Essays

front row salvation

The average age of Section A dropped at least a congressional term when hope, arms overflowing with tour merch, climbed over knees and dodged overpriced Modelos to find the one empty seat. She clapped, screamed, hooted and hollered right out of the gate.

A revel without a pause.

Published in Atwood Magazine

Newly Repaired

My CD player failing wasn’t just an oh-darn materialistic inconvenience – that thing moved across the country and back again, and then back again; it had been wired into (and outlived) three equalizers and two amplifiers in three apartments, two condos, and five houses. Several thousand different discs, spinning for tens of thousands of hours at several hundred RPM? No matter how you slice it, that’s a lot of miles.

And now… nothing.

Published in The Sunlight Press

Bully Pulpit

Sometimes I impress myself, remembering that I once traded barbs with a former president. Other days, I’m overwhelmed that a future Nobel Prize winner called me out on the one thing I thought I was good at.

Published in The Los Angeles Times

Here’s a link to my first meeting with President Carter, from the 1987 Emory Spoke.

Blessings

I was blessed on the side of a mountain.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Published in Kelp Journal

Creative Licence, Reviewed

Bond screenwriters wasted no time and expended just a few words to tell us everything we need to know about the cinematic 007. In this issue we explore the screenwriters’ efficiency through analysis of the screenplays for both Dr. No and Casino Royale.

Published in mi6 Confidential

The Parable of Peter Frampton

Hall-of-Famer Peter Frampton may just be the most punk rocker out there.

Published in Atwood Magazine

On-Time Departure

An auto theft turns my travel plans into “a heart-pounding, ticking-clock adventure…”

Published in The Lowestoft Chronicle

maximum R&B meets MICRO-Opera

More Music, More Music, More Music, More Music

Published in Atwood Magazine

105,000 Who Fans Can’t Be Right

The more Philly booed them, the angrier they got; the angrier the Clash got, the more Philly booed. It was both terrible and fantastic; what should have been a triumphant passing of The Who’s torch became self-immolating.

Published in This Is Joe Public Speaking

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