(I wrote a handful of pieces for a Why It Matters manuscript that I never posted here.
No day in the life of a kid is more exciting than Christmas Eve.
Not all children are innocents, but I was.
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 […]