I cried that day. In the pressence of the grass and sun. Yet still holding my head high. Can I have the Ol' fore sakin' dream?

Brewster’s hand is unconventional. It was maligned during the liberations of Vietnam and Kuwait.

I can see us laughing as you did your hair in a snow storm, curlers and Aquanet at the kitchen table. It turned out perfect. All dolled up and nowhere to go!

I looked around me for an explanation, and what I saw shocked me. 'Penguins?' I inquired. I looked down and saw webbed feet...not exactly a great thing when concerning a human being.

There she was...waving a meaty index finger at my aching frontal lobes: the Alpha and the Omega: Nance.

Eccentricity is a prerequisite in this family. I have heard his kids say, "We grew up without a father. Instead, we had a book."

Glenn Scott was one of the last and finest hobbiests in this ready-made era and sat at the right hand of the throne with Saint Metzler.

I am of the Upland, * of Pentecost Revivals, * rusted four wheel drive Chevys, * from those who sold white lightning to judges to keep revenuers away.

I rounded the corner, and there was Karl Rove, lying in a modified Hyperbaric chamber, his lower half shrouded in what looked like something from a bad sci-fi porno.

But the table is ours for so long as we want it. A few shadows dance around the walls in the old urban district of this city in the Southeast of France.

The preposterously monstrous Christmas tree lounged in the corner, moored by guy wires to keep it from spilling joy all over the maple-planked floor.

Thunder shots cease, hoots and hollers fill the air * blanketing mourning wails; I drop my pistol. * I should have escaped; I should have * found refuge among good-humored children, where I * only hear the clickety-clack of plastic pistols.

We boardwalked -- talking through dripping cones of cream under high ornamental lamplight -- the crescent moon dwarfed by the sum of solar parts.

Plates and silver clank around the corner; old couples in cardigans rustle their newspapers -- sipping their saucers gently -- savoring early hours in late lives.

All eyes turned to the sight of a tallish white bearded man in southern gentleman regalia.

The Calusa once cultivated this land. This time of day, they'd already be in full swing

On another buttermilk batter day in another country fried town, the wheels of change were churning.

"Well, you're awful brave," said the man next to me sluggishly, perhaps even drunkenly, as I pondered what in the world my problem was.