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.
All you care about is that the grill smoke at the snack bar is making your heart scream and your lips quiver. And that the sun feels so good on your forehead, and that the Dodgers are hanging in, sometimes good, yet not always.
I praised my late wife’s oncologist for not filling every silence in the exam room -- for allowing pauses in the conversation, as we absorbed and pondered the latest results.
We were headed for a gala that night, so neither of us was in very good spirits, though the banquet, in support of the gorgeous Pasadena Playhouse, turned out to be really enjoyable.