Dear old Squiffy was always rather a lad for the wassail-bowl. When I met him in Paris, I remember, he was quite tolerably blotto.

Mr. Ray’s sculpture is a big-budget production that may become rare in the years ahead, but looking at it and gradually realizing that none of its delicate, desiccated textures are natural is a semihallucinatory experience.

When we were in Los Angeles, we went to the taping of the television show The Price is Right.

Only in 2007 they are less about pure socialism than a kind of suburbanized version of it.