(2 of 2)
To carry a 285-pound boulder back home, where it will serve as a stunningly original coffee table.
Summer Problems
Tanya Tucker and Glen Campbell—are they really kaput?
Can you recall the name of Gerald Ford's Secretary of State?
Was it: a) Ramsay Clark, b) Clark Clifford, c) Clark Vance, d) Mark Clark or e) Clark Clark?
What exactly was it she said—"I want to be alone," "I want to be let alone," "Let me alone," "These sure are beautiful peaches"?
Are there enough chairs for everyone to sit outside?
Are you sure Red's wife's name is Tud?
Summer Decisions
This is the first day of the rest of my life.
The journey of a thousand miles starts with one step.
I am my own person.
I'll call her (him).
Summer Hypothesis
If only the simple, ordinary Russian and American people could meet face to face, and sit down and talk . . .
Summer Song
Joan Crawford Eyebrows ("Oh, they use you/ And abuse you").
Summer Reading
John McEnroe Sr.: My Story
Furniture Sexuality: The Hite Report
You and Me Against the World, by M. Gaddafi and I. Amin
David Stockman's Party Joke Book
I'll Never Forget You: Evangeline Gouletas-Carey
Summer Wisdom
There is nothing in this world like a peach.
There is nothing in this world like a lobster.
Everything tastes better cooked outdoors.
You get the worst kind of burn on a day like this.
You know, all the poets and philosophers in history can't hold a candle to this one little leaf.
And there they go—the summer memories faded almost completely now as the brain, restored, readies itself for the lions in winter. Goodbye, local peaches. Goodbye, Hun. Goodbye, Red. So the earth rolls reluctantly away from heaven, not to return for ten marvelous months. —By Roger Rosenblatt