The F Bomb

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Nan was the first person I heard say “fuck” in a professional capacity, and I don’t think I’ve been as impressed by the word since, except maybe the first day of Contracts when Professor Leslie slid into the room in an outfit far too California-subtextually-gay for the Midwest and screamed it at the top of his lungs before saying in a much calmer voice “I just got tenure, I can say whatever I want now.” Continue reading

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This is true.

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Nonfiction usually requires a windup. Some sort of stretching before it hits the track. A metaphor. Links, to other sources more reliable than myself. For once, I’m (almost) going to skip that. If you need resources, you are already on the internet. I hope that you’ll find the one that convinces you this is true. Or you could just believe me; I’m usually pretty good at being right.

You are not your productivity.

Another excerpt from that memoir I’m not going to write

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Katie the Cop was, in the 1980’s, chiefly (this is a pun) notable for being the one-woman police force of our small town in Oregon at a time when women were not cops and certainly did not hold small-town office. Sure, the first and second waves of feminism had swept through the country, but our little town was pretty high up in the hills and if there was a feminism tsunami warning, we would have been an evacuation zone.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t the rumors that you could get out of a speeding ticket by buying the Avon (the official report says it was Mary Kay but they’re wrong) she kept in the trunk of the town’s single police car that finally brought Katie down.

No, it was the exorcisms. Continue reading