So, yesterday Peg and I dragged our old selves up Second Avenue to church. We attended services on Easter Sunday up in Canandaigua, but before that it'd been awhile. Once one gets in the habit of not going to church, of reading the paper and having that second cup of coffee on Sunday mornings when one would otherwise be getting ready for services, it takes an act of will to make the journey, and I'm always a little hesitant about walking through the door and having all those

[this was actually written 3.20.26, but apparently never posted because of the wonky internet in Monteagle] Sort of a placeholder here. We're in Monteagle, Tennessee, seven hours north of Bay County in one of our most special places on earth. Late yesterday afternoon we walked the Domain of the University of the South, which was an anthill of kids and activity. It's not spring break here yet. Afterward we stopped for a drink at the fancy new Sewanee Inn, then to supper at one

"Give an Irishman lager for a month and he's a dead man. An Irishman's stomach is lined with copper, and the beer corrodes it. But whiskey polishes the copper and is the saving of him." - Mark Twain Watching morning joggers bounce past on a lovely 37 degree morning. I'd thought about writing on the aftermath of Trump's surrender in the Iran War, particularly with regard to the knucklehead core of true believers who light up social media to parrot their Cheeto Messiah's talkin

"Keep an open mind and always look for the good in people. You may be surprised at what you find." -Erich "Bubi" Hartmann Walking home last night from class, past groups of mostly NYU undergrads shuffling to the social gathering of the evening on a brisk night, it occurred to me how strange their lives are to me, and how very strange my life in my 20s would have been to them. I found myself thinking of "straight lines and little hooks", of "never turning on a merged plot", of