I’m really hoping JPL might hire me as its resident poet, where I might knit together space travel, technology, distant nebulae, and Shakespeare’s best sonnets.
My dream workout? You dart from one slot machine to the next. When you finish, Dolly Parton brings you a shrimp cocktail.
January is made for old Hobbits like me. There is rain in the hills, cotton in the canyons. It’s a good month for bulky sweaters…throaty old singers…snoring dogs.
For Halloween, my granddaughter dressed like Frida Kahlo, inspired by her own passion for Mexican Cubist painting. Or perhaps Catty Cakes just liked the pom-pon hat.
I lost my entire fortune in the Great Depression of 2022. Yet, like most tycoons, I plan to start over again. At the race track.
In LA, everyone blows through red lights, even the cops, and the proper response to “Good morning” is “You sure? Just wait, dude.”
Toss these babies on the little grill to meld, weld, fester, ferment, gurgle, kiss, cuddle and waba-waba, till they become the finest beach dessert you ever had.
My takeaway from all the spittle, all the invective, was that we don’t know what we have till it’s taken away – like electricity, for instance.
Like most men, my father had no feeling in his face, so that when he ate ribs and buttery corn, he’d appear to have applied it externally, as you would an aftershave.
I’ve now seen “Top Gun: Maverick” 57 times. Obviously, I don’t just like old stuff. I’m also into new stuff that resembles old stuff.