I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure my dog thinks he’s better than me.
Last week country and western artist George Jones died. He was a hard-living kind of a fellow, according to the reports, carousing so hard and heavy that he was often too sick or bleary-eyed to appear at his concerts.
The late great Lewis Grizzard once wrote a book titled “Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” Well, I don’t feel so great myself, but don’t tell thousands of Elvis impersonators across the country that Elvis is dead. Every town with a population of at least 100,000 has an Elvis impersonator, and they even have a yearly contest to name the best each year.
It seems too many loved ones recently have said good-bye to this vale of grief and sorrow and said hello to sweet eternity.
May is an incredibly busy time of year. One out of 10 weddings occurs in May, with an average guest list of 178 people.
Recently I took my vehicle in for a routine service check. In the last couple of weeks, I had noticed a squealing kind of noise coming from the front end of my vehicle.
You won’t find any health food advocates suggesting that you eat more hot dogs. In fact the advice you will get from those who know best is to stay away from them.
Would you like to find the most efficient way to get in the best shape of your life? Look no further than High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT).
The move wasn’t far, just a few miles down the road to a two-story house framed in pretty greenery and with a little back patio all laid out in brick. It would be great, I thought.
Earlier this week I had the privilege of conversing with a Boy Scout executive who is a friend and fellow Rotarian. As an Eagle Scout and Explorer who received my God and Country Award, I have a deep, lifelong appreciation for Scouting.
It never ceases to amaze me the lengths average Americans will go to avoid taking responsibility for their own lives.
The Albany Symphony Orchestra ended its 2012-13 season with its customary adios, this time with an exciting touch in its guest soloist, clarinetist Narek Arutyunian.
In the past several years, I have had as much luck visiting the historically preserved home of Southern iconic writer, Eudora Welty, as I would have had when she was alive. The front door is always shut to me.
Growing up, there were times when I didn’t always like something my mom would cook for dinner.
"Guess what I saw today?” I ask no one in particular, simply voice out loud to the only two other people in the room at the time, my husband and my 15-year-old daughter. She sits curled on one end of the sofa, he on the other.