If Old Glory were our national stock certificate, you’d need another star – or ten – for a clear take-over margin.
Somewhere a bullfrog is clouting to get in the White House pond.
We must take pride in superlatives where we can: the United States is too big to govern but not to surveil.
Often the best cartoon in The New Yorker is by Christoph Niemann – I wonder if that’s intended?
Assuming the loyal opposition leadership after an election is like donning a papier-mâché mask made from last week’s losing lottery tickets.
Either Margaret Thatcher or John Bull said, “You can’t run a country on farthings from library fines”.
Being senior covers a multitude of sins, if you’re clubby.
Everything has been written about Israel except its good secret — it’s a matriarchy.
One day the law will declare that gender is fluid, like quicksilver atop a fanny-pack.
As a schoolboy I imagined The Mahgrebs were a single happy folk — saving their scant Colonial centimes to take family sojourns, north in real France.
My ambition is to compose an exquisite Virginia Woolf novel through seven words of incantation.
Sacre Coeur Montmartre is a long climb – to kneel.
Falling down the lesbian well-of-loneliness can be a wormhole to the most resounding stardom – and not only for Canadian dykes.
If you’re airborne with five hundred you’re not flying you’re flocking.
I’ve christened my new Scandinavian yacht THE ANDREAS VIESTAD – may it sail the seasons on endless charm.
I never leave the table a little hungry, for that’s what undetected walk-outs do.
It’s not enough to have everything, you have to be born Chinese and
decide Brazilian land rights.
I know very little about Francois Picard except if you look to him for the news, you’ll become disarmed instead.
Self-publishing is like whistling Dixie in a dark Xerox room.
I am prepared for anything, even for all the subway systems in the world to merge and run as one.
Releasing a final draft, more than Carnegie Hall, is the tensest kind of stage fright and many authors simply faint away.