I think my Poppi is turning into a dirty old man. Not like a “quick hide the prepubescents” dirty old man. But like a Handsy-Harry “lockup your Nanas” type dirty old man. And this development distresses me.

I’m just back from the sunshine state, after celebrating the old man’s 92nd Birthday. Happy Birthday, Poppi! Homeboy looks like he’s about 80 years old. My lord, that man’s genes should be studied. He’s tan, mobile, and mentally sharp. Sharp enough to chat about tranches of packaged and securitized mortgages–Zzz zzz z z. Sharp enough to not get stuck paying the bill at dinner. Sharp enough to know the difference between charming confidence and ballsy lechery.[ . . . ] Continue »

Last week my grandfather set off the fire alarm in his Florida apartment complex at 11 PM. That very same night, in New York City, I had a shamanic vision. It was all sparks, licking flames, haze, and then oblivion.

Maybe you think I’m speaking metaphorically about an orgasm. If so, you’ve obviously never had sex with me. I’m talking about death. I think I now know how I am going to die. Strike the tragically fated hot air balloon chase scene from the script! [ . . . ] Continue »

I wish I was genetically predisposed to respond to stress and extreme trauma by losing my appetite and needing to go for a run. Man, fuck those people.

Unfortunately for my pant-size, I channel the extreme emotions stemming from crisis into baking a nine-inch pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap-pecan crust, two batches of muffins, three batches of pudding, four Thanksgiving pies, 32 scallion and goat cheese buttermilk biscuits, and a rum cake. Thank god there are always six to fifteen other people around, who are only too pleased to numb their grief and exhaustion with one of my many confections. [ . . . ] Continue »

In the class hierarchy of trashy beach culture, we had the upper hand. For one day, the Sikdar family, with our plethora of advanced degrees, air of multicultural elitism, and token Mainline WASP in-law, rose above the fray of working class riffraff and thought, “These white people are actually louder and more embarrassing than we are.” And there was much rejoicing. In the form of golf-claps and hearty handshakes, as our traditional celebratory blowing of air horns was deemed inappropriate for the occasion.

We had the upper hand right up until we started losing our fake teeth and being shit on by seagulls. [ . . . ] Continue »