All those smashed instruments and crying men. I’m never going to get that sound out of my ears, Chet. Never.
Between one moment and the next: life, breath, and other surprises.
It’s the light that kills me. Always the light.
When I was young, my grandmother did not wish for me to learn how to cook. But it wasn’t merely a wish—it was her rule.
I love to photograph my friend Camille because elegance is her native state.
One never knows, does one?
Some people look extraordinary in photographs. This friend is one of them. Who knew?
I love to drive through small towns to see how the other half lives.
The Good Luck Bonne Chance Raspa Stand is selling Cucumbers On a Stick tonight, covered in chili powder and lime. There’s World’s Best Corn in a Cup and Hot Fritos ‘n’ Xtra Cheese if you want them, and for a limited time only, you can get a Double Tiger’s Blood Raspa, Everybody’s Favorite Sno-Cone Treat.
Trick question: Is there anything easy about being a seventeen-year-old girl?
Happy Saint Patrick’s Daaa—. . . Oh, I just don’t have it in me.
Here are all the keys to my place, cleaning expert. I’m going to stay in a Motel 6 in Barbados until you call me, okay? Bye-byeeeeee!
When was the last time you adjusted to a new technology? A year ago? This morning? Last week?
“My name is Weegee. I’m the world’s greatest photographer.”
Wherever it is I go in my dreams, the rest of me, that dogged corporeal self, attempts to follow.
Wait— you want me to make how much pho?!?
Three words: Fiberglass pink gorilla.
What’s the secret of writing, you say? Well here it is: Write anyway.
Oh derber ber, der ber, der ber are ber, ber, ber. . .
To know how an artist functions in the world, look at how he takes criticism. Like, a LOT of criticism.
Soup shouldn’t burn through the floor, right?
Raise your hand if you forget your wedding anniversary someti— I mean, every year.
The Keebler Elves are here. They say you owe them money.
The Husband wants to know which part of the body is the babymaker.