When last we spoke, I was being schlepped onto the Cork Theater’s stage to do a star turn in “Rapture in Suede,” a production with which I’d only become familiar moments earlier when I read my name on the playbill. … Read on.
Not one for confessional writing (at least not since that psychology researcher claimed to be using my work to recalibrate their “diagnostic model”), permit me instead to attempt a new genre: the alibi.
This much I remember: we had an … Read on.
When I was a cub reporter at the Lumaville Daily Echo (in the last century, as I like to say to burnish the recollection with a sense of antiquity), a frequent request made of me by Old Editor Hedgebrow was … Read on.
In the early days of being a writer loosed in the Wine Country (which is to say nine months ago), I would often tell tasting-room attendants that I had a new-ish palate. Some would reply, “Funny, you don’t look new-ish,” … Read on.