Bill Kauffman

From spooning to spoons

An act that I have perversely enjoyed for most of my life lost much of its luster a score of years ago

We took a side trip to Sonny Bono’s hometown en route to a birthday party in Indiana

Our every visit is scored by songs and films and words disgorged by the world’s entertainment factory

This year, to celebrate my wife’s birthday, I showed her a traffic light

The city, not the waterfall, which remains a source of utter befuddlement

Albert Brisbane somehow avoided sharing the wealth with his neighbors

On the Abbeys and the Beats

The Jefferson Memorial still gives off a far better vibe than the Potomac anthills in which the self-important Get Things Done

I guess I’m just two degrees removed from Lime Jell-O fruit salad

Remember the last invigorating spasm before the body of the party achieved corpsehood?

On a March day in 1991, I watched a bittersweet rural New York version of ‘Hoosiers’ play out

Men and women of the working class, Catholic or not, are arraigned by progressive yappers for being socially retrograde