John Tinseth recalls his first run-in with the law, and how his father’s reaction taught him something about what it means to be a good man.
John Tinseth looks back at his father’s odd A-Team going into Vietnam.
John Tinseth remembers the first older woman who caught his eye, and the first time he made his father laugh.
Sure it broke a lot, but John Tinseth couldn’t help but fall in love over and over again.
Dinner at Emilio Ballato’s on Houston reminds John Tinseth why he lives in such an expensive city.
“Have you ever seen a telephone wire with a bunch of birds sitting on it?” I nod. “Birds fly up and join the other birds… But you my friend—You’re like the bird that flutters around the wire. Not sure where or even if he wants to land.”
John Tinseth remembers preparing to engage the Guyanese Army, only to discover that the 900 dead Americans were killed in a mass suicide.
8 year-old John Tinseth had seen pictures of a woman’s breasts before, but this was his first view further south, and he wasn’t sure what he saw was all that great.
Norteamericano, the braces and the cocktail, courtesy of John Tinseth, The Trad, and the 1980s.
John Tinseth looks back on a road trip in a hunk of fat Detroit steel with four buddies and a can full of piss.
The recorded music of the late Reverend Gary Davis, an itinerant, blind street musician of the Jazz era, “simply sears my heart,” says G. Bruce Boyer.
If you want to make a good impression the morning after, learn to make these sexy-soft eggs in your new friend’s kitchen.
John Tinseth battles jet lag by indulging in ritualistic fry-ups and taking up smoking again.
John Tinseth looks back on one of the most important films in his life, The Last Detail, and marvels at how almost nobody saw it.
John Tinseth looks back on how his mother thwarted his first clandestine affair with the most voluptuous girl in his 9th grade class.
John Tinseth looks back on the family that used to be his in-laws, and marvels at the way ties unravel.