A Shepherd for the World: Remembering Pope Francis

The bells of St. Peter’s toll with solemn finality, and the cobblestone streets of the Eternal City feel heavier beneath my feet. I find myself back in Vatican Square, where not that long ago, I stood among thousands, watching Pope Francis extend his hands in blessing. It was a moment of rare connection—one man in white before an ocean of souls, each seeking something: hope, absolution, direction. 

The Ghosts of Lucy’s El Adobe: A Love Story in Tequila & Tears

Resurrecting Lucy’s El Adobe Café, a beloved Hollywood landmark facing a hopeful revival, restaurateur heiress Patricia Casado fights to restore her father Frank’s legacy. After years of decline, closure, and a bitter inheritance battle, her determination shines, blending nostalgia and resilience to bring this cherished hub back to life.

Thank You, Readers!

People often ask me which is my favorite out of all the books I’ve written, and I always reply that books are like children–you love them all equally but differently. Why didn’t they use some? Maybe those singers that they used in that thing we’re well known but I had heard of one of them I think out of the three or four that they used.

Demi Losing to Mikey Madison is Basically the Plot of ‘The Substance’

Disappointed that the 62-year-old Demi Moore lost the Oscar for Best Actress to a woman more than half her age? You’re not alone. In a Twitter post that has already been viewed more than five million times, a observed what should have been the obvious: “Demi Moore losing to Mikey Madison is basically the plot of ‘The Substance’!

The Dream That Broke My Heart: My Brief, Beautiful, and Utterly Absurd Love Affair with Miley Cyrus

It began at Canter’s Deli, of all places, because where else would one find true love at dawn? The air smelled of pastrami and ambition. And there, across the room, stood Miley Cyrus, wearing an oversized leather jacket and a look of unmistakable destiny. Our eyes met over a plate of lox and bagels. Sparks flew. Probably crumbs, too.

If Marilyn Had Been a Car, She Would Have Been a Ferrari

I AM FLYING OVER THE TOP OF L.A. in the world’s greatest sports car, clocking speeds well above 100 miles an hour then quickly braking to a fraction of that to keep the Ferrari from sailing off a winding curve on Mulholland Drive and into a canyon below — and it’s like orgasming in a dream. I am either about to wake up or go the way of James Dean, hypnotized as I am by the Ferrari’s spine-tingling engine sound as enchanting as the seductive sirens of Greek mythology.