That's me.

LA-born and raised (Wilshire Crest Elementary, John Burroughs Jr. High, Fairfax High School). UC Berkeley for a college 1963-68, majored in mayhem. Hung with Warhol and the Exploding Plastic Inevitable 1966. Joined the communist movement in the 70s, editing the People's Tribune for seven years. Hitting forty in eighties L.A. followed by an ill-advised stretch as a fledgling exec for a moribund newspaper chain in Northwest Indiana ("the Region") and St. Paul, Minnesota. Next, Venice years, and the rest was history until, back in St. Paul, I finished my trilogy and jumped orbits to the twentieth century.

Fresh content, delivered with gusto

80 and lucid, I used to have opinions on everything. Now I have questions. I wonder about the blooming order of the wildflowers on the lake trail, where the turtles go in winter, the Nixon-engineered 1973 CIA coup that toppled Salvador Allende, or why Nashville is great and The Gilded Age isn't.

Writing is where I have agency and control the narrative. My books grapple with tough questions and tease out smart answers. I'm always on the lookout for a ray of hope, without which we are pathetic, doomed creatures.

And ruthless self-promotion

Find out what I've done and what I intend to do. I'll strive to keep it lively because it keeps me sane and happy, which is very self-reinforcing. Focus is crucial in a world designed to render us senseless and ineffectual.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas said it right.