California and New York (or Sodom and Gomorrah as they're called by their Christian names) are a different world from middle America, and it may be time for the barely united states to divorce over irreconcilable differences.
A crocodile thrashes beneath me. The squawking and dripping of the rainforest where Mel Gibson filmed Apocalypto and Sean Connery filmed Medicine Man surround three sides of my cozy wood cabin that overhangs a lily-choked shore and overlooks a mist-shrouded isle broadcasting monkey chatter across the glassy lake.
Deep within a cave on a remote mountain sits a bushy-bearded Asian jihadist who shares the outlook of a bushy-underarmed American feminist ensconced within the safe space of a modern university.
My smug happiness annoys some people. That's fair. Their neurotic misery sometimes annoys me. Newsflash: I'm not going to give up my inappropriately bubbly bliss to make whiners more comfortable.
After I bent over and lifted a dusty rock, a fat coiled rattlesnake glared and hissed within easy striking distance of my face.
Kong: Skull Island allows cinema chair travelers to escape the urban jungle for that more authentic kind.
In my long and masculine life, I never considered identifying as a woman - until now. Yet, I'm sure of my decision.
A Muslim leader refuses to meet with French politico Marine Le Pen unless she wears a headscarf. A Mormon friend of mine won't dine with people who order beer.
Matt Damon's latest film offers both epic ambition and epic hypocrisy. This movie seeks global profit by teasing the Asian market with local lore (China's wall) and an American audience with local controversy (Trump's wall).
Lovely eight-year-old Neftaly had no idea she’d been delivered into the hands of her rapist by what American politicians call a more compassionate immigration policy.
Life at the mobile home park: not bad for a starter homeBelieve it or not, Lyn's fondest life memories include a very brief homeless stint.
North Americans often assert they want to learn from other cultures, but travel writing is still expected to fit into the politically correct box of ideas that don’t shock sensibilities.
When you call someone an America-loathing communist, it's usually a hyperbolic insult, but with director Oliver Stone, it's literally his official job description.
When I wrote about my mother's death, I never expected the story to be chosen as one of the best nonfiction works of the last twenty years.
Thanks to all who have submitted resumes for the writer-in-residence jobs we announced two posts back.
This week celebrates the revolution here in Mexico, so I would be remiss not to note some uncanny parallels between Donald Trump and Pancho Villa.
Not many folks get paid to write. Much less to apprentice with a critically-acclaimed author. Yet, that opportunity is now available to you for a limited time.
I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to a breaking point this address will not be about the assigned theme of “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose.
I was the white-skinned member in a black church through most of university. Not because I was making a human rights statement.
Forboding creeps into my heart as the bus nears Copacabaña border crossing. I'm taking a gamble. All the other passengers are European, because Americans are supposed to get visas before entering Bolivia with a two-way plane ticket, but I'm relying on the schmoozing powers that have so magically transported me across many frontiers.