T.G.I.F.
Having discovered such a thing as the Mars Society in San Diego and its Friday night events calendar, my column was clear. In a way. It will certainly sound odd to say that I have …
The end of January, the fourth week into the new year of 2006, and I'm trying to free-associate or something, trying to find match-ups in the fleshy RAM that is my memory, riddled as it …
It is Friday the 13th in the a.m. as I write this. (I always want to follow sentences like that with something like, "... time is running out. Within moments they will be upon me.") …
I think I might assume that I am not alone in the aftermath of the holidays (whatever you need to call them), surrounded by yet unchucked gift wrappings, batteries; maybe your tree is still in …
Maybe this happens to you: I've been going through a period of, now, more than three months during which I have been unable to complete more than three book-length works of prose. To neither brag …
Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: “Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.” That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday. — Albert Camus, The Stranger …
The Dorseys, Louis Prima, Duke Ellington, the “Sweet Bands” like Sammy Kaye’s and “Blue Barron.” Guy Lombardo and Ralph Flanagan, I figure they’re all here somewhere tonight.
I was really scared at the top ’cause my dad said once it broke down at the top and it was stuck.
Freddie invites Belushi and Jesus onstage to select an audience member. Dick Nixon is chosen, a middle-aged guy who looks as if he might run a hardware store in the Midwest.
"The people that come out of these places in the Gaslamp are pretty bad, but not as bad as people who come out of the local bars. Like in Imperial Beach.”
I was walking along Revolucion when a barker called out to me, “Hey, Paul McCarthy!” Huh? He was pointing at a pretty good T-shirt, black and rose with a portrait of a famous Beatle, not Paul.