Byline: Nathan Graziano

Don’t think about all of the things you’re supposed to be doing that day. Don’t think about the new novel you’ve been half-heartedly trying to write, or the book of poems being released next month, or the freelance work you’ve already agreed to cover. Don’t think about mowing the lawn, or going to the gym, or answering emails, or writing lesson plans for the next school year.

On July 13, Bill Reynolds, a Providence Journal columnist for almost 40 years, passed away at age 78. For the journalism community at-large, this is a monumental loss, and for me, personally, one of my literary idols is now gone.

Clearly, Jay Goldberg is looking to have the project optioned for Hollywood, and the quickest way to get that done is to include a rising movie star like myself—a stud with a face made for radio—into the multimedia project.

“Taylor Swift’s album came out last night, and we told our daughter we would listen to it with her tonight,” Liz said. This seemed consistent with the trajectory of my life lately: As soon as solace gets close enough to sniff, something rips it from my grasp. “I can’t wait,” I said.

Can you imagine someone trying to tell a man in ‘Merica what they can or cannot do with their bodies? Or making laws that restrict a man’s right to choose?

You will watch your wife devour a grilled chicken salad with Italian dressing for her lunch. Resent her. Growl along with your stomach. Seethe. Stay away from the basement and the beer in the fridge. Flush the toilet that you fixed. Feel proud.

So let me get this straight: Donald Trump has now been indicted twice, once by the state of New York and now by the Department of Justice, for multiple felony offenses and was recently found liable in a civil case for sexual abuse and defamation, but he didn’t do any of it.  None. Nada. Zero.

For anyone who has ever suffered a panic attack in a car—particularly while driving—I don’t need to describe the abject terror that accompanies this experience. For those who haven’t, it’s like being locked inside a metal box, gasping for air.

Since ChatGPT and other AI apps have become readily available—some for free, the better ones charging service fees—it’s become a confounding task to prove plagiarism, as I’m sure many of my fellow-educator can attest. 

It’s inconsequential that you still own a push mower well into your middle age. It’s inconsequential that your yard seems to expand every spring, along with the addition of more patches of dead grass.

Lately, in some of my idle mental space, I’ve been thinking about people from my past, and for some reason, I keep thinking about Closet Pete.

Trump frequently interrupted or spoke over Ms. Collins, making sexist gestures and jabs that the audience applauded and hawed at. At one point, he referred to Ms. Collins as “a nasty person” for refusing to cede the stage to his lies, and the audience applauded him for that as well. 

year ago on Monday, I received a phone call from my cousin that I knew would be coming, yet it didn’t make it any easier to navigate when she spoke the actual words.

I presume I can speak on behalf of all Bruins fans when I say that Sunday night’s Game 7 loss to the Florida Panthers in the first round on the playoffs was a real kick in the Richard.