Columns

I bought a BMW.
It’s a white convertible that screams “Midlife crisis!” from the highest rooftops.

The national Democratic Party is in full panic now, its leaders in a headlong flight like something from a 1950’s sci-fi flick where terrorized townspeople flee a 10-story tall monster crushing cars and flattening buildings.

The accusations of pedophilia in the Catholic church have never faded from the public eye, and while there are moments when other cataclysmic events push the tragedies a little further back from our immediate view, the fact that children were abus

Every time I bite into a Clark Bar, I become 10 years old again.

“Middlebrow.”
I sit typing this column on the 20th anniversary of the massive heart attack that took the life of my father, and “middlebrow” is one of the words that pops into my mind when remembering Dad.

Out of all our presidents, not many are suspected of being indifferent to baseball.

The day my Mother and Father met, he was arguing with some high school friends about whether a slice of lemon would corrode the coating on a porcelain sink.

Spending a rainy Saturday afternoon reminiscing over congratulatory keepsakes stored in the attic. Clutching vintage Valentines purchased at an estate sale.

Clarity is in short supply across America, but no longer at dairy farms in Maine.

The New York Times provided lessons in both journalism and television Sunday night, by way of bad examples.