I’m headed to the beach with friends next week for an end-of-the-summer blow-out. And it’s a safe bet that while I’m there that someone at some point will produce a joint.

Red Hook, the pointy-headed, square-mile peninsula in south Brooklyn, has taken its hits over the years.

 At dinner with friends, I sometimes recall stories about my “brushes with fame,” or close encounters with celebrities, and the one story that never fails to win me undivided attention concerns t

 From time to time Joan Oleck will write about inexpensive day trips in the five boroughs.

The mane of golden hair has gone gray now; and the face at times reflects its owner’s 70 years.

Ummmmm….summer and biking.

My kid wants to see the new horror movie Orphan.

Ooh, my aching knees—they “talk” to me every time I descend a staircase; and because I live on the fourth floor of a Brooklyn walk-up, these aging, arthritic joints are pretty damned chatty.

On July 20, 1969, at about 7 in the morning Western European time, I was comfortably snoozing away in a rented bedroom in Florence, Italy, when there came a thunderous pounding at the door. “Get up!

Okay, I’ve done it. I’ve gone to the hardware store, purchased a length of chain link, and padlocked away—yes, padlocked—my thirteen-year-old’s Mac computer in a cabinet.