a brief announcement even though newsletters shouldn't have those I'll talk about it more soon but some bullshit has happened and I won't be able to do any real posts for, I dunno, a few days, a week. But stuff is happening soon: a memoir essay, a review of the Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson show
So Long, Bob Newhart Bob Newhart is dead, and that’s all right. There’s no cause to mourn: he was an incredibly famous, wealthy man, and lived a long good life. He was almost a hundred. He had a huge house in Los Angeles. He spent almost his entire comedy career being universally
The End Result of My Herculean Big Bang Theory Spec Author’s Note: This is the first newsletter where I’m reposting a piece I wrote that’s no longer hosted on the internet. My archive is pretty solid because I always figured this would happen eventually. In the future, I’ll probably be paywalling archival stuff unless it’s
The Most Mysterious Song on the Internet The internet is bad now. We all know this and it’s not news. It’s not dead, but as a tool and a presence in culture, its glory days are firmly gone and they’re not coming back. Never mind the why because that’s out of our control
Road Food. So I did the math on this. Sat down, got out the legal pad, crunched the numbers. I have been to In-N-Out one billion times. I’ve spent so much of my life there that I have to earnestly say it’s part of my identity as a Californian. Which
On Dreams. Howdy all. I’m back. Took some time off to figure out a new contract gig I’m hoping to land. Wrote a scene as Homer Simpson but it wasn’t for The Simpsons. Maybe I’ll get to talk about it sometime. Also took a day off writing because
Perihelion & Aphelion By the skin of his teeth, my youngest brother had finally graduated high school. I was in my dad’s garage, going through all my brothers’ old homework. After some thirty years, it was time to ritually destroy most of it. Leave it all behind and render it to memory,
Big Fish (Not That One) My little brother hasn’t been sleeping. I know this because I’m staying with my folks up north in advance of his high school graduation and most nights I’ll notice light from the crack under his door at 4 a.m. and hear him noodling on his guitar.
Here Goes Nothing Howdy. I’m Kaleb Horton, a writer from Bakersfield. Not the metro part, which exists, but the dusty part at the edge of the desert where tumbleweeds roll by so often they aren’t cute and dust devils stab the horizon and people ride to corner stores on horseback. My
