My first job in New York was selling group tickets to Broadway shows, mostly The Color Purple, for church groups coming up from Baltimore. I accepted the job while living in Boston, during a shitty month, a really rainy June, when I was out of work and back living at my parents’ house. I slept until 3 in the afternoon most days. I was depressed, about being home and being out of work, but in a bigger sense depressed about the infinity of being part of the working world, the dreary sense that a job was always going to be something I needed to have, that what we do is work, because it’s just what we do. I guess college, cushy as it is, sort of prepares some of us for that, lets us rattle around in an ante chamber, getting anxious and excited about Careers, until it sends us out into the world, running off of that adrenalin for as long as we can. But that preparation only takes us so far.
I suppose that June, in 2006, was when that initial burst of post-college energy dried up for me. Here was the grim procedural fact of, well, the rest of my life: The need for a job, the induction into the anonymous horde of What We All Do. Here I was, depressed about not having something that, well, if I had my druthers, I really didn’t want to have.
But I applied for jobs anyway, mostly in New York, because at the very least I saw a job as a vehicle to get me to a city that was big and scary and as electrifying as a first kiss, teasing and tempting and so mysterious in all its history and motion, its dark and elegant confidence in itself. A job in New York offered some small measure of proof that I too could belong in that flow, could become a tiny part of a story that I’d always found so thrilling.
And so it did bring me here, this safe-ish job in a familiar field, riding down from Boston on a bus on the Fourth of July, everything about the future uncertain, except for the office I’d be showing up to the next morning. The next day it was pouring rain and I received something of a rude awakening when I realized that I would not be managing group sales or anything so lofty as I’d naively assumed, but that I’d just be on a headset all day, processing order after order, staring out the window from the 22nd floor of a building on 42nd Street, toward downtown and the quiet, wistful glimmer of the Hudson River. But it was a job! And I made two great friends, and I lived in the city, unsure and unsteady but at least stumbling around a place I knew I wanted to be.
I quit that job seven months later, my friend Angela and I leaving on the same day. I’d gotten a job working as an admin assistant in the Gawker ad sales department and was mostly excited to be out of customer service and doing something “cool” and “downtown,” in an open office that I could walk to from my apartment. On our last day, there was a little cake reception, some kind, if halfhearted, toasts goodbye, and then, at about 4:30 or so, Angela and I decided it was time to go. We were meeting some of the staff at a bar for drinks a bit later, but there was no sense in waiting around. What’s done was done.
We walked out of the office, and as the elevator doors shut, we had a moment that I’d like to think I’ll remember forever. We turned to each other and shrugged our shoulders and burst into happy, nervous laughter, mixed with a few tears. “What did we just *do*???” Angela asked, and I shook my head and said, “I don’t know! I don’t know!” We were both young, me 23 and she about 26, and we were stepping off into what seemed like the unknown. It was such a giddy, thrilling, sad, scary little moment there in the elevator, me amazed and awed with the bittersweet recognition that I was leaving behind the role, the accepted obligation, that had brought me here. That I was saying to it, and myself, that I existed for more than one reason, that I could make choices, could be independent, sovereign in the life I’d decided to start living.
Work is important in that way, I guess. It can be, on its best and oddest days, a reminder that, if we’re lucky, we can have some control over our lives, our own little stories, that we can be willful and brave and self-possessed. I still wish, of course, that I could be lazy and shiftless, independently wealthy and obliged to no one’s clock but my own. But as a way of measuring time and experience, work is useful, alternately heartening and frustrating.
I’m starting a new job tomorrow, on another 22nd floor on 42nd Street as fate would have it. I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll have another elevator moment, but it is at least nice to feel like I’m pulling myself along, that I have been here and there, that I’ve supported myself, and been supported, all this time. And that, because it’s just what we do I suppose, I’ve kept on saying “yes” every morning. (Well, most mornings.)
I know it’s an annoying introductory party question, “What do you do?” But really, what else could we possibly ask?
So that’s that. Well almost that. When the quote hit the Internet this afternoon in England, Kate got a phone call from a number she knows all too well of late. “Saw the charity story” the low, purring voice on the other end said. “I’m looking at this picture of you and, y’know, something else is growing fast…” Kate suppressed a smile and said, “Harry, I’m hanging up now.” But she didn’t hang up right away. She hesitated, long enough for Harry to say, simply, “Later?” Kate swallowed, closed her eyes, breathed deep, and then said a quick “Yes, later,” before hanging up and hurrying out of the ladies room to meet all the people waiting for her in the hallway, who would whisk her off to whatever it was she was supposed to be doing.
“Katniss is surrounded by rocks and hard places, and Lawrence captures the immediacy of that thwartedness and omnipresent dread better than Ross’s film ever did. The love triangle is credible and well-balanced, too, which is something the Twilight films, for example, never had going for them.”—Catching Fire is pretty good!
“Payne gives us a look at a small-town Midwestern family reaching the end of its line. There’s a slight bitterness in the air — as there always is in Payne’s films — but also a sense of wonder, at how lives trickle and ebb, days and months and years filled with both inevitability and utter randomness.”—I really liked "Nebraska."
The most normal lines from this totally normal Vows column
"For a few sweet months back in the fall of 1993 at the European School of Luxembourg, a popular high school boy with long hair and a taste for grunge music turned his attention to a shy girl from a grade below who hid behind books, and was partial to flannel shirts and Doc Martens."
“‘She was timid and mystical, Ophelia-like in her black boots, but I knew her shyness concealed something quite formidable,’ recalled Mr. Sibson, an Englishman”
“’She was listening to Bjork before anyone else was,’ Mr. Sibson said.”
"said her sister, Elisabeth van Lawick van Pabst-Koch."
"By this time, she was dividing her time between Paris and New York, swirling through the fashion world creating art and designing sets."
"Ms. Koch, always ready to travel whenever the occasion presented itself, instead suggested they meet in Sarajevo in June and then make the trek to a birthday party a friend was giving in Puglia, Italy."
"They rented a stone hut called a trullo amid olive groves and the foxes. They drank wine under the stars."
"There was no ring, but the stars and the moon were out. So were the animals and the dragonflies."
"Her mother, Disja Koch-ter Kuile, who gives art lessons, and her father, Robert B. Koch, a retired steel industry executive"
"an elaborate surprise visit arranged by Mr. Sibson and Ms. van Lawick van Pabst-Koch."
“‘I had no sense of Atlanta,’ he said. ‘I would watch CNN and see these women with big hair, and think wistfully, “That’s where Anne is, and she seems nothing like those big-haired women.”’”
"He knocked on the door, only to have it swing open to reveal Mr. Koch, also holding a heart-shaped balloon"
"Ms. Koch’s dog, Sir William Sugarplum"
"Ms. Koch’s sister, who is a milliner in Beijing"
"The word ‘starling’ holds multiple meanings for the couple, who believe they are creatures from the stars."
"The morning after the wedding, the couple took their respective clans to that Southern icon, the Waffle House. ‘It was not my kind of food,’ confessed the groom’s mother, Ruth Harrison Sibson-Windsor, who was making her first trip to the United States from Canterbury, England. ‘But the service was friendly.’"
“The film, you see, isn’t really a romantic comedy. It is, in fact, a movie about the entirety of life — the enjoyment of it, the swiftness of it, the sprawl and meander and chance of it all. That may sound corny, and it is! But wonderfully so. We watch as Tim goes from uncertain young man to uncertain married man to uncertain family man, aching and swooning montages chronicling the passage of time, all the while realizing that the uncertainty is what makes the journey worth it.”—I liked About Time a whole lot.
I know I am a Halloween grump, but at dinner tonight I saw two guys who typified what is wrong with adults half-assing costumes. One was a guy just wearing pants and a white shirt covered in red paint. He had some on his face too. So I guess he was a zombie or just a “scary thing”? I dunno. What’s the point?
The other guy had a SPAM can costume that he’d bought somewhere, just forked over money and put it on and thus was SPAM for Halloween. But of course he had to wear something under it, so he was wearing khakis and sneakers. So do SPAM cans wear khakis and sneakers? Because if they don’t, you are just a grown man in a restaurant on 18th Street, wearing a weird SPAM box on your midsection.
Pfft to the whole thing. It’s fake fun. So pfft to it.
On the train home to Boston on Friday I made a solemn little promise to myself, as I do every time I go home. It’s a vow that I’ll be good all weekend, and that all of that frugality — of wallet and lung and liver — will somehow magically transform me. The idea being that when I get back to the city on Sunday night, I’ll be changed and better, no longer the fuzzy New York cliche of anxieties and substance haze and spendthriftness that I’ve slowly watched myself become over the almost eight years that I’ve lived here. It’s a childish sort of wish, that mom and dad and a familiar bed will somehow make things all right, but I make it over and over again, each time the train or bus pulls out of the city and I can see it from the window, this undeniably big but disappearing thing, this suddenly escapable place.
A short, less-than-48-hour visit, I spent most of my time sitting around in my favorite pajama pants, watching TV and cooing at the dog (he’s “Little Bear” or “Little Bean” these days). I went for a long walk with my mom, up to the Boston College campus, peering in through the windows at the theater where I spent so much exciting time a decade ago, then out around the nearby reservoir, all cleaned up now and so pleasant to walk around. We talked about any old thing — trips we’d like to take, her job, the new details of friends of mine whom she’s known since they were awkward teenagers wobbling up to my house in cars borrowed from parents. It was perfectly sunny and crisp and autumnal, all those things you want Boston in October to be, trees riots of glorious sad color, all that.
When we got back to the house, or rather when we were a few streets away from the house, we were greeted by the groan and uncertain guitar screeches of a young, local band. The house behind my parents’, once lived in by a nice old lady with a nice garden, is now the home of a few twentysomething girls. They’re music people and they were hosting, that perfect day for hosting such a thing, a “Rocktoberfest,” a sort of all-day invitational jam for their friends and acquaintances to blare their latest someday hits in this cozy, quiet, near-suburb corner of the city. Two girls had rung the doorbell while I was eating breakfast and my dad was eating lunch, cheerily giving us a little letter explaining what was going to be happening that afternoon. My dad, ever kind and patient patron of the arts as he is, said great, thanks, maybe we’ll stop by and see some of the show.
None of us quite realized how loud it would be, or how bad some of the music could be. And it was bad, at least the earlier acts, the music coming in pulses through our walls, the only calm one, for once, being the dog, whose ears perked up for a second before he settled, with a typical weary doggy sigh, back into his little bed on the kitchen floor. The rest of us were unhappy, peering through slats in the blinds and remarking, in my family’s genially snide way, that there weren’t that many people there, were there. We sat with the thud and churn for a while, but eventually conversation turned to dinner, and me thinking that it’d be nice to get away from the noise, suggested we go out to eat.
My family being my family, this eventually turned into a fight between me and my mom. She wanted my father and I to go eat somewhere while she baked cookies for the neighbors, her strange but charming passive-aggressive way of saying “I hear you.” I wanted her to come with us, insulted that she wanted alone time when I was only home for so long. I stormed around like the little brat I turn into when I go home, sulking and saying, “I don’t care what we do, you decide.” Of course my father and I eventually got in the car and left my mom at home, as she’d wanted all along, and we sat at the bar at an Italian restaurant, talking about grad school (for me) and baseball (for him), and I had two glasses of wine, and, emboldened by my sudden thirtysomethingness, a bourbon, right there, in front of my dad. I felt like a man! A man out with his dad, watching the Sox.
So I broke a little of my clean-living-in-Boston covenant, but it was fine. When we got home — me cheered and oddly eager to watch the rest of the game, my mom grumbling about passing the cookies over the fence, accepted by some uninterested boy smoking a cigarette — the music had, as promised, switched to acoustic. And I daresay it was pretty nice. Gentle, forgiving, wistful in all its pained, youthful earnestness. There were maybe 15 people in the yard, huddling around a fire, craft beer bottles clutched in hand, the friendly chatter of doing a supposedly fun thing you’ll never do again.
We eventually turned in and eventually they did too, the house and the yard and the neighborhood going silent, save for leaves rattling in a new, cold wind. The next day we had breakfast, went for another walk. I took pictures of leaves, the dog smelled final smells before they froze in the ground with winter, and then it was time for my train, my mom and I racing down the Pike, a little nervous about time.
I made plans on the train, ended up meeting a friend in the West Village when I got back. We got drunk at a few gay bars, me spilling out the recap of the mostly uneventful weekend, he talking about his boyfriend and if they’d ever move in together. So there I was, already laden with a broken promise, smoking a cigarette and drinking bourbon — decidedly less grownup and interesting without the particular context of the night before — and then the night veered into sloppiness and it was time to go home, and I sat in the cab, people and buildings gliding by in the window, and started wishing again.
On the sleepy train ride home that afternoon, I’d found myself thinking about those kids waking up that morning, knowing they had cleaning to do. I wondered if they’d be a little achy with that sadness, the one of the big day being now over. The post-party melancholy, the bitter, rueful sense that all the fun things live such short lives. And I wondered if they wondered whose houses they’d filled with music, however unwanted, the night before. If they knew what they’d drowned out or provoked. If they had any sense that now, old enough as they are, they have some dim power over the bigger world. That they could bother someone, prod him, make him think of them as he watched Connecticut drone by (there were elephants in Bridgeport! In a parking lot! Real elephants!).
I’m sure they didn’t. Or, I hope, at least. Better they have a few more days or months or years of not knowing how much they really mean. How much energy they’ll someday spend running away from noise. Fleeing around corners, full of swallowed plans, only letting themselves regret and wish later on, whenever they have the time.
"Ciara Engaged to Future." That is the first line of the headline and you just want to stop reading right there. To have that be the whole of it, the grand and exciting truth: Ciara will marry the future! She is only looking forward! She and days to come will wed, and Ciara will be made infinite because of it. Always Ciara, always ahead. She will never be now or once or then. She will be someday, dancing on the horizon like an aurora, wedded blissfully to all that’s laid out before us, running ahead like a scout, brave Ciara. Engaged to the Future! It’s quite a way to start a headline. But then you read on and realize that, oh, she’s engaged to marry the rapper called Future, that’s all. I mean, it’s still good news, good for them. But… The other possibility meant so, so much more. Oh well. Congrats, you two.
Shortly after the christening, she donned a lustrous navy blue gown and headed out to a benefit for women in hedge funds. Yeah, a hedge funds benefit. I think it’s like good hedge funds though? That give money to worthy causes? It’s unclear. Anyway, she went to this event and she looked dynamite! So dynamite, in fact, that we can imagine Kate getting ready, standing in the foyer adjusting an earring, doing one last check of her hair, and then an arm snaking its way around her waist, an intake of breath, an “Mmmm” and then, hot in her ear, close and serious, “You smell good.” Kate stiffening despite herself, saying “Harry, he’ll be home any minute. And really anyone could see you. You can’t be so bold like this.” Harry burying his face in the crook of her neck, not caring just then, drunk with the scent of her. “Just one kiss before you go,” he says, voice muffled. Kate suppresses a smile and says “You really are incorrigible. Nothing like your brother. I’ve got him good and trained.” She breaks from his grip and wheels around. They are standing, there in the foyer, face to face, practically nose to nose. There he is, all fox-faced and expectant, sporting a charmingly laddish leer. “My god you’re fit,” she murmurs, before giving him a deep kiss, he responding in kind, and for a moment they both disappear and forget all their obligations and duties and chores and requirements. It is just the two of them, lost in each other. Found too, Kate thinks, and the minute she is conscious of it, clear in her head about what is happening, she pulls away. “Enough,” she says. “Enough.” She turns back to the mirror, checks her lipstick, smooths her hair. When they kissed she could feel a part of him pressing against her and she can still feel it now, a phantom pressure. “I really must be going,” she says, grabbing her coat and striding out to the waiting car. Harry standing there, dumbstuck in love and not yet crazy with guilt. Though that will come. That and far worse. There will be guilt and then disaster, he suddenly knows. And he is both chilled and elated to realize just then that he really doesn’t care.
In Arrow any time Green Arrow needs to get away from his family to do Green Arrow stuff he just says, “I have to go do something,” and no one ever asks any questions. He has no job, or girlfriend, or anything, but everyone is just like, “Oh yes Oliver must be very busy very full schedule I understand.”
Somewhat unexpectedly, I saw an old friend tonight. He and I know each other through a mutual very good friend and we spent a lot of our mid and late 20s banging around New York in sloppy, possibly dangerous, definitely fun drug and booze-addled stupors. We’re not the best people for each other, each teasing out the other’s propensity for late nights and drunken magical thinking, but we love each other, in some strange gnarled way. We started fighting a lot last spring, and then all of a sudden he moved to Nantucket for the summer.
The summer became the fall and now he’s going to spend half the winter there too, with plans to return in the spring. “So you live in Nantucket. You don’t live in New York anymore,” I said to him tonight. He took a deep, surprised breath and said “Yeah. I guess I do. I live in Nantucket now!” (Is it “in” Nantucket or “on” Nantucket?) The island seems to have done him well, better probably than any of these islands ever did, and he’s got great, crazy stories about extraordinarily wealthy people taking him under their wings, he the effortlessly charming gadabout that he is. It was nice to see him.
When we were 26, he started dating an 18-year-old boy, who was still in high school, and it was the subject of a lot of arguments. I was sour and judgmental, he was stubborn in puppy love. The boy came to my apartment one night, the lopsided bug-filled place I had on the Lower East Side that I eventually grew to hate so much that I’d yell out loud to the windows and faucets. And I was mean to him, this kid, that night. Really mean! I was drunk and in a mood and decided to make him feel completely alienated by his relative youth. It was a cheap, easy way to deflect my own insecurity about how young and blond and chiseled and impossibly handsome he was. He’d just moved to New York to start college and of course I was seethingly jealous of him, for lots of complicated reasons (many of which, if I’m honest, had to do with my feelings for my friend), and he quickly went quiet, of course not liking being in this mean guy’s apartment, probably feeling stranded and young. Which is how I’d wanted, in all my bitterness, to make him feel.
Anyway, my friend’s visit as short as it was, this boy met up with us tonight. “Oh he really hates me,” I said before he got there. “I was mean to him the last time I saw him.” My friend said “Yeah, you were very mean to him, but he doesn’t stay mad.” I took objection to the “very,” but I knew my friend was right. It didn’t matter anyway, because when the boy showed up he was sweet and shy and now a senior in college, and I wanted only to be nice to him, to apologize through action, to somehow impart through casual questions and encouragements that what he’d seen years earlier was my shit, that it had nothing to do with him. I think it worked? He gave me a hug when I left and we’re now Instagram friends. Counts for something, yeah? His mother is turning 40 this year.
My friend goes back to Nantucket tomorrow, and then to the Caribbean on a sailing trip, and then to Asia on some crazy freelancer photography assignment, and his life is just so strange, so erratic, so dramatic in all its unplanned, fabulous drifting. And I suppose I am jealous of that! But I did walk back to the L, rarely visited Williamsburg seeming so fun and silly in its Thursday night rattle, and felt OK about my friend, about his young paramour, about what any of that says about me. Which, of course, is nothing. It’s complicated to know people. But it’s not necessarily complicated to love them. To nod your head and just say “It’s so good to see you” without throwing in all the extra weight of jealousy and expectation and speculative thinking.
Years ago, he and I stumbled out of an abandoned office building at 9:30 on a stark Sunday morning, buzzing from drugs and the strangeness of the day. I felt terrible for a week. Tonight I said a warm goodbye and went home. We’re both older and, I’d dare say, better, now.
“We in the audience are at least comforted, and stirred, as we watch the Navy put together its rescue operation, another brisk mission orchestrated by highly competent men and women. Greengrass has an obvious respect for these masters of process, but the film is never fawning or hyped-up. These people are just doing what they do, which they can do because they are from a very rich country. That’s not a heavily stated observation, but it’s there in every layer of bulky military garb contrasting the relative rags of the pirates, the boats bristling with guns dwarfing the flimsy skiffs used in the initial attack. This is Goliath vs. David, though David is certainly not the hero here”—Captain Phillips, reviewed! (It’s a very good movie.)
“To play all this wheeler-dealer strutting, you’d think that Timberlake would be able to channel if not his own arrogance certainly that of the myriad music types around him who command a room the minute they walk into it. But instead all that comes across is a silly sense of “Oh, Justin Timberlake is trying to be cool right now.” The whole movie is like watching a kid who misguidedly got his ear pierced over the summer walk down the hall on the first day of school.”—Justin Timberlake is just not a good actor.
(different anon!) ugh i am having the same agonizing 'i should get a test done but i'm afraid' thing going on right now because of a super minor lapse. i am so glad to know it isn't just me. i feel like such a hypocrite when i'm preaching an end to stigmatization and so on and yet when there's even the most miniscule chance of transmission i'm too afraid to pony up and take a test
Here’s how I did it: I was getting a routine physical and the doctor asked would I also like an HIV test. I said yes, and, a week or so later, she gave me the results along with my cholesterol, iron levels, etc. She sorta forgot to tell me the big result, I had to remind her (“And, um, about that other thing…?”), but having it be part of a bigger checkup really helped alleviate the fear and stress somehow. It’s undeniably scary, but finally knowing versus a lifetime of wondering is so so so much better.
How do you feel about half of gay men having HIV in a few decades? It terrifies and saddens me and I just don't get why we're all so stupid.
A good, sad question. Honestly I feel very removed from the part of gay culture that is transmitting the disease. (Extrapolate from that as much about my sex life as you’d like to.) But of course, yes, that is deeply troubling. As someone whose family was tragically touched by AIDS in its first terrifying, apocalyptic iteration, the idea that ignorance or casualness has insisted itself into younger culture, because it’s not “our” disease, feels horribly disrespectful to those whose bones we giddily dance on and just plain stupid. I think the narrative of gay rights has shifted toward the milquetoast — toward khaki marriages and adopted babies — and while all that is beautiful and good, there are still of course some gnarly truths to be contended with. The biggest of which is this disease. I find it especially distressing to read that infection rates are highest among minorities and/or those less educated about the very real dangers threatening sexually active gay men.
I had one scare. One unprotected incident, years ago. And I only finally got an HIV test last year. Seven years later. That I, someone who considers himself emotionally and morally and politically on the right side of this thing, would wait that long should indicate to me and to all of us that HIV and AIDS has so wrongheadedly become the stuff of superstition (“Of course you don’t have it!” was my friends’ refrain when I worried aloud to them) when it should still entirely dwell, uncomfortably, within the world of likelihood.
I don’t know how we fix that. But it scares me. And frustrates me. And makes me think that sometimes we are ignoring realities of gay life in favor of wedding fantasies and, y’know, assimilation. And that’s a problem, I think.
I was walking home down 14th street after seeing a movie for work and getting a drink with a friend in Grand Central. (We both needed to be near the 4/5/6 and, in that neighborhood, why not go to that beautiful place instead of some horrible pub?) She had pointed out the Jackie O. spot on the ceiling, the one little piece left dark and sooty to serve as a reminder of what things used to look like. We looked out on that big shimmering room and it felt peculiar to be there, us remembering out loud a time when we were teenagers and had walked across the marble floor on our way to spend the night with a friend in Bronxsville, in her dorm at Sarah Lawrence. I said, “It’s funny to think that we were right there! All those years ago! Running right down there.” And she agreed and then we paid and she went north and I went south.
So I was walking down 14th street, and ahead of me were a girl and a boy, maybe 18 or 19, undoubtedly NYU students, and they were chatting about something urgent, she nodding her head vigorously as he gesticulated. He had a cool hair cut and rolled jeans shorts and a canvas bag not unlike my own hanging loosely off his bony shoulder. And I was, as I often am of boys like him, jealous of his age, of his looks, of the seeming sureness he had in his style, in his skin, in what I assumed (perhaps unfairly!) to be his queerness.
But then they turned south and I crossed east and I turned around to see where they were going and they were walking into the 5 Napkin Burger that sits on that corner like a bright lump. And I laughed a little, in my head, thinking for a little flicker of a second that I’d rather have darted through Grand Central back then, excited and out of town and almost lost, than be walking into 5 Napkin Burger tonight. I suppose that counts for something. Or maybe I just hope it does.
“I’d be remiss not to mention Gravity’s deep, pulsating, thoroughly inspired score. Steven Price’s compositions have their spacey and ethereal moments as required, but truly impress when filling the frame with an oddly propulsive kind of dread. Thick, fuzzy electronic groans are cut through with piercing strings, making the horror of the scene feel both sudden and infinite. Parts of this score sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard in a movie, jarringly aggressive and industrial. When the film reaches its heart-stopping, near ecstatic finale, Gravity has swallowed us whole with its riot of sight and sound; it’s the kind of picture that demands a big screen with rumbling speakers, that is actually emboldened by 3D technology.”—Gravity: good.
One tucks one’s high forever in the blind spots of its school: its intermission between closures; amid fuckers; within each later savored (laminated) against sooner effects. “One isn’t learning or one is learning very much”—it’s not even a paradox. Not even a good stick of gum. We’re almost thirty. I read you something on the phone. Gossip Girl. Hamlet. Country lyrics. The news. We’re almost forty. My gum floats & cracks. We’re fifty, & drifting, as if, as if, as if
Hi, how are you this morning! It was great to hear from you. I am having trouble with the computer so may have to send this mail in two lots.
I am glad you are doing OK and keeping busy. Yes, you had told me about your new business venture, but here you write telling me what you have been making. Seems like you have made a lot, so you will have to let me know how all that goes. I hope it does well for you.
I like the refrigerators like you have just had. I suppose it is something like the new one Joe had at the farm. David got a new fridge/freezer here last year but the freezer compartment is at the bottom of the fridge and not very big. I had to defrost the freezer part yesterday as it had got iced up and I could not understand that, as it is inot long since I had done it. I do not like that job, but got it done.
Our weather is changing and autumn is here. It gets dark now at 7.00pm and is not light until about 6.00am. We have had cold days but no frost yet. Yesterday was a lovely warm afternoon and it is supposed to be nice this afternoon too, but there is a nip in the air at the moment.”
“It’s a creature with a stag’s body and a fire-red dragon’s head, blood and viscera around the corners of its mouth, which is holding the mutilated body of a white-faced and bewigged fop (signifying the French) in its jaws. Around it are four Hyde Harriers popping wheelies while bikini-clad lasses hold SA80s and make the peace sign. All around this are hot flames and written above it all in Gothic script are the words “Windsor Or Die.”—The new royal coat of arms.