This is what has befallen the Little Free Library
near my house since it was erected by the Mass Historical Society
about two months ago.
- Its glass door was broken.
- Its replacement Plexiglas door was broken.
- Its replacement cellophane door was ripped from the staples.
- A large quantity of water was dumped into the library, damaging its floor as well as the books inside.
Who does this to a little free library? Who?
(a) Drunken Red Sox fans?
I consulted T, who replied, “I’m thinking either someone who hates libraries, or someone who hates free things. An illiterate capitalist.”
Me: A nice segue into the title of this post.
T: It could be someone who hates little things too.
I’m not following you, I was going in this direction anymotherfucking way.
Currently my Twitter bio. Said by a homeless woman with a gift for language who hangs out on my street.
Don’t punch girls and I don’t punch a clock
I’m not really cool enough to use hip-hop lyrics as mottos, but it’s true that I don’t punch a clock. Or, as I put it to my neighbor this afternoon, “I have an expensive twenty-hour-a-week not-working habit.”
Pecan, mince, humble
This one is courtesy of my friend J., responding thus to my offer to eat humble pie: “I prefer pecan. I know not everyone likes the savory pies, i.e. pecan, mince, humble, but I’m sticking to my guns.”
In Austin in 1995, when I was twenty-four, I knew a vivacious young woman with black hair and black eyes, L., who was the object of many a crush. You either were crushed on her or resented her, or both (I was of the first party). It was also at this time that I carried on a strange flirtation with a curly-headed blond guy named M. who was in a relationship with another girl. Hard as it is to believe now, I was ignorant of the politics of relationships and didn’t know things were going to get complicated. Read more
I was recently contacted by a high-school classmate who was collecting thank-you letters for our old English teacher on the occasion of his retirement. Turns out there were already a couple of references to him on my blog, which are echoed below. Because why lose out on repeating a good turn of phrase? I’m sure Mr. C would understand.
Mr. C was a handsome devil. I expect he still is. I adored him from a distance. I hovered in doorways around him. I was a weirdo and too alone to know I was lonely. Mr. C made me feel solid and all right. I felt I had his respect. He had a novel in progress about the Vietnam War era, and he let me read it. He read my own novel in progress and didn’t laugh. But in the scene where the protagonist and her crush kissed, he wrote in the margin, “Finally!” Read more
Wrote this a few months back.
Do you remember when you suggested we swap recommended readings, after our second year at Yale? You lent me My Dog Tulip, Why Are We in Vietnam?, and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I may have lent you Mumbo Jumbo. I was writing a novel about you. Read more
Good morning L.,
Half an hour ago I came back from walking my dog and saw you and your family bundling into the car for the drive to school. I continued around the corner to our apartment building, where a young white man was sitting beside our front gate, panhandling. I had seen him on the way out and was debating whether to say anything. As I and the dog opened the gate I said, “I would rather you didn’t sit here, so if you could move down the block a little, that would be great.” He asked me to repeat myself, then gave a grimace. I went inside. Read more