My Public Humiliation

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It has recently come to my attention that I am morbidly obese. 

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Just the Way You Look Tonight

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My blog post today is dedicated to my late wife, whom I took to calling “The Lovely Jo Anne.” 

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Passing

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A year ago I wrote my Thanksgiving blog post at the hospital bedside of my wife. I didn’t know she was dying. I thought she was suffering from a bad reaction to chemotherapy.

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SUCH A FUSS

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Heralded events capture our attention and imagination, sometimes to the exclusion of more mundane but equally miraculous manifestations. Can a flight of birds, for instance, outshine a supermoon as happened on Cape Cod's Coast Guard Beach at 4:54 P. M. Monday? 

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Less Than Human

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That lovable curmudgeon, W.C. Fields, is quoted as saying, “Hell, I never vote for anybody, I always vote against.”

That’s what many political analysts say happened in the presidential election last week. But with each side regarding the other as something a little less than human, Fields doesn’t seem so funny.

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Two of Every Thing

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“Broken Vows” was painted by Philip Hermogenes Calderon in 1856. Now at the Tate Gallery in London, the painting, which was wildly popular in its time, captures a woman discovering that her lover is unfaithful. My friend, artist Johniene Papandreas, rendered her vision of this masterpiece (below), displayed in my Cape Cod home. I offer these thoughts to all who have suffered the abiding pain of infidelity.  

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Billy of the Tulips

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When Nick Valenti put his 15-year-old son on the street to teach him a lesson, the tough-as-nails cop didn't dream he was setting the vulnerable Billy on a months-long odyssey that would force him to come to terms with an intimidating adult world and his place in it. 

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The Cost of Love

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Earlier this week I happened to come across a snippet of a sermon by St. Augustine. You remember St. Augustine, the young man of means who partied through his youth. Even when he matured and discovered God, he prayed for chastity and continence, “but not yet.”

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Do you notice

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I own a number of Inuit sculptures, each as dense and elemental as the Earth from which it’s wrested. When I pass by one of the pieces, my hand, by some primal instinct, reaches out to caress its silken surface. Cold, yes, and hard, but alluring all the same. And responsive. My touch seems to summon the rock from eons past into the eternal now. The Inuit envision humankind reincarnating in concert with the creatures who sustain their earthly lives. Many of their sculptures depict this movement from human to animal, animal to human. Ever the circle. 

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The Death Cafe

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I counted thirteen participants, a disquieting number for a meeting about death. 

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