I had the honor, and I don’t use that word lightly, of being asked to read at the May wedding of close friends in California. Mike and John had begun dating something on the order of 11 years ago, back when marriage equality was not even on the horizon.
We all know that the 21st century is different than any era that preceded it. We agree that the technological revolution is creating change that is at least as profound, in terms of human experience, as the industrial revolution. Even more profound, perhaps.
Steep slated parapets with sheer drops into penumbral darkness, cars speeding in reverse downhill that I cannot stop, paddling up a creek on a skinny oar, and running through rooms in other people’s houses or apartments have been the stuff of my dreams of late.
I threw my dad’s golf clubs out the other day. I pulled his old golf bag, with the red and white umbrella strapped to the side and a couple of wooden tees rattling around in the bottom, out the broken-down side wall of the shed, where it has been moldering.
Shall I tell you about the day my cellphone had a bath? What happened was that I put a bottle of Honest Tea into my handbag without making sure that the top was screwed on tight. Picking up the bag again hours later, after my yoga class, I found everything inside completely soaked.
And so it was! On June 9, in the year of our Lord 1791, in New York City. His grandfather’s house, where he spent his early years, has been preserved as Home, Sweet Home, a landmark down the street from this one.
It is no longer a secret. Nicknamed Lip, he’s involved. Man knows some moneyed types. The mayor and town supervisor won’t say — they have guaranteed use of the old rescue boats stashed at undisclosed locations.