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Carnitas torta, 5 Rabanitos |
"You put more value on every minute," Zevon replied. "I always thought I kinda did that ... but it's more valuable now. You're reminded to enjoy every sandwich."
"Enjoy every sandwich." A great line, one that I think of, more and more. Even though I'm healthy as a horse. But I'm also 64. Nothing lasts forever.
I can relate to Joe Biden's predicament, I really can. He's president of the United States, a job that comes with power and attention and a jet airplane. Hard to walk away, and kudos to him for making the tough decision and deciding not to run again. He dragged his feet, naturally, but in the end he did what he thought was necessary to give American democracy its best shot at survival.
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Turkey club on wheat toast, Lou Mitchell's |
Only it wasn't just one bad night but what that bad night represented. If I turn in my grocery list as a column, that wouldn't be just one bad column, but a clanging alarm bell that something bad had happened, and might happen again.
Biden endorsed Kamala Harris. Not that she's a sure winner. Harris has the same handicap that sank Hillary Clinton: She's a woman in a sexist country. Where a third of the women can't be trusted to decide when to have a baby. But she can speak powerfully and get Americans excited.
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Pastrami on rye, Max & Benny's |
For some, retirement is easy. My father retired from NASA at 56. Meaning he's been retired for the past 36 years, longer than he worked. The glory of a federal pension.
At the time I was puzzled. Stopping so young seemed a refutation of his entire career. Did he not want to do something else? Find another job? No. He wanted to paint watercolors and hike the Rockies, which he did until the frost set in.
Now he sits and stares blankly at the television. So maybe retiring early was smart. As a bartender said in Buenos Aires, encouraging me to try the tango: "The life is only once."
Right. But what if you like to work? And the job has a shimmer of significance. Shouldn't you stick at your post, tapping away, as the water rises around your ankles? I always assumed the decision would be made for me. The paper would break apart in the typhoon battering professional journalism. Or I'd make some joke that is no longer funny and be frog-marched offstage.
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