The sound of crickets brings back good memories of late summers and uncertain memories of falls.

And a phrase like “paw break” I associate with Spenser’s queen throwing up frogs and toads.

Long way from up on the double divide, down on filbert’s rise (a hazelnut to you).

Is there any cockier job title than “tennis pro”? Perhaps “director of grand strategy”?

Preparing for jobs that don’t yet exist was a sort of mantra. But on further look, it’s an absurd notion.

News releases on partnerships with St. George’s make no mention of the med school’s odd role in America’s invasion of Granada.

The all-male Bohemian Club isn’t only for the world’s most powerful. Some fakers associate with it too.

I like Mahones but not all twerps who wear his shirts.

Having a frappe in Entitled Town where there’s hardly any sidewalks. And the help refreshes water dishes for dogs.

Whether professional or volunteer, the question comes down to value: who gives two shits?