You know your friend really loves you when, upon hearing you’re at serious loose ends, she takes a ring off her finger and slips it on yours. “It protected me when I needed it,” she says. “Now it’ll be your shield.” “Let’s keep giving it back to each other when we need it,” I say, and we smile. Eve Babitz says there is always a moment when a man develops enough confidence and ease in a relationship to bore you to death. What I treasure most about the women in my life is we never stop courting each other–never stop seeing each other, never stop remembering each other’s stories, never stop beaming that Mother Mary blue.
Yesterday a 23-year old-woman asked me what I’d tell my younger self if I could go back in time. “Moisturize your neck,” I answered promptly. “My neck is like Dorian Gray’s picture.” After she walked away, clearly disappointed, I realized I’d turned into one of the Erma Bombeck paperbacks I’d scoop up at yard sales as a child. Or am I now a Nora Ephron? Whatever, man. The grass is always greener over the septic tank.
During my trip home last week, I made a point of visiting the Everett Mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts. Both sides of my clan worked in the factories of the Merrimack Valley until they went south and then abroad for cheaper labor. It’s an American story—the one that helped elected Donald Tr%mp because historically the exploited have blamed each other rather than the kleptocracies that discard them like Matrix workers. I’ve been thinking a lot about this because I’ve been thinking about how proud my people were to work in the mills–proud to make things with their hands, proud to support themselves with honest work, proud to belong to the motherfucking UNION. Continue Reading →
You know your friend really loves you when, upon hearing you’re at serious loose ends, she takes a ring off her finger and slips it on yours. “It protected me when I needed it,” she says. “Now it’ll be your shield.” “Let’s keep giving it back to each other when we need it,” I say, and we smile. Eve Babitz says there is always a moment when a man develops enough confidence and ease in a relationship to bore you to death. What I treasure most about the women in my life is we never stop courting each other–never stop seeing each other, never stop remembering each other’s stories, never stop beaming that Mother Mary blue.
Yesterday a 23-year old-woman asked me what I’d tell my younger self if I could go back in time. “Moisturize your neck,” I answered promptly. “My neck is like Dorian Gray’s picture.” After she walked away, clearly disappointed, I realized I’d turned into one of the Erma Bombeck paperbacks I’d scoop up at yard sales as a child. Or am I now a Nora Ephron? Whatever, man. The grass is always greener over the septic tank.
During my trip home last week, I made a point of visiting the Everett Mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts. Both sides of my clan worked in the factories of the Merrimack Valley until they went south and then abroad for cheaper labor. It’s an American story—the one that helped elected Donald Tr%mp because historically the exploited have blamed each other rather than the kleptocracies that discard them like Matrix workers. I’ve been thinking a lot about this because I’ve been thinking about how proud my people were to work in the mills–proud to make things with their hands, proud to support themselves with honest work, proud to belong to the motherfucking UNION. Continue Reading →