Rutger Fury

Death of a Sleazeball

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I T'S a lucky man who can write his own eulogy. And this, dear reader, is mine. As I write

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I T'S SHOCKING. I was looking for a place to sleep when I happened to notice that the lights were

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D AWN is rolling in like vicious thunder and so are we, floating at speed across the Nevada wastes with

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1981. She was a kindergarten teacher from the sticks. He, heir to the throne of Great Britain. Together, their love

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I T'S BEEN a bad week. Monday morning I woke up late, burnt my toast, and dented my fender trying

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F EW OUTSIDE the New York literary scene are familiar with the esoteric pleasures of the most elite of the

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I T'S GOOD to be back in the pages of Cambridge's only breakfast table daily, and for those of you

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I T WAS nice and sunny the other day so I went out my garage and pulled the dustcover off

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A LL OVER the world, people are getting ready for that warmest of seasons, summer. Except, of course, in the

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O NCE AGAIN, as the high mountain snows, melting, add their crystal effluviance to the swelling gurgle of rivulets, and