A friend insists there’s a financial future in tattoo removal. For whoever can figure out how to get the ink out of the skin of all those Millennials instead of just blurring the death-before-dishonor or the name of that hot bod who is now sleeping with someone else.
In January, hereabouts, however, facial tissue as the groceries call Kleenex and its derivatives, has got to be where’s it’s at. This is cedar fever season in Central Texas, the time for nose-blowing and sneezing. And my annual promise to move to Alpine soonest. When Mr. B. goes off to college, I may do just that—at least every January.