This year, to celebrate my wife’s birthday, I showed her a traffic light
By Bill Kauffman
The city, not the waterfall, which remains a source of utter befuddlement
By Bill Kauffman
Albert Brisbane somehow avoided sharing the wealth with his neighbors
By Bill Kauffman
On the Abbeys and the Beats
By Bill Kauffman
The Jefferson Memorial still gives off a far better vibe than the Potomac anthills in which the self-important Get Things Done
By Bill Kauffman
I guess I’m just two degrees removed from Lime Jell-O fruit salad
By Bill Kauffman
Remember the last invigorating spasm before the body of the party achieved corpsehood?
By Bill Kauffman
On a March day in 1991, I watched a bittersweet rural New York version of ‘Hoosiers’ play out
By Bill Kauffman
Men and women of the working class, Catholic or not, are arraigned by progressive yappers for being socially retrograde
By Bill Kauffman
Mark Twain would be hopelessly out of favor with both wings of the modern duopoly
By Bill Kauffman
Jimmy Duncan is a man who knows his place, which is one of the highest compliments I can give
By Bill Kauffman
It’s hard to believe, but New York was a competitive state then
By Bill Kauffman
I pour myself a tumbler of rotgut and settle in with the names, these glorious names
By Bill Kauffman
American anarchism has always been a literary conceit more than a political (or anti-political) program
By Bill Kauffman
Few if any breakfasts equal those I’ve consumed at Coleen’s Kitchen
By Bill Kauffman
