Artist Christopher Wool must be really good at texting. His stencil sign paintings, according to the Guggenheim Museum, "freely stripped out punctuation, disrupted conventional spacing and removed letters."
My hair stylist, Joyce, is at the beach on holiday, and I want to stick my head in the sand. I should have made an appointment last week.
I never figured on feeling sorry for Monica Lewinsky. She was too much like an Atlanta Hooters waitress I once interviewed who wanted to file a sex discrimination lawsuit. You asked for it, I thought.
In the latest issue of Vanity Fair, there's a story about popular novels versus serious novels. It asks the question: Can they be one and the same?
In the course of not reaching any conclusions, the article quotes a critic who complains: "Doesn't anyone care how something is written anymore?"
I wanted to phone my father from Southern Utah. When recently we drove through the national park everyone calls "Arches," its red rocks carved by millions of erosive years into magnificent sculpture, I almost reached for the phone.
It was the kind of natural scene he liked to hear about.
Moderates in the Deep South are disenfranchised. So are the young, the impoverished, blacks, gays, women who want to control their own bodies, Latinos and unapologetic liberals of both races and genders. Which, in the South, rolls us right back to the 1950s, at least in statewide elections.
SALT LAKE CITY -- Everybody talks about religion here, though people come at it a couple of ways. Nobody seems to shy from the subject, though only about half the city is Mormon.
Mel Rosen is a liberal Jewish Democrat from Brighton Beach, New York, who in 1955 arrived at conservative, football-obsessed Auburn University in the segregated Deep South. He was hired to teach gymnastics and assigned seven daily classes. His dream was to coach track.
Luke Hall had a name like a hero in an old Western -- simple, strong and uncompromising. It was fitting.
Mississippi, my adopted home state, place that I love, is reverting to its old ways, which many of us who live here had believed and hoped to be in the distant past.
Six inches of snow out the window where the azaleas ought to be. I am in Colorado for a few weeks, and my dogs are back home in Mississippi. My work computer has taken on a life of its own, with so-called "pop-ups" pestering me like door-to-door hawkers.
FISHTRAP HOLLOW-- I work in a corner of my bedroom. My desk is an old, dark wicker one, about three feet wide and two feet deep. Its small size keeps mess at a minimum.
There is a window to my right, and I try not to look out when I'm supposed to be writing. When I part the curtains to stare, I see yellow daffodils on a drab March landscape, yellow butter on dry toast.
Somewhere in a shoebox beneath a bed, I have photographs of the Mentone Springs Hotel, a Victorian lodging built 130 years ago on the western brow of Lookout Mountain in Northeast Alabama.
NEW ORLEANS -- A security guard and a lawyer walked into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. It's bad, all right, but no joke.
Everyone in this town, including two drinking buddies, was talking about the federal public corruption trial of former mayor Ray Nagin.
WAVELAND -- I got to walk right past the shiny, new, Christmas-ornament-red hook and ladder truck at the fire department here to see one of my heroes, radio personality Felder Rushing. One recent Saturday morning he was speaking upstairs at the firehouse.
I couldn't help but think about how many of the boys of my generation wanted to be firemen when they grew up. Never knew a single one who wanted to become "a gestalt gardener," which is how Felder describes himself.
I was using the free White Pages website to try to find the ZIP code for a friend's address. An advertisement popped up, something called Instant Checkmate, which is not free.
NEW YORK CITY -- If you can imagine a place today that would extend credit to struggling but brilliant journalists, novelists and theater people, where, say, Donna Tartt and Jon Stewart and Tina Brown might convene daily for lunch and drinks, then there might be a contemporary equivalent of The Algonquin Round Table.
When niece Chelsey was little, I lavished her with Christmas gifts too numerous and fanciful to remember. There were faux-fur coats with Dalmatian spots, diminutive dolls bundled as quintuplets, plastic horses that cost more than the real thing.
FISHTRAP HOLLOW -- Lightning or some other benevolent act of fate struck the magic modem that brings this technology-heavy century into our otherwise peaceful home.
FISHTRAP HOLLOW -- I rarely watch those "news" videos the Internet pushes, the ones where you are force-fed a couple of advertisements before you reach the meat.
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