Letterman wore khakis and the camera angled up his crotch. I watched every night or set my VCR to record on the rare occasion I left my apartment.
His gravesite at Holy Cross Cemetery brought a lump to my throat.
Because fifteen feet and a quarter-sized hunk of aluminum is nothing against the smell of oiled leather...
Just mid-February but a day like summer
I saw Candy the next time I went out. And the time after that. And the time after that.
I suppose all sports officials are gods of a sort...
After a loss, I’d seen him throw his gear in the garbage and denounce baseball altogether.
Crack! The sound of impact, ball on bat...
In the original cut of the movie, Ray says, “You wanna have a catch?” But test audiences were disappointed with the complete lack of father-son acknowledgement.
My friends lived for bottle rockets and Boy Scout merit badges; I, however, lived for called third strikes.
I couldn’t cut my hair (I’m no sheep) and I sure as hell couldn’t change my love of the Houston Astros.
I ended up in right field, ponytail eschew, cap falling to the bridge of my nose, shadowing my freckled cheeks.
Picture this: It’s 2004. I’m living in Berkeley, California. I swear I am a cool girl. I’m dating a rapper who has had some success. He’s got massive dreadlocks that differentiate him from everyone.
That’s what your parents say when they come in with their Santa suits. But it’s not Saturday. It’s Tuesday. It’s time to go to school.
If I could purchase a lifetime subscription to a living author’s work, I’d subscribe to John McNally. His fiction is engaging and funny, his books on craft are illuminating, and his recent memoir—The
At the age of sixteen I worked a job digging holes. Sometimes it was ditches, other times it was retention ponds.The work was as hard as it was simple. Every evening my boss would slip me a crumpled
Canvas after canvas I see my life in scenes the artist cannot know.
I lost track of Ben while I was married. Seven years. I hadn’t seen Ben in 7 years. Ben refers to those years as my domesticated years. I lost track of a lot of things that were important to me
I fear being buried alive, but I insist on being buried when I'm dead.
We agreed to meet in a bar known as the ‘anus of the city.’ It had terrible lighting which obscured its ugly regulars. The regulars had heads like onions with names like Fred, Harry, Deborah, Henrietta. Years of drinking had withered their necks to the size of cocktail sticks and I didn’t pity them because I liked hating them.
Kentucky is chill and for the most part, doesn't try to be something it's not. I feel that way abt myself tbh.
Self-guided tour: Exhibit #9 from the National Museum of Broken Marriages
A medium says to channel the late wife through beloved objects. I press my ear to a mug, a journal, my husband’s chest.
