Tuesday, January 28, 2003
The Man Who Came To Dinner
I served dinner in a room half-filled with a twenty-one-inch color television set. The couch is four feet away, close enough to feel as if the President were sitting across from us, monopolizing the conversation while we picked at our broccoli and chicken stir-fry. Eerily, the Vice President, seated...
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Free Association
Thirty-four pounds to lose. Pound sterling. Pound the pavement. Pound cake. Thirty-one pounds to go. Ezra Pound. Dog pound. Dog pound. Ten years ago, my ninety-two-year-old aunt died and left me the farm. I flew out from New York, and organized the town and the incoming shirt-tail relatives for a...
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