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The reason I don't make connections easily, my wife informed me one day, is because I walk around most of the time disconnected.
Iawoke last night at 4 a.m. thinking about Gonzalez. It was a conscious memory, not a dream. I could see his round, dark face and the loping, off-balance gait he had acquired humping over the mountains of Korea.
When you suggest to Keith Elwin that he might be a bit nerdish for having spent a good part of his 36 years playing pinball, he is quick to point out that he has interests other than flipping a little metal ball around. He mountain-bikes, swims, rock-climbs and takes photographs.
A friend once remarked that you don't really get to know a man until he's dead.
The storm was born over the Bering Sea, the bastard child of wind and ice, and howled its way down to the mountain pass that separated Oregon from California.
He had the look of an old cowboy and had a Texas drawl to go with it. He wasn't wearing a 10-gallon hat, but he had the boots and silver buckle that went along with his flannel shirt and jeans. He was maybe in his mid-60s, tall and rangy except for a slight pot.
Ihave watched the television show "Lost" once or twice, not because it is the best program on the air but because I have to occasionally remind myself to get very specific directions when I am headed into unfamiliar territory, and above all to remember how to get back to where I began.
We were in bed late on a lazy morning after the advent of daylight saving time had destroyed our sense of timing when the subject of America's three Ps came up: politics, prostitution and pornography.
Ever since Clifford Irving popularized literary lying by faking the autobiography of billionaire Howard Hughes, the presentation of fiction as nonfiction has reemerged as yet another method of writing and selling a book.
March 3, 2008