Sometimes I find myself comparing my daily existence with the Seinfeld show.

I seem to almost always be able to look in any direction and find something unusual going on or being said (wait, that’s an oxymoron; the unusual can’t be usual). Maybe that’s because my perspective makes things seem weird or funny.

Or maybe things are that way and I just notice it more.

Allow me to offer a window with a view of some snippets from a typical week for me – last week.

No way that just happened

I was on my way to work early one morning and was heading down the dirt road on my way to the pavement and the civilization that lies several miles down it.

I glanced to my left into a pasture just about pulled a neck muscle as I did a big double-take at a cow I saw trapped in one of those round bale cages.

I have no idea how the animal could possibly have gotten into the predicament. There was no opening in the metal ring big enough for its bovine prisoner to have passed through and the cow certainly didn’t nimbly hop over the top rail and stick a perfect landing in the center.

It looked at me as if to ask, “OK, what now?”

I was like, “I’ll tell you what now – a great photo, that’s what.”

Doug Davison

Doug Davison

I grabbed my camera and hopped out of the car, expecting an easy photo shoot.

But instead, the cow started snorting and quickly went berserk. I guess it didn’t want to be photographed in its embarrassing state, because it took off running with the cage clanking and bending like a massive collar around its shoulders.

The photo idea was pretty much out. Not to be denied, I thought “awesome video opportunity” and snatched the Flip unit out of my car.

But the cow was going crazy, jumping and running around as it tried to loose itself from its oversized shackles. Suddenly, a feeling of dread came over me as if I was about to witness the poor thing break its legs or get torn up by broken metal.

I left in a hurry, not sure if my presence had caused the cow to “lose it.”

I don’t know what the outcome of the situation was, but I hope it ended with the local rancher coming along and saying “Bessie, what the heck?” and then figuring out some way to free the cow from its circular cell without being creamed by a flailing hoof.

What’s in a name

I was speaking with a woman while getting some information for a newspaper story and during our conversation she said she was not originally from Texas County.

She called herself an “implant.”

At the time she said it, it didn’t really register. But a bit later, I came to realize how she had combined two words often used to describe a person who has moved to a community from at least a fair distance –  “import” and “transplant.”

To me, neither of the standard words is all that glamorous. They seem to denote something that has been used as a substitute or something foreign.

On the other hand, being an “implant” seems to give more meaning to living somewhere new or different, like a person was put there for a reason.

I have twice in the last 13 years moved from one place to another far away. Does that mean I’m an implant twice removed?

Hoping for low numbers

Whenever there’s a cold snap, I habitually head for our outdoor thermometer each morning at sunrise to view where the mercury is.

I don’t know, I guess really low temperatures just give me that “wow, cool” feeling.

One morning last week I was rewarded with a reading of four below zero.


I’ll bet metal-detector guy has the same reaction when he finds an old coin.

But dang it, we lost the hot water in the bathroom again for a couple of days. We had some trickling going on and it happened again anyway. Maybe we just need to run the faucet full force and pay the high electric bill from the pump working overtime.

That doesn’t make sense

I was doing some business at a local establishment and the gentleman helping me pay my bill became involved in a battle with a receipt printer that had run out of paper.

As he gave his all and eventually got the little machine to accept its replacement roll, he made a comment about how a significant amount of each new roll gets wasted because of all the glue used to prevent them from unraveling.  He offered his opinion that that shouldn’t be the case.

I said something like, “yeah, but then that would make sense.”

He laughed and made another comment about how many things there are that don’t make sense.

Possessing an actively analytical and philosophical mind and a mouth that sometimes delivers odd vocal observations, I then said “I’m convinced there are a lot of people who aren’t comfortable around common sense.”

The gentleman laughed again and said “That is so true – and I’ve met a few of them today.”

I have often pondered – at times at great length, mind you – what makes common sense so rare and why it’s so unpopular. Looking back through history, I guess the same has pretty much always been true. But I think the world is suffering from an even greater lack now.

In fact, I think we’re in the epidemic stage.

I guess a fair definition of common sense would probably be: that which instinctively, inherently or naturally seems prudent or right (that’s not Webster or Wikipedia, that’s me).

If that’s the case, I submit to you the declaration that there is nothing common about common sense.

Another week, another batch – as Jerry might say – of material.

Doug Davison is a writer, copy editor and advertising representative for the Houston Herald. E-mail: