The other morning, looking out toward Gardiner’s Bay, I saw two white-tail bucks browsing among the beach plum scrub. They were spectacular from a distance, sleek buff coats and high antlers still in velvet. But I cursed their existence.
When my parents made me, I got the shape of my father’s face. I got his dark hair and unfortunate eyebrows. I got both his sweet tooth and his love of vegetables. I got his talent for eight-ball, too.
While on foot patrol by Pizza Village on Main Street very early Sunday morning, officers were approached by “a highly irate female” who said there was a fight in front of the Memory Motel. Police found a Massapequa man bleeding from the mouth.
On an August night 53 years ago, teenybopper screaming subsumed every sound. Then teenybopper weeping filled the giant soup bowl that was Shea Stadium. I wonder why we went?