My father was a food lover and a deadbeat dad, and maybe a connection between good food and bad dads was forged early, in the deepest folds of my subconscious, where we make so many decisions about our parents. J. R. Moehringer badconnectiondad share on social
Food still isn't my thing, but I've learned to respect its power and significance. J. R. Moehringer foodhavelearn Change image and share on social
Now, whenever I need to go online, I confine myself to a tight circle: Gmail, MLB.com, NYTimes.com, Slate and maybe Facebook. J. R. Moehringer circleconfinefacebook Change image and share on social
Like the Earth, the Web is a less appealing place than it used to be. If I want attitude and arguing and meanness and profanity and wrong information screamed at me as gospel, I'll get in a time machine and spend Christmas with my family in 1977. J. R. Moehringer appealargueattitude share on social
Vegas is like the old definition of writing: though I don't enjoy writing, I love having written. Though I didn't enjoy Vegas, I love having lived there. J. R. Moehringer definitionenjoylive Change image and share on social
You think you choose the subjects of your books. But sometimes, in ways you don't know, the books choose you. J. R. Moehringer bookchoosesubject Change image and share on social
I've been trying to write a book since before I was old enough to vote, and I've collected many rejection slips from publishers and magazines. I used to keep them all stuck to my refrigerator, with magnets, but an ex-girlfriend told me they were depressing, and defeatist, and suggested I take them down. A very wise suggestion on her part. J. R. Moehringer bookcollectdefeatist share on social
The greatest players use anger as fuel. Michael Jordan played every night with something like road rage. J. R. Moehringer angerfuelgreat Change image and share on social
Some of football's gaudiest displays of manliness are purely aesthetic. It's not what players do, it's how they look doing it. J. R. Moehringer aestheticdisplayfootball Change image and share on social
In Zurich, in a cafe overlooking the Limmat, I ate butter-drenched white asparagus pulled from the ground that morning; it had the aftertaste of champagne. I've been able to appreciate epic meals in San Francisco, New Orleans, Berlin, Paris, Las Vegas. J. R. Moehringer aftertasteasparagusberlin share on social