What are the odds?

On a late summer night during college, my neighbor and I hung out in my living room. The TV played in the background as we chatted about high school buddies.

One friend came up… Mac. We hadn’t heard from him in years. In those days before social media, losing track of someone was a part of life. Without a phone number or address, people just disappeared.

As we talked, the Late Night with David Letterman show started. During the monologue, as Dave interacted with the audience, the camera panned across the crowd.

And there, clear as day, sat Mac. For a few seconds, he bantered back and forth with Letterman.

We froze, mouths open.

Only minutes after mentioning him, Mac appeared on national television. Think about the astronomical odds. Mind-bending.

Fast-forward to this week for another statistical absurdity. For my first 48 years on this planet, it never happened. But now, it’s been four times in the past seven.

Our mailbox, hit by a car again. Flattened to the ground.

There’s nothing unusual about the placement. Same spot as everyone else’s, right by the driveway. And yet, somehow, our box calls out like a beacon to bumpers.

Dave may be off the air, but our mailbox is still putting on a show.

Our great obsession.

Some of my earliest Easter memories take me back to the big park near my home.

Each year, the city scattered thousands of candies across the wooded area. Kids like me showed up clutching empty baskets, ready to scoop up as much sugar as possible.

But nothing rivaled the golden egg.

The legendary prize was hidden somewhere and stuffed with cash. This trophy dominated our imaginations. We strategized and searched, sprinting past jelly beans and plastic eggs in hopes of striking gold. But sadly, none of us ever found it.

These days, Easter looks a little different.

After church, we grabbed lunch with family, smiled for a photo with a costumed bunny, then enjoyed an evening walk. No hunts. No frantic dashes.

But there’s a truth I carry, better than any childhood thrill. A favorite quote puts it perfectly:

“If Christ is risen, nothing else matters. And if Christ is not risen, nothing else matters.”
-Jaroslav Pelikan

Back then, I chased treasure I couldn’t find. Now, I hold one I can’t lose.

They’re either loved or hated.

This time of year, I’m talking about Peeps. Yes, those neon marshmallow chicks and bunnies that dominate Easter shelves.

Growing up, they were a highlight of my holiday basket. Soft, squishy, sweet — and perfect for an 8-year-old with zero concerns about sugar intake or shelf life.

When I got older and moved away, my mom preserved the tradition by mailing me boxes of these candy grenades. All kinds. Every flavor and color.

One time, I mentioned Peeps during a talk at church, and suddenly, packages began arriving from all corners. People just kept sending them. I became an unofficial ambassador and fully embraced the honor.

Over two billion of these pastel puffs are sold each year, and they’re among the most popular non-chocolate candies in the U.S. But not everyone’s on board.

For every fan, there's someone who finds them a little terrifying. Especially when you realize they can probably survive a nuclear fallout.

I was surprised to learn how these bunny bombs are used without eating them:

• Elaborate diorama contests, recreating pop culture and historical scenes

• Classroom projects to test catapult launch distances

• Sticking toothpicks in two Peeps and watching them battle in the microwave as they puff up

• Using stale, hardened ones as doorstops

• Placing them along windows to block cold air

• Putting them in shoes as a deodorizer

These days, I don’t eat many. But when I do, it takes me back to a simpler time when you could sit on the porch with a sticky yellow chick and not question whether it doubled as home insulation.

Long live my Peeps, those beloved sugar rockets. The ultimate survivors.

There were no words.

Growing up, the city pool was the highlight of summer. A blue oasis, always packed with shrieking kids and ka-boomy cannonballs.

The diving boards towered like skyscrapers, and the waterslides were roller coasters. That special spot held years of sun-soaked memories.

The pool had been around for decades, even in my dad's school days. More than just a place to swim, it served as a rite of passage.

After college, I moved away from my hometown. Life went on, and I hadn’t seen it in many summers.

One afternoon, while visiting in town, I took my children for a stroll through the old neighborhood. My goal? Show them the famous swimming hole.

But when we got there… it was gone.

Demolished. Filled in. Covered with grass like it never existed. Just a quiet green space where people now walked their dogs.

I stood there, speechless. My son tugged on my sleeve. “Hey Dad… where’s the pool?”

I didn’t know what to say. It’s a strange feeling when an important piece of your past disappears without a trace.

Those memories resurfaced this week when I read the latest headline about Netflix.

In high school, weekends revolved around Blockbuster video stores. Grabbing a rental, running into friends, hanging out. But the company didn’t keep up as technology changed and eventually declared bankruptcy.

Netflix became the dominant player and is aiming for a $1 trillion valuation. Now, Blockbuster is a trivia question, and Netflix is chasing a fortune.

First the pool, then the video stores…

I’m scared to check on the skating rink.

The pressure was on.

Senior English class. Final project.

We had to give a researched oral presentation. Everyone got a partner, and grades were on the line.

I teamed up with my friend, Jon. We decided against standing up and mumbling off note cards. No way. We wanted to tell a big story.

Lucky for us, Jon was in a video editing class, and we managed to rope in his teacher to help bring our vision to life. Part documentary, part dramatic flair.

We took the song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and layered it over haunting footage of the Titanic’s discovery. The pairing of music and imagery was eerie and somehow... epic.

It worked. Like, really worked.

When the video ended, the room erupted in applause. We got an A+. One of my best moments in school.

That memory came rushing back today when I heard about a new event at the Las Vegas Sphere. This is no ordinary entertainment hub. It has a 160,000-square-foot LED wraparound screen with crystal-clear 16K resolution and seating for 18,600 people.

Creative teams are reimagining The Wizard of Oz movie for this venue, using AI to enhance over 90% of the original film. Everything from upscaling visuals to extending backgrounds to inserting off-screen characters.

But they’re also adding 4D sensory effects like wind, heat, and smells to pull viewers even deeper into the experience. It’s a $80 million tribute to a classic, redefining the future of storytelling.

If only the Sphere and AI were around during senior year. Jon and I peaked way too soon.

An amazing sight.

Tonight, we took Cali for a walk, and the cosmos put on a dazzling show.

It was an especially clear night, where the universe felt endless and the stars sparkled a little brighter.

This breathtaking view brought back a memory of my neighbor, Chris. When we were kids, we sprawled across my front yard one summer evening, staring up at the sky.

As the constellations glimmered, Chris whispered, “Imagine this… God, who is light, holds the whole world in his hands. He decides to cover it with a paper cup.

“Then he takes a pin and pokes tiny holes in the cup, enough for his light to peek through. Those are the stars we’re looking at.”

This great philosopher was maybe 12 at the time, but his words stuck with me. All these years later, almost every twinkly night reminds me of his story.

I’m glad the light still shines.

The answer came to me instantly.

Today in a meeting, a colleague asked an icebreaker question: “What are you most looking forward to this summer?”

Around the table came amazing answers: Aruba, New Zealand, a pilot’s license, opening a café. Grand adventures and big dreams.

Then, my turn. Mine wasn't the most glamorous, but I wouldn’t trade it for all the others combined.

My reply: “I want to go to Oak Island with my family.”

Oak Island, NC has been our go-to getaway for years. Tucked away at the quiet, southern tip of the Carolina coast, it holds precious memories. Especially from when the kids were small.

And each night there, we always make it a priority to watch shooting stars from the deck of the beach house.

A vacation tradition.

OKI... hopefully I’ll see you one day soon.

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.