“I don’t have anything against autobiographies, so long as the people writing them have penises that are at least a foot long when erect.” Roberto Bolaño.

It’s almost always a mistake. But Alejandra was different. At least I thought she was at the time.

It was the year I’d turned forty-eight, and sold off all my gear, keeping only a few books and a laptop. I was trying to conjure Bolaño, smoking and writing like a fiend before his death at fifty. I was hoping I still had a few good years. Read More

a hard tropical rain drove me off the balcony. I went back inside and picked a cold Imperial from the cooler. A call came in. It was my old friend Ortiz. He sounded dangerously excited. Read More