I wonder what I look like to a stranger. More specifically, I wonder what I look like from a birds-eye view, seven stories up. Apparently from this vantage point, there is something distinctive and remarkably distasteful about me. Otherwise, why would someone choose to throw a full, glass handle of vodka down at me from a rooftop?

The weekend before last I was nearly killed dead—yes, “killed dead”—when a stranger threw a full gigantic bottle of booze down at me from a rooftop. [ . . . ] 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 »