The next time I fall down - which I haven't done in a long time - I'm going to spring back to my feet and point triumphantly toward the end zone.
A few weeks ago I was in the local bookstore looking for a calendar for the kitchen. I didn’t see the one I usually get – of vintage food advertisements – so I went online. It was there, but I would have to pay a shipping fee. I restrained myself from the almost effortless motion of clicking “PURCHASE.”
Last week I was in a nearby town where I went to the bookstore and found my Bon Appetit calendar. (I especially desired it because November features a woman in traditional Alsatian dress bearing a plate of choucroute.) I took it to the cashier and paid the flat rate. Then I walked out to the parking lot with my new calendar in hand – no having to wait for it to be delivered – and thought what a wonderful thing a store is.
Rumpus founder Stephen Elliott said that your best writing is that which comes easiest, while, on another panel a few hours later, Sports Illustrated writer Steve Rushin noted that the worst thing you can say to a writer is, “That piece must have written itself.”
In my ideal TV world, Doc Martin would get a new patient: Larry David.
I thought the Swedes were misguided last year when they announced the Nobel Prize for Literature. Now I'm reevaluating.
"How many deaths will it take till he knows, that too many people have died?"
My whole attitude toward driving in South Florida has changed. Now, instead of cursing every red light, long train, and raised bridge, I welcome them, for they give me time to see what's playing on the Siriusly Sinatra station, the classic jazz station, the '40s Big Band station, the classic country station, the bluegrass station, the Canadian chansons station, the classical music station, the Beatles station, and the Elvis station.