Whenever I am at a loss for words and I'm just not sure what to say, I think about how control is an illusion and I say "Ya-ta-hey."

I grew up in Redding, California. That part of Northern California is more like Alabama than it is San Francisco. Hence, it could be called "Calibama."

A friend told me about this experience. I cannot name names but he insisted it was a true story. The "Phil" mentioned is not retired Senator from Texas "Phil Graham," I don't care what he says, he was not there: the evidence is conclusive.

The homophobic Reverend was embroiled in a homosexual sex and crystal meth scandal in 2006. This was my rally song for him. I was hoping he would preach on why it is not bad to be gay. INstead he went and got reprogrammed.

After a brief hiatus out in the weeds, I found myself back on my own course, but what to do if the force knocks me off my horse and breaks the resolve of my frame to sustain?

Don Bolles was a newspaper reporter who was killed in Phoenix, Arizona in 1976 while investigating a land deal that was closely tied to the Mafia. He was blown up in front of the Hotel Clarendon, and I had a scary experience at the same hotel…

Lyrics: Skip ahead to her in pants, watch her dance in the living room in front of all the other dinner guests. She thumbs her nose at simulacra, but someone must play Cleopatra in the PTA's yearly drama fest. Her husband broke his body…

A true story about a transcendent summer job I had with Scott Shoffner.