If you’ve ever wondered — as I have — whether emailed requests are ever literally prayed at the Grotto, let me be your witness: They are.
Grant Mudge obviously hadn’t rehearsed his lines.
Contemplation has its moments. So, too, beer. And carp.
I thought about Daniel a lot over the next six months, wondering how he died and where. Most possibilities were terrible.
The landscape is bleak and grim, cold, gray, ashen, desolate. It is a post-apocalyptic world. Destitute. Barren. It is a world of the writer’s imagination. Although, given the forces, violence and powers of human destruction threatening the planet today, it is a world easy to conjure, to believe in, and to dread.
The best class I ever had in college was a great class for small reasons, such as there were lots of girls in it, and it was late in the afternoon, and there were fewer than 20 students, and there were no blowhards or suck-ups or preeners or buffoons or conversation-dominators.
Welcome to the 85th strip in Molarity Redux, the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. What a long, strange trip it’s been.
My son left for summer camp in the big woods of northern Wisconsin last week. We have no contact with him, no email, phone calls or texts and although I can write to him as much as I like, “Mom, I’m not writing you any letters.”
This is the dual nature of the way our country regards alcohol and its consumption. It’s wonderful; it’s awful. It’s a delight; it’s a plague on society. It opens people up; it breaks them down. It brings friends together; it rips families apart. We are Puritans and we are hedonists both and it seems we ever will be.
Before I finished it, I was indiscriminately recommending The Secret Scripture, Sebastian Barry’s entrancing 2008 novel that alternates between a 100-year-old woman’s clandestine reminiscence, hidden beneath the floorboards of her asylum bedroom, and the journal of her facility’s chief psychiatrist.