Anyone who writes so intimately, not to say voyeuristically, about my personal life surely deserves a link or two. And a restraining order.
For the record, I wear my hair “cropped close” because I am bald.

By a feat of yogic discipline — or sloth; you choose — I managed, until now, to pass by the deaths of Hunter Thompson and Arthur Miller without dusting off my opinions of them for public consumption. I am neither man’s ideal reader, and my experience with Wordsworth and W.E. Henley has shown that it [...]