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.
Reading Jon Krakauer's book Into Thin Air and seeing the new movie Everest about the same fatal climbing expedition led me to the same coldly analytical conclusion.
I didn't intend to be a prophet in my recent post about Hillary Clinton. Yet, I accidently was. After doubting that Republicans could find any candidate as sordid, corrupt, and unfit for public trust as America's former first lady and permanent first hag, I added a comment that we still don't know what lies under Donald Trump's frightening hair.
Finca Don Gabriel is part coffee plantation and part enchanted tourist kingdom. No doubt the honeymoon ambience contributed some to my curvaceous partner's increasing apprehension that she'd be expected to put out.
Our journey to the coffee-growing village of Pluma, Oaxaca should have been short and simple. Yet, the best laid plans of mice and men who want to get laid oft go astray.
Your author once asked a barista, “Which is better: coffee or women?” She responded without hesitation, “Both are delicious, but the coffee won’t cause you much trouble.” This sage wisdom more or less captures the essence of my recent trip to a Mexican coffee plantation with a Mexican hippie girl.
My first love sent a Facebook invitation this week after 30 years incommunicado. Then, she sent me a touching letter.
My parents voted for John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon but wouldn't have done so had they known jack or dick about Jack's and Dick's character.
People who think violence is inherently evil and avoiding it in all situations makes you a better person often tout Gandhi as a patron saint.
This beach is four blocks from my house. Would you believe it was totally deserted last Friday night, when I had a candlelit dinner on the sand with a charming and captivating woman?
That's right people: you can meditate on Raji Lukkoor's butt. I don't mean focus your inner eye above her inner thigh.
The rules of boxing allow a fighter to avoid engagement with his opponent by clinging or running, but returning some fire simply looks better.
After a year of wilderness homesteading on my Mexican desert ranch and a month of wild pollenating on my Mexican desert flower, I have planted my white gringo ass on the jungle beaches of Huatulco, Oaxaca.
My dangerously sexy Mexican woman and I performed our Valentine's Day duty by attempting to sit thru the "romantic movie" deemed "must see" by the global culture arbitrators of New York.
Just saw the Ridley Scott and Christian Bale Moses epic that will be spreading around the globe this week.