We did indeed end up at the Pechanga Indian Casino, where money is a recreational drug.
Think of the flings, the ghosts, the sunsets, the hickeys that hacppened here. By gawd, think of the comebacks, the quips.
I love watching the kids so full of oats -- the young Marlon Brandos and the James Deans, the Harry Styleses (for lack of a better example), wandering the parking lots and leaning up against their cars, swaggering around aimlessly in May and June, just as they are escaping school for the summer … these insouciant young punctuation marks who have so much figured out, yet so much to learn.
As breakfast dates go, I’d label it a sonnet – a moment within a moment. Suddenly I realized what everyone’s been saying: grandkids are our unexpected inheritance.
No, I didn’t forget your name. I’m probably just “buffering.”
Look, humor is a funny business. I write about the daily lives of ordinary people, to baffled readers too busy to care. You can rack up a lot of credit card debt that way.
Newspapers may die. Society too. But, always and forever, there will be a certain poetry to the way a mother or father looks after a child.
These 2-year-olds are about as perfect as perfect gets, in a world where we seem enthralled and overly concerned with all the rotten stuff.
I mean, these poor screenwriters. As with baseball players, screenwriters strike every 10 years or so. And America weeps.