All entries by this author

“Unceremoniously Speaking,” by Mark Tulin

Nov 30th, 2022 | By

I know I’m not being politically correct, but I hate weddings. It’s not that I don’t like the institution of marriage — it’s the ceremony I can’t stand. It’s painful watching a couple agonize over the number of guests to invite, the size of the wedding cake, and the seating arrangement. And it’s uncomfortable to watch the couple say their vows. You see the stress on their faces that says: What did I just agree to? 



“Codicil of My Ill Will,” by Melanie Chartoff

Nov 23rd, 2022 | By

Being of sound mind and ill will, I, Karen Miller-Strauss, execute this document dated March 19, 2022, to replace all prior wills and codicils from me or my beloved late husband, Arthur Strauss for whom I am next of kin, a blood relative, having given blood to sustain him during his final surgery. Disbursements will be reduced by the line item amounts for reasons stated.



The Syllabus, Sisyphus and Us,” by Robert Zaretsky

Nov 16th, 2022 | By

Class Requirements: Black turtleneck. Hair pomade. Pack of Gauloises (or, in a pinch, Camel non-filters). Espresso-stained copy of Être et rien (and you will regette rien by rrroolling those r’s). 



“God Is My Daddy: The Dove Versus Feminists, China, Californians, etcetera,” by Jessica Tilley Hodgman

Nov 9th, 2022 | By

Gabby Star married my Grandpappy when he was a body-building swarthy hunk of a man and she had a Dolly Parton wig and waist. Gabriella Stella was Gabby Star’s given name but she preferred the anglicized Star lest someone miss the glorious implications of her naming. And Gabby to balance the glory with accessibility. And never Grandma, Nana, nothing to suggest she had lived long enough to see two generations birthed. Gabby Star preferred to be called nothing but Gabby Star. Unless it was a deep bass Baby from hunky Grandpappy across the room. That seemed permissible.



“Rare Autograph & Interview,” by David Conte

Nov 2nd, 2022 | By

When I first moved to NYC in 2010, I arrived without a job. I was, of course, the trailing spouse as my wife had arrived to Manhattan with a lucrative banking job downtown. Every day, I would wake up late, shower and eat breakfast, and then walk two blocks up the street to my favorite coffee shop in all of New York, a yellow and brown facaded Italian cafe which no longer exists called SiCafe. It was mostly frequented by affluent Upper East Side folks and college students (Hunter College was located just a block away). With my laptop in hand, I’d order my standard cappuccino and take my spot near the picture window in front. Then I would begin searching for jobs online. One particular day, I found myself becoming very frustrated over my fruitless job search, and so I penned the following:    

What if being unemployed held some special power?