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Chris Erskine• E-mail
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Recent Columns:
I have no time or patience for sentiment. But it occurs to me that there's a little 6-year-old in all sports fans -- or at least there should be. Six-year-olds don't worry about drug tests or collective-bargaining agreements. They don't care about Scott Boras' counteroffer, or what the presiding officer has to say about blood-alcohol levels.
I try to keep moving, just so they don't toe-tag me and send me off to the morgue. I run in the mornings and lift in the evenings, mostly beer and the on-sale Chardonnays.
If you don't like Orange County, you don't like America.
Add taxes to the things I hate -- Valentine's Day, toll roads, pasta salad (not a pasta, not a salad). Now there's taxes too.
At this year's Wimbledon, there has been much ado about grunting.
At this year's Wimbledon, there has been much ado about grunting.
By some accounts, it's been a long summer. One week in, and Posh is ready to jump from a bridge (preferably one in Paris or San Francisco, where the shopping is decent and you can get a really good cup of coffee).
If you prefer your heroes a little flawed, but very real, make room at the table this morning for John Daly, a super-sized athlete formerly too big for the game he chose: golf, where most of the violence takes place in your head.
This is the quirkiness we will miss, one of the oddities that will leave life a little empty after our teenager jets off to college in August, miserable August, only two months away.
I love a parade.