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
Greenville’s favorite son is the poetically tragic Shoeless Joe Jackson, the illiterate millhand whom Babe Ruth called ‘the greatest hitter I had ever seen’
By Bill Kauffman
The mural painted on my envisioned Thelonious Monk Alley would feature images of little Thelonious in his fireman’s cap, surrounded by firemen, and the adult Thelonious at the piano
By Bill Kauffman
A circuit that was born in Batavia in 1939 died in Manhattan’s oppressive Time-Life Building
By Bill Kauffman
To read is to invite derision, especially if you grew up in a working-class town
By Bill Kauffman
