Jack Around
About a fortnight past – apparently while I was otherwise engrossed in National Hot Dog Day and Brash beer releases – the web was all atwitter over an unrepentant diner owner in Maine who yelled at a screaming toddler who was disrupting her restaurant. As the internet has become little more than an unfiltered stream of vitriol
Jack Around
Gone are the sweaters and hoodies and henleys, out are the vented shirts and pearl snaps and guayaberas. It’s been a wet spring in Houston, but when the rains leave the moisture stays, and the humidity has descended like a biodome over our fair burg. With the peacoats go the porters, with the scarves the stouts.
Jack Around
Kids today have never known a world without iPods (get off my lawn!), but anyone of legal drinking age remembers that transporting a library of music was once an onerous task involving boxes of albums or casettes, binders full of CDs. Much as the Kindle has done to bookstores and libraries, the digital age has
Jack Around
With apologies to John Keats, some places simply invite one to wax poetic, to recall myriad formal examples of Plato’s ideal, to open the floodgates of memory like Proust’s madeleine. I’m speaking here of those neighborhood pubs so woven into the fabric of their environs that they nigh attain the original function of the icehouse
