The Good Ole Days
The news is in. Less than one third of Americans have ever written a physical letter in their lifetime.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
The news is in. Less than one third of Americans have ever written a physical letter in their lifetime.
I shouldn’t be braiding hair. But there I was. Giving it my best shot. We were in a hotel lobby. The 19-year-old sat with her back facing me. Her violent red hair in my hands.
You never know how truly short life is until a 19-year-old girl, who is preceptive and sweet, and of exceptional intellect, a girl who made the university president’s list, stares at you sincerely, with warmth in her eyes, and with all her heart, calls you an “old person.”
Wake up. Start coffeemaker. Turn on TV. A panicky news journalist is saying America is doomed and only minutes away from exploding. And if not America, at least my house. Turn off TV.
Suicide is a dirty word. Try using it in mixed company. Try using “suicide” at a dinner party. You wouldn’t. Because suicide is not something people talk about.
Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion.
But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment, and agree on a few things we love.
Sean Dietrich pithily responds to reader mail in a manner that only he can.
In light of the critical world events taking place in the news, I know many of you are anxious to know more about my dogs.
It seems like everyone is talking about AI. It’s on the news. It’s in every newspaper. “AI is taking over the world,” the media headlines declare. “AI replaces 12 million jobs.” “AI wins Miss America Pageant.” AI might be writing this right now. There’s no way to know.
A middle-aged guy sat at the piano. The middle-aged guy plays by ear. He can’t read music because as a kid he was too obsessed with girls to practice “Hot Cross Buns” under the weight of Mrs. Downing’s glaringly sinister eyes.
To the three servicemen who died in a midair collision on Wednesday in Washington DC. I’m sorry.
Sixty passengers. Four crewmembers. Sixty-four people. That’s all I heard the reporter say.
College is hard work. Not just mentally, but physically. Frank has six classes today. Thus, Frank is compelled to carry a heavy pile of physical textbooks FOR EACH CLASS. A stack of hardbound paper literature roughly equalling the same weight as the Jefferson Memorial.
She’s 19. Beautiful. Violent red hair. And smart. Morgan is one of those rare humans who honestly thinks math was not invented by Satan. The girl climbs into my truck, buckles herself in. “Hey,” she says. Fresh-faced and happy. Slightly out of breath. The flushed cheeks of youth. I like that she feels so at …
Angels aren’t real. They can’t be. It just doesn’t make sense. How can a rational human with a working brain believe in invisible celestial creatures who all resemble Michael Landon?
The emailer was irate. “When are you finally going to address the lies being told RIGHT NOW to the American people?” the emailer wrote. “You are A COWARD!”
Sean Dietrich answers reader questions as only he can, with wit, wisdom and whimsey.
You’re going through something right now. Something bad. Something truly, inexplicably, wholly, and everlastingly crappy.
I don’t know what it is. But it’s ugly. And it’s getting the best of you.
In a couple months, my wife and I will be deposited in a French airport with nothing but backpacks and walking shoes. We will traverse 500 miles on foot, hiking the breadth of Spain, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela.
I was on the way to the shed. Walking through the yard. I saw something in the grass. It was fluttering in the weeds. I could see its wings.