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Last Sunday afternoon, because I was not ready to leave Rochester, New York, I walked gamely into Bowl-a-Roll Lanes, an old-timey alley on Jefferson Road just beyond the shopping malls and freeway entrances. Most of the house balls were too small for my wide fingers, but I found a 16-pounder that fit well enough. I bowled a 146 for the first game and 169 for the second, both very good scores for a duffer like me. But

“Remember Me?”, now playing at the Hunterdon Hills Playhouse in western New Jersey, is about the life of actress Joyce DeWitt, famous forty years ago for the hit show “Three’s Company,” and ever since married to one of her fans and admirers, played by the impressively tall Jeffrey Atherton. Who should come knock on their door but Joyce’s old boyfriend and co-star, the late John Ritter, portrayed with smarm and swagge

When you die, you become a contestant on “The Match Game,” hosted by Gene Rayburn and featuring a panel of Hollywood celebrities. Gene sidles up to you, wafting alcohol and aftershave. He warbles out your first question: The baseball team is moving to the city of Altoona, Pennsylvania. Their new name will be the Altoona BLANK.” Cue the hip and snappy think-about-it music. Your response is Fish, which is excellent. Th

Last Sunday morning, the members of my small social circle of baseball fans were greeted with the shocking, terrible news that Bud Rosenfield, our good friend and a fine man, had just died, cause not communicated. Bud was (AND I HATE USING THE PAST TENSE LIKE THIS) a wonderful man—lively and fun, and smart and passionate. Also young, meaning he was younger than me–or at least looked it. In his career as a lawye

Back in the day when I was getting my rear end regularly handed to me by the admissions committees of medical schools, someone offered the following analysis: “They’re not staging the Olympic Games. And it’s not all about you.” Meaning, the mission of a medical school is to supply a steady stream of doctors and other health care professionals to the communities that the school serves. In the case of a public school,

Two weeks into my freshman year of college, I write and submit my first essay. The class is the history of western civilization. We are studying various thinkers of Grand Importance, including Aristotle and Saint Augustine and others whose names I have long since forgotten. The graduate assistant returns my work with the following comment: “When writing about history, it is customary to use the past tense.” I remembe

Raquel Welch died yesterday, and with her goes another little piece of my childhood. Or perhaps, I should say, pre-adolescence. Whatever. I’m not really an expert on these distinctions, despite going through them again, as a parent, with my son, now closing in on 18. Circa 1971, my parents—uncharacteristically—purchase a poster of Raquel Welch to display for a party. Maybe the goal is to entice guests downstairs and

I began this essay at 12:53 AM, on a Sunday night—or I should say, Monday morning. It is now 2:15 AM, and still I’m not ready to go to bed. I’m not ready for this weekend to end; I’m not ready to go back to work tomorrow morning and get on with my life. I’m also not going to fuss endlessly over these words, as I often do, and just get them online so I can be done with them. Stream of consciousness. Sometimes it works

I can think of only one proper way to begin this tribute to my father, and that is to retell his two proudest achievements from the 1970s: For years David defined himself with these two touchstones, at least to immediate family. He would drop the phrases into conversation––“former chief of staff, played clarinet at the Guthrie”—when he wanted to emphasize who he was, not that the issue was ever in doubt. Mount Sinai