By Carl Sampson Here we are again. Four years ago, we were given the task of choosing a president. Seeing as how the last few we had picked really weren’t up to the job, the pressure was on. Now we have to choose again. Do we keep Barack, or do we trade him in for Mitt, Rick, Newt or Ron? […]
I’m not one of those “Occupy” guys. All I want to occupy is my La-Z-Boy at the end of a hard day of tapping on a computer keyboard. Better yet, I’d rather occupy the La-Z-Boy while I was tapping on the keyboard.
I cannot get over the kindness and encouragement of strangers. Three years ago, I let slip in a column that I was writing a novel. You know that old joke — a journalist is a novelist who can’t write.
My parents were always saving for a rainy day. If anything short of a nuclear conflagration hit, they had enough food and other supplies to last into the next century.
I had a few minutes this afternoon, so I thought I’d not only solve the health care crisis but as a bonus, solve the problem of illegal immigration.
Our kids are real road warriors. When they were younger, we took a lot of cross-country trips. We drove from Minnesota to Boston to Los Angeles and back — by way of Florida.
Since we last spoke, several developments have transpired in the Puppygate affair. As in, we got a puppy.
Not too long ago, nonconformists were in. Particularly in places like Oregon, where it was the bee’s knees to let your freak flag fly, so to speak.
Some friends and I were sitting around the other night having some ice tea, and the subject came up: What’s up with those guys that hang around at freeway exits asking for money?
The clutch is the Rodney Dangerfield of auto parts. No one really wants one, unless it is attached to a means of transportation. Teenagers — mine in particular — hold a high level of contempt for clutches.
I have a new nickname. It’s Bob. That’s what I do every time I go snorkeling, which averages out to every 23 years.
Where were you exactly 25 years ago?
I know where I was. I was quivering at the altar of the Cathedral of the Nativity in Juneau, Alaska. Walking up the aisle toward me was the Most Wonderful Woman in the World, who was about to become Mrs. Sampson.
They say baseball is America’s pastime, and I don’t doubt it. But another uniquely American passion is certainly in the same ballpark with baseball: garage sales.
I have a problem and I don’t know there’s anything I can do about it.
As if I needed another reminder of my inadequacies, a recent trip to the hardware store provided a whole new shopping basket full.
It’s time once again for that unavoidable minefield known as Valentine’s Day. If you have a significant other, you know what I mean. It’s one of those occasions each year when you will be either a champ or chump. It all depends on how you handle it.
You’ve been following the national debate over health care. I can tell by the glazed look in your eyes, and the dazed look on your face.
Am I the only person who thinks Oregon has the ugliest license plates in the country?
