“The problem with surveys,” an old editor of mine once told me as I proudly handed him copy I compiled based largely on the results of a survey, “is that you can find one to tell you whatever you want to hear.”

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The days are getting shorter, the nights are getting a bit crisper and the offerings at coffee shops are getting a little pumpkin-spicier. Yes, indeed, Wednesday marked the first day of fall, and maybe the world’s a slightly better place for that very reason.

There are a lot of things that I don’t know. Or, at the very least, a lot of things that I don’t understand.

If a gentleman goes by the name of “Treetop Lover” to the ladies, and the men just call him “Sir,” well, it stands to reason that you better just beware of said gentleman.

When the zombies arrive — and, oh, they will arrive — where do you want to be to give you the best chance of survival? Huntington Beach, Calif.? Bellevue, Wash.? Selbyville?

They come from a variety of different backgrounds, races, genders, political-belief systems and religions, but there are a few common denominators in the people I consider to be my closest friends — they’ve never screwed me over, and they have the ability to make me laugh.

During a random conversation last week, Point Publisher and rabid postcard collector Susan Lyons was telling me about a postcard she had seen in a newsletter from one of her hobby sites that shared a photo of “The Famous Coleman Frog” of Frederictown, New Brunswick.

Surprisingly enough, I actually collect a few thoughts before I sit down to write this thing every week. I’m not claiming they are strong thoughts or, heck, even coherent thoughts. But they are mine, and they usually help me start out this column with at least the semblance of a plan on wher…

On July 4, 1776, the Second Continental Congress stuck a collective thumb in the figurative eye of Great Britain by unanimously adopting the Declaration of Independence.

While a room filled with police officers and masked people can conjure images of a bank heist gone terribly wrong, there was an entirely different vibe coming out of Signatures at Bayside on Friday, May 7: one of appreciation.

American poet Maya Angelou held more than 50 honorary degrees, championed civil rights, worked with both Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., and penned more stunningly beautiful words than the world around her really had a right to absorb, if we’re being completely honest. In totality, she…

Was that a pulse I felt? The beating heart of a community coming back to life? A sliver of hope in the form of... massive blocks of ice and a motorized hot dog?

Has there ever been a more roundly-anticipated end to a year than the don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-where-the-good-Lord-split-you collective middle finger thrust forward by the collective soul of humanity to 2020?

If there’s one thing that’s, hopefully, grown deep inside all of us during these curve-flattening, soul-sucking, economy-obliterating, life-stealing months of COVID-Mania, it is the concept of appreciation.

If there is one thing I can be grateful about in this twisted, depressing, toilet-paper-lacking, heart-breaking, economy-busting, Zoom-infested year of ours, it’s that, well, I am indeed thankful.

In 1992, at the age of 19, Eduard Seitan immigrated to the United States from Romania, according to a story on Today.com. Though he didn’t speak a lick of English, he did speak Italian, which helped him secure a job as a food runner at Italian restaurant Club Lucky in Chicago.