Homelessness frightens me greatly...
I think it was my son’s first encounter with black humor, but more to the point, I think it may have been his first glimpse of the way men are friends with each other.
That men lead lopsided personal lives is possibly not an original observation but something worth mentioning. During my last excursion into romantic folly, I would turn down opportunities to spend time with these friends and others if I thought I might spend the time with HER. My almost complete neglect of my friendships is something I still wince over. Fortunately, both Mack and Steve have been there too and might do their own wincing now and again.
Feb. 20, 1992 | Read full article
San Diego Zoo. The odds of standing front to back for anything at any given time in San Diego are increasing constantly.
One method of making contact with our neighbors here -- and we seem to want to -- is at the bus stop, in line at Sav-On, or at Pacific Bell in North Park. If conversation isn't established in/on line, your moment in the spotlight arrives when you pay your fare to the bus driver or your phone bill to the clerk behind the glass who is certainly in no hurry.
March 5, 1998 | Read full article
El Niño has struck. Mission Valley looks like the Mekong Delta. Rain sluices through the branches and leaves of the chinaberry tree outside my window, and my next-door neighbor’s camper resounds like muted, distant gunfire with pellet-like raindrops on its tarp and metal surface.
Photo by Sandy Huffaker, Jr.
El Niño has struck. Mission Valley looks like the Mekong Delta. Rain sluices through the branches and leaves of the chinaberry tree outside my window, and my next-door neighbor’s camper resounds like muted, distant gunfire with pellet-like raindrops on its tarp and metal surface. I should be cackling with perverted happiness. I try rubbing my hands together with glee, and then I notice the drowned nasturtiums my girlfriend planted beneath that tree.
Mar. 5, 1998 | Read full article
After the six blocks back and forth to Ralphs for aspirin, cough medicine, soup, and cheap scotch, I am winded and wheezing like a ruined accordion.
I have Butt-Head on the phone while I'm holding paper towels to my Adam's apple, dripping blood on the couch. I hang up and go back in the shower and pull the thing out. I'm operating on myself after paying Dr. X and Igor $50 with a balance due of $110. Meanwhile, I think I'm hearing "Saber Dance" from an old Ed Sullivan Show as I pull ten miles of surgical string out of my bleeding neck.
April 9, 1998 | Read full article
Author John Brizzolara and his son. Remember that life is mostly failure.
The moment you were born at, I think, 3:02 a.m. at Beth Israel Hospital on Manhattan’s east side, I remember thinking: I have never done anything important before. If you are lucky and have a kid like yourself and the asshole gene doesn’t skip a generation and my traits crop up in your child, you will have a large degree of happiness in your life, and it will help you weather the worst of things.
January 27, 2000 | Read full article
The meat of it, the wine of it, the essence of what I am now looking down upon as it eclipses the space bar on my keyboard: the very housing of my soul.
Photo by Sandy Huffaker, Jr.
It all comes down to a matter of vanity, I suppose. I would prefer to revert to my whip-thin rock ’n’ roll weight of 150 pounds when I was 25 years old. It would be preferable not to hesitate in taking off my shirt at the beach. I would rather see my profile in the mirror as more Brad Pitt than Alfred Hitchcock. Possibly this is the price of the growth of the soul.
Jan. 18, 2001 | Read full article