There were several ways to tell big kids from little ones during the ’70s.
Larry wasn’t the coolest kid in the neighborhood, but he owned the coolest bicycle.
My first bicycle was dragged home by my father, a papa cat bringing his cub a wounded mouse to hunt.
My mother held the telephone to her ear and sobbed.
Four a.m.: The big V-8 growled to life and the speakers blared:
They were a typical 1920s Iowa farm family with a bumper crop of sons who someday would provide free labor:
I walked down Santa Monica Boulevard, past the hustlers lurking near clubs named Offshore Drilling and Spike, past the Pussycat Theater and its chlorinated darkness. I turned left on Fairfax and walked […]
My time in the military was brief, but at the risk of sounding vainglorious, during that period I was perhaps the most important individual in our great nation’s security mechanism.
While filing albums a couple of nights ago, I found a greeting card. It was stuck in a box of pens, computer cables, record cleaner, more pens, and a few pocket notebooks.
Deciding to leave Los Angeles meant figuring out what to do with myself once my last movie wrapped.