Mike and I drove down from London to the south of France in a VW camper van with a gay couple my step-dad befriended in the 60s. Rob and Paul were a gruff duo who rarely touched, and slept in… Read More ›
travel
Son, observe the time and fly from evil
It seems like whenever I tell someone from San Francisco I work for Starbucks, there’s a moment of internal dialogue behind their face as they decide if they want to say something bad about the company to my face, or… Read More ›
The After-Life
We stop at a rest area somewhere west of Ritzville. The girls go to the bathroom, and I take Ginger to the designated Pet Area. It’s starting to cool off, and the light is softening to that golden, early evening… Read More ›
Going Back to Hell (End)
Dora the server wears a black vest, bow-tie, thick eye-liner, doesn’t focus right with the one eye: she looks behind me, somewhere. She says how did you know I’m Greek, and I say because your name tag says THEODORA. I… Read More ›
Going Back to Hell (4)
Sunday morning in Las Vegas, day four of seven. The only people out this early are the runners and the homeless, waking up on the sidewalk as the sun cuts through the gaps between the hotels. Friday night: a midget… Read More ›
Going Back to Hell (3)
Poets have no business in Las Vegas unless they’re here to write horror stories, or die a drunken, messy death. I don’t gamble, don’t like musicals, don’t like paying a lot for dinner, and I’m married. So I’m holing up… Read More ›
Going Back to Hell (2)
The plane pivots on its wheels, on the runway, like a cannon butt pointing south. At once we are in the air, lifted, and the sun makes a shadow of our plane on the clouds, a cartoon-plane, and the sun… Read More ›
Going Back to Hell (1)
The sales guy wears his sunglasses on the back of his head when he’s not wearing them on his face. He’s got product in his hair, tanned year-round, upper 40s, looks better than me. Doesn’t work as hard. He rides… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 