Sometimes, I’m proud to be an American. When repping my country abroad, I’ll admit to rubbing the domination of the USA Women’s Soccer Team in the faces of cheeky Brits and wine drunk Frenchmen.
But for some other things, aka Trump-related things, an entirely different emotion radiates from within. Shame.
In a time of worldwide…
There is nothing noble, nor brave, about running with the bulls. Nothing of the sour smell of drunkenness and strewn-out drunkards in the early Pamplonan morning, the stench of rotten food in the street and the smell of shit —nor the bloodshed of bulls— is worthy of anecdote.
But I knew that. I did…
A love letter to my she-wolfpack
This is an ode to the 29 women whom I just travelled with. 29 babes. The 29 femme fantasies, 19-to-29-year-old horny, but mostly hungry college co-eds; two-and-a-half dozen unapproachable beauties, the kinds that slack jaws when they walk in bars, make men gape agaw and bend over backwards…
It all started with a story. Dancing across the front of the book was a colourful bird with black feet. Green, red and blue, if my memory serves correctly. How The Birds Got Their Colours is an old yarn – a small thread in the vast and intricate web of The Dreaming. Growing up, it…