The porch was quiet, the late afternoon sun dipping behind the hills of Malibu in a way that felt almost too familiar. Loretta sat in a wicker chair,…

Mike Farrell stood in the center of a temperature-controlled archive, the kind of place where history goes to be filed away in acid-free boxes. The air was sterile…

The hallway of the television studio was lined with high-gloss posters of modern hits, all neon lights and fast cars. But in a small green room tucked away…

The dust in Malibu Creek State Park never really settles. It’s that same fine, golden powder that used to coat our boots and get into the sandwiches back…

The sun was low in the window of the quiet California sunroom, casting long, amber shadows across the table. Loretta reached out and touched the sleeve of the…

I’m standing on this stage in Chicago, the bright, artificial lights of the convention center reflecting off a sea of faces that seem to stretch back into the…

The table was small, tucked away in a corner of a quiet restaurant where the lighting was dim enough to hide the passage of time. Loretta sat across…

I am sitting in a dimly lit podcast studio in Burbank, the kind of place where the walls are thick with acoustic foam and the air smells faintly…

The fog rolls off the Pacific in Newport, Oregon, with a heaviness that seems to swallow the coastline whole. It is a place of grey water and salt-crusted…