I stitched together my favorite running songs because I need some solid entertainment to keep me moving through the desert.
The desert is littered with bizarre facts, and I often think I invented them, like a fragment from a dream or a misremembered film.
Here in Las Vegas, we’re catching the faintest edge of the atmospheric river, a weather event that sounds like something from a fantasy novel.
In the grip of my delirium, I half-watched a lousy Netflix series that can be viewed in any order, which seems like a trial balloon for AI-generated entertainment.
C. and I rang in the new year at the top of Route 93.
My favorite albums this year sounded messier than in years past: scuffed and bruised yet defiant—which sounds like the future.
The unique scent of desert rain has a scientific name, petrichor, derived from the Greek words for stone and the blood of the gods.
Unlike the blank winter grays of the Midwest and East Coast, the clouds over Vegas are well-defined, painterly, and startlingly low.
Las Vegas feels like the future, but I’m also living in the past.
It’s the longest night of the year, and I went for my first Las Vegan run.
Billboards across the panhandle told me to find nirvana, win a free furnace, and invest in crypto.
As we pulled up to our ninth small tan house of the day, “American Woman” rocked the block.
As we consider each room, there is much discussion of orientation.
The Pacific Time Zone is turning me into a morning person, and I do not like it.
There’s something so tranquil about an illuminated palm tree. It’s a science-fictional kind of calm.
