It was high time for a serious KonMari discard session, and over the course of a couple of days I gleefully tapped the “unfollow” button dozens of times.
But when my granddaughter asks if the injustices mattered to me, my words will mean nothing unless I was there. So, we went.
This February, the Alaskan Way Viaduct will be disassembled. Trucks and cranes will shake loose the concrete foundations before an earthquake has the pleasure, and I’m beginning to realize that I will never be able to leave Seattle the way I came.
But for now, all I can think about is how out of place my Christmas trees looked when my neighbors have a cactus naturally growing in their front yard. And I will envy all y’all yanks up there.
While the film isn’t without interesting ideas—the notion of an environmental reckoning, for one—these ideas dart, glimmering and mostly unconsidered, through the nets that Aquaman reserves for its preferred but drabber game: the return of the king.
People also hate it when I’m right and they’re wrong, which happens pretty frequently.
For the past week and a half I’ve been staying at an extended stay hotel in St. Louis, which was not a concept I was familiar with until I booked it.
Each title is an era trapped in amber, a fossil record of a former self.
I’m just trying to say that given what little is truly required of uncles, it follows that the bond between parent and child, when pursued in good faith, has no parallel.
This friendly man at the bar wrote the books my dad and grandpa read at the beach for years, AND he was partially responsible for our family tradition of eating dinner (and lunch, and then dinner again) at Doc Fords on Sanibel.