Robert E Lee

I remember someone asking him if people ever called him "Bob." He said, "No." Short and to the point. I used to own at least 20 Robert E. Lee candles. The best advice he ever gave me was pointing out that the man I was dating wasn't the right man for me. "How do you know?" I asked. "I've seen you dance," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Another piece from my old friend, the late Bill Heintzelman. Read more about Robert E Lee


I have my own Maggie stories, but they will have to wait. For now, I have one of the my friend Bill's. Maggie was who every bartender wanted to be when she grew up. Sheelah told me she was taking bitch lessons from her.
Here's Bill:
Bat Bitch, she always wears black. Maggie Colie's the bartender, and she's saving up for motorcycle leathers. The sign on the tip jar reads "MAGGIE'S LEATHER FUND ...TODAY'S MY BIRTHDAY." Read more about Maggie

Westward Ho 1985

The trip out was an odyssey of remembering and experiencing. We crossed by the same route that Steve and I took on the bike six years ago. I didn’t do it out of nostalgia. It is the best route across that section of country that I know. The Badlands, the Black Hills, Yellowstone. Chris had never been through there, so it was great to top a rise and point out the next mountain range – each one getting bigger, taller, wilder, with more promise of a vast remoteness. Mountain Magic. Home of storms. Places where the wild things live. Visible but beyond reach. Read more about Westward Ho 1985

The Fam

How in the world did one blond haired, blue eyed, English/Norwegian family of two parents and six children become a “We Are the World” poster?

It wasn’t the eldest, Barbara, who although serial monogamous with several variants in later life, serially married and procreated with two straight white males of European heritage.

My sister Joan, who liked things that were imported, married first a German and then our favorite brother-in-law, a Turk. We’re branching out now. One daughter’s husband is a Finn. Read more about The Fam


I pushed my little brother Paul down the stairs. He was about 10 and I must have been 16 or so. I know why I did it and knew it at the time. I don’t remember what the silly argument was about. I do remember that of a sudden he reminded me of myself – he looked like me, he sounded like me, he was the mirror image of me. And I was disgusted with me, so I pushed him down the stairs.

He wasn’t hurt, that I recall. Nothing broken. Can’t say we were the closest of sibs from then on. But I was growing up and out. He was going to be sticking around for a while. Read more about Paul