Recognizing it in oneself and the world.
My autistic journal.
In praise of Bret Easton Ellis’ Glamorama.
Taking on some of New York's may "New" streets.
Re-reading and ready for Philip Roth's masterpiece at 72.
To the top of the Towson mall, 2007.
Reflections on my father’s writings about mortality.
Around NYC there are several streets preceded by the word “old.” When you see them it’s a good bet you’re peeking into New York City’s past and its "parent" routes.
Recurrent events and bizarre anomalies.
Societal nastiness, and lack of courtesy, isn’t unique to 2024, but it still gets my goat.
You’ll need $10,000 to open the show.
Enjoying the ride, wherever it may take him.
I think it's a lot more arbitrary than you may believe, in philosophy and elsewhere.
Ruminating on my dental life.
That means you: empty-nesters.
Change your life with sati.
Processing death and grief.
An autistic memoir.
Stymied.
The late author talks about the inspiration for his hugely successful series of sci-fi books.
The choice to have, or not, kids shouldn’t be contentious. It’s a personal decision. What year is it (#480)?
Why can’t men be friends? What year is it (#479)?
Son of a gun, big fun on the Bayou. What year is it (#476)?
Or don’t, if the carbon paper’s gone. What year is it (#470)?
Americana is the New Fetish. What year is it (#459)
The holiday season’s “treat” dilemma. What year is it (#458)?
Humor’s hard to come by at The New Yorker. What year is it (#451)?
Sometimes, you look at a picture and have no idea what occurred on that day. What year is it (#440)?