Tag Archives: Sunday

The force is strong

I’ve never been a huge Star Wars fan,  but it’s hard not to get caught up in all the excitement about the premiere of the latest installment…


Especially since I helped capture a stormtrooper last weekend outside a museum near Chicago.

Typical Sunday morning kinda stuff,  you know how it is.

Create, create, create

I was having a kind of blah Sunday.

Nothing wrong, but not inspired….just blah.

Then I found the work of artist Mel Bochner online. Look at what he was able to create around the very same idea —


Now, that’s inspiring!

(So is the rest of his portfolio. Check it out.)



I have never been good at napping.

Today I learned how.

Barely woke up in time to write this…and am wondering how long I have to stay awake for it to count.

Rory Dog and I are in total agreement on this, which is awesome.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

Sunday morning pickle

Rory and I saw many interesting things during our early morning walk in the neighborhood.

A barefoot walk of shame. A ‘professional’ photographer taking snaps through a storefront window. Twinkling pickle lights.

Yeah, that last one was our favorite, too.

pickle lights







And now I’ve found them online!

Aren’t you just green with envy?!



What’s left of me at week’s end.

Saturday and Sunday,  you have never been more welcome or more needed.

We shall overcome.

Order up

I appreciate brunch.

That’s a good thing, ’cause in New York City, brunch is king.

It’s not just for Sundays, either. Lots of restaurants offer it on Saturday, too. And it’s not an option, either — you eat brunch or nothing at all.

That’s the part that doesn’t fit with the city itself.

New Yorkers do what they want, when they want, and we all define that differently. Do restaurants really think we can agree on a meal…even on the weekend?

Good luck with that.

The seventh day

The Internet is an amazing thing.

While doing a Google search yesterday for I-can’t-remember-what, I stumbled across an image of this Edward Hopper painting.

Appropriately enough, it’s called “Sunday.”

The moment I saw it, I was transported back to Ireland.  I spent two glorious weeks there back in 1997.  One of the first locals I spoke with was an older gentleman, sitting outside his flat in Limerick, in a pose reminiscent of Hopper’s rendering.

He let me take his picture, too.

His name was Jack O’Shea, and he had a large, toothless grin and sunny disposition.  That’s his dog Pavarotti seated next to him.  The two didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

That’s what lazy Sundays are all about.