Let's talk about dogs.
Back in the days before binding caucuses and every-other-day primaries, political conventions were fascinating.
Regarding our time together today, I'm reminded of two old maxims:
My, my, isn't Rush Limbaugh getting contrite now that his advertisers are abandoning him?
The Academy Awards show has come and gone.
Geez, we have become the most easily offended, quick-to-demand-an-apology, can't-take-a-joke society, maybe in the history of the world, even including Marco Polo, Julius Caesar, Richard Nixon and Steve Spurrier.
On the coast of Maine, a couple of hours down from Acadia National Park, there's a village with the wonderfully euphonious name of Wiscasset, and on its outskirts sits the Sea Basket.
On the Maine island where Wife Nancy and I spend time, I come in contact with lots of tourists -- over the course of a season, thousands of them who visit Acadia National Park.
Through a set of circumstances that comes up about this time each year, I've been cooking for myself lately.
Matt Dillon's dead, and the bad guys in the hereafter had better be watching their backs.
I watched Rory McIlroy win the PGA title Sunday, his third straight golf tournament victory and his second major title within three weeks.
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