Like the ones that killed my neighbor.
Rooster doesn’t feel like going to D.C. today.
Rooster and Monica discuss #pissgate, Joe Biden, and Better Call Saul.
A non-contiguous history of talking to myself.
And the East River slips.
So somebody’s threatening to slander you to your infant daughter’s adoptive mother.
Scared students in Trump's America.
Panic at the year’s end.
Out of the woods.
Age-old wisdom retold.
27 of them.
At the end of Brookyln.
Americans are taking more vitamins than ever before.
Heroes, hunting and marine warnings.
Resurrecting the fine tradition of manly aestheticism.
The elites still underestimate Trump.
A serialization of The Sound of the Shadows. Last week’s post here.
Nancy Mitford’s second-best-known book.
And what I realized when I woke up.
If the antiwar movement has to resort to cyber-terrorism, we will.
Making sense of a tweeted penis.
Winter’s a dead time for baseball fans.
I got a line on garbage collection.
You got the time, Bub?
Not all squirrels are filthy varmints.
I Can’t Help Myself (that’s Sugar Pie Honey Bunch to you).
Has to be a tough year for itinerant Santa Clauses.
Oh, c’mon, the babies are all right.
Examining my cluttered desk from 1971.
I still regret not seeing a live prize fight in the 1960s.