Busted Stories
You should never ask someone to tell a personal story that you wouldn’t be willing to tell yourself. So, with…
May You Be Inscribed in the Book of Life
Today I got an email. The who’s and what’s aren’t important. But the gist was, “I sent you a jerky…
Orchid Blooms
I bought this orchid three years ago just before Heather and I were married. Now, every time it blooms, I’m…
Hey, Look
Inspired by Simon Rich’s recent Shouts & Murmurs and Heather’s response, here’s what I imagined the people around me were…
“Are You a Journalist?”
A story that can now be told. I was in a movie theater a few weeks ago. In the dim…
Eventually We Become What They Want Us to Be
A scene from dinner at the retirement home. “Are you from around here?” “No, we’re from California.” “Oh, it’s expensive…
In Praise of the Inappropriate
There’s an art to saying the wrong thing at the right time. And the older I get, the more I think there’s a gene that causes it. If there is, I know this: it’s passed on the mother’s side.
My maternal grandmother, Gert, was a master of the art of the inappropriate comment. With me, a cherished grandson, she was a sweetheart. With my mom, she was … less sweet.
The Kid Always Gets the Last Word
My nephew Hugh is two years old. And, as the husband of the sister of his mother, it is my…
Love and Penguins
There’s an old story. I don’t know if it’s true, but it goes like this. Penguins mate for life. And…
My Dog is So Smart
Yesterday Heather and I were walking the pups through Golden Gate Park when we came upon Stow Lake. Heather noticed…