Published December 2007 (link)
There's a scar at the top of my right leg. It looks
like the British Isles, maybe Denmark, maybe Iceland. I'm not sure, I'm
not a geographer, but it's a cluster of small brown shapes, some
merging together, some trailing off to the left. The little dots look
like the tail end of a comet compared to the big center of the scar,
like the dust cast off by one giant moment.
Published November 18, 2004 (link)
Seated to my right was a former college fraternity president. To my left was a Condé Nast editor. The low roar of conversation — about personal trainers, one-night stands and the unlikely pleasures of calf roping — was interrupted by a spate of impromptu dancing, squeals of laughter and a brief wrestling bout. The tuna-noodle casserole was going over well, as were the Nutella and Skippy sandwiches.
The Postal Service, an indie-rock band, played in the background. A case of inexpensive wine was flowing, augmented by Grey Goose martinis and red plastic cups of Johnnie Walker Black, neat.
Dorothy Draper's advice was working.
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