As you may know, I come from very humble beginnings. I was born in a DMV line in Woodstock, Illinois.
Farewell, you painful, overpriced sport. I'd rather be tied to a horse and dragged through the Century City Mall than put on one more pair of rental ski boots.
These mountains always fluff me up. I come out of the Eastern Sierra like a big load of cotton sheets, warm and smelling of French butter.
I'm taking the tree trunk to my pal Serdar, who turns Christmas stumps into soup spoons and other keepsakes -- ornaments, baseball bats, pestles, nose rings, whatever.
With Christmas, as with LA, there’s such a fine line between good and evil. Like some sort of cotton candy fence.
College football's brand should be based right here, in the shadow of these stained-glass mountains, where every Jan. 1 the drum lines flail and the angels cheer.
Psssssst, here’s America’s dirty little secret: There is no record of anyone ever keeping a New Year’s resolution.
The way my daughter crisps the au gratin potatoes transcends all the superlatives in my arsenal: buttery, bitchin’, luscious, boffo.
Christmas hurts sometimes, when you are alone, or missing loved ones who are far away. Certainly, this Covid Christmas only aggravates that.
As you know, words can be bourbon, words can be gin.