About the BloggerPatrick Donohue is the proudest Indiana native you're likely to find. Seriously. No one is prouder to be from a state that so many people know relatively so little about than he is. Patrick is a native of Terre Haute and a graduate of the Ernie Pyle School of Journalism at Indiana University. Knowing this, you might think he’d be a huge John "Cougar" Mellencamp fan, a man considered by some to be the Hoosier State's poet laureate. But you'd be wrong. In a major way. | Email Patrick
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Few things frustrate me more than an author who, upon painting a rich portrait of his world and its characters, delivers a lackluster resolution to the book’s central plot points and conflicts.
It’s the literary equivalent of a quarterback leading a game-winning drive then fumbling at the goal line.
In his latest novel, “Say Nice Things About Detroit,” author Scott Lasser channels his inner John Elway, or more appropriately, Detroit Lions great Bobby Layne, and delivers a novel as compelling in its conclusion as in the preceding chapters.
The political season, in all of its mudslinging, fact-bending glory, is upon us, and I have some questions for the two men seeking our nation’s highest elected office.
Those questions require answers. They require a debate.
No, I’m not talking about yet another wonky, bone-dry affair in which the candidates talk just long enough to pivot to one of their talking points, treat the moderator like the teacher from Charlie Brown and try to do whatever they can not to offend those most coveted among us — the undecided voter.
Although I consider myself a fan of Mike Birbiglia’s comedy, I had my reservations about the limited release of his largely autobiographical new film, "Sleepwalk with Me."
The film, which was written, directed and produced by Birbiglia and co-produced by “This American Life” host Ira Glass, was all I feared it would be and made me question whether the trip to Charleston — home to the closest theater showing the film — had been worthwhile.
The heat of the summer, at long last, seems to be dissipating, and I have a new lease on life.
This transformation, from incurably grumpy to not, is a yearly one for me as the seasons change from summer to what the rest of America knows as “fall.”
I’ve taken to calling it, “That Time of Year When I Finally Stop Sweating and Dreaming of Life in Nova Scotia.”
From mid-May through September, I convince myself that only alligators, snakes and sand fleas are truly meant to live in this swamp of a place.
I’ve never been a big fan of literary fads or of the novelist-of-the-moment.
Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Lethem, Jonathan Safran Foer — and pretty much every other author named Jonathan — may have garnered praise for many of their books, but I often found their work bleak and hopeless or totally overwritten.
So when the literati heaped praise upon Chad Harbach’s debut novel, “The Art of Fielding,” last year, I had my reservations.
I described to a friend Monday, in language that could charitably be described as colorful, a loss I still felt in the depths of my soul.
The anger. The frustration. The sadness and, finally, the acceptance.
It was a familiar feeling.
This is the Four Stages of Being a Philadelphia Eagles Fan. This is what happens when we lose, and we often do.
“Why don’t you just pick another team? Like a good team?” my friend asked, innocently.
Practical and pragmatic as I might be in nearly every other aspect of my life, this question struck me as wildly implausible.
Let’s face it, a lot of the apps available for our mobile devices are designed to appeal to our vanity.
And as much as I wish I could say that the app I’ve used the most recently was one that helps save whales or trees or is otherwise beneficial to society as a whole, it wouldn’t be true.
Not even a little.
Before the release of Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” in 2000, our perception of restaurant kitchens and of life on the line were very different.
As diners, we had a romanticized notion of what was happening beyond that mysterious swinging door near the men’s room: Well-groomed chefs in bright white chefs jackets, tall toques perched improbably atop their heads as they maneuver like ballerinas through the kitchen, talking intelligently about the food being prepared. Likely in French.
September is shaping up to be a great month.
The suffocating humidity that has blanketed the area for months is beginning to dissipate, football is back and there is a ton of good music slated for release this month.
Mumford and Sons, Band of Horses, The Killers and, after a 13-year hiatus, Ben Folds Five will all release new studio LPs in the weeks to come to much fanfare and anticipation.
Twelve months ago this week, the column you’re reading first appeared in this section ... and a legend was born.
Or, at the very least, a regular feature of your Thursday newspaper was born.
I prefer the former, but to each his own.
Nevertheless, occasions such as this typically provide an opportunity for a columnist to get a little introspective and opine about what a privilege it has been to write the column and so on.
“If you’ve had half as much fun reading this as I’ve had writing it,” blah, blah, blah.