You call the drink a Tom Collins. It makes you more alert to the thin black arm hairs of the man you’re talking to. He’s a spoken word poet—Shelly introduced you, and you haven’t had sex since last spring semester.
I’m not comfortable telling you how much I weigh. I’m not even okay with being weighed at the doctor’s office. In fact, I’ll avoid going to the doctor altogether, if it means I won’t have to step onto the scale and brace myself.
Years ago, when I was still relatively new to Los Angeles, I was walking to lunch one day with someone who would become a mentor when a distinguished-looking older man gasped. “Rod Amateau! Fuck you!”
His cramped right foot hurts. From holding the pedal way down where it’s never been before. He can’t let it up. He can’t let it up because if he does it means he believes this has happened.
For more than twenty years the Langs and the Turners lived side by side in wood-frame Victorians separated by the Turners’ narrow driveway, each house a mirrored replica of the other with a wide front porch and bay windows.
The teacher accused me of being a “helicopter parent.” When I arrived home that night, stunned from her accusation, my husband just laughed and said, “Yeah, you are.”
World Federation for Wrestling Slapdown Host Don Deleterious’s June 3, 2004 On-Air Interview with Francisco Grajilla, Professional Wrestling’s Hottest New Superstar.