Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Need some levity? Read on!
Like any normal, safety-conscious person, I was watching where my feet were about to step as I left the café at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.. I did not see the – tastefully faint – safety strip in the glass wall. Whack! My forehead hit the glass. Wham! The back of my hand hit the glass. Bam! My knee hit the glass. Splash! My latte crashed to the floor. Read more.
A smiling receptionist greets you as you enter the lobby of the Carol Ann Read Breast Health Center in San Francisco’s East Bay. She directs you to the registration desk, where there’s no wait. A nice woman with pretty eyebrows is ready to help. Everyone here is nice, really nice. Read more.
The last time I saw Robert Morse there were beads of sweat on his forehead. It was 1967 and he was working the crowd on the set of a local TV comedy show. Robert Morse was on. He was going for laughs and he was going for them with the intensity of a rocket launch. He was doing what mid-life folks do – he was striving.
I’ve been contemplating writing this little photo essay on the toilets of China ever since I traveled there last September. It’s taken me all this time to overcome my mid-century Midwestern upbringing, where nice people didn’t talk about poop and pee in public. My nose for news finally prevailed, however when a Mainland Chinese couple allowed their toddler to urinate publicly on the streets of Hong Kong.
It’s Sunday morning. I pull the New York Times Magazine from the fat stack of newspapers on the breakfast table, fully intending to read the informative, thought-provoking articles inside. But I get no farther than page two, because that’s where the real estate ads are – the ones with the floor plans. Read more.
I wish I had known Patricia Monaghan. She died a year and a half ago after a rich life as a poet, author, Goddess scholar, and pioneer and mentor in the contemporary women’s spirituality movement. She was an academic, yes, but also a hands-on kind of woman, as concerned with the temperature of her root cellar as the depth of her research. And that research is deep . . . Read more.
I’m worried about the strawberry. It’s too late for the tomato. Its innards were transformed into colorless, flavorless – but easily shippable – pulp decades ago. Which is why I’m concerned about the strawberry. Is it going the way of the tomato? Read more.