Rooster keeps his claws to himself.
The Gods feared your magic words.
Taking love for granted in Guillaume Morissette’s The Original Face.
I thought she was my Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
Staten Island's little known company town.
Rooster’s Uncle Slippy and his questionable past with Bob Dylan.
I hold hands with a cousin in Flatbush.
Was it worth it?
Spiritual trips make us feel alive.
Welcome to Van Cortlandt Park.
Confronting my depression.
Slippy and Veronica steal drugs from children in Tucson, 1969.
The past is an interesting place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.
No sweetmeats for fat American children on Halloween.
What is time to a creature that needs nothing and no one?
Lawrence Lessig still imagines victory.
Thoughts on a word.
Promise (and promises) broken. And promise...
It helps a worried soul to just sing out loud.
Histories cross and overlap and resonate.
The right words in the right juxtaposition can absorb or inform you.
Sucking in the 1970s.
Matthew Continetti might be the last person who realizes journalistic objectivity is dead.
A nod to Baltimore’s Charles Villager and a rebuke of schoolmarm Ross Douthat.
A splendid wedding in Toronto, barely marred by ornery Canadian custom officials.
High-wire days for Red Sox fans.
Who’ll be the next in line to get hacked—again.
Lonely is as lonely does.
Remembering my mom on the centennial of her birth.
A freebie loosie for you, Burt.