Great. Just Great. Leave it to the news media to go out and cover a story that never, ever, in any form should have been covered. Sometimes it just takes a little self-control and public decency. It takes knowing that you shouldn’t do it because you will scare the ear wax out of people the minute you apply the ink to the newsprint. And this story did it: “Doctor finds spiders in ear of boy with earache.” Son of a biscuit! It ran everywhere, from here in The Record to CNN and USA Today. If you missed it, a boy who had been complaining of a popping sound in his ear went to the doctor where his ear was flushed out, turning up two spiders — one still among the living. They were living quite peacefully in there — had a condo association, were ordering furniture from an online retailer and in general had it about as good as you can when you’re living in the ear of a 9-year-old that hasn’t been cleaned since birth. The popping noise, the boy said, was the sound of them walking around on his eardrum, probably doing the rumba or throwing keg parties.

“Chase dog, eat your food,” I say standing over the bowl of dry kibble, looming over the dog who often reminds me she doesn’t speak English. Remembering this, I phrase it a different way, expecting this time it will have greater effect or impact: “Eat your food, Chase dog.” For some reason, it doesn’t work. She merely sits on the floor in the morning staring at me. “Eat! There are starving children in China.” Why don’t these lines work on her? Why isn’t she eating? The dog’s face seems to tell me she would rather have a deranged poodle yank all her hair out than eat these pathetic looking rabbit pellets. “No thank you, I’ll go without.” It’s been cause for concern in my house. The dog is healthy and spry. She looks like a puppy, except for the weathered gray she’s getting on her face. She’s full of energy, has a youthful disposition and can jump like the ground’s on fire. Her weight is good and hasn’t changed. Our vet even thinks she’s in remarkably good health for a girl her age –about 10 — and she exercises regularly. Physically she’s fine. Medically, just as good. “So what is it?” we’ve wondered, sitting at the dinner table. It’s a mystery.

So, a couple months back I took my mother a computer. I figured all those miles she was from her 15-month-old granddaughter could be bridged by the Internet. I could post photos and videos online, and she could view them at home in Tampa. That would at least cut down on the times she tells me to put the phone in the bath with Amelie so she can splash around with her. (Explaining to her how this could electrocute the kid, or at least ruin the phone, doesn’t seem to work.) It took her a month to even acknowledge the computer, and another month of poking it with a stick like a baboon trying to figure out something that had fallen from the sky. Eventually she convinced herself that radiation wouldn’t surge from the machine if she plugged it in, and still later, she took another big step when she called to ask how to turn it on. “Hit the ‘on’ button,” I told her. “That works best for me. You could also pray for divine intervention each time, but it takes longer.” I considered that enough success for a single year, and put on my calendar to try and talk her into typing on the keyboard come next January. And then the unthinkable happened: The woman with almost zero computer skills jumped dozens of steps on the way to computer enlightenment — or at least learning how to change the clock — and signed herself up for Internet service.

Word-for-word, this was the phone message left on my answering machine. It was a gruff sounding voice, like a cross between a grizzly bear and someone who had lived in the South so long that their accent had fermented and taken on complex subtle hints of apple, walnuts, motor oil and dirt. This is what I heard: “Hello, my name is Calvin Johnson and I’ve been trying to reach Scott Thompson [my brother] for so damn long. He never answers the phone and I’m trying to reach him because I’ve got this vintage motorcycle. It’s still in its box. I think it’s a 1955 British some-kind-of-a-G*****n motorcycle. And I understand he’s interested and I want to get rid of it. I’m willing to give it away, but he never checks his phone, he never gets his messages. So I understand you’re his brother, so will you please tell him if he wants this motorcycle, it’s still in the box, it’s all shiny looking and it’s all new and it looks goooo-ddd. He can have it if he wants it, he just needs to come and get it! Tell him to give me a call. My number is [repeats my phone number] … No, that’s not it. That’s the number I just called. I’m a silly boy! The number is [gives a new number]. Get on that boy! Tell him to call me up. See ya, bye.” So I hear this — remember, think grizzly bear with a Southern accent, but […]

Oh, sweet, tooth-rotting pleasure. I can feel the tingle of decay from years past just thinking about Easter. And apparently for good reason. It’s all about the sweets, baby. According to the National Confectioners Association, Easter ranks second only to Halloween when it comes to sales of confections — also known as candy. This is the organization that runs a survey polling whether people would prefer a real or chocolate bunny on this holiday. (It found that 82 percent of those polled would rather have a chocolate or candy bunny instead of the fuzzy kind. But it begs the question: Did they explain that people wouldn’t have to eat the live bunny?) Anyway, can’t say that I’m stunned by Easter’s candy fix. It’s a sweet-tooth holiday. But a few other statistics I found from the group were astounding: 90 million chocolate bunnies are made for the holiday each year; 5 million marshmallow chicks and bunnies are produced each day while gearing up for Easter; and 16 billion jelly beans are brought into the world. Sixteen billion! That’s a lot of sugar. Why is Easter all about the sugar? I remember once as a kid getting a sugar egg — it was almost as large as a football and hollowed out inside. In there, if I recall correctly, there was a sugar bunny in what looked like swimsuit model pose. Not sure exactly where my grandparents got the questionable egg, but I do know it had only two ingredients: sugar and […]

I was frankly ashamed and embarrassed when I read the headline online: �Many Americans see little point to Web?� What is this country coming to? Did I really read that right? Are there people out there who just don�t care about the Internet? Can it be? Don�t they understand how important it is? How it�s changing our lives and making the world a better place? How else are you going to watch videos of guys jumping bikes off buildings or singing cats? Singing cats, people. Get with the program. Believe it or not, there are a lot of people out there who don�t use the Internet. It was a Reuters story that said �a little under one-third of U.S. households have no Internet access and do not plan to get it.� Pshaw! Of these millions � in fact 31 million rebel households � most just don�t see why they need it in their lives. Don�t see why they need it? Didn�t I just mention videos of singing cats? How about getting your identity stolen, contracting a computer virus or losing thousands of dollars in online poker or a Nigerian E-mail scam? You�re free to choose. You think you can get that through television or any other media source?

Is this the best you can do?” I shouted at the heavens while trudging across Fifth Avenue. The howling wind leaned against me like a brick wall toppling over, and the snow fall got thicker and thicker. “I can hack this, no problem. I’ve survived hurricanes!” And then the sleet started to fall. That’s when I curled up in a garbage can and convinced myself I was gonna die. I was in New York City last week for a conference on advising college newspapers. You have to try very hard, or literally be on fire, not to have a good time in New York, and even then it still would rank up there as moderately enjoyable. But sleet sure does test you. It was like someone firing BB pellets at me. Check that, it was like 13,000 people firing BB pellets at me. I’ve seen and been in my share of snow over the years, but this Florida boy has never in his life experienced sleet. It’s like a dump truck of gravel falling from the sky. The trip had begun with such wonderful weather. When I arrived, it was in the upper 60s and I went for a 5-mile jog in Central Park. Gorgeous. For a while I forgot I was even up north. I was quickly reminded, though, when as I was running around the reservoir and hit a cold pocket of air. Unusual, I thought, before glancing down at the water. “Odd muck,” I said to myself. […]

So, the race is on. It’s March, and time for the Jacksonville River Run, that 9.3-mile monster with a bridge on the tail end that will give you altitude sickness and make your calf muscles sue for divorce. The race is Saturday, and will attract literally thousands of runners like me who can’t understand that you don’t have to pay $30 to run 9 miles — you can do it at home for free! I’m excited and pumped up, though, and the truth is, I’m already racing. But it has nothing to do with my feet touching the pavement 10,000 or so times. Rather, this race is to see if I can figure out my new running watch before the starting cannon fires on Saturday. Nothing could be worse, or more embarrassing, than being trampled by 8,000 runners because I was still standing there at the start trying to figure out which button would get my watch going. “I hit start! What’s wrong with-” SPLAT!