The French Quarter In January

Chicago is an icy hellscape, so I decide to celebrate the new year with a trip to New Orleans. It’s 71 °F when I step out of Loui Armstrong Airport and into the sticky heat of the south. My driver says he moved to New Orleans from Jordan six years ago. He gives me a

Do Not Read

The internet told me that Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House is said to be “one of the best literary ghost stories published during the 20th century”. Horror nerds fill the forums with corroborating praise. So, I drove to the used book store and I bought a copy and started reading. The book caused

Witches Brew

October feeds my oversized idealism, ballooning it to grotesque dimensions. Idyllic as they are, the many charms of warm weather months cannot equal October when the satin breeze of hunting season stokes the crackling hearth. When the pantry is ripe with harvest-fresh apples, and lanes with marigolds are fragrant, the soul leaps and sings the

When In Dallas

Visit 400 Grandi. I recommend the Tagliatelle Alla Bolognese. It’s a dense mound of pasta ribbons dressed in meat ragu. The taste and texture is from another world. The dish conquered my ageusia. Order the Salami Board for savory tidbits of cured meats and cheeses, Italian bread and pickled vegetables for a pre-entree rehearsal. If

Being A Grown Up Feels Like Punishment

I have a giant, existential chip on my shoulder. My default emotional state is bored, gloomy irritation. Especially with the chores and social obligations that make up the bulk of waking life. I resent the passionless, undifferentiated routines of adulthood. It takes a lot to make my happy. It takes very little to upset me.

Sentencing

I am the dark overlord of the twenty first century and I sentence all to death by never-ending, mundane complexity.

It’s Almost Time

It’s morning and winter’s gray stiffness pins me to the dirt. Somewhere, in a narrow crawl space of my mind, there is the inkling of hazy disappointment. It’s the first day of spring and I’m cold. Not chilly. Not in need of a light jacket to get me through the short frostiness of daybreak. I’m

I Was Wrong About Trump

It certainly appears so, at least.  Biden didn’t win. Corporate media knows it. Politicians know it. The American people know. The world knows. Trump knows that his historic, landslide victory was stolen by the same people that talk about democracy and suffrage like sacrosanct entitlements from God.  The statistical anomalies are unprecedented. The impossibly massive

Obedience and Showing You Care

Have you heard of this bologna called love languages? The idea is people give and receive love in different ways. That’s pseudoscience. There is one love language: obedience to arbitrary rules.

Boomer Parenting # 27

The words “I’m sorry” should not be in a parent’s vocabulary. Apologies are a slippery slope. “I was wrong” is a cursed phrase, for Pandora’s Box has opened. Suddenly, you’re expected to take responsibility instead of blame shifting. No thanks. I didn’t sign up for that!