If you ever get the chance to join the Charleston Rifle Club, jump on it. That place is a portal into 1948. Plus, the bowling lanes are in mint condition. Honestly, it would make for a fabulous documentary. I bowl in a league every Tuesday night with a bunch of men who bitch and moan about AARP. I'd say three hips are broken, on average, every season. Chain smoking Pall Malls isn't mandatory, but it cetainly helps your chances of being accepted. And for you ladies out there, you're free to join the Women's Auxiliary so long as your husband or father is a member of the club. I'll have to take a digital camera next week to share the magic with you.

Captain America, R.I.P. The symbolism is blinding.

Two Corvette dealerships are loving it right about now. I want one in cherry red glitter with a whale tail that shoots out oil like in Spy Hunter.

Are American women too tired for sex? I don't know, but American preteens are definitely not.

If you haven't noticed, I'm all about this playlist thing. I'll settle down to one per week in the future. Maybe some sort of theme. Until that day, enjoy the tunes . . .