I live on a cul-de-sac in the less extravagant environs of the HOLLYWOOD hills. Although the neighboring street rushes with traffic, our dead end remains quietly Mediterranean with its cypress trees and terra-cotta tiled roofs. In fact, the little street is so insignificant, we don’t have street-cleaning days, leaving only the 72-hour limit that applies… Read More

Mist. Mist outside my window... Read More

How do you remember what you never forgot? Read More

I look back along the gently curving corridor of my life... Read More

Sometimes dates aren't dates and aren't full of sweet nothings. Read More

How shall I kill him? Poison knows ancient success, the weapon of choice for women, Shakespeare, and Russians. Guns are all-American. What shall it be? Poison? A gun? Maybe I should be thinking access — and egress — first, not weaponry. The West Wing boasts a dining room, a long cold room when empty. Could… Read More

I didn’t much give a damn for wearing glasses. Read More

The neighborhoods are beginning to welcome Paayme Paxaayt back into their lives. Read More

Sometimes you have to work with them. Then, separation is impossible. Read More

This is the one, my old man says. Read More