a bet like Robert Griffin III is going to lead the Redskins to the playoffs. I don't bet anymore.
Freshly off the phone with a friend where our discussions often center on the way we think the world should be, I told him of this column I'm writing, how in kind words people who long for the swelter of summer in the infancy of winter need to shut up.
I applaud Paramount for putting the brakes on a sequel to It's a Wonderful Life earlier this year.
I should have stood in line just to see what kind of disparaging comments would have been made about me.
It's December and that means one thing — inane, intimate and idiotic Christmas columns from yours truly.
After a panicky few minutes when I realized my camera battery had died, I later left the Sudan Temple Shriners Parade with a smile on my face and a lilt in my spirits.
I have worn this matter out on my personal social networking avenues because I am passionate about it.
So, you're contemplating moving to Roanoke Rapids, or perhaps you've already done so.
By now you have seen the wasteland from a city under attack in what seemed like ages ago, only to realize it all happened overnight*.
If it isn't enough that most everything we breathe, taste, touch, see or think harms something or someone, there's now the issue of Halloween candy, palm oil and the orangutan.
