The recently deceased Pasadena-born conservative cultural historian Paul Fussell once said, “I find nothing more depressing than optimism.” Fussell died on May 23, 2012 and although his stepson Cole Behringer said the cause of death was “natural,” I suspect Fussell succumbed to depression brought on by the misplaced optimism embedded in Mark Zukerberg’s May 17 initial public offering of his dot com Facebook.

If passed, this initiative would limit any conservation in a dentist office to small talk: the weather, bad jokes, cute commercials, cat videos.

On Thursday, December 11, 2008 at 1:55 am, my father Frank’s right hand went numb. At the time, Frank was upstairs alone in bed watching his TV favorite, Seinfeld. It was episode number 16, The Chinese Restaurant.

Crows are the smartest birds in the world. Their intelligence surpasses some primates. Think of crows as flying chimps… with feathers… and a beak.

Are you texting while driving on the freeway? Take time to watch the new Amber Alert programming.

What’s the connection between REI and Aldous Huxley? Did the author of "Brave New World" wear a Primal Warrior dayglow spandex cycling jersey? Did he cross-Country ski? Or was it something only Nathan knows?

"They change the sky, not their soul, who run across the sea," said Horace, the Roman lyric poet. Think about where you are right now, he might have added. Do you want to leave? Do you want to see more of the macro-geographic world, and less of where you call home? Do you think that travel broadens your perspective? Don’t. Travel narrows the mind.

I’m recording this message now because when you hear it, we’ll all be dead. The iodine supplements won’t be enough to counteract the harsh dosage of radiation we’ve absorbed. Or maybe not. It’s been over a year since radiation overdrive. I’m not talking about the one at Fukushimi Daiichi. I’m talking about the one at Irvine’s Hoag hospital… in my gut.

judging from the televised public service announcements I’ve seen, I made a horrible mistake by befriending the cigarette crowd. Lured by the romance of nicotine ambiance and inspired talk, I was exposed to the monster of second hand smoke — smoke from a cigarette creeping through alleys, vents and hallways relentlessly until it finds a mark: Me.

I’m in Costa Mesa on Placentia near The Detroit Bar without my car. It’s in the shop — clutch problems. So I’m at a stop waiting for a bus to arrive. Perfect. I brought a book. The Angel Esmeralda is calling me. I’m reading when a homeless man with a black plastic sack filled with cans shows up. What can our troops in Afghanistan do for him?