Some men are Baptists, others Catholics my father was an Oldsmobile man.

I had been an eyewitness to a truly historic moment in American pop culture.

The hand of fate had dipped into the ragbag of humanity.

Manhattan cabs are born old.

Being a White Sox fan meant measuring victory in terms of defeat. A 6-5 defeat was a good day. A big rally was Wally Moses doubling down the right- field line.

The Bumpuses were so low down on the evolutionary totem pole that they weren't even included in Darwin's famous family tree. They had inbred and ingrown and finally emerged from the Kentucky hills like some remnant of Attila the Hung's barbarian horde. Flick said that they had webbed feet and only three toes. It might have been true.

Randy lay there like a slug. It was his only defense.

The reality of what we really are is often times found in the small snips, way down at the bottom of things.

A man today never feels so alive as when he is hurtling from one point to another on the azimuth.

In all my years of New York cab riding I have yet to find the colorful, philosophical cabdriver that keeps popping up on the late movies.

Can you imagine 4,000 years passing, and you're not even a memory? Think about it, friends. It's not just a possibility. It is a certainty.