Speaking of relatives, I’ve long wondered if luck—good or bad—might also be hereditary. To my knowledge, scientists have yet to isolate a “luck” gene, but I’m sure that we can all probably name a few families who seem to have an inordinate amount of luck—horseshoes up the keister—as well as some families who seem downright snakebitten.
In an attempt to preserve my liver and my mental well-being, I’ve decided to take a “time out” from any media reporting on Trump, or the imminent plans to exact Project 2025, or the apparently inevitable demise of democracy.
In my own attempt to make sense of this, I went for a long walk in the woods—maybe channeling my inner-Wordsworth—the day after the election. For some reason, the lyrics to Bruce Springsteen’s “Independence Day”—from his 1980 album “The River”—kept playing in my head.
But we, liberals and conservatives alike, should never dehumanize each other. We need to keep in mind—regardless of the result on Tuesday, or Wednesday morning, or two weeks from Tuesday when all of the votes are finally counted—that ideological differences don’t make us enemies, at least not in a democracy.
When I reflect on October 27, 2004, exactly two decades ago today, it’s not hyperbolic to say that as a lifelong Red Sox fan, it was one of the happiest days of my life when they ended the 86-year “Curse of The Bambino.”
I’m talking, of course, about demonic possession. If a character is possessed by a demonic spirit, I’m out. If a ouija board is in any way part of the mise en scène, I’m also out. Demonic possession is a surefire way to freak out a Catholic—even a lapsed-Catholic, like me.
For those who might be unfamiliar with “Northern Exposure,” the show is set in the small town of Cicily, Alaska, where Dr. Joel Fleischman (Rob Morrow), a New York City slicker and a graduate of Columbia University’s medical school, is indentured to work as the town’s only physician to repay his student loans.
This election, plain and simple, is about keeping one of the worst people on the planet out of the Oval Office for a second time. At this point, I can’t fake diplomacy or pretend to be conciliatory with the MAGA movement.
In August, directors Michael O’Brien and Mike Schmeideler released a documentary film on Reilly titled “Don’t Turn Your Back on Friday Night.” The film is a refreshing reminder that not all prodigiously talented artists attain worldwide fame.
Given the exorbitant cost of college, coupled with the fact that most people no longer read books unless they’re forced to—and almost no one reads poetry recreationally—classic novels, plays and poems could soon be obsolete.
And while this might make me seem unhip, it was the first gay wedding that I’ve ever attended, and I am almost 50 years old.
Trump then told the world audience a racist whopper about Haitian migrants in Springfield, Ohio, who were eating people’s domestic pets, their dogs and cats. Buster took notice of this one, perhaps the only living creature who believed Trump’s tall tale. But Buster has no interest in becoming a pug burger and will now likely support the former president moving forward.
So in celebration of all this pedagogy, I decided to purchase of six-pack of beer and rewatch then review a veritable cinema classic, a film that ranks right up there with “Citizen Kane,” “The Godfather” and “Cocaine Bear” in its enduring legacy.
I was driving alone the other day while my AI Spotify deejay—who calls himself simply “DJ X” and has quickly catapulted up the list of my best friends—played the music in the car. Then X surprised me with a tune that wasn’t in my music library, but it was one I knew fairly well and liked back in the ’90s.
I was laid out on the couch for three or four days, and I’m still reeling from residual symptoms. One of the strangest symptoms, which I hadn’t experienced in the past, was that I lost all olfactory sensation.
Nate Graziano has The Covid. Again. This is the third time Nate Graziano has had The Covid. It’s August, and Nate Graziano is burning up, lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the chills. His muscles ache like he has been street brawling in a downtown alley. He can’t stop coughing, a wet hack, a barking sound one might expect from a character in a Dostoevsky novel.
I never thought my daughter would be interested in sharing the Red Sox experience with me.
Until she did.
In three months, on Nov. 5, American voters will make a decision that will have sweeping existential implications for this country, and the world as a whole, moving forward.
Then I saw one, right by the entrance that wasn’t a designated handicap spot. My heart leaped up. “Look at that,” I said to my wife, pointing to the parking spot. “There’s a Costanza.”
Last night, while watching Donald Trump accept the nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee, Wis., I’m fairly certain some of my youthful adventurousness caught up with me.