In the face of what is wrong with thoroughbred racing, the sight of a long shot-- ridden by a rookie, named for a ritual between husband and wife-- closing in on and beating a hands-down favorite was a beautiful thing to see.
“I’ll be on a ladder all day. Checking email only intermittently.” So ended a recent message from a dear friend. She’ll be 66 this week.
I didn’t call foul on Moneyball until the day after seeing it. It wasn’t long, however, before hindsight brought the realization that the portrayal of women in the film is not about the ethos of baseball, but about a sensibility that is Neanderthal.
Children of the children of the Great Depression learned to make the most of what was at hand. August 1967 was about making more of what one young woman had at her disposal and making a kind of magic in the process.
Maybe, just maybe, you or a friend of yours (or both of you) should consider a poetry workshop.
You don’t need blue collar roots to care about Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, but if you have them, you care in a particular way.
Writing poetry does not have to be a solitary endeavor.
National Poetry Month is the perfect time to celebrate something tangible that the web offers everyone: poems of every stripe and stories about the people who write them.
If you are a mother, run, don’t walk, to the nearest bookstore (or e-tail outlet or downloading device) to get Justin Halpern’s "Sh*t My Dad Says." If you are a mother of mothers, do the same.
It seems as though the least we can do is inform ourselves about our National Public Radio system and its actual practices.
After an ordeal that makes a Eugene O’Neill play look like something Walt Disney threw together for pre-schoolers, the House of Dior paused to think about what mattered.
A boycott of The New Yorker? Surely there must be a more reasonable way. After all, women have always been its fairy godmothers, able to insert compassion as well as wit.