I'm an award-winning former reporter for both the Chicago Sun Times and Arizona Daily Star, published author and optioned screenwriter who spent 8 years on the Hopi reservation as wife of a Hopi artist, and over 20 years as a teacher and administrator. My latest book, "The Keka Collection," was released in February, 2013.
He’s gone now, my fisherman father, Ernest. He passed away a couple of years ago in an Alzheimers fog. But every red dawn here in my Arizona desert lair, when there’s a chill in the breezes that remin...
My hard drive finally crashed forever a couple of days ago.I could write a whole piece on that—probably will. But today’s story is much more fun. And more dear to me. Because among the few fragments o...
Yep, California elected that guy up there. With the muscles. And I dated him. Once.
It was almost on a dare. It was the Conan the Barbarian days. I had interviewed him. He asked.
He had to....
I joined a writer's group on a whim last week.
I wanted to be pushed out of my comfort zone.
I've never had any trouble being published. Never had any trouble thinking of ideas to write about on my bl...
My home state's law may be shocking to some, but not to people of color like me, who grew up haunted by prejudice
The legend of ex-Roxy synthesizer player Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno is, we were told, as formidable as the name. It preceded him in press releases from England which proclaimed him "this surrealist rock superstar," a "sylph-like electronics guru," and "a cadaver we've all come to love and recognize . . . the scaramouche of the synthesizer." His sexual exploits, we were also told, would apparently make both Don Juan and de Sade seem grossly overrated, and promotion women called ahead with breathless descriptions of his magnetism and his "intellect." He was purportedly beautiful hermaphroditic, sensual and seductive. "The man that groupies of three continents have come to know as The Refreshing Experience" was coming to devastate our town with his presence and we were never to be the same again.
“HEY CHIEF!" the sun-reddened, gray-haired tourist called, approaching my husband's kachina doll booth.
It had been a great day at the big Indian Market so far. But I had a feeling…
"Hey!" he called again, grinning. "What time is it chief?"
My Hopi husband lifted his head and set aside his carving knife. I had a barely controllable urge to take it up and brandish it in the greenhorn's flushed face.
"Got any idea what time it is?" he asked - again.
"Sorry," my husband said, patiently. "I forgot my watch."
"Hey!" Whaddaya mean? I thought you Indians could tell time by the sun!" the greenhorn guffawed. Cracked himself up, the old boy did. He'd probably been waiting all day to do that to someone.
My husband smiled... and returned to his carving.
I don’t know how he does it.
J.T. LeRoy "writes like Flannery O'Connor tied to the bed and plied with angel dust," according to fellow author Jerry Stahl.
Apt description. But if the collection of nightmares that comprise his l...
Bill Quateman takes a break from his shipping business to sing of love.