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December 12th, 2020 |
It occurs to me this will be the first year in decades that my family will not have a Christmas tree.
Baraboo — the name brings forth images of circuses and the famous Ringling brothers.
It has been nearly a generation (if you count generations in 20-year increments) since Frank Wendt of Wilton hung up his pica stick and brought the era of the Shopper’s Digest to an end.
It’s Sunshine Week, which celebrates openness in government.
No, contrary to what you might have heard, the thought police will not raid our homes and snatching your Dr. Seuss books.
Who would have thought becoming a Baby Boomer relic would make my generation so attractive to Hollywood?
Ah, the power of the press, fake news as we are and “enemy of the people.” But sometimes it pays off.
I suppose we might have seen it coming. After all, it was 1987 when Lions Club International became the first service club to admit women.
A few weeks ago, I was struggling through what I call the January “dread.” That’s all of the year-end stuff the federal and state government demand of you if you are so insane as to run a business.
On Jan. 6, I had a mid-morning eye-doctor appointment. We picked up a few groceries and had an elegant fast-food lunch in the front seat of Chez Subaru, so it was nearly 2 p.m. when we arrived home, flipped on the television and stared stunned at the sight unfolding before us.
What if I were to include in this column information on a bar in Wilton that serves minors, and after getting them drunk, uses them to create child pornography? Now, 95 percent of you (or at least I hope that many) would assume I have spent way too much time sucking down the last of the New Year’s champagne.
Locked down in the midst of a pandemic? Trying whiling away the hours in a conversation with your dead grandmother. That’s what I am doing. No, I haven’t taken leave of my senses. Well, not completely.
