Over the years, my father and I have developed a bit of a special relationship. Like the United States and the UK, this relationship has probably been helped by the fact that we reside three thousand miles apart, and hindered by a profoundly different sensibility of what constitutes correct behavior in public. Like the United States, my father has a tendency to act rashly and with great commotion when he is feeling threatened; he almost always apologizes but just as often it’s a little too late. Like the United Kingdom, I often take myself a little too seriously and feel very aggrieved when my point of view is not immediately recognized. We share a taste for scatological humor, but if asked would probably tell very different jokes.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
When Stephanie asked me to write a post about drinking bitters while bitter, I wasn’t insulted. It would be irresponsible of me at this point to alienate the few friends I’ve retained by taking offense when they recognize the personality I’ve so assiduously built for myself. And obviously, it was meant to be taken lightly, a wink to my grumpish tendencies rather than a pointed, passive-aggressive warning that I’d better perk the fuck up, already. So it didn’t bother me.