Hey, do the Americans need a team humorist? A satirist? A silly Socrates? I’d put on a toga, I’d munch a Pringle, I’d tell a story.
My bar would be called “The Good Novel.” Debutantes would stumble in late, as would married women with money problems.
My late wife was barely 5 feet high and didn’t weigh a diddle. Yet she could elbow her way through almost any encounter, even marriage.
Like a lot of the Irish, I wake each morning with a broken heart, and in the course of the day try everything to mend it: oysters, potato skins, dad jokes, puns.
Here come the handsome groom and the Florida-bred bride. There might’ve been gold dust in her makeup. Had to be platinum in her hair.
This has turned into a summer of the patio, a renaissance faire of gin and finger foods and homemade bean pie.
This is how we ended up eating live sea urchin, in the place they call “The Bu.”
I’ve always told my son: “Love is like Salisbury steak. You don’t see it much anymore. But you know it’s still out there somewhere.”
Like watermelon, "The Princess Bride" is almost uniformly delicious.
Why would a young couple pay a million bucks for an overcooked starter home in the Valley?