Let us give thanks for peculiar things. The other morning, driving down old Route 66, I came across a huge tumbleweed sitting in the middle of the road in the heart of the ghetto.
The loveliest season of the year is kicking in--the sky is painful and melancholy in its colors; the grasses burn greener, on their way to winter slumber.
Since I last posted a note to y'all, I've read in Chicago 4 times, NYC twice, Seattle 3 times, and El Paso once.
Dear Faithful Reader(s): the new one's out, and I really like it. I've always wanted a black cover, and this one's beautiful.
A collection of short stories From Publishers Weekly: Urrea, best known for his hard-hitting nonfiction (Across the Wire, Nobody's Son), proves once again to be an eloquent and elegiac spokesman fo
Shawn Phillips came through town, that crazy bastard. On tour again, driving around America playing music. He slept in our son's room, perhaps unnerved somewhat by the Slipknot posters.
Dear Amigos and Loyal Readers, Thanksgiving: I could say thank you for two weeks solid. So I was driving to work last week, on my way to be the Official Writer that students can hang out with.
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