You know my stance on the “masses.” I think they’re sheep. I think they’re asleep at the wheel, driving the whole goddamn country off a cliff while arguing about pronouns.

am fifty-seven years old. And I am currently performing a magic trick: I am compressing fifty-seven years of accumulated American junk—the trophies, the suits, the tools, the “memories”—into a 120-liter

I spent forty years treating my body like a rental car I paid for with a stolen credit card. I poured whiskey into the gas tank. I ran it redline.

You know what the heaviest thing in the world is? It isn’t concrete. It isn’t steel. It’s stuff. I spent twenty years collecting the trophies. The big house in Bend.

I’m leaning against the bar, looking at a reflection that finally stopped looking like a cautionary tale and started looking like a threat. I’m officially forty pounds lighter than the

I am officially forty pounds lighter than the bloated wreck I was in August. I am winning the war on gravity. But to understand the victory, you have to understand

That old drunk Bukowski said to find what you love and let it kill you, and I suppose that is exactly what I have been doing, slowly, methodically, and with

The ice in my glass had melted down to jagged little shivs, floating in a pool of amber that cost too much and burned too good. Across the table, Charles—my

I went back to the Mexican joint. The one with the shrimp. You know the place. It’s loud. It smells like lard and cleaning products and the heavy, desperate perfume

I’m leaning against the bar, looking at a reflection that finally stopped looking like a cautionary tale and started looking like a threat. I’m officially forty pounds lighter than the