A couple of weeks ago, they began appearing. Brief, heart-wounded, heartfelt memoriams on Twitter. They note the passing of mothers, fathers, grandparents, kids. I began to screen capture some of them. I wasn't sure why.
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I have settled on the title of my collection of essays about weird and wonderful sights in West Virginia: 'Please Don't Write on Hotdog.' Here's why.
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What do you get when you mix Donald Trump with a Limerick Master—and a little bit of animation?You get Molotov Limericks. Here are the latest 3 in an ongoing collaboration.
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Dear Family: I come to you on a matter of some urgency. That is to say, the disbursement of my three beloved guitars, should 'The Rona' get me. This is who should become the adoptive parents of Michele, Gilda, and Blue ...
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I've wanted to start a simple series here at TheStoryIsTheThing, called "3Photos." The aim is to lay off the sprawling essays, the tangentialism, and attempts to be wise, but which may just be a bad case of P.A.W.S. (Pseudointellectualism At Work Syndrome).
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What do you get when you drop into Havana, Cuba for two days and start turning around to snap photographs in every direction? You get complications.
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t looks like the violets have returned from wherever violets over-winter. They are small, but distinctive. Kind of like the Pekinese of the front yard. Meanwhile, out on the deck the cardinals are just as prevalent as the violets. Flitting about like there's no tomorrow. Maybe for us. Not for them, it looks like.
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With so many of us house-bound, my restless spirits may have been grunting about for some space and spaciousness. Here are 10 views from all around West Virginia for a little relief from cabin fever quarantine.
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I am standing on Times Square. Just arrived from out of the ground, like some gopher. Probably like most everyone else who is not a jaded New Yorker, my sense organs are in a state of stasis. Of overwhelm. Of a weird mixture of delight and alarm.
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Here are some black-and-white love letters from falling back in love with New York City, after a long time away and lifetimes ago, while still trying to say hello to David Byrne in person.
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Robert Singleton had settled on painting clouds. Then, he stopped, hollowed out by too many deaths helping dying friends from his training with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. One day, a German musician stumbled on his site. And everything changed.
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