I always make the wrong decisions and end up investing mistakes with meaning.
I find it both exhilarating and dangerous waiting for ideas to fall into my mind.
In the movie: Just For You Ethel Barrymore knows more about outboard motors than Bing Crosby.
So far the winter season has been pretty sunny.
We've had a daily succession of earthquakes: mostly in the 3.7 or 2.8 range: unnerving events.
They only last about a second or two; death enters you as very real and then it's over.
Bob Arthur: fetching in a sleeveless t-shirt; shaving cream smudged around his ears.
Was Jane Wyman used when the director couldn't get but wanted Claudette Colbert?
My two week vacation is nearly over.
Ananda, curled up asleep on the mattress, exhibits trust, a voice of silence, skillfully harmonic sense of self and/or being, and endearing sensual presence. In other words, delight.
Bing Crosby has about seven moves: he can't really dance.
I believe absolutely every word that comes out of Ethel Barrymore's mouth.
Six college boys svelte in swimmer boxers are moping on the beach.
Sometimes it's easier to say something than to be in question.
There's nothing going on and I can't pretend there is.
You may want wish plead hope cajole or rant but it's not Technicolor.
I need to write to Michelle about Miu Miu and Mason.
I would prefer to be 25 -- the circuits through
I find it impossible to believe Matador pants were ever fashionable.
We both feel the same about each other: time will take care of everything.
There seems to be something within that observes but takes no part.
Love writes the sweetest songs or is it longing.
I love this urge to perform in public: I believe anything Ethel Barrymore says.
Unfortunately every time I fall in love I also develop a nasty head cold.
Flags are at half mast in SF for the next month: in memory of fallen police officer Bryan Tuvera.
Thousands turned out to bid farewell to the Godfather of Soul.
What are police doing to insure New Years Eve is safe?
It's chilly tonight. Dry weather is with us. That means blue skies.
Children of Men looks like the major big impact movie to see.
I find it nearly impossible to say anything about myself that doesn't involve food, sex or sleep.
Now that my mother's husband is dying I'm wondering what to feel about it.
To understand what it is I am feeling I would need to call in a German screenwriter with the sensitivity of a weatherman.
Sometimes I wonder if my biological father is still alive or who will let me know if he too is dying or already dead.
Ethel Barrymore once told me that at 60 parents should really have been dead for ten years.
I believe her, after all, like the world, she overflows with passion.
I am the son of an ascetic landscape severe by nature and often absent.
Like you I wait for the rain to fall in some kind of musical resonance.
I don't talk to a lot of people anymore for fear of making necessary journeys, decisions or responses.
"How are things going" "Great just great" "I wish I could believe you"
The night has an extraordinary way of passing unknown, on cue, just in time.
Winter is here. The year is ending. It's early. What depth the sky has.
Nowhere to go, no one phones, how does he do it?