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I take the safety of my readers very seriously. Therefore, I’d like to express my deepest condolences in advance to anyone who reads one of my columns while drinking hot coffee, driving, being fitted for a catheter, piloting a plane, or slicing green beans (diagonally), and experiencing an unfortunate incident.
Lawsuits are landing on peripheral laps all the time, and I want to be covered with a disclaimer, to lessen the chances that my bank account will be dwindled upon.
“Your honor, I gasped when I read what he wrote. I swerved, barely missed a duck, and drove straight into a tree. It was his fault.”
My editor thinks I should cut back on all of the shocking comments
I make here.
I said it might turn me into a benign and innocuous shell of my former self.
“But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
I am sitting on some blockbuster allegations because I don’t want to wind up in court.
For one thing, I already know what Prince Harry and that Markle girl are going to name their baby. And we haven’t even had the wedding yet.
I can’t wait. How about you? Royal weddings really get to me. There is nothing like a shameless display of wealth set against a meaningless monarchy.
All seriousness aside, the only “Royal Wedding” I care about is the film, and then only for a few minutes, when Fred Astaire is dancing on the ceiling.
It’s nearly wedding season.
I never cry at weddings, and do you know why?
I never go to weddings in the first place.
I know how much we relish our pomp and circumstances: proms, debutante balls, graduations, and weddings — but none of it interests me in an iota.
Likewise, we hand out awards left and right.
Song of the Year, Employee of the Month, Miss Castle Rock.
Maybe I am envious. Who wouldn’t want to be Miss Castle Rock?
I have to admit, I’d like the Pulitzer boys and girls to knock on my door. (If it can’t be Ed McMahon).
Approbation means a lot. Even in small amounts.
Being commended for cleaning your room is a start.
I won an art award when I was in seventh grade. I didn’t know what to think. I wished it had been a sports award. There was a time when boys were not encouraged in the arts.
Now and then, you might read about a phenomenal pre-teen painter, but I’d be suspicious.
An 8-year-old hasn’t lived life (exceptions: Mozart, Picasso, Shirley Temple, “He’ll Eat Anything” Mikey). Art depends upon life experiences just as much as skill and creativity.
“The national average cost of a wedding day in 2016 shot up to $35,329,” according to a survey in The Knot. But not for me.
I went to my last wedding 20 years ago.
There was a tower of icing, there was a garter toss, there was a lower back tattoo on the bride.
Relatives who didn’t get along came to town from all over the country, and bickered.
Gifts that had been foregone in a presumptuous register were stacked.
And 18 months later, he was seeing someone else when he said he was “going to the office.”
Do me a favor. Read me while you are sitting down and sitting still.
Craig Marshall Smith is an artist, educator and Highlands Ranch resident. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
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