My son Andrew died six years ago today. He had just turned one. He was born just as the leaves were turning. He died just as the leaves were turning. We played a song from the musical Rent at his memorial service. It always makes us think of him. It goes, in part, like this. 525,600 minutes. 525,600 moments so . . .
The playwright August Wilson died a few weeks ago. He was a powerful and unique writer, and a powerfully unique man. Five years ago, I had the chance to interview him for a book I was writing, Confessions of a Hero-Worshiper. I was interested in Wilson because Confessions was about my childhood infatuation with Franco Harris, a football player with . . .
Much has been made in the media recently of the untended corpses in New Orleans, left on the street for days on end. Aside from issues of dignity, it certainly makes you wonder about health concerns. Especially when you read this BBC report about a supposed link between human remains and mad cow disease. I have to admit that whenever . . .