<Illustration by Tel Aviv artist Yuval Robichek> I don’t usually post two days in a row. Yesterday’s somber deconstruction of conflicting raw emotions demanded from today, however, some little upswell of positivity, at the very least. As did I, as well. This aims itself in that direction. I hope it comes close to hitting its …
I’ve never shared a link to one of my own pages of past newspaper writing here as its own blog post however, the response in just the couple of days since I originally added this almost-30-year-old story to this site, and then mentioned it on social media, has been kind of amazing. It really seemed …
For more people than not, the expression “broken record” likely carries no literal meaning at this point. That generation is a couple past. Hell, even my own old-guy turntable has a broken lid and the stylus is duller now than even my late-night senses. So a new metaphor is likely in order here. See, I …
I am among the lucky who deeply experience the annual joys of seasonal affective disorder, even here in the South. For me, it kicks in each year about early September, as daylight hours noticeably start slipping away earlier, and earlier, and goddamnit, where did my day go? It’s a lousy thing, SAD. Symptoms overtake me …
I am sitting alone in the insect-humming dark of the back porch, stars stranded high above, satellites blinking past, drinking wine that isn’t helping. Because. Because, because, because, because, because … Because some days it’s like you’re standing all at once naked in the high roadside weeds, one thumb up and the other hand down, …
Hey, 2019, how’s about not being a fucking bastard, huh? Because after these past couple of humdinger years, I seriously don’t trust any of you any longer to get it right.
Tributes have been piling up for Anthony Bourdain since news of his death last Friday morning in a luxury hotel in Strasbourg, France. As tributes will when death intersects celebrity, particularly when suicide is the culprit. Tributes in this case are requisite, however. This was Anthony Bourdain, for chrissakes. Anthony Fucking Bordain! Former chef and …
When I die, and everything I have seen thus far in life suggests this will happen, despite my best efforts to pretend that black-gowned bony fella with the scythe who keeps inching closer in my rear-view mirror is just a very persistent and poorly dressed itinerant wheat farmer with a moonlighting Amway gig, and everything …
So it’s well after midnight, and my dear wife has awoken more than once to alert me to this, as Total Dingbat Kitty with the big paws snuffles and snorts his way through sleep in the plush pillow valley between us, and the chipped wine glass sits cold and empty in the air-conditioned computer light …