I lost my entire fortune in the Great Depression of 2022. Yet, like most tycoons, I plan to start over again. At the race track.
Toss these babies on the little grill to meld, weld, fester, ferment, gurgle, kiss, cuddle and waba-waba, till they become the finest beach dessert you ever had.
We’re back in California, that Greek myth, a state that flew too close to the sun.
After Smartacus left, White Fang became an ironic, super-bored princess -- you know the type. Shaggy manes. Legs like palm trees. Look so great climbing out of a pool.
"We're going to the North Pole," I tell her. Actually, we're off to fetch Smartacus, her cheeky sidekick, her partner in grime.
By the end of this roadtrip, I'm quite smitten with your basic, garden-variety giraffe.
Soon, the clocks will change. Pollen will coat the window sills. The sun will blast the flowers, turn them into hard candy. Boy and girls will drop easy pop flies.
I recommend this red wine as a cure-all for insomnia, disenchantment, athlete’s foot, hair loss, gout. This isn’t Gatorade they’re pouring. It’s more like a bloody steak. Yum.
I’m spending Mardi Gras with my own personal Bacchus (Bittner) up here amid the grapes. “Sonoma,” they call it. Rhymes with coma.
Welcome, Super Bowl visitors. We have a river that’s not actually a river -- your icemaker probably has more juice. And in Pasadena, there’s a Lake Street but no lake.