Last year, I threw a book launch party.

My writing buddies gathered with me to celebrate. Then one friend showed up with cupcakes, though nobody was supposed to bring anything.

And these weren’t ordinary treats. They were miniature works of art, decorated in my novel's colors and themes. I stood there, speechless. The desserts looked so amazing, I almost felt guilty eating them. Almost.

Sometimes, life can seem a little rough around the edges. But small gestures like this remind me there's still goodness out there.

This week, I heard about a financial clerk at a large healthcare provider. She transformed plain billing envelopes into original illustrations for a patient she’d never met. Just to brighten her day.

Each month, the statement arrived with a new drawing, turning the invoices into masterpieces. Eventually, the patient and the clerk became friends. And my favorite part? They later curated an exhibit together to showcase all those beautiful creations.

Ahh, kindness. Always a sweet and pretty surprise.

Where am I working this summer?

When my kids were in high school, that question popped up every spring.

Fortunately, they always landed solid jobs. McKenzie and Kate both worked with children — something they’re gifted at — and the boys? Well, they had a clear pattern.

Luke, Jake, and Sam all got employed at a golf course.

I think it’s one of the best summer positions out there. Especially if you love the links. Definitely beats my teen gigs at a car wash and grocery store.

Sure, the course sometimes meant early mornings and heat. But they rubbed elbows with influential folks, raked in big tips, and — best of all — played unlimited free rounds on championship-level fairways.

Today, I thought about that while watching the final round of the Masters. Many of those pros started just like my boys — hauling bags and running carts.

Here’s hoping my kiddos can snag a PGA Tour card someday.

Who needs a corner office when you’ve got a sand wedge and a dream?

It was time.

As a kid, I built a legendary collection of baseball and basketball cards. All neatly organized in boxes, carefully sorted by team.

I had some limited editions and a few rookies with potential value. Giving them up would be hard, but the lure of money was strong. Could I really get anything for them?

So I chose five promising ones and took them to a local shop. The man behind the counter examined them as ancient artifacts. Then he paused, nodded, and offered me fifty bucks.

$50 sounded like $50 million. I said YES before he could blink, swapping my cardboard pictures for cold, hard cash.

Sports fans are passionate. They'll spend big moolah on things that baffle others.

Just this week, I read about the “most valuable” programs in college. Those worth the most if someone could buy them like a pro franchise.

UNC basketball topped the list at $378 million, followed closely by archrival Duke at $370 million. And still, that’s nothing compared to football. The Ohio State Buckeyes are valued at $1.96 billion.

Oh well. Maybe if I had held onto those cards, I could’ve bought the Tar Heels.

The wind took it.

Years ago, after I helped officiate a funeral, someone handed me a crisp $100 bill as a thank-you. It’s rare to be paid in cash, but I nodded with appreciation and tucked it into my pocket.

After spending the next little while chatting with people, I finally made my way to the car. Grabbing my keys, I then reached for the money.

Gone. Empty pocket.

The afternoon was windy. And my best guess? When I pulled out my keys, that hundo must have flown out, catching a ride on a powerful gust. Despite searching everywhere, the money had vanished without a trace. To this day, I still think about the lucky person who saw a Benjamin blowing toward their feet.

That memory came back when I read today about Uber’s annual Lost & Found Index. The company listed the most commonly left-behind items in 2024 — and the most bizarre.

Among them: a mannequin head, a chainsaw, breast milk, and ten live lobsters. Someone once forgot 175 hamburger sliders. And then there were the big-ticket losses: a gold Rolex and $1,800 Air Jordans.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad about that hundred bucks.

I hope whoever found my lost cash at least tipped their Uber driver.

We were stranded and hungry. Possibly doomed.

One winter, a storm shut down everything. My college roommate, Kendall, and I were snowed in and low on groceries.

When I peeked at our supplies, I was convinced our survival depended on peanut butter sandwiches. But Kendall saw something different.

He stood in front of the pantry like a wild scientist doing an experiment, taking stock of the chaos. Half-used sauces, forgotten cans, mismatched spices. Then, pulling items from the fridge, he started whipping meals together.

Every night, this culinary wizard made magic from nothing. Entrees that shouldn’t have worked. Delicious dinners I couldn’t have produced even with a cookbook.

The stranger the ingredients, the better it tasted. Pure improvisation.

That memory came rushing back today while listening to a podcast about creativity. For example, take three simple things: sand, heat, and a tube. What can be made by combining them?

Heat turns sand into glass. Shape that glass into a lens. Put the lens in a tube. Suddenly, you have a telescope.

Those ordinary components, assembled just right, reveal the cosmos. Distant stars and planets, invisible to the naked eye, brought into focus. Mind-boggling.

Creativity isn’t about perfect parts. It’s about connecting the unlikely and finding surprising results.

Embrace the power of imagination.

Just remember, Kendall helped me see dinner in pancake mix and a can of olives.

I still can’t believe I licked.

When I worked with teens years ago, I’d do all types of motivational stunts. Once, I made a promise: hit a fundraising goal, and I’ll lick peanut butter from someone’s armpit.

The target was absurdly high. Impossible, I thought.

The second I made that offer, it was like dangling a million-dollar prize. Those kids didn’t care about the money. They just wanted to see me suffer.

And they crushed it. Which is how I ended up licking PB — creamy not crunchy — out of said armpit. And yes, it was as disgusting as you’d imagine.

Fast-forward to today, and I’m reading about a company called Liquid Death. Despite the scary name, they sell canned water. Sparkling, flavored, even iced tea.

And it's their branding that sets them apart, leaning toward edgy with the tagline: “Murder your thirst.” Their can features a skull.

But one day, someone left this review: “I would rather lick the back of a sweaty fat man than drink Liquid Death.”

Instead of panicking, the brand embraced the chaos. They launched a “taste test” campaign that turned into a viral video. The challenge: try Liquid Death, then lick the back of a sweaty fat man and see which one you like better.

Yes, folks actually agreed to do this. And the test proved, in the company's words: “It’s official. 10 out of 10 real people prefer the taste of Liquid Death over licking the sweat off a fat guy’s back.”

They took a negative and flipped it into marketing gold. In case you’re wondering, the company is now the world’s fastest-growing beverage brand, valued at nearly $2 billion.

The moral: there’s a lot of moolah in the right kind of licks.

Suddenly, my peanut butter stunt feels like a missed business opportunity.

He had wanted it for years.

This week, Jake turned in a college essay about a childhood memory. His topic centered around a long-coveted toy.

Like most kids, he obsessed over it. Talked about it nonstop. And then, one day, we finally bought… the Wii.

The motion-tracking magic transformed our living room into a tennis court, boxing ring, and dance floor. It was futuristic and loads of fun.

Jake and his siblings played for hours — laughing, sweating, trash-talking. In his words, the day we brought that console home was, “the best day of my life.”

But time moves on. Children grow up. Novelty wears off. Other gadgets, games, and moments take their place.

In his paper, Jake wrote that he still remembers our big yard sale. The morning we slapped a fluorescent orange sticker on the Wii. $30. And just like that, that black box rode away in someone else’s car.

Even the brightest toys lose their shine eventually.

I heard a question recently that stuck with me: “What’s one thing that’s made you 10% happier?”

I don’t know the answer. But I realize my happiness can’t hinge on objects. Not even the shiny, motion-sensing, all-in-one party starters. Things fade and break, then get marked down on driveways.

Instead, I look at items as serving their purpose for a season. Temporary sparks.

And for a little while, the Wii Sports Resort turned our home into a glorious place. Just ask Jake.

I know exactly where I was on March 29, 1982...

Standing in my childhood living room, screaming at the TV. The basketball national championship — my Tar Heels against the Georgetown Hoyas.

UNC won by one point. For a 12-year-old fan, a life-changing moment.

But the best part? My paperboy job. The next afternoon, I delivered newspapers with “Champions” blazed across the front page. Oh, and this happened on my birthday. Pretty cool.

I also remember where I was on April 3, 2017...

A family Disney trip, kids piled around me in an Orlando hotel, all of us yelling at the screen. Another title game: Carolina vs. Gonzaga. The Heels triumphed by six. Sharing it with Jess, McKenzie, Luke, Jake, Kate, and Sam made it even sweeter.

Then came last night — this year’s championship. Just me watching. No Tar Heels. No screaming and no kids (they’re all grown up). The outcome didn’t even matter.

But I still tuned in. That’s what I do, because of the memories. I haven’t missed one since 1982.

And bonus… I didn’t have to fold 47 newspapers this time. Or pay for Disney.

We once took the family to Planet Hollywood.

To celebrate Luke’s birthday in Myrtle Beach, he picked the giant, globe-shaped restaurant. When our server found out we were there for his special event, she told Luke he could choose any song to blast over the speakers.

After thinking, he made an inspired decision. Actually, he selected what I consider the best '80s anthem. Hint: it’s by Bryan Adams. The tune? Summer of ’69.

Yes, a proud Dad moment.

I can remember how Luke's face lit up when those first guitar riffs kicked in. The emcee even gave him a shout-out. And the whole place turned into his personal concert venue as we ate burgers and played air-guitars.

Fast forward to today. We weren’t in a glitzy globe, but at the serene New Kent Winery. For a few hours, we met up with McKenzie and Will, sitting on a patio and listening to a musician strum '80s and '90s covers.

We split a plate of crackers and pimento cheese. And oh yeah, celebrated my birthday — just a few days late. A world away from that loud Myrtle Beach party. Years between. But the heart of it stayed the same.

Still with family. Still rocking.

Every time I see one, my stomach turns.

Growing up, we’d make the drive to Raleigh for the NC State Fair. A classic experience filled with spinning rides and carnival games. Also prize pigs and vendors selling steak knives.

But oh, the food. Southern everything: hush puppies, smoky BBQ, and sugary treats that defied logic. Fried Oreos, anyone?

However, one menu item always made me cringe. The infamous... turkey leg.

It seemed everyone wandered the fairgrounds, gnawing on these massive drumsticks, juice running down their chins like some medieval picnic. All I could think: do you realize you’re ripping and chewing meat off a nasty bone? Gross!

I know, I’m the oddball.

Fast forward to today. We took a 45-minute trip to the Gloucester Daffodil Festival. The 39th annual celebration, held on Main Street, is a throwback to those old fair days. Live music, hundreds of merchants, and we even saw the new Daffodil Queen wearing her satin sash.

Then we hit the food section. Country guitars twanged from the stage and fried batter wafted in the air. Booths served up everything from funnel cakes to corn dogs to shrimp.

And there it was. A ghost from my past, a nightmare. The turkey leg.

What could I do but shake my head and laugh?

I came for the daffodils, but I left haunted by the bones.

I’ve never been so hot.

As a teen, I spent my summers working 10-hour shifts at Mr. C’s Car Wash. The North Carolina sun showed no mercy as temps soared into the upper 90s. We didn’t just work — we baked.

By late morning, my coworkers and I had a ritual. We’d sprint across the street to a convenience store, our air-conditioned oasis. Inside waited my hero: a massive 32-ounce fountain drink. Filling my cup with crushed ice and Pepsi, I called it the Bladder Buster.

That giant soda powered me through the concrete inferno. And to this day, I have a weakness for Pepsi. Not only for the flavor, but for the memory of carbonated survival.

That’s how we got it done back in those times… through sweat, grit, and high-fructose corn syrup.

Today I read that Pepsi sales are slipping. In the ‘80s, they gave Coke a real run for the lead. But now they’ve fallen to #3, behind Dr Pepper.

Coke, Pepsi… they taste nearly the same to me. But somewhere deep in my nostalgic heart, I want my fav cola on top. To me, it will always be the “Taste of the Carolinas.”

And my fizzy, emotional support in a cup.

He coached us almost every afternoon.

Mr. Sessoms, my next-door neighbor’s grandfather, was passionate about baseball. More than just a casual fan, he once played for the minor league Yankees alongside Joe DiMaggio.

After school, we’d rush to the backyard. There, Mr. Sessoms stood with his glove on, cap tilted, ready to instruct.

He taught us how to throw sidearm. How to field grounders without flinching. And most importantly — how to hit. His advice? “Wait for the right pitch. Don’t swing at them all.”

I didn’t realize at the time he was teaching more than baseball. Trying to hit everything is for batting cages and burnout.

Today, I heard an interesting piece of business wisdom. Someone I admire said, “I have yet to meet a high-functioning leader who answered every email, responded to every text, got back to everybody, and showed up at everything.”

Huh. Those words transported me to those dusty afternoons, bat in hand.

Don’t swing at them all.

Back in grad school, I shared a house with some guys in Virginia Beach.

Two floors, five dudes, and somehow everyone clicked. Each evening, we watched sporting events together.

One of my roommates, Ted, was an eclectic guy we all loved. He had a knack for saying the wildest things, without even trying. A walking soundbite. It grew so consistently hilarious that another roommate started a document of his best quotes.

Thus emerged the legendary “Book of Ted”: a sacred text of hot takes, accidental wisdom, and absurd opinions. That was 30 years ago.

Recently, I caught up with an old roomie. “Still have the book,” he told me. I’m hoping for a copy soon.

Today I heard a one-liner that felt worthy of that collection — from a Harris Teeter cashier.

A sweet girl, probably in high school, scanned my pizza, paused, then reached for paper instead of plastic and said:

“Pizza just hits better in a paper bag.”

Completely deadpan.

It was so random, so perfectly odd, that I laughed out loud. And immediately thought of Ted.

Yes, his spirit lives on. There’s a new philosopher in town, and she works by aisle 10, near the frozen foods.

I was winning.

In Mrs. Hunter’s 3rd grade class, my name sat at the top of the leaderboard. The contest? Who could read the most books during the school year.

This was my wheelhouse. Even as a kid, I devoured books. My parents fed the habit, buying me any I wanted. The highlight of my week was the Scholastic Book Club, a magical little catalog that was basically Amazon before Amazon, full of titles you could order right from your desk.

With a few months left, I was comfortably in the lead. In a distant second place was my friend, Michelle. A strong rival, but I wasn’t worried. No sweat.

And then one day, everything changed. Mr. Vines, our principal, walked in and dropped the bomb: “Because of classroom sizes, we’ve got to transfer some of you to a new room.”

And just like that, they reassigned me to a first-year teacher named Mrs. Sox. Different teacher. Different rules. No book contest.

When my name vanished from the rankings, I argued my case, but it was no use. Weeks later, Michelle claimed the prize to great fanfare. Brutal.

Ah, core memories.

To this day, I’m still a rabid reader. But I’ve developed a frustrating habit: I juggle too many at once. Right now, it’s a 1,000-page fantasy doorstopper, a marketing guide, and two histories — all in rotation.

I also have a daily The Wall Street Journal addiction. Paper copy only.

Come to think of it, I’m reading like I’m angry. Mr. Vines, you did this to me.

In high school, my friends and I chased hot air balloons across town.

Every May, our local “Balloon Festival & Air Show” filled the sky with color. Dozens of huge inflatables drifted above us, from the Burger King Whopper to a grinning Mr. Peanut.

As they descended, pilots hunted for open fields, never quite sure where they’d land. That was our cue.

We’d pile into a car, choosing one balloon to track through backroads, craning our necks to keep it in sight. Sometimes we followed for miles, laughing at our frantic turns, determined to be there when it touched down.

It was pure, free fun — just the thrill of the pursuit.

Lately, with the weather warming up, Jess and I have started a new tradition. We call it Chasing Sunsets. About 45 minutes before sundown, we drive to a nearby beach, spread a towel, and watch the sun melt into the horizon.

There’s something peaceful about ending the day with sand between our toes and the surf lapping at our feet. Our summer goal is to catch at least 25 sunsets.

Tonight was Sunset #2.

If you see our car pulling out in the early evening, you’ll know we’re off on the adventure. With a giant, glowing fireball in the sky, who needs Mr. Peanut?