About the BloggerAndy Carpenter is a native Wisconsinite who also has spent time living in Pennsylvania, Missouri, Australia and now Hilton Head Island. He graduated from the University of Missouri in 2009, and has been known to moonlight as a copy editor, bartender, pirate, rowing coach and Green Bay Packers fan. | Email Andy
Send Andy your story ideas and news tips. Contact him at 843-706-8128 or by email.
More from The PreGame
Every collection starts somewhere. When it comes to music, mine started with a fat man in thick glasses wearing a silly hat.
Matchbox 20’s “Yourself or Someone Like You” wasn’t technically the first CD I ever bought (that would be Counting Crows’ “Recovering the Satellites,” which found the corner of my closet once I got sick of listening to “Long December” on repeat), but for all intents and purposes, it was my first album.
I am accustomed to movies in which I don’t have to worry about for whom I want to root. Simba is the good lion; Scar is the bad lion. The robots who transform from happy, regular General Motors cars are more favorable than the robots who transform from angry, mean military equipment. The Mighty Ducks are better than Iceland.
I like these movies. I like to pull for the good guy. I even like it if I end up cheering for what constitutes the bad guy if need be. What I like less: having a vested interest in both.
For those of you dedicated readers waiting with bated breath to see how my family vacation went, I must insist you consider abating: The vacation never happened. Unfortunately, about two weeks ago, my grandmother died. The trip to the Lowcountry was called off, and instead, I traveled northward to attend Grandma’s funeral.
But over the course of my trip, something wholly unexpected happened: I think I had fun?
You know true family when it hits you in the back of the head. Because it threw a water bottle at you.
This weekend marks the beginning of the Carpenter Family Vacation, an annual jaunt to Hilton Head Island that began long before I found employment at its local newspaper. It will be a happy week, but that wasn’t always the case.
It’s taken 25 years, but I’m finally ready to admit it to myself: I am never going to win a gold medal at the Olympics.
No waves from the podium, no teary-eyed anthems, no Wheaties boxes. The dream is over.
I’m not sure what made me hold on so long. I knew relatively early that I’d never be the starting quarterback for the Green Bay Packers, and I wrote off a professional basketball career at the first sign that I’d inherited my father’s short, mule-like legs. But something about the Olympics seemed attainable, however irrational that was.
“The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming. ...” — Harvey Dent, “The Dark Knight”
“... No, really, the movie starts in like a half hour. Stop complaining, we’re so close. Uncomfortable as they may be, YOU’RE the one who decided these costumes were a good idea.” — Overheard in the line for the midnight showing of “The Dark Knight Rises”
Con artists are the worst kind of people: They manipulate the most basic of human emotions for a personal financial gain that results in the destruction of reputations, families and lives.
So, naturally, we love watching them.
I get inspiration for my columns in all kinds of different places. This week’s column on the art of Grillmastery came to me when dear friend and former classmate Rebekah Hubbard started hating on one of my top 5 favorite sausages. Well, hate is probably an overstatement, but she said she didn’t like brats. And, given that I respect her palate tremendously and am a frequent visitor to her food blog, PDXfoodlove, I set out to see if I could change her mind. A column happened, and as an added side bonus, I whipped up these old favorites.
Happiness is a charcoal briquette, lighter fluid and the slight danger of singeing off an eyebrow.
As the Fourth of July is right around the corner, I suppose you could make the case that I’m talking about setting off the worst firework ever. Or some awful, ritualistic way of watching the President Whitmore speech from “Independence Day” for the 100th time.
No, as an honorary Grillmaster, I’m really just referring to the joy of cookin’ stuff over a glorified heat bucket.
After eight seasons, Showtime’s “Weeds” will finally meet the giant bottle of RoundUp that is cancellation. Now, as its showrunners plan to pack away everything in the little boxes made of ticky-tacky, I have to decide whether I want to partake for the last time.