Yeah, that 65 was a peach. So good I had to hide all the names and genders and blur the details. And by good, I mean juicy. Innermost stuff. Deep, dark, judgmental.
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“And we get down to the garage, and the door opens, and William Holden turns and says to me, ‘Are you coming with us?’”
This year’s Xmas/Hanukkah vacay turns into a bad trip — as in brown-dot acid bad. And you wonder why I hate the holidays?!? (Oh, and happy birthday, Dr. King.)
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Kang leaned closer and, in a voice I won’t call a whisper because it was simply his voice, said, “I’m the only Asian here.”
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I crossed the Alps today. Except they looked like corn flakes bobbing in a bowl of milk.
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When Maria was approved and Kang was not, I ventured an improv about a Trumpland security stooge reacting to an application from North Korea.
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Half the time the Kangs go off-menu, as only a matriarch and patriarch can do.
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Dear Rev. Kang, I should’ve sent a postcard from Amsterdam, I know. Six weeks was a long time.
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It may be where the heart is, but it’s also where history, judgment, anxiety, lawyers and distant cousins of the decedent are.
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Sonia made lasagna. And all night people who’d never been to Sorellas, didn’t know from the chef sister, saying: Man, that is delicious.
“HOFFMAN JACKED ON PCP! CALL FAIRFAX PD! BE THERE AT 8.”
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The miraculous, disastrous path to Table 10 begins just south of the Soviet border, nine-thousand clicks from Fairfax.
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