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Meth Mike & the Micro-mites

(A Cautionary Tale) — In the summer of 2004 Tall Bobby and I were holding down the graveyard shift at Denny's in Fort Bragg, a perfect gig for someone of…

The Stony Lonesome: Death & Clams

It's sad when people die, especially when they are taken violently or unexpectedly. I don't like it when this happens to people I know and I don't like it when…

The Stony Lonesome #6: Approaching Geezerhood

Every two bit scribbler since the advent of movable type, every columnist, essayist, memoirist, novelist, scrivener, commentator or toilet stall philosopher ultimately, barring an early demise, grabs his tools and…

The Stony Lonesome #5, Criminology Edition

I hate committing crimes. I really do. It's scary and nerve-racking and guilt inducing and, well — wrong. This is why I fling myself headlong and heedless into the most…

The Stony Lonesome: Literary Edition

A while back in the Letters section of this august journal there was an ongoing impromptu forum discussing folks’ top ten literary pics. I enjoyed reading our readership’s lists and…

The Stony Lonesome, Christmas Edition

The Stony Lonesome, Christmas Edition

The holidays approacheth yet again as is their inexorable wont and there's nothing you can do to stop them. Can't slow ’em down, can’t skip over ’em, can't take enough…

The Stony Lonesome, Privatized Edition

The Stony Lonesome, Privatized Edition

I'm in a private prison now, after spending a couple of years at the notorious sinkhole Tehachapi. It's run by a company called Geo — not, I'm pretty sure, the…

Back In The Hands Of Hippies

I've never been one for heeding others' advice. I'll listen politely, acknowledge its validity, speculate on how to apply it to my situation with the best of intentions. But believe…

Cool Hand Jet All The Way

It was in early adolescence that I first began to feel as if I were disappearing — actually discorporating. At times I felt insubstantial, airy. I thought I could feel…

To The Heartland

When the money ran out, we packed up and headed back to the states. I confess I was a little sad to leave Paris and the relative safety of the…

Continental Drift

In the fall of 1970, my family — version 3.0 — was winging its way to Europe. To explain the “upgrade,” which it was in no wise at all, I'll…