Sorellas is doing OK with takeout, while I’m doing OK, just OK, eating lasagna and drinking Nero at home on Saturday nights, desperately trying to recreate the back room by watching Wendy and Steve on Facebook Live.
Read MoreThe day the parade marches crisply down Broadway and pivots smartly onto Bolinas, with nary a twitch or tarry, will be the day it’s all over for Mayberry-on-Acid.
Read MoreYeah, that 65 was a peach. So good I had to hide all the names and genders and blur the details. And by good, I mean juicy. Innermost stuff. Deep, dark, judgmental.
Read MoreBest chapter ever is no longer available. Actually, it never was. Call it self-censorship. Or call it common decency. All about it in 66.
Read MoreRobert is nuts. Sure, he pretends to be nuts — wild, unpredictable, a cat to keep an eye on (standard show biz ruse — I mean, Carrot Top pretends he’s nuts). Doesn’t mean he’s not.
Read MoreI’m sitting at the center of the universe. But it’s not at the corner of Bolinas and Sherman. And Rev. Kang is nowhere in sight.
Read MoreIf Flo is anything, it’s the antithesis of macabre, the antidote even, joyfully alive in every fiber.
Read More“And we get down to the garage, and the door opens, and William Holden turns and says to me, ‘Are you coming with us?’”
Her expression is innocence verging on acquiescence, until she imperceptibly flicks the switch, unspooling, with a comedian’s timing, a dazzling repertoire of reactions.
Read MoreThis year’s Xmas/Hanukkah vacay turns into a bad trip — as in brown-dot acid bad. And you wonder why I hate the holidays?!? (Oh, and happy birthday, Dr. King.)
Read MoreWhat accident of spacetime, whose god, what astrophysics, biochemistry or legerdemain could have delivered us to each other’s company in this faraway corner of Eden?
Read MoreHe never talks about sports or girls. He talks about men — dead men, electrical engineering geniuses like Nikola Tesla and Philo Farnsworth.
Read MoreIt may be that I deserve daggers most of all for things Gio doesn’t know.
Read MoreHe was calm, focused and carried himself — even in a squat — with the muscular self-assurance of a senior executive accustomed to annihilating his quarterly KPI’s.
Read MoreSeems to me that, viewed as avant-garde abstraction or red-raw naturalism, the noises Dave makes are every bit as moving as “Autumn Leaves.”
Read MoreI’m a rocker. Baby, I’m a rocker. And if I’m not a young rocker anymore, well, never you mind.
Read MoreI had plans. One was to get drunk. The other, to sit down at table 10 and live-blog what happens next.
Read MoreCeremony of the 14 Bags? Miracle of the 14 Bags? All Bags Day?
Read MoreI don’t really know what a cuckoo sounds like, but today I heard him loud and clear.
Read MoreKang leaned closer and, in a voice I won’t call a whisper because it was simply his voice, said, “I’m the only Asian here.”
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