Michael Croland has played in five air guitar contests, tried to write a novel in 72 hours, sculpted peanut butter twice (once into the shape of George W. Bush), competitively husked corn, written a one-page play, submitted an entry for a tanka poetry contest and been in the running for "Best Human" at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh.

The anonymous ancestors meet eyes with Christina Carlton. Their faces remain intact, not yet cut out and made into kitschy wallpaper or frou-frou luggage tags.
Carlton can't stand the thought of old family photos destroyed for crafts.

Athlethes have never been my role models. I don't live like they do off the field (although I once saw Minnesota Twins baseball player Michael Cuddyer at a Chesapeake craft store), and I sure as heck can't perform like they do on the field (although I would describe my performance in high school intramural football as incredible).

I wrote a song. It's called "Mr. Riley Had a Microphone." It's to the tune of the popular children's ditty, "Miss Susie Had a Steamboat." You may have learned it by another name, perhaps "Miss Lucy." It's one of those patty-cake-like rhymes kids love because they come oh-so-close to swearing. Feel free to sing along. Here are the lyrics.

NEAR THE CORNER of Azalea Garden and Princess Anne roads in Norfolk, flies buzz around trash on the sidewalk. Abandoned and half-eaten bagels are strewn in front of a fence with barbed wire strung across the top, next to a gravel parking lot. The area is a jagged coast of body shops, worn-down convenience stores and industrial warehouses where spray-painted plywood covers windows.

A surefire way to ensure you’re a living, breathing human is to look closely at the surcharges on event tickets. A $6 fee for parking. Mild anger. A venue charge. Teetering on a temper tantrum. A convenience fee for printing tickets on your own computer with your own printer. Full-blown outrage.

EVERYONE'S spending a lot of time worrying about fuel costs, but the bigger problem may be that increased gas prices are flat out wasting our time. Consider these examples:   When traveling by plane

In the last couple of months, more and more of my friends have mentioned Postsecret.com, a Web site that requires participants to write down their innermost thoughts on artsy postcards and send them anonymously to an author in Germantown, Md., named Frank Warren. The cards are scanned and posted online.

IT WAS THE BEST of times, it was the worst of times. It was also a dark and stormy night. And finally, it was summer. I mean - it is also summer. Well, almost. Technically.

HERE'S WHAT I learned browsing the local Hallmark shop looking for Father's Day cards: Fathers are lousy at taking directions. They're not so great at repairs. One card joked that dads are so dimwitted they had trouble coming up with their own holiday. After all, Father's Day is a full month after Mother's Day.