Sublime

A reporter named Harvey Longo wrote a story for the Los Angeles Times Magazine about the two paraplegics called “Poetic Injustice” and won a Pulitzer Prize. Science was mentioned in the article as “The genius younger brother” and “The hope of the family.”

Let me say at this juncture that I sincerely believe Billy Joel is a nice enough guy in real life. I listened to the audiobook of his authorized biography and I respect him as a person. He wasn’t handed anything, he did the work, he cracked the code, then stayed in the game and he’s still doing it. Billy Joel is perfectly harmless, unless you happe

The missing Ripple reminded him of a favorite thought experiment. “You have a close friend, Bob,” he explained. “He’s great. You love him. Bob is at a house party where someone gets murdered. No one knows who the murderer is. There are twenty people there. None are criminals. But Bob is less likely in your mind than anyone else to have killed someo

Wendi giggles and suggests that, in addition to his many functions and duties, Gil should be my bodyguard. He already is, I tell her. And yet that word doesn’t cut it. That word isn’t adequate to what he is. Gil guards my body, my head, my game, my heart, my girlfriend. He’s the one immovable object in my life. He’s my life guard. I particularly en

It was never my intention to change my personality or walk through the world under an assumed identity. In fact, I was happy with myself and my life. That is, until an innocent phone call (it always starts with an innocent phone call) led me on a journey into one of the oddest and most exciting underground communities that, in more than a dozen yea

In our society, the journalist ranks with the philanthropist as a person who has something extremely valuable to dispense (his currency is the strangely intoxicating substance called publicity), and who is consequently treated with a deference quite out of proportion to his merits as a person. There are very few people in this country who do not re

I see this girl, Vanden, for a while, who paints my futon frame black and who stopped seeing me because she said she saw “a spider the size of Norman Mailer” in my bathroom. I didn’t ask her who Norman Mailer was, and I didn’t ask her to come back.