Don’t spoil the end of “A Dance with Dragons” for me.
Three years ago, I bought the latest George R.R. Martin novel. I’ve taken my sweet time reading it in brief bursts. I’m about three-quarters of the way through it.
I didn’t want to rush the read, and that proved prudent because Martin still hasn’t finished the next book in the series that inspired HBO’s “Game of Thrones.” “The Winds of Winter” might be out next year.
I felt pretty good about my accomplishment Sunday morning as I walked in to find Catherine cradling the baby in her arms.
“Hey,” I said, holding up my smartphone. “I condensed all my iPhone apps onto one screen.”
She gave me her signature from-beneath-the-brow stare and replied: “I woke up tired.”
I live less than three miles up the Durham Freeway from where police say a man accidentally shot a baby with a gun stashed in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt on Wednesday morning.
The only thing that’s liable to go off in one of my pockets is my phone, pinging as yet another Words with Friends challenge arrives.
That usually doesn’t hurt anything but my ego.
Jousting a boulder, it turns out, isn’t such a great idea.
The boulder in question was a hard-packed orb of snow left behind during a pass by the city’s plow truck as it rolled past our house in Watts-Hillandale on Thursday, shortly before the second wave of Winter Storm Pax snow blew through.
On Friday morning, this hazard sat smack dab in the middle of the entrance to our driveway. No way I’d be able to drive around it.
He sits on the runner rug in the dog trot.
He’s taking a breather next to the windowed door that leads to the back stoop of our house in Watts-Hillandale.
It’s been a long trip of about 30 feet from the crib in the bedroom into the hall that leads to the kitchen.
John Michael – now 8 months old – is crawling.
The ram on the lam is out of the slam.
But the future, although brighter for Bubba now that he’s no longer attacking his own reflection in shiny Durham neighborhood cars or chewing shrubs, remains uncertain.
On Friday morning, bidders gathered on Dave Artigues’ farm in Rougemont to get a look at the celebrity sheep.
It’s not that I hate doctors. Most of them seem like perfectly fine people.
But I’m almost certain you’d never hear me utter anything like what my wife told the dental receptionist over the phone the other day:
“Wes would love to see you at 11.”
“Love” isn’t a word I splurge on teeth cleanings.
I was almost finished building the new toy box for John Michael last Saturday when our smartphones buzzed about a tornado warning in Durham.
Soon, we found out that – although it’s not a comfortable fit for all involved – it’s possible to cram two adults, a baby and a nervous Great Pyrenees into our downstairs guest bathroom.
Fifteen years ago, I told my editor at The St. Petersburg Times that I was working on a new side project -- an online role-playing game.
He smiled, laughed and said, “Wow, you really are a geek.”
Nearly a year ago, Rachel Raney showed me the perils facing pedestrians around Trinity Park, Duke University’s East Campus and Durham School of the Arts.
She worried about motorists speeding through crosswalk zones, endangering adults and children alike trying to make safe crossings.
Several management types sat at tables in the McDonald’s dining room, holding a breakfast meeting while I munched on a burrito.
The senior manager leading the meeting made a comment: “You’ll find that in your R2D2 report.”
No one around the table giggled.
Just five years ago, I’d have laughed in the face of anyone who told me that I’d someday find myself standing in the back aisle of a Durham Toys R Us, weighing the benefits of Baby’s First Blocks, the Soothe & Glow Seahorse and the Rhyme & Discover Book.
In the past two weeks, DeWarren K. Langley has faced the prospect of attending two funerals for murder victims he’s known.
The first was for Patrick Danial Holmes, a 24-year-old man who Langley saw at a recent prison summit at a local church, where Holmes had talked about the struggle of a convicted felon trying to find honest work after incarceration.
Thursday was Walt Disney’s birthday. If defrosted today, he would be 112 years old.
I owe him a lot, despite the fact that he left this world just a few months after my birth in 1966.
Without him, I never would’ve come up with my irreverent impersonation of “Backstage Mickey,” which proved popular at office parties after a few beers and a hummus plate.
I blame it on the Metamucil ad in my Facebook feed.
The fiber supplement showed up the other day, right before Thanksgiving, and I got to thinking about how the advertisements that appear in the feed are most likely inspired by links and the content of status updates shared by users.