I like my books, love them, even cherish them. Collectively, they’re like a roadmap of my intellectual misadventures.

For me, this tiny bookstore—and its owner Wendy Marcisofsky—have become a safe harbor amid stormy book-promotion seas.

We survived that misadventure, if barely, but not our troubled marriage. Looking back, I can see now how those brash decisions I made in those murky Southern Hemisphere waters would later return to torment me.

They said she wasn’t up for it, that at 82 she was too old to endure an African safari. she proved them all wrong.

The springs were perfect. Hot water beckoned. There was one problem: I’d left behind my foot-salvaging sandals.

Crows are rebels. Crows are outliers. They’re bad-ass cool. Some hang out in my neighborhood. I’d like to consider them friends.

He was there at his window in the Italian village where he had lived all his life. Too fragile to venture outside, he described the hard life of a southern farmer. And now he’s gone.

As a writer for the LA Times, I got regular calls from Hollywood types seeking to option my stories — from entertainment moguls to shameless bottom-feeders. I answered every call.

Small towns often get their hearts broken by rich outsiders and their big promises. Is tiny McDermitt, Nev. next in line?

Smartphones are playing a major role in dumbing down the American brain. Not just in teenagers but in adults like me. And you.