Tom Stoppard’s Hands Stop At 11:29:2025
Our era’s main and mega, superstar playwright—Sir Tom Stoppard—shuffled off his mortal coil too soon, even if it did happen after he attained the ripe old age of 88.
Journal of a Wet Journalism Journey
Far and away, an ocean trek was a pinnacle of my sprawling, 40-year journalism career. And by any measure, it also became the soggiest.
How To Share an Afterlife
In olden time, sailors navigated by staring up at the stars; some still do. Similarly, many folks help chart a life course simply by observing others.
To Dream a Possible Dream
A pure flat-lander, a Florida boy from the Everglades, went to learn to ski on snow up in the mountains. That kid drove to Badger Pass in Yosemite, and—I guess this is the proper instant to reveal it—he was me.
A Conglomeration of Ink-Stained Scriveners
“A writers’ conference? That’s a misnomer,” Kurt Vonnegut once said. “Since writers don’t confer. They just drag themselves past each other like great, wounded bears.”
