Last night at Westchester’s Emelin Theater, I lectured on RBG, a new documentary about Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Spending an hour discussing this well-mannered, succinct, intellectually rigorous, even-handed, courageous, tenacious, and scrupulous woman who is—gasp!—a key cog in U.S. government was such a welcome antidote to the madness of our current “Presidential” “Administration” as well as the food poisoning from dinner the night before. As I zoomed back into the city, the traffic a mere trickle at that hour, I looked at the spiny diamonds of the city skyline and just grinned.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. The world–especially the United–is still going to hell in a handbasket. But I am starting to think my prediction that Trump and his cronies will exit the White House in cuffs will be realized. Better yet, every day I continue to work on a book I’ve wanted to write for decades. Today I already have penned 1,600 words, and now am swilling an extraordinary spicy turkey sandwich and my daily glass of post-work vino. On my speakers Marc Dorsy is crooning: “Somewhere in life there’s a joy to be/Between the hope and reality.” I feel the extraordinary solidarity of my girlfriends far and near, foremothers alive and dead, and Miss Grace, sitting pretty on my legs. O, if money didn’t exist, I’d be the happiest 47-year-old in all the land.
I’ve been putting all my energy into the book so haven’t had the bandwidth to check in here. But it occurs to me I’ve developed a nasty habit of only reporting the bad stuff, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.
Lately, despite all the mishegos in our country and in the world, I feel incredibly grateful.
As soon as the sun pours into my bedroom every morning, I spring out of bed, a free man in Paris. Better yet: A free lady in Brooklyn. Yes, I run through my financial anxieties, my hanging cliffs of what-ifs. But then I leap into my routine. It goes something like this.
Turn on coffeemaker while Miss Gracie meows angrily. Pee while Miss Gracie meows angrily. Feed Miss Gracie to end said angry meowing. Settle back into bed with mug and remind Miss Grace with Pavlovian scratches and kisses that cuteness levels raise exponentially when angry meowing ceases. Ogle the last bit of sunrise, as well as (confession) Foster Kittens. Then put on grown-up lady bra, fetch a scallion-cheddar scone from the Italians next door (Piccione! they cry. Ask Grace why), and sashay down the street to my new writers’ space. Continue Reading →
I dreamed a very generous friend took me on what was ostensibly a road trip but really a mission to Harvey Weinstein’s. She claimed to be counseling him in his “convalescence,” but I could see I was going to have to bite a hand that was feeding me, because fuck that shit. I was pissed I now knew the location of his secret lair, even more pissed I found it enviable with soaring ceilings, forest views, loads of pink light. I didn’t see Harvey–my friend was upstairs with the “client”–but my awareness of him was like someone had shoved a pile of shit beneath a million-dollar rug; you could smell but couldn’t see his rotting decadence. I wanted so much to write a whole novel on his enormous pale velvet couch but instead had to go. Of course being me I fled only to realize I’d left everything I needed behind. To wit:
Keys Continue Reading →