Category Archives: Chris Blim

Where the Wind Blows

PART 1 of 4:  Bad Burrito.  Filming.  Last Year.  Martinsburg, West Virginia. I’m sitting in a harshly lit lobby of a Comfort Inn, in West Virginia, at a tall table with chairs too short for it made out of particle board and vinyl, eating a

FUCK.

Back in June, on the day of the California Primary, I rode my bike down Micheltorena Street to Sunset Boulevard into the heart of Silverlake, and I caught Bernie Sanders giving out handshakes like they were going out of style. Turns out they were…  Going out

American Funk

My landlord taught me something the other day, “It’s all about the blues, Chris. America is about the blues.” He was telling me this old truth and he was kicking his right foot back and forth, left and right toe taps on my driveway, with

Groundhog Daze

There was this one time I was sitting shotgun in a white Range Rover and we were off-roading in a desert in the United Arab Emirates. We were swerving around camels and I was wearing this red and white turban on my head like some

The Billy Goat Curse

Whenever something bad happens and I get that awful feeling like I’m a paranoid schizophrenic and the world outside is choking my neck, I try and think about baseball and Wrigley Field and the Chicago Cubs, and for a split second, no one’s out to