As a writer, a dream of mine has been to have one of my screenplays made into a movie. (Another is to play for the Lakers, which may be more feasible.
Boy is my face red. And not because of sunburn from our recent heatwave. A year ago I wrote a column about artist Drew Hill, a homeless former football star with 14 seasons in the NFL.
They say that bad news sells newspapers. The “they” in this case is the Pew Research Center, a “nonpartisan fact tank that provides information on the issues, attitudes and trends shaping America and the world.
With summer coming to an end soon, I found myself getting nostalgic. Then it dawned on me, what summer? I recalled Mark Twain’s quote, “The coldest winter I ever spent was one summer in San Francisco.
Tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of 9/11, one of the darkest days in American history. Everybody remembers where they were when they saw the planes hit the World Trade Center.
Last week’s column was about what brought me to Santa Monica. This week’s is about one of the odd jobs I took as I tried to write the great American novel, which in my case turned out to be the so-so American novel.
Until this recent mini “heat wave” we’ve hardly had a summer. Sunday, I went to the beach and the water was 62 degrees! It was so cold people were wearing wetsuits … on the sand.
When I watch the news, it often seems like the world has gone mad. An example is Steven Slater, the Jet Blue flight attendant who, when miffed by a rude passenger, got on the plane’s PA system and dropped a string of F-bombs.
Going through a divorce is considered among the most stressful of human experiences, second only to a life-threatening illness, followed by getting fired and moving.
Wednesday night I was surfing the Internet for the latest about Brett Favre when I inadvertently came across President Obama’s claim that U.S. combat troops would leave Iraq by the end of August.
Tomorrow marks an auspicious anniversary for me. A staggering number of years ago, I was bar mitzvah’d, which, for those who don’t know, is a rite of passage in the Jewish religion for a 13-year old boy.
Last week I wrote about Mel Gibson’s phone calls to his ex-girlfriend, Oksana Grigorieva. This week Gibson’s lawyers and PR staff are spinning faster than at an aerobics class.
