We Christians view Holy Week as a time for self-examination and contemplation.
I've reviewed the data, and the numbers are interesting.
Their given names were Randall, Norbert and Walter, but no one ever called them that.
Whenever I'm asked where I went to secondary school, I'm tempted to say Green Chip High School of Costa Mesa.
I remember summer Sunday evenings spent hiding in the bushes outside a small Pentecostal church on Costa Mesa's Eastside.
In my family, it's bills, bills and more bills. Or more accurately, Bills.
He was a talented sportswriter who could write circles around most of his contemporaries.
One of my 8-year-old granddaughters — I have two — and I recently discussed the merits of school cafeteria food.
As I was growing up on Balboa Island in the late 1940s and early '50s, we never called our slice of heaven Balboa Island.
"I'm in my 60s and have a nice long life ahead of me … lots of plans," says the snooty AARP TV commercial lady.
More than a decade ago my wife, Hedy, and I sat in the Rose Bowl with 100,000 others soaking up a sun-drenched New Year's Day.
I recently saw a group of University of California students in a newspaper photo protesting proposed tuition hikes.
When given the choice, we humans select pleasure over pain almost every time.
In hindsight, I view it as our family's Gold Standard for Thanksgivings.
My pastor preached a sermon recently in which he said it was OK for boys to cry.
I was a student when the Newport-Mesa Unified School District unveiled what was considered at the time the grandest advance in classroom...
Relatives on my mother's side of the family tend to be as restive as a double shot of espresso.
Though I hadn't thought about it in decades, I remember it as if it were yesterday. It's a moment frozen in time.
The Dodgers had hoped to make a deep run into postseason play this year.
It was a glorious early September morning.
My name is Jim. I'm a mall grandparent.
I don't give a moldy fig for celebrities.
Newport Beach, Orange Coast College, Canada, Vancouver Island, Victoria, the Canadian Rockies, Calgary, Montréal, Quebec, New...
Parkinson's disease slows a person down.
"No pain, no gain" was my basic-training drill sergeant's favorite expression during arduous Army workouts.
Are you bilingual?
Does anyone remember a brash young sportswriter by the name of John Sevano, who ruled these pages in the late 1970s?
I figure rather prominently on my wife, Hedy's, list of life's absolute essentials.
I'm pretty sure she was the first person with Parkinson's disease I ever met.
The scenery was stunning, but he hardly noticed. His mug was stuck in a pulp novel.
Four impressive young men slipped into the row in front of my wife and me at church a couple of weeks ago.
I came to The Beautiful Game — futbol — rather late in life.
She hadn't crossed my mind in decades: the Mad Woman of Costa Mesa.
I walked 20 paces into the sea, turned around and looked back at the beach, Omaha Beach.
Except for time spent in the military, I've lived all 69 of my years in Orange County.
Irish musician Shay Healy is candid when it comes to discussing the illness that has robbed him of his golden years.
No good deed goes unpunished.
We humans measure our threescore and 10 in disparate ways.
It was spring break last week at the Carnett household in Costa Mesa.
Five years ago this week I became a weekly columnist for the Daily Pilot.
April is national Parkinson's Awareness Month.
My 14-year-old grandson, Ethan, called last weekend from his home in North Carolina.
Did I have a premonition that our lives would somehow intersect?
I'm a longtime fan of American musical theater.
Daily Pilot columnist Patrice Apodaca recently wrote a fascinating column on memory.
Fifty years ago this month I joined Uncle Sam's Army.