"'Tis the season to be Mason!" cheers Matthew Rhys, who sounds markedly happier—downright gleeful, really—than he did on my last phone call with him. It was August 2020, AKA the season finale of Perry Mason, AKA the second wave of the pandemic. I'm pretty sure we talked about burgers through the brain fog, both of us, delirious as we celebrated our six-month anniversary inside. So, strangely, hearing Rhys and his damn good mood feels like a milestone. Is it true? Are we allowed to peek behind the wall, and dare to get excited about something again? Rhys and Michael Begler are here with your exclusive first look of Perry Mason Season Two, which includes, but certainly isn't limited to: a vintage Harley Davidson motorcycle, a murder case, and a new team that's already "very much drifting apart."
"'Tis the season to be Mason!" cheers Matthew Rhys, who sounds markedly happier—downright gleeful, really—than he did on my last phone call with him. It was August 2020, AKA the season finale of Perry Mason, AKA the second wave of the pandemic. I'm pretty sure we talked about burgers through the brain fog, both of us, delirious as we celebrated our six-month anniversary inside. So, strangely, hearing Rhys and his damn good mood feels like a milestone. Is it true? Are we allowed to peek behind the wall, and dare to get excited about something again? Rhys and Michael Begler are here with your exclusive first look of Perry Mason Season Two, which includes, but certainly isn't limited to: a vintage Harley Davidson motorcycle, a murder case, and a new team that's already "very much drifting apart." |
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Cappuccinos, lattes, flat whites, iced cappuccinos (!), iced lattes, americanos, doppios, and more. All at the press of a button. |
| Love stories, confusing Santa plots, Rob Lowe. The streamer has it all. |
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It began innocently enough. One morning I was racing to get the twins to preschool, an endeavor that sounds as simple as driving from point A to point B, but which in fact (as parents know) tends to resemble a high-pressure race against time in a movie about hostage negotiators. Having packed the nut-free snacks, having filled the water bottles, and having strapped the twins into their labyrinthine car seats in spite of having lost 30 minutes pleading with them to put on their socks, I exhaled a sigh of relief and flicked on the car radio. When I heard the song, I laughed. So did the twins. After all, the song sounded funny. That's the thing about jazz fusion: it sounds ridiculous, and the central nervous system of any sentient creature will immediately recognize this. |
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And it's $215 off right now. |
| You owe her for all those secrets she (hopefully) kept for you. |
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To begin to understand, you have to go back to early 1971, when West Covina's "monkey trial" captivated this small California city about twenty miles east of Los Angeles. St. James and LaDonna Davis were in court, found in violation of a city ordinance against harboring a wild animal — a young chimpanzee they'd kept in their home nearly from birth. The chimp, named Moe, rode to the courthouse shotgun in St. James's jet-black 1932 Ford roadster. Dozens of spectators lined up outside the Citrus municipal courthouse to catch a glimpse of the Davises and their monkey. St. James was a tall, handsome mechanic and race-car driver. His young wife, LaDonna, was a sun-kissed blond with wholesome good looks. Holding St. James's hand, Moe, decked out in a checkered shirt, white trousers, and shoes, entered the courthouse to cheers. Inside, he shook hands and waved to his supporters. He kissed the court reporter and jangled the keys of the bailiff. |
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