In the eyes of my dog, I'm a man.
The town where I grew up has a zip code of E-I-E-I-O.
I was involved in the Great Folk Music scare back in the sixties, when it almost caught on.
Around 1980, I went back to painting with a vengeance.
The trouble with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass.
What's the point of cleaning up your act if you don't have an act?