Goat milk caramel and strawberries with whipped cream are common confections in Guanajuato. Yet, I’m introduced to these ordinary sweet things by an extraordinary sweet thing: a brown sugar and exotic dancer named Clementine.
After dreams of making beautiful music with Lila Downs, I awake under a desert sunrise. Hit the road home to my ranch.
While moving this week into a new house in the verdant rainforest that encircles my university above the Oaxacan coast, your author stumbled upon notes scribbled at the desert ranch I inhabited for two years before coming here.
This magazine has already provided snapshots of the tiny tip of the huge iceberg that is the lifelong ideological and moral bancruptcy of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.
The next morning, I’m driven to the small town of Coxcatlan by a new friend named Lily. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes.
I spend all morning at the Museum of the Tehuacan Valley. This shrine to the history of corn is located in the former Convent of Carmen, where I stroll happily from exhibit to exhibit in a geek’s paradise. Today, the Tehuacan Valley is a dusty nook between the states of Puebla, Veracruz, and Oaxaca.
Outside the bus window is a deceitful desert. Hot dry air and dusty bone-colored land totally conceal a vast subterranean river network draining the ice melt from Mount Pico de Orizaba.
Trudging across the snow by the dim light of a headlamp, I can barely make out the shapely Mexican hips that serve as my guiding stars.
Last week publishers, copyright experts and other supporters filed amicus briefs petitioning the Supreme Court to hear the copyright-infringement case against Google brought by the Authors Guild.
Our bodies are a lifelong construction project. The food we eat is the raw material and the exercise we do is the building process.
Previous articles in this ongoing series referred to the life wisdom of the Olmecs, who were the earliest known civilization in the Americas.
Do you want to be lean and strong enough to hike up a snowy volcano or kayak between tropical islands?
The 25-year-old I was kissing last year finally asked me my exact age. I spit out the raw number. She gave me a grossed-out "You're my grandpa with benefits?
Idiot students at Mizzou foolishly think they're victims of racism, when they're actually victims of bad parents who failed to give them the love and discipline balance that produces character, plus liberal academics who coddled the dangerous fantasy of "safe spaces" free from opposing or challenging viewpoints.
On my birthday tomorrow, I celebrate half a century of passionate living with half a week of passionate loving from a voracious and curvacious woman half my age at Mazunte Beach Jazz Festival.
The title of this post is neither disrespect nor jest but a serious theological proposal that I will now defend sincerely and brilliantly.
New Orleans is where the Bible belt comes unbuckled. I realize this on Bourbon Street when a black transsexual offers me his unconscious, whiskey-drenched sister for a ten-dollar blowjob or a twenty-dollar screw.
Here I stand at the gates of Elvis Presley’s Graceland mansion—the Taj Mahal of tacky—architectural proof that the unexamined life can be worth living, if you’ve got the cash.
Led Zepplin’s Lemon Song and My Head's In Mississippi by ZZ Top are both referenced in the previous post of this musical history.
From Vicksburg to Memphis, the Mississippi Delta was once a vast swamp of gum trees, panthers, snakes, mosquitoes, and malaria.