Ten years sober today. Proof there’s such a thing as grace.
I don’t mind feeling older. It brings a liberating sense of honesty.
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.
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.
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.
We scrolled past an abandoned baby stroller and a bottle of champagne on the median of Dean Martin Drive.
We’ve been fantasizing about living in the desert for a solid decade, and the idea of living at the farthest edge of the Vegas sprawl has a delightful Neuromancer ring to it.
