The death of Charles Aznavour yesterday reminded me that Saturday at Sawgrass Mills I walked into Paul’s for an afternoon snack and heard Leo Ferre singing Avec le Temps, possibly the most depressing song ever played at a mall.
There’s Primordial Florida, found in the Everglades and the northern springs; Antique Florida, embodied by St. Augustine; and Old Florida, where civilization and the subtropics have forged a harmonious relationship over time.
During an unexpected weekend stay in the hospital I discovered that, under any other circumstances, being pushed in a gurney would be a delightful mode of transportation.
Listening to the choir sing “Arizona” at John McCain’s memorial service I thought: There are states that seem to summon moving pieces of music – Kentucky, Georgia – and others – my home state of New Jersey, unfortunately – that really don’t.
Got tickets for White Man on the Bus in part to see how the playwright explains why a wealthy businessman is taking a bus to work.
I've been working on explanations for the fresh scar on my forehead. So far my favorite is: "I went up for a dunk and hit my head on the rim."