Writer/editor. New Mexican tumbleweed blown east to skyscraper country.
Right now, I am working on a book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sheilah Graham, and Hollywood in the 1930s. It will also contain a lot of drinking, powder blue suits, dances at the Cocoanut Grove, betrayal, gossip columns, crazy ladies, secret Jews, film lot moguls, and Dorothy Parker quips at funerals. If the world is still around then, it should be out from Random House around 2014. So let's hope the Mayans were wrong.
If you want to say hi please do. Or find me in short form, here.
I just passed a girl on the street, slumped outside of a behemoth office building. She was crumpled up into a ragdoll pose and was wearing full business attire—suit, hose, spike heels, briefcase. I went to get a closer look to see if she needed assistance, but it turns out she was just sleeping. Snoring, actually, outside of a revolving door at 1pm. I’ve been one step away from that so many times; it was oddly satisfying to see that someone actually went there.
