Every time I sit down to write this essay, I feel like I’m writing an acceptance speech for a minor journalism prize – the New York Yacht Club’s Commodore Herman T Rosencranz Commendation for Excellence in the Creation of Literary Ballast. After a few days of trying to overcome this sensation, I’m giving in to it. Please imagine this essay is being spoken into a tinny microphone, that I am seated behind a table draped in a blue polyester cloth, and that you, the guests, are long gone on gimlets. Tomorrow, the only part you’ll remember is when I made a lewd joke about keel-hauling.
Read Full Article »
