The speed of light is a constant; I rather like vanilla milk shakes.

I don't have them often, mind you. Heavy. But a couple of times a summer, especially if I've biked or walked a distance and can get a good one? Absolutely. In Pulp Fiction, Vincent makes a big deal about the Five Dollar Milk Shake. He didn't know if it was worth five dollars, but it was a pretty fuckin' good milk shake.

Thirty years later, five dollars would be a pretty fuckin' cheap milk shake.

Times change.

The speed of light does not, much to the chagrin of science-fiction writers and would-be space explorers.

When you cruise near the Falls you feel as though you're swimming, as the birds must feel when the dive into the rising mist and moisture.

Sunfest 2024 came and went, start of the summer, bands from across the globe. A nephew drove up for the weekend. We walked

is it far?   she asks

it’s nice the way she bites her lip

it is nice the way her hair is a mess

that she does not bother

it is nice that she smells like sweet peas and sweat

that this is the way she must look in the morning

nice she must sleep in an old football jersey

nice to think of the sounds she would make

nice if we

So, Alice Munro.

Recently-deceased Canadian literary icon, one of thirteen women to win the Nobel Prize for literature, and one of my personal literary inspirations. Also, since her youngest daughter published an essay, a controversial figure.

Scan a headline or whatever they call a Tweet these days and read no further—a practice which has helped destroy politics in democratic societies—and you'll get something like, "Alice Munro's daughter was sexually abused by her