My wife called me,”the walking anus of the universe.”
I’m not sure what this means, nor am I sure of why she chooses to call me “the walking anus of the universe” instead of her usual: “Self-absorbed, jerk off, butt hook.”
I sense her new description of me does not reflect well on my character. Continue reading
I’m stretched out on my simulated leather recliner a few nights ago, the first half hour of the Cops marathon complete. I’m spent. I’m a top-tier cultural anthropologist, but I have been bested by information overload, overwhelmed by too much insight into the real America, Trump’s America. Continue reading
They’re all gone, but me.
I have a photo, a black and white pastogram.
A group of five young men gather atop a pile of rubble, in front of a single-story brick structure in Boulder, Colorado. A sign fixed to the building indicates the place is occupied by Rolands Beauty Salon.
It is late winter, 1966.
The photo is of a group of musicians that, with one departure and two arrivals, would become the Pleasant Street Blues Band, taking the name from a street in Boulder. The band would end up playing little blues music and there would be few things pleasant about it. Continue reading
Six things I’d rather not do:
