Where’s Satchmo buried?
Grief changes you.
Disagreeing isn’t an issue; it’s the manner in which it’s conducted that aggravates tensions.
A party in suburban Baltimore, circa 1994.
Some of NYC’s most beautiful architecture.
Brilliant, no? One part Brecht, one part Max Bialystock.
I may have been the smartest in my English Lit class, but the reality is I was the one who flew over.
There’s no need for a lame holiday to give thanks.
An enthusiasm for NYC subway designs.
BQ gives an update on Quibbits family drama hopped up on meth and hoping for the best.
And a dilapidated building.
Chemically enhanced coffee and avian epiphanies lead RQ to a euphoric twist.
Paleocon Diary (#149)
They had a swagger onstage, while also projecting various devastating flavors of femininity.
A short story about two retired hot-take writers recapping their glory days.
Paleocon Diary (#148): the disturbing anti-Russian voices of Millennial “journalists.”
Amazon-size growing pains.
Thinking about her and me, but mainly me.
Our heads can be prison or paradise.
There are worse things in life than one person watching basketball while another bakes pies.
The Papa Bear drowns his sorrows by spending a day with ESPN Classic.
Dad was a humble giant, at least to his five sons.
I’m an old cowhand.
As a teenager, I was a walking zit.
The brilliant Absolut Vodka advertising hustle of the late-1980s.
I don’t scream for ice cream.
American social polarization is exaggerated.
Ninety-Nine percent of baseball fans don’t care if a free agent inks deal for $100 or $140 million.
Black eyes are going around like the flu.
Eatin’ a lot of peaches.