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?
The recent rains have greened the lawns and plumped the soccer fields. By all accounts, it’s going to be an especially great fall.
My summer vacation: Visited a bunch of lighthouses. Ate Jamaican food. Gave away a daughter...Just the usual.
Smartacus has been whitening his teeth, as per the bride’s orders, and Catty Cakes is practicing being the flower girl, walking around the house tossing scrap-paper blossoms high into the air.
Honestly, you can’t chase an honest moment. Somehow, they just ambush you. And sometimes, as per this singing dog, we’re at the mercy of our quivering moods.
The suburbs are full of guys like us -- undersized men with tweed skin and receding hairlines, gazing up at the sky, crying: “Why me, God? Why me?”
“I am looped in the loops of her hair,” as Yeats put it a trillion years ago.
There’s this terrific new device for filling water balloons. Must’ve been invented by a dairy farmer inspired by multiple teats.
More and more, I tell friends, “Aren’t you glad you grew up when we did – the movies, the music, the cheap six-packs?”
“Put your lips to the world, and live your life,” in the words of poet Mary Oliver.