Sure, he was slow to walk with at ballgames, and he told jokes I didn’t understand. But what a grandpa he was. For years, I thought he might’ve been Santa Claus.
What does “hurkle-durkle” mean? (hint: You do it in bed).
God and Norman Rockwell still reside in little church halls like this one, where the Kiwanis meet weekly for song and fellowship.
The notion of afterglow comes to mind, in the wake of this ridiculous tailgate party we had the other afternoon, in the slanting light of late October. There was happenstance. There were kegs. Old friends jostled for position at the bar as Miller fed them glass after glass of lime juice and tequila, a form … Continue reading Mirth. Playfulness. Friendship.
I can’t tell a goose from a moose. My tastes and interpretations rarely align with mainstream ideals. I didn’t even like “Ted Lasso” all that much – a little, not a lot. But, like most people, I adore Halloween.
They are having “a spa day.” It’s not the cucumber so much as the body language, the carefree way her arms splay out over her head. Make this madness stop.
Takes a while to build a boy. Far as I’m concerned, he’s a masterpiece, though he could use a little work on ancient Greek history, Cleisthenes to Alexander.
The Big 10 swallowing up the Pac-12 reminds me of when the Chicago Trib ate the Los Angeles Times. And look how well that turned out.
I ordered the ginger catfish and a 24-ounce Slurpee-sized martini. Her mom ordered one too. Thank gawd for martinis and moms, is all I can say.
I liked Gladstone’s. No one could flub a table reservation quite like they could, and the food seemed double-fried, as if it hopped from one boiling vat of oil into another. But didn’t you love the foil swans?