During fornication, our Diarist fantasizes about Rosemary Clooney.
It never makes sense.
A syndicated advice column.
Down one of Brooklyn Heights’ fascinating streets.
Eyes glowing with bad whiskey, bad acid, and meth.
Three sides of the same bird’s-eye view from the Quibbits clan.
Really help if I could find out.
Girlpool & Ariel Pink fight in a battle to the death for Nicky’s heart and wallet, while the world inches closer & closer to nuclear war.
With Pullis Farm Cemetery and so much more.
Never deleting Uber and exculpating capitalist guilt via straw men like Martin Shkreli.
Go on the cheap.
Some of my best friends are people.
A would-be generational landmark of the early-1990s.
Good riddance to the Israel lobby elite.
Drunk he was sadistic.
The typical Plato application is palpably dishonest.
Not here, not yet.
American society has forgotten its Christian heritage.
It’s a buyers’ market and everybody’s for sale.
The power of positive thinking.
I think I’m going back… to 1948 Manhattan.
Where were you in ’62?
Note to Lemony Snicket: Young Trevor and Finley don’t want to read.
A brew is a brew is a brew… except when it isn’t.
Hey, buddy, can you spare a Visa card?
Baltimore’s 40-year-old City Paper is fading away.
If you knock me down, I’ll just get up again.
Bearish on the media industry.
Yakety-Yak on Father’s Day at Camden Yards.