In “Why He’s My Ex,” women from six countries tell their true stories of past relationships — through intricate mini-set pieces.

Krums are the fried pieces of excess batter that drip or break off of the “real” food. Oh, how I coveted the mountains of Krums.

Photography is a learning process that eventually becomes a skill, and it’s a skill that eventually becomes a sense. I’m getting there.

As the song played I imagined that I was a secret agent carrying a top-secret mix tape from New York to Paris. It was easy to have spy fantasies on planes back when everyone smoked.

When Ray Bradbury’s wheelchair was pushed into the auditorium of the Los Angeles Public Library and situated next to me, I froze. I’m not fazed by rock stars, but authors are something else.

I remember things of no consequence. But the things that do stick with me have their own importance, even though they’re not of any practical use.

When we moved to Sri Lanka, I was six years old and already the biggest “Star Wars” fan on my block. But something happened there that made me a lifelong collector.

The shop was home to one of those carnival midway machines that would print any sequence of letters onto a souvenir coin. In essence, you were making your own money.

“What hotel are you going to, sir?” a taxi driver asks, and I remember a joke that came to me on the train: I tell them “I’m going to the Hotel Nunya.”

The brevity of haiku is not only the soul of wit, but also the soul of a harried teacher’s week-long poetry unit. Too bad we’re doing it wrong.