One of the most interesting things I have discovered since losing my job is that TBS shows four back-to-back reruns of the television show Dawson's Creek every morning from 8am to noon. Today, unfortunately, there was a conflicting event: a "Women For Hire" job fair was held in downtown Boston. Being a woman for hire […]
Creative nonfiction essays
In my search for employment, I overtalked, confessing to anyone who would listen that for six years I had been silent. I was proud of the length of my suffering.
The classified ad in San Francisco's Bay Guardian was straight out of a doper's dream: Marijuana Research Subjects Wanted. Sure, why not?! In those dayslate 1975it seemed surprising that the U.S. government was still trying to figure out the physiological effects of cannabis, but if they were willing to pay folks to smoke their Mississippi-grown
Located in the basement of 20 W. 20th Street since 1965, West Side advertises itself as the “friendliest range in town.” It’s also the only range in town.
I was sinning in the shower this morning, thinking about the six Tony nominations this past season for Arthur Miller's revival of The Crucible on Broadway. What is there about America that craves witch-hunts? Damned if I know. And I was wishing I was in Las Vegas, "the city that has re-discovered Sin," according to
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." --Henry V, iv, iii He considered going over to kill Hitler or Hirohito or somebody, but Uncle Sam had no boots or uniforms anywhere near his size. So they put him in Military Intelligence and sent
Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism, says that we realize not peace but only anguish.
Unlike many writers who oozed existential philosophy from every drop of ink that bled on their manuscripts, Jean-Paul Sartre does not shy from submitting a definition of existentialism.
Until recently, knitting only sparked my interest once before. I was six years old, stuffed on whole milk and liverwurst sandwiches, and waiting on my grandmother's couch for my mother to come pick me up. The room was shadowed with nightfall, blue with television (the evening news), and oppressively boring — the violent clicking of
When I was running away from the army in Swaziland I came across Nelson Mandela's book, No Easy Walk to Freedom. It was a time when I had difficulty with any literature except pornography and Doris Lessing. All the devils of the military were on my tail and it was hard to concentrate. But I