I’ve been taking White Fang to a nearby soccer field, where she sniffs the stinky scents left by the kids who play there on weekends and thinks -- momentarily at least -- how good they might taste on toast.
Did you hear that they no longer publish Parade Magazine, America’s greatest guilty pleasure since 1941? Feels like a bigger loss than it probably should.
My buddies boost me, understand me, inspire me, disappointment me. It’s like owning a Welsh rugby club.
Call it Cupidity, a system of beliefs, kind of a pedagogy, that encourages kind gestures.
Is L.A. the loneliest and most brutal of American cities? Kerouac thought so. What do you think?
Finding love in L.A. is like finding iridium in rocks, quite rare but it happens. Iridium comes to Earth in meteorites. So does love. Be careful is all I’m saying.
For Halloween, my granddaughter dressed like Frida Kahlo, inspired by her own passion for Mexican Cubist painting. Or perhaps Catty Cakes just liked the pom-pon hat.
Look at me in the Ditka sweater vest I wore for Halloween. I look like a giant tube of testosterone, no? OK, no.
I love my granddaughter. I love goal-line stands. I love Karen Carpenter. Love is love.
It is homecoming weekend here at the University of Trees. Love that word: Homecoming. It’s the season for such things.