New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town … especially on someone else’s dime. That’s where my little sister, Lauren, is. The dime, along with two nickels, 83 pennies, a roll of 20s, and a small bank loan charging 63 percent interest, is thanks to my dad. It’s summertime, and for a 12-year-old kid, the living’s cheap and easy. Ahh, little kid summer vacation. Is there nothing better? My mother never truly appreciated travel, and considered leaving the great state of Florida to be a waste of time, and possibly treasonous. Not my dad. With him we went everywhere as kids, and twice to New York. I’ll never forget our first trip to New York when I couldn’t have been much older than 12 and my brother, Scott, maybe 10. The three of us had driven all the way to the Adirondacks, those picturesque mountains in upstate New York where we hiked for a week with the Sierra Club. I have good memories of that part of the trip — a bear breaking into a car and stealing the giant tub of peanut butter I was supposed to carry, chipmunks who could perform “Mission: Impossible”-like stunts to trump the bears and vegetarian cashew chili that tasted like seasoned mud. But the best memories, the kind that don’t peel away with time, are of driving back through New York City. We only spent the day there, pulling up in my dad’s Toyota 4-Runner with its blanket of dust and muck, and […]

It was the chance of a lifetime. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, my next lives as a goat, a chicken feather and a booksalesman in Idaho named “Stan” will never see its equal. For the next 1,300 years, I’m officially out of luck. But you can’t take this away from me. Flagler College faculty member Barry Sand and I got the chance to fly out to the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, the Theodore Roosevelt, where we spent the night, watched them launch and recover aircraft, and generally tried to take souvenirs of anything that wasn’t tied, welded or bolted down. A common refrain: “Can you fit this landing gear in your bag?” They call it the “Big Stick,” as in Teddy’s famous saying about speaking quietly and carry one. The ship fits the motto, bristling with firepower, military technology and pilots who must essentially takeoff and land on a floating shoebox. We got to see it all: takeoffs from the flight deck, night landings, the giant catapults, the 2,000-pound laser guided bombs. And the bunks. Sleeping arrangements are not unlike a night in a Maytag refrigerator box, although I think there would be more headroom. I slept on the top of three stacked bunks, so high that I needed a pick ax, oxygen tank and a Sherpa to get up there. We wandered the guts of this mighty warship, spoke with every sailor whose ear we could turn and ate their food. (It was good.) Then the next […]

One day, thanks to millions of dollars in funding and many dedicated scientists with no real cause to champion, the world will finally discover a cure for clutter. That day can come none to soon for me. Clutter has a way of swarming me, attracted to some scent that I can neither wash away nor mask. So, hard as I try, it always comes back — and worse than before. My desk at home? I haven’t seen wood in more than a year. Instead, it’s a collection of newspapers, pay stubs, house plans, bills, service cancellations, and most importantly, the note I wrote to myself about a great column idea I had for this week. Oh, well. Teacher, it was eaten by my pet Clutter. What is it about us that we have to, like some kind of modern security blanket, surround ourselves with this scourge? Has there been clutter as far back as man can remember. Or is the difference that once upon a time it was called by its scientific name — “crap” — and quickly discarded. The typical American, I will bet money, has on average 2,200 cheap plastic pens stuffed into a pen caddie on his or her desk. I will wager again that out of that 2,200, exactly two work. Why do we keep them? What is our fascination? Do we expect one day to extract oil from them? Why can’t we go anywhere without spotting a free pen and thinking, “Oooh, I better take […]

Well, if that ain’t a humdinger. To find out — on a bag of dog food of all places — that your pooch is a senior citizen. That’s what Purina says about my dog, Chase. She is at least 8 years old, and that must make her an old fart. Dog food manufacturers, and maybe others, seem to think that 7 years or older starts the beginning of the “age.” To me that’s when dogs are in their prime. For that matter, if you apply the 7-dog-years-to-1-human-year ratio, any of our breed 49 or older is also a senior, and needs to be put on this specially formulated diet with added fiber, crude fat and chicken by-product. Hate to be the bearer of bad news. I found this all recently while researching dog food. I wanted to make sure I was feeding Chase the best there is. I wanted food that was good for her joints, would keep her sturdy and strong, would make her coat shine like a newly polished car, wouldn’t let her eyesight sag and, most importantly, wouldn’t make her throw up all over our rug like the last time we switched food. Personally, I found her food a little grainy, and it didn’t go well with milk. So I researched, and WHAM! Chase?!? Old?!? Naw. that dog has more energy than shaken plutonium and can still drool with the best of them. Yet, Purina calls her a “senior dog.” Iams calls her “actively mature.” Actively mature? […]

It’s time to take the war, the great battle, to the next level. Oh, I’ve been fighting it most of my life — this struggle, this great occupation. I have turned plowshares into swords (whatever that means) and raised the flag of war. It’s my familiar battle cry used when I tackle weeds, my shed or whenever my mother wants me to try something new. Now it’s for mosquitoes, and I’m waiting on the ultimate weapon. Come on, postman, bring it to my door. Mosquitoes in Florida come like driving rain. They’re especially bad this time of year because the dollar is weak and bugs from other countries are finding terrific airfare on online travel sites. They’re swarming in my yard and making life miserable outside. I’m tired of breathing citronella fumes, which I’m convinced only makes mosquitoes punch drunk. They become a bit more wobbly, ask for a lot of spare change and drool on you as they’re biting. And I’m tired of wearing two layers of clothing and chain mail when I go outside. So I’ve taken the advice of my neighbor, John, who told me to get a Mosquito Magnet. I was skeptical at first. There have been any number of gimmicks and mosquito-killer products over the years — the mosquito laser, mosquito napalm, mosquito casinos to get them hooked on gambling, bug zappers and moving to the North Pole. But this new device, which he bought months ago, seems to be working. It’s clearing out his […]

Boy, I’ve never goofed one like this before. Riding down to Key West, expecting to check-in to a cottage in Old Town, and boom, we find we’re arriving a night early. A night early! Oh mealy worms. Sometimes I have the common sense of an overcooked macaroni noodle. The wife found out when she called to request late check-in. “Um,” they told her, “you’re not scheduled to check-in until tomorrow.” The heat of embarrassment took a tour through my body, ending in my toes. I thought my toenails might pop off. I looked for someone to blame, and maybe the dog, but I had to take this one squarely on the shoulders. I misread the paperwork — dates were never my strong point — and we were up the creak. What a way to start a week-long vacation in the Keys. But you know, a start like that means it can only get better. And it did. It all worked out. Thompsons may have chronic bad luck, and petroleum jelly for brains, but we’re survivors. It all worked out because in the Florida Keys there’s no living but good living. I love it down there. And it’s not for any of the reasons most people have. Frankly, I don’t do anything that makes the Keys the Keys. Don’t boat, don’t fish, don’t drink until I’m inside out, don’t lobster hunt, don’t collect shells, don’t buy cheap crap, don’t visit tourist attractions, don’t snorkel, don’t scuba and don’t go anywhere that […]

An open letter to my brother-in-law Richie Demato, who just graduated from St. Augustine High School and is now headed for the University of Central Florida. So you’re a college boy now, huh? Think you’re pretty special, I bet. Like you’re on top of the world. Well … you are! How I wish I was going back to college. People send you money there. That spigot shutdown for me a long time ago. But I thought I would pass along some of my hard-earned wisdom that I think can help make your college experience much better (or at least more interesting). Here are a few things to keep in mind: • Personal hygiene and laundry are not for wussies. It’s for people who don’t want to end developing five kinds of fungus, including a portabello mushroom farm on their back. My roommate in college, a good friend named Don, did not wash his bed sheets for an entire year. Not once. They began the year navy blue and ended a color that had never been discovered before. Investigating scientists named it College Crud 186. Young Don was also not known for doing laundry on a timely basis. As the No. 1 cross country runner at Flagler, this often meant some creative running outfits. One day I remember him rushing in to get ready and realizing he had nothing but a paper towel to wear for a shirt. Having already worn the paper towel the day before, and too fashion conscious […]

You have got to be kidding me. Did the front page of the paper really say it? Hurricane season starts in less than two weeks. Did my eyes deceive me? We just went through hurricane season, the worst we’ve ever known, and it nearly separated our great state from the mainland. We just barely survived, and now there’s another one coming? Don’t we get a rest? A get out of jail free pass? We get nothing, accept the chance to buy more bottled water, potted meat and assorted knickknacks we don’t need. You ever stock up on D batteries, only to sit around in the dark with your head in your hands because you don’t have anything to use them in? A year later, they’re still in the pantry, leaking battery acid all over your wife’s favorite embroidered napkins — the ones passed down from a great aunt in Denmark. So we’ll do it all over again. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 and put the big bullseye back on your roof that reads, “Hurricane parking, $5.” While the heart of the season is still months off, the predictions don’t look good. The story I read said 12 to 15 tropical storms with maybe seven to nine becoming hurricanes. At least two are expected to team up and charge through the Atlantic like twin buzzsaws, one will learn how to rain fire and another is expected to be rabid with a case of measles. My prediction is that […]

I call them the country cousins, even though they live in the city and should be more sophisticated. My mother ran them through her own version of charm school, but it didn’t take. They’re my brother’s dogs, a couple of American mutts who know how to make a wild time wherever they go. They’re much different than my dog, Chase, a city dog with refined stylings and cosmopolitan tastes. The country cousins have bad habits. They drool, smoke and spit. They chew tobacco. When they ride in the car with the windows rolled down, their heads stick out so far that they nip the ears of people passing by. They make crank phone calls, and don’t use deodorant. They scratch a lot, in the most uncouth areas — it’s not pretty to see. They drip dirt, never know the right thing to say, and generally turn mayhem into an artform. Did I mention they shed like a stormy sky rains, and barbs on their fur stick tight to everything, like Velcro? When the country cousins get dropped off for some reason or other, we have to get ready. We put a big sheet down in the middle of the floor, sprinkle a nice layer of sand to make them feel at home, and buy extra paper towels. We notify the authorities, pre-apologize to the neighbors and do some stretching exercises that were specially designed for such occasions. And then we close all the windows when we go out. We learned […]

So gas prices are approaching the cost of college tuition. It’s now cheaper to fly first class to France than it is to drive that SUV down to the convenience mart and pick up a quart of milk. And soon, mark my word, you’ll be caught in a dark alley and hear from the shadows a low voice mutter, “OK, buddy, give me all your gas.” That’s the fuel-dependant world we live in. But I feel pretty unique because I don’t live more than a half mile from work. In other words, I haven’t needed to take out a loan yet to cover my gas card bill. Sometimes my wife and I drive to work, and other times we walk. To mix it up, sometimes I drive, forget the car is there, and then walk home. This makes it interesting when my wife looks out the window and screams, “Where’s the car?” It prompts me to scream, “Oh no, those blammin’ jimmy-ammies stole it again!” A moment or two later sanity taps me on the shoulder and I turn to my wife to admit that this isn’t nearly as bad as the time I put my underwear on over my pants. But think of all that gas I’m saving. We’re extremely lucky. We’re not adding rubbing alcohol to the tank to make it last longer, or having to lose weight to make road trips more economical. People tell me how they’re spending ungodly sums of money each week, and I […]