
Grill-roasted herb-buttered chicken breasts with roasted yams and Swiss Chard sauteed with garlic, red pepper flakes and crushed tomatoes. Served with Mia Prosecco ...
A little food, a little wine, a little commentary on our times ...
In 1993 I did a summer internship with the Los Angeles Times. It was the cherry Metro desk gig and I learned a lot covering urban violence:
A group of gang-ba
ngers out for a revenge hit fire-bombed a house. The wrong house. They killed a retired sanitation worker who was asleep in his bedroom. Later that summer a girl in her early 20s was found dead, her body stuffed in a green plastic garbage can that was filled with concrete. Another time a pregnant girl was hit by a stray bullet. Life in Los Angeles ...
I worked the Sunday through Thursday schedule. On weekends I would do my weekly pilgrimage to Golden Apple Comics on Melrose Avenue to get my weekly stash. One Saturday in August, not long before I had to return to school, I walked in to the comic store, through the metal detector and right into the surprised arms of Michael Jackson.
Black drain-pipe pants, red waist-coat jacket with gold epaulets, the black hat, aviator sunglasses and the eerily uncomfortable white surgical mask, he paused after we bumped chests, recoiled and said a quick, "sorry", his voice that faint baby's breath timber, otherworldly, but oddly recognizable.
I kept my cool. In Hollywood, you have to just accept that incredibly wealthy misanthropic legends walk among you. Legends who go to comic bookstores, surrounded by security. Security and about a half-dozen preteen-aged children, all boys. None were celebrities, at least none that I recognized. Macaulay Culkin was nowhere to be seen ...
He's been canonized a saint, but I think he was a sinner, a tragic figure.
The photographer David LaChapelle created this image of MJ and now it's been reproduced as a graffito poster on abandoned buildings and walls in Los Angeles. My brother Alan took this picture. It’s part of a gallery of images he’s captured on walks during his lunch break.
height of yuppie heroin chic hysteria in late-90s, I had the privilege of interviewing punk poet and rocker Jim Carroll while I was with People magazine.
I also like the understated “natural” version …

{{{Sigh}}} … guitars are purty …