The muttered hint, "Remember, you have a stroke here," freezes my joints like a blast from Siberia.

I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.

School is where you go between when your parents can't take you and industry can't take you.

"Hit it with the back of your left hand" was the first swing thought I ever heard, brusquely bu not unlovingly put to me by the aunt-in-law who had moments before placed a golf club in my virgin grip. I was twenty-five, and had spent my youth in a cloisterd precinct of teh middle class where golf was a rumoured something, like champagne breakfasts and divorce, that the rich did.

irony is a way of having one's cake while appearing to eat it.

A woman’s beauty lies, not in any exaggeration of the specialized zones, nor in any general harmony that could be worked out by means of the sectio aurea or a similar aesthetic superstition; but in the arabesque of the spine. The curve by which the back modulates into the buttocks. It is here that grace sits and rides a woman’s body.