My first bicycle was dragged home by my father, a papa cat bringing his cub a wounded mouse to hunt.
The Rusty Rat
The Little Kitchen With the Sad Telephone
My mother held the telephone to her ear and sobbed.
The Road Trip
Four a.m.: The big V-8 growled to life and the speakers blared:
A Memorial Day Story
They were a typical 1920s Iowa farm family with a bumper crop of sons who someday would provide free labor:
Park La Brea
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 […]
Waiting for the Wind to Blow Me Away
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.
17 Butterflies
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.
251. The Love You Take Is Equal to the Love You Make
Deciding to leave Los Angeles meant figuring out what to do with myself once my last movie wrapped.
250. All the Greenery Is Comin’ Down, Boy
I left Upstate South Carolina at age 18. In the seven years that followed I went to art school, managed a record store, fell in love, got a dog, dropped out of […]
249. Scratch the Ice Let the Telephone Ring
Int., Su Casa Apartment #207, Night: Peter Gabriel’s Passion on the stereo. I walk to the kitchen and grab a knife from the silverware drawer. It is cheap and dull. I carve […]
