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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.
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.
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.”