God’s Country on Alaska’s Inside Passages
At 74 years old and his humor intact, pop legend Bill Medley says his career with the Righteous Brothers and as a solo act reads like a “bad movie.”
Getting the message didn’t used to be so maddening. My irritation isn’t over the technology of voice mail, it’s with the human side of the equation, those voices that speak so rapidly, so inarticulately on recorded telephone messages that they might as well be leaving an encoded transmission from Mars.
Affable and laidback, Scottish singer Susan Boyle likes to poke fun of Arizona—and herself—while talking about her debut U.S. tour, which comes to the Orpheum Theatre on Friday, Oct. 17.
As a travel journalist, I am constantly asked for my favorite travel experiences. The list is endless, but there is one destination that seems to raise the most eyebrows...
—for many of us, there’s still one inevitable certainty: Exercise begins at 50.
Imagine that you reside in a tiny country about the size of New Jersey and are one of eight million citizens surrounded by other nations determined to annihilate you.
I’ve left it to others to write the tributes and reviews on the life and times and unequaled career of Mickey Rooney, who died at age 93 on April 6.
We’ve seen so many of them on store shelves for years. Packages and kits that make a meal or dessert, and all you do is add water or just a few ingredients. I’ve passed them up thousands of times, but this shopping trip was different.
I was 16 when we first got cable in 1978. By the time it reached Southern Michigan, the technology had achieved an almost-mythical status: cable was this mystical electronic IV, of sorts, that hooked into your television’s bloodstream and made it an all-seeing, trash-talking R-rated genius. Kind of like the drug in “Flowers for Algernon.” (I never actually read “Flowers for Algernon,” but I did watch the movie version of it. On cable.)
They are large twin rooms with two rows of throne-like chairs with built-in footrests. The chairs in one room are green, muted red ones in the other, with a glassed-in nurses’ station between the two open spaces.
Dear Old Bag: I personally do not like your title. Anyway, in response to the never-ending problem of who pays for a date: Maybe your readers would be interested in how I resolved this non-issue.
Dear Old Bag: This may seem petty to you, but it has become a sore spot that I am finding it hard to overcome. My husband of 45 years has complained about my food one too many times.
Administrators at a California high school sent five students home for refusing to remove their American flag T-shirts on Cinco de Mayo, a Mexican holiday, because it would be “insensitive” to be displaying Old Glory on another nation’s day of celebration.
OK, I’m going to sound old now. I’ve been trying to avoid this. There’s a subtle self-consciousness that settles over you once you reach the far side of 40: “Don’t say anything that betrays your age,” it tells you, “Don’t gripe about progress. Don’t lament the current era or compare it with a previous one. Don’t complain about new-fangled inventions and don’t EVER use the word ‘newfangled.’”