It is possible to write your heart and your mind, both, to the point where they meet each other. There, they will shake hands and say “hello”. They will make small talk and exchange pleasantries. They will ask about wives and children. They will laugh. And you will shake your head at their fine demeanor and grand talk. Because you will know them for what they are, for they are yours. More here.
When life gives you cooling weather, I say, smash a duck inside the wicked confines of a duck press. These and other thoughts on the change of the seasons, the need for inhumane yet nourishing sustenance, and much, much more in my recent essay on the glorious la presse a canard.
This past weekend I dragged my ass out of bed (it had been a bestie’s birthday the night before), put on whatever was on the floor (not what I wore to bestie’s birthday), and walked down to Hillary Clinton’s campaign office on 103 and Broadway. About thirty people were already there, milling around outside. They held coffee cups and the little green ticket the office had handed out—a ticket down to Pennsylvania for a day of knocking on doors and canvassing for Hillary in Bustleton, a struggling blue collar neighborhood in the swing-state of Pennsylvania.
Because everything is ephemeral and nothing lasts forever and if you want to keep it around you’ve got to build it yourself, I’ve grabbed this piece I wrote for Gawker and just want to put it here. Today I read of the site’s demise and pending shutdown, all of which has sent the New York media society abuzz. So it goes. And, so, goodbye to all that! I, for one, am looking forward to seeing what the kids come up with next…
Channeled the original Doyen of the Plaza for a new article-sized dose of time-traveling snacks and treats, curtesy of the New York Public Library‘s newly digitized selection of menus. Come swan around with me, nibbling patties of frog legs and sipping every last mint julep we can get our hands on. As my dear friend’s three year old daughter queried this past weekend, “What about raisins?!” Indeed, we’d kindly like a silver dish of those too please! Thank you!
Thrilled to have a new piece up on the freshly revamped yet ever-glorious Farmer General, edited by superstar Sarah Kanabay. The issue, titled “Don’t Call It a Comeback”, features stories of summer kitchens and pie and ghosts and the phrase “silvered fingers” to describe that particular discoloration that happens when you root around in the dusty nail bin at the hardware store for too long. How true! Mine is about addiction in its many forms and guises. Thank you, Sarah!!
What fun to put this piece together, and I loved providing a keenly nod to the glorious MFK Fisher in my chosen nom de guerre.
Onward, spring semester!
UPDATE: This piece was awarded First Place by the UFT Labor Communications Council, with special citation for Best Work by a Member, 2016. Huzzah!
What is it about the oblique kindness of strangers in a city that is otherwise so straightforward, so full-on committed, to its aggressions?
Fantastic new article just out in The New Yorker, parsing Hillary’s struggle to find balance in public perception– one that can take her seriously as a warm, personable candidate as well as a competent one. It’s not a struggle a man in the same position faces. Who, anyway, is asking them to “play the grandpa card”? The culture of this country makes me shudder.
When my grandmother was still alive I would take these long, blank trips out to visit her in small-town Wisconsin. The whole time she always seemed to be preparing for the next thing– laying her clothes out for tomorrow night’s dinner. Getting the oranges ready for juicing on Tuesday. She jumped up a lot. She was always busy.