Lately I’ve been thinking that we all need private rooms where our idiosyncrasies can lounge around in smoking jackets like every day is Sunday. I suppose I’m talking about secrets, too, blowsy girls in negligees or little fireplug boys with dirty fingers and pockets full of bird feathers and booty.
March 30, 2014 – This EVM column followed a piece published in San Pedro. It begins, "Every night, I go to bed with a stoned husband. And I’m happy about it — grateful, in fact, for the fragrant multi-speared leaf that has brought manifold goodness to our lives."