I'm an old-fashioned guy.
Chadron had a water tower, grain elevators, a tanning salon, a video rental store, a small liberal arts college, a Hardee's, a stoplight, and a curling yellow sign in the pet store window that read, 'Hamsters and Tarantulas Featured Today.'
Classics which at home are drowsily read have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the transom of a merchant brig.
There’s nothing as glamorous to me as a record store.
I'm the old-school, letter-writing romantic. I know it's out of style, and not a lot of women go for that these days, but that's what I go for.
If a shop has a neon Superman logo in the window, I will enter. If it has a neon Superman logo in the window, a Bat-symbol next to it, and a dragon under the eaves, I am already inside.
I have a soft spot for vintage movie houses covered in goo; what can I say?
There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love.
Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but black and white films still hold an affectionate place in my heart; they have an incomparable mystique and mood.
I love things that are old and glittery, that come with layers of glamour and past lives.
The ukulele has always appealed to the older generation.
It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened.
Old Vespas are very appealing to me. I love the way they feel. I love the way they smell. I love the curves on them. I have one of the earliest Vespas ever made, from the 1950s.
There's a joy without canker or cark, There's a pleasure eternally new, 'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that's ancient and blue.
I think that's something that always enticed me about the '40s - back then, the glamour and the style - you couldn't really make it up. You just were or you weren't. You either fit in that world or you fit in the other. Things were very cut and dry. Things were simple. There wasn't a whole lot of excess or flash to be flashy; it was real flash, and real excitement.
The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.
Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg.
