My frank is out! As of yesterday!
They're stringing up the nets at Flushing Meadows again, which means for two weeks the country will pretend to care about tennis and complain about the price of a fourteen-dollar lemonade with equal sincerity.
If the Wall Street Journal were a person, it'd be that cousin who got rich and forgot where he came from. I used to admire the prose. Now I just admire the audacity.
The New York Times thinks it understands the South. Bless their hearts.
Vanity Fair is the only magazine that makes you feel underdressed while reading it on the toilet.
Every small town in North Carolina has a man who knows everything. He's usually wrong, but he's never boring. I should know. I am that man in at least three towns.
The difference between wisdom and a bumper sticker is about twenty years and a bad marriage.
They say travel broadens the mind. After forty-seven countries I can confirm: it mostly broadens the waistline and the credit card bill. The mind was already broad enough — it just needed a window seat.
The problem with reading The Economist is you start thinking in graphs. The problem with living in Chatham County is you start thinking in stories. I recommend the stories. The graphs lie more often.
My barber in Siler City makes more sense than the entire New York Times editorial board. And he charges less for the haircut.
I read somewhere that Americans trust journalists less than they trust used car salesmen. In Chatham County, that's always been the case. But the car salesman never pretended to be objective.