Well into the first month of a New Year, Your Reporter finds himself cold-sick and sniffling, having sacrificed yet another six dollar brolly to the rainswept side streets of Lower Pacific Heights; a being of relative penury and lack of … Continue reading
We live with the real @frankie_wah. The Twitter version, I told a friend, is a cartoon and he isn’t the same thing. Behind us my Best Beloved growled, But not far off. Continue reading
In the words of Sly Stone, ‘heard ya missed me, well I’m back’: although, thankfully, my living situation is not of the four-wheeled, camper-van variety in which the profligate Mr. Stewart now unfortunately resides. What follows is my contribution to the mother of a fanzine that is the 300th issue of The Drink Tank. Continue reading
Getting down to the final scenes in the Bobby Dollar first draft. I’m leaning toward saving “Sleeping Late on Judgement Day” for the third volume and calling this one “The Dirty Streets of Heaven.” Continue reading
So then: yet another nabbed opportunity for your correspondent, to mark time before it marks his only occasionally sorry self. And have we ever charged, trucked, slumped and galumphed manfully along since our last installment: through the cruel into the … Continue reading
Well, it’s a relief to know that when I get time to write I can still do it. But poor Bobby Dollar, angel without portfolio, is in a lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want to be one of my characters when I’m in a bad mood. My divorce earned Simon Mooncalf about three months on the wheel of torment. Continue reading
Even the dogs, beset by house-sale events, are building themselves defensive forts. Continue reading
It was like a bad movie, except instead of just the milkman running out the backdoor with his clothes, it was Deb, our assistant Dena, and me all carrying dogs and laptops and dirty towels while the realtor and a nice-looking couple looked on, bemused. Continue reading