Seeing it shocked me.

Several years ago when I visited my hometown, my dad had something waiting for me that I didn’t expect.

As I pulled into his driveway, he greeted me with a grin and a surprise he’d been saving. There, gleaming in the sun like a ghost from my past… was my first car.

A silver 1982 Honda Accord 5-speed hatchback. Running — sort of.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. That little vehicle hauled me through my teens, college, grad school, and into early marriage. We had shared many life adventures together, and my friends lovingly called it “The Silver Bullet.”

After I moved away, Dad had stashed the car behind the garage, coaxing the hatchback out now and then for short errands, like a retired workhorse still trotting around the pasture.

But mostly, it sat in his backyard. Out of sight, rusting in silence.

So, two decades later, my dad casually says, “Got the Honda started. Wanna go for a spin?”

Did I ever.

I wedged the kids inside and settled at the wheel. Time stopped. Everything looked and felt just as I remembered.

With a twist of the key, the engine coughed, then roared to life.

As we cruised the neighborhood, memories flooded every gear shift. The years melted away. I was 17 again, with cassette tapes and a curfew. The rough ride and peeling paint couldn’t stop my heart from racing.

Afterward, when I finally handed the keys back to my dad, I somehow knew it was goodbye. The last ride. And sure enough, a few months later, he sold it.

But for a few minutes on a random Saturday afternoon, I had climbed into a time machine for one final magic journey. The best drive of my life.

Sometimes I don’t recognize “last times,” but other times I do, like that whirl around the block in the Accord.

We anticipate firsts. Graduations. Jobs. Babies. But we rarely notice the lasts. Some goodbyes even show up dressed as regular days, slipping by in disguise.

The last time walking the high school halls.
The last wave to a friend you’ll never see again.
The last cannonball in a neighborhood pool.
The last diaper changed for a child who’s suddenly grown.

I can’t stop the lasts, but I can savor the moments, knowing any one might be the final lap. And that makes me gentler and more grateful.

Silver Bullet, wherever you may be, here’s to you.

What’s your go-to beach read?

I’ve got mine, but more on that in a second.

Today I fell down a rabbit hole about Ian Fleming, the creator of the James Bond series. He had a gift for writing pulp fiction, a fast-paced, action-packed storytelling style. And of course, he threw in some swagger.

Fleming’s novels flew off shelves and into movie theaters, starting in the ‘50s with 007’s first literary appearance.

Pulp fiction thrives on bold characters and dramatic plots. These amped-up tales grip audiences, twist hard, and never let go.

Some book snobs scoff at the genre, claiming it lacks refinement, but these folks also sip coffee with their pinkies in the air.

My favorite modern pulp writer? Lee Child, the author behind the Jack Reacher books. I’ve read 27 of them, most while lounging in a beach chair at Oak Island.

Asked how he hooks readers, Child once answered simply: “Ask a question and make people wait for the answer.”

I dream of being back at my beloved coastline, toes in the sand, flipping pages and chasing answers one page at a time.

Maybe while having a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.

Today, my youngest turned 19.

Happy Birthday, Sam!

We have a few bday traditions that have stood the test of time. First, we count each year out loud, followed by a clap with every number. “Are you 1? Are you 2? Are you 3…?”

Somewhere around 17 or 18, it turns into more of a cardio workout than a celebration, which only becomes funnier with older ages.

Then we offer our “word” to describe the honored person. Not a speech, just an adjective, as we go around the room.

Sam’s words through the years? Funny. Adaptable. Intelligent. Calming. Confident. A solid resume for 19.

And then there’s another custom, started when Sam was 8yrs old. I record his answers to the same list of questions, such as:

Will you get married?
How many children?
Where will you live one day?
Best memory?
Favorite sports teams?
Closest friends?

There are about 25 total, and his replies have changed, like watching a Polaroid develop and slowly coming into focus.

When younger, he forever wanted to “live with Mom and Dad.” But recently, his goal is marriage with 3-4 kids. Time changes things.

I’m grateful for the day Sam arrived in 2006.

I learned something wild today.

Ukraine uses a self-propelled artillery system that shoots 100-pound shells nearly 25 miles.

For perspective, each round weighs about the same as a fully loaded washing machine, yet somehow zips across the sky and lands with laser precision.

That weapon reminded me of another force which travels fast and hits hard. Intrusive thoughts.

I’m going to fail.
No one likes me.
Something bad will happen.
I don’t deserve good things.
I’m not worth loving.

When these strike, it feels real, but they’re mass-produced spam. Urgent subject lines with zero substance.

Not every thought deserves belief, so I don’t debate the toxic ones anymore; I redirect.

Here’s my trick. When those mental missiles streak into my frontal lobe, I say three words out loud:

UP AND OUT.

Works every time. I acknowledge, stand my ground… then dismiss.

Bonus: for an extra stubborn thought, pretend it's a laundry-filled warhead. Take that, dirty socks.

I spent most of the night watching my oldest son on TV.

A major broadcast had a camera locked in on Luke for nearly three straight hours. And he dressed carefully, knowing he would sit near at least two dozen multimillionaires.

Where was he?
Fenway Park, directly behind home plate.

His clothing choice?
A Boston Red Sox jersey.

The multimillionaires?
All the pro ballplayers and wealthy season ticket-holders.

And how did Luke score those seats?
A generous friend’s boss gave the tickets.

A good way to spend a Monday evening. And bonus… the Sox beat the Mets.

The real MVP? The boss who didn’t want to go.

Nothing is better than reading it out loud.

One of my childhood books still holds magic, and I probably read it a thousand times before sharing the experience with my own kids. They loved it, too.

This Sesame Street legend remains the best-seller in the franchise, popular for over 50 years. The fanbase inspired an app, an animated show, and special editions.

The title? The Monster at the End of This Book, featuring Grover.

What makes this book timeless is the interactive style. Young readers become participants in the tale as the main character begs them to not turn the next page.

The story became a family favorite, especially for Sam. So the night before he left for college, I grabbed our worn copy from the shelf. And just for fun, I read it to him again, milking every dramatic pause and hamming up Grover’s iconic line: “You turned the page!”

The classic stories seem to grow up with you.

Even now, a new generation of bookworms is finding their own beloved yarns. This week I learned about a publisher called 831 Stories that’s creating a frenzy among romance fans.

Their formula is clever, offering short, addictive novellas starring independent women and swoon-worthy I’m-in-love finales. Each launch offers goodies like merchandise and digital extras. Their followers have become superfans who treat each upcoming title like a VIP event.

I vote Grover should headline their next romance… if he ever stops blocking the pages.

It deserves way more credit.

There’s an underrated room in most homes. Seldom do folks renovate the space, and guests rarely see it.

The garage.

A few facts:

• Burglars often break in through this area

• Tech giants like Apple, Google, and Amazon all started out there

• So did Disney and Hewlett-Packard

• Nirvana and The Ramones first shredded chords in one

• A Wisconsin father built a full replica of Disney’s Haunted Mansion in his carport

• Over half of homeowners use theirs for storage, not parking

• My dad once relocated his entire business into ours after a fire

• In elementary school, I hit my head on the cement floor, resulting in a forehead shiner

• A watermelon we placed in there somehow exploded, leaving a stench of death for weeks

And today? We spent the afternoon cleaning ours up, digging through the avalanche of college stuff from our returning students: boxes, clothes, furniture, and the mysterious smell of dorm room.

Gotta love garages, the unsung hero of homes.

Guard your melons.

I never could figure out that dang button.

During my teen years, a 150-pound beast dominated half our living room. Not a recliner or a piano. It was our television.

A Zenith “Advanced System 3,” encased in a maple wood console which doubled as furniture and fitness equipment. Moving that thing was a backbreaker.

The whole setup resembled a spaceship control pod. What made the TV truly unforgettable, though, wasn't the size, but the futuristic Space Phone feature.

Straight out of 1980s sci-fi, this little innovation claimed to make and receive calls through the telly. In theory, someone could mute Magnum P.I. and chat with the world like some armchair astronaut.

But nothing happened, no matter how many times I mashed the button.

Over and over, I tried calling through the fancy cabinet, convinced the legendary Space Phone would finally come alive. It never did.

I thought of my old boob tube today when I read about the Apple Vision Pro headset. Some buyers find the gadget underwhelming, especially for the $3,500 price tag.

Turns out, goggles with a screen aren’t the must-have fashion accessory people expected. The weight causes neck pain, and the app selection is meh. Plus, wearers feel self-conscious in public.

I guess tech problems will never end. At least my Zenith never made me look like a ski instructor.

It had to be the worst present ever.

This week, many schools hold their commencement ceremonies, including a few for friends. It got me thinking about my high school graduation.

I received lots of thoughtful gifts. Cards. Checks. Books.

And then came that one item. I opened the box, paused, and shook my head.

Fingernail clippers. A whole case of them. Enter the sad trombone: wah wah wahhhhh.

Not exactly a dream present. I mean, who gives a cuticle trimmer to an 18-year-old guy? Nobody else, before or since.

Sure, the thought was incredibly kind, and they even engraved my name on the front. But I had no plans to ever touch those nail tools.

With a shrug, I buried them deep inside my bathroom cabinet. Out of sight, out of mind. Forgot all about them. Until one day, I started using them.

Years flew by. College. Grad school. Marriage. Kids. Career. Through every chapter, that manicure gear stayed sharp and reliable.

For three decades, they never failed me. Every trim brought back memories of those friends — and their gift kept on giving.

Eventually, the case crumbled apart, and the trimmers lost their edge. I had a moment of silence before placing them gently in the trash… the greatest, most useful, longest-lasting gift of my life.

Class of 2025, take note: sometimes the things we overlook turn out to be the best.

Practical almost always beats flashy. So, forget the balloons — give a grad some clippers.

I couldn’t believe she called.

I had almost finished packing the car, only an hour from driving home for summer. Freedom.

Music jammed from our dorm room. My roommates and I were cracking jokes, celebrating how we had survived freshman year.

Then the phone rang.

“Hi, Brian?”

“Yes?”

“This is your organic chemistry professor. I just wanted to call and say… you made a 90 on your final.”

“Awesome! Thanks for telling me.”

A pause.

“No, no. A 90 out of 200,” she said.

Heart drop. “Oh.”

“You’ve done well all semester, so I’m confused what happened.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Tell you what, come to my office this afternoon for an oral exam. If you do a good job, I’ll adjust your score.”

Gulp. “Okay. Thanks.”

Click.

And that fast, summer slammed to a halt.

I grabbed my notes and textbook. No more partying. No more laughs. Just last-minute cramming in an upstairs study room while everyone else hauled out their laundry baskets and mini fridges.

Two hours later, I sat across from her desk and answered hydrocarbon questions. She eventually gave a quiet nod and said she would make the grade change.

To this day, I have no idea what went wrong on that exam. Maybe I blanked. Maybe my head was already halfway to vacation. But I’m thankful an instructor cared enough to help me, even though the timing stunk.

So today, Jake and Sam walked through the door from JMU, all duffel bags and smiles. I hugged them both and said, “Welcome home. Let this sink in — the first hour of summer break!”

And deep in the recesses of my brain... I thought of organic chemistry.

The sound defined my childhood.

It came from the distance, riding the breeze like a secret only kids could hear. A hollow, high-pitched echo piercing the quiet of summer North Carolina afternoons.

Toot-tooot.

The miniature train at the city park. About a mile away, I would always hear it from my front yard.

Built in the 1950s and still chugging today, the diesel-powered choo-choo runs a small loop through woods and over a shallow creek. The highlight comes midway: a dark tunnel, where riders scream their lungs out.

Through birthday parties, lazy morning rides, and spooky Halloween nights — especially when my neighbor got hired to jump-scare passengers — that little loco holds a special place in my heart.

I’ll never forget the day my own kids climbed aboard. As their wide eyes tracked every curve, delighted squeals filled the air. For a moment, time bent backward.

I recently read about a California family who has their own backyard railway. A tenth of a mile long, containing bridges, a tunnel, a general store, and a miner’s camp with tiny boxes of dynamite.

Now I want one in my yard.

If only to blow the whistle. Toot-tooot.

I got it back in 2006.

A license that never expires — and no, it’s not a special driving permit or a 007 license to kill. But I do have the authority to create something incredible, which I've done countless times.

The credential is easy to get, though most folks never bother. There are no required exams or internships. Only a little paperwork and POOF! All official.

Some people turn the skill into a side hustle while others build a career around it. Me? I save mine for friends. And when done right, they respond with pure gratitude.

What is this mysterious qualification? It’s being able to… officiate weddings.

I performed my most recent one a few days ago. Then this week I read about another, more intense certification.

In Japan, there’s a culinary license for preparing fugu, a famous fish delicacy. But to earn it, chefs train for several years, apprenticing under a master.

Why the lengthy process? Because one mistake, and the fish kills. The toxins are 1,200 times more lethal than cyanide, and no antidote exists.

Prepared properly, though, and the result is elegant.

Much like a wedding. Except with less poison.

As a kid, it felt like visiting Disney World.

My grandparents lived in the countryside of Gibsonville, NC, where tractors rolled past open fields and the sky stretched wide. Long rows of crops created the perfect hide-and-seek playground.

And out there in the sticks is where I mastered two forgotten arts: snapping green “string” beans and shucking corn.

For the beans, a pop signaled a clean break, stripping away the stringy bits before storing in mason jars. Meanwhile, the corn husks hid golden treasures beneath layers of silk. We worked on the screened porch, swapping stories between snaps and tugs. A southern tradition.

Fast forward to today when we celebrated Mother’s Day out in the boonies at Indian Fields Tavern. This restored farmhouse, flanked by cornfields and century-old farmland, features a unique restaurant.

Next door at their brewery, we ordered food from a repurposed shipping container. Beside us stood grain silos, along with barrels and rusted farm equipment, while a musician played on a stage.

With my daughters and son-in-law by my side, we toasted the day and honored the special lady in our presence. This time, the only “snapping” came from our phones, capturing lots of photos.

Happy Mother’s Day, Jess. Country looks good on you.

10,000 steps per day, the experts say.

For most folks, that’s about four to five miles of movement. Many people use this measurement as a goal, and though not highly scientific, it's easy to remember.

Today, after hours of yard work, I checked my step count and blinked at the screen:

17,000.

By bedtime, the total reached 24,000. To be clear, not normal for me. My all-time high came from strolling around New York City — 30,000 in a single day. And yeah, I slept like a log that night.

My neighbor likes to say, “Motion is the best lotion.” So true.

All this step-talk got me curious about extreme feats. Jesse Castenda holds the Guinness World Record for walking 142 miles in 1976, totaling roughly 285,000 strides. Just typing that makes me tired.

Earlier this week, NBA commentator Paul Pierce made a bet. If the Celtics dropped Game 2 of the playoffs, he would walk to work. Barefoot and in a bathrobe.

The Celtics lost. And keeping his promise, Pierce set out on a 20-mile trek to the studio the next morning.

He livestreamed the whole thing on Instagram, engaging with fans and hecklers along the way. His journey took over eight hours. That’s a lot of mileage.

Well, I broke no records today, but I’m satisfied. And my reward? Grass clippings in my socks.

A storm barreled in early this morning.

At 3:30am, wind and rain lashed the windows before killing our power. Lights out. A/C dead. And a trembling Golden Retriever glued to my side.

Two hours later, electricity blinked back on, but the experience resurfaced a college memory.

Each week, our school held a chapel service. During my first year, they asked me to speak. I wanted to do something different: what’s called an “illustrated sermon.”

This required dressing like a biblical character to share a message from a unique point of view. To make it more authentic, I had to memorize the presentation. Tricky, but I embraced the challenge.

On that evening, students and professors packed the auditorium. I felt the pressure, with major nerves about forgetting my lines. As the band played, bad weather brewed outside.

Then, finally, the university president introduced me. One minute before I was supposed to go on, the power went out. Pitch black. Only the eerie glow of the EXIT signs remained.

Dr. Hopkins turned to me and asked, “Can you still speak?”

Normally, I would have needed notes, and light, but not this time. I stepped forward on the stage and delivered every word from memory. Somehow, I remembered it all.

Afterward, people told me the darkness amplified the talk. They said my shadowy costume made me look like some kind of ghostly prophet, an ancient figure appearing out of nowhere.

Later, we found out a nearby tornado had knocked out the power. I say that signs and wonders follow me when I speak.

But, no twister today. Just a sleepy guy and a Retriever who thinks thunder is the apocalypse.

The world belongs to the obsessed.

When committed, people go the extremes. I’ve seen it up close, watching my kids chase after pursuits they cared about:

• Sam got up for 6:30 a.m. soccer practice every day for several summers

• Kate mastered a city’s complex bus system, just to get to work and help cover college tuition

• Jake once drove hours through a snowstorm to rescue his stranded brother

• Luke packed up for Boston, chasing a summer internship in a city where he didn’t know a soul

• McKenzie, after a lifetime of homeschooling, entered public school in 10th grade

When determination takes over, humans accomplish surprising things. And while the power of focus often reveals our true character, without a moral compass the path can lead into dark territory.

Take “narco-subs,” for example.

I learned today that drug cartels are now building semi-submersibles deep in the jungle by hand. Why? To move massive quantities of cocaine.

Created for stealth, these vessels skim the waterline and slip through surveillance nets like ghosts. They're clever… and effective. Once loaded, these subs glide across the ocean to deliver their cargo.

Again, the extremes. But it shows what happens when excuses drop and action starts. Focused momentum carries power.

Compared to jungle-built cocaine submarines, emptying the dishwasher suddenly feels manageable.

This post proves I’m full of you-know-what.

So if you don’t appreciate juvenile, middle-school-level humor, just scroll on by. No judgment.

My freshman college roommate, Kedar, had a gift for comedy. This guy could easily connect with people, so we clicked right away and laughed a lot.

One of my favorite memories? His bathroom routine. I know, sounds weird… stay with me.

Kedar never snuck off quietly. When nature called, he announced it to the entire suite, especially if the occasion promised to be an extended engagement.

Then came the soundtrack, blasted on speakers, with his go-to restroom anthem: Robert Plant’s “Big Log.”

Yep.

That toilet flashback resurfaced this week when I stumbled across an article titled, “What’s Your Poop Personality?” Apparently, there are types.

Some fall into the Temporal Poopers camp. Highly predictable, clockwork-like in their timing, often responding to internal rhythms or meal cues.

Others are Locational Poopers. These folks simply cannot go unless they’re in a specific place, usually the safety and familiarity of home. This can stem from anxiety or fear of germs.

So… which one are you?

If you need a second, play “Big Log” while you think.

It happened in an unexpected way.

Several years ago, we rushed to find a new home after selling ours quicker than expected. With a list of neighborhoods in hand, we decided to rent while hunting for the perfect place.

But things didn’t go as planned. Every promising rental denied us for one specific reason:

Carolina. Our one-year-old golden retriever, full of fluff and love.

The landlords saw only a pet policy violation, and rejections rolled in. Out of options, we finally found a listing thirty minutes away in Williamsburg. And thankfully, this owner allowed pets. We loved the property and signed the lease immediately.

Seven years later, we're still here. After renting for a while, we bought the home. And we never would have chosen this neighborhood or this chapter of life without paw prints leading the way.

Carolina passed away a year later from kidney issues, but her mission was complete. Her presence set our family on a fresh path in a different city.

Funny how life pivots on something as random as a landlord policy — and a furry four-legger. That thought hit me today while reading about the process of choosing the next pope.

Cardinals lock themselves in the Sistine Chapel without electronic devices. Vowed to secrecy, they vote by handwritten ballots, and after each round, the papers are burned. Black smoke means no decision, while white smoke signals a successful election.

Transitions come in all forms.

Cardinals have their fancy conclave. But us? We just had a dog.

I wore that videotape out.

Back in the ‘80s, VCRs hit the mainstream. Renting movies turned into a weekend ritual, and popular releases became instant VHS gifts.

One movie dominated my rewinds. I’ve probably seen it 30 times, with about 28 of those times as a teenager.

What film is it?

A few hints:

• You can see a cobra’s reflection in safety glass during a close-up

• R2-D2 and C-3PO are engraved into an ancient wall carving

• A fly climbs into an actor’s mouth mid-line, but he keeps going

• An iconic scene was completely improvised due to food poisoning

Answer? Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Now, though, it’s hard to sit through. After all those viewings, nostalgia outweighs the entertainment.

This evening, Indy came to mind while reading about Marvel Studios. The success of their Iron Man and Avengers franchises fueled endless sequels and streaming shows. But along the way, fans got overwhelmed and confused.

The result? Audience fatigue. Even some diehards stopped showing up. The latest release, Thunderbolts, just hit theaters. Time will tell if it’s a comeback or another costly flop.

Turns out, too much of a good thing can sometimes be bad. Still better than swallowing a fly, though.

Until recently, I didn’t get it.

Expensive watches never appealed to me. Sure, I admire the beauty and craftsmanship. But dropping serious cash on a luxury timepiece like a Rolex? No way.

Why spend thousands on something my phone does for free? The idea seemed absurd, and no argument could’ve changed my mind.

Then my son, Luke, switched my perspective.

He explained a Rolex isn’t just a flashy accessory. It’s an investment. An heirloom to be passed down.

Luke shared a story about retired NFL star Shannon Sharpe. When someone asked why he wore such pricey wristwear, he replied, “You wear your watch to tell time. I wear mine to tell you how valuable my time is.”

Well, okay.

Earlier today, Luke, Jessica and I drove home from a wedding in Greenville, SC. We listened to a podcast all about the Rolex brand — the design, the mystique, the staying power.

Turns out, even James Bond wore one. So who knows? One day, my wrist might sport a Daytona.

I’ll just need Shannon Sharpe’s salary first.