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Home is where the heart is. It is, or at least it should be, where we can find the steadfast rhythm of our most important vital organ, where we find our most loyal pulse, especially when it quickens in anticipation or happiness.
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Imagine that it’s a Friday night. You know what that means: “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” Nestle Drumsticks and some Ibuprofen. A little medical marijuana for your, uh, restless foot syndrome. Maybe some friends.
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We are a lazy generation — or so, at least, have we been dubbed over and over again. We are “millennials”, born and raised to create an era of the entitled, the selfish and the apathetic.
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I’m no ghost expert. Nor do I imagine, based on the drawing of the ghost on the application icon, is Snapchat. But I would hazard to guess that ghosts are either invisible or, on the whole, fairly inconspicuous.
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We are new-wave, radical, cutting-edge. We are modern. We are postmodern. Ensnared in a web of social media, modern appliances and an increasing variety of processed food options, we navigate layers of reality that our parents don’t even know exist.
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Freshman move-in day two years ago was as exciting, nerve shredding and memorable as all the John Hughes movies promised it would be. Proverbial to the last drop.
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I like my surroundings to be clean. When my apartment is neat and organized, an angel bakes a $100 bill into an orphan’s birthday cake. When it’s filthy, the angel gives an inner-city social worker HPV. Tidiness, for me (and orphans and social workers), is therefore quite important. But of
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My grandfather, while leading a particularly stimulating series of family discussions one fine Saturday evening on subjects ranging from Barack Obama’s real birthplace and the “Gay Agenda” to the trials and complications of having an Asian landlord, paused rather suddenly.
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If my childhood were the subject of a primetime ABC sitcom, each episode would end with a scene of me and my family sitting around the dinner table laughing raucously. A jazzy saxophone number would fade in as the end-credits start to roll. While the names of the wardrobe department
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A recent Gallup poll reports that most Americans don’t trust government. Only 19 percent, in fact, say government can be trusted most of the time — a statistic that was 73 percent in 1960. And, when looking at the savagely partisan divide that has so torn Washington ever more apart,
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