Alfred Thayer Mahan is the kind of historical figure who proves that fame and aptitude are not always bedfellows. By the late nineteenth century, he was the undisputed authority on naval history, the man who coined the term “sea power” and lent it enough gravitas to send Congress scuttling toward new battleships. His seminal work, The Influence of Sea Power Upon History, 1660–1783, was the TED Talk of its era—if TED Talks were 500-page treatises on naval strategy, dense with charts, footnotes, and historical examples. Mahan became the intellectual godfather of America’s rise as a global maritime force.

When I heard that Johnny Depp had curated blasting Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes from a rocket launcher, I was, quite frankly, underwhelmed. Granted, the drama did celebrate Thompson’s outlaw gonzo spirit. Depp had commissioned the erection of a phallic looking rocket launcher topped by a double-thumbed fist. Fellow bad boys Jack Nicholson and Sean Penn were among the guests; Lyle Lovett and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band played and sang; there were fireworks and I expect liquor and drugs flowed freely. Still, I shrugged. Fully ten years before Depp’s carefully curated spectacle, my family had blasted our dad’s ashes into eternity. With an old shotgun, from the side of a mountain at sunset. For a lot less than the $3 million that Depp shelled out.

When my neighbor Trudy Canowitz died at ninety-three, I was heartbroken. Of course I was going to miss her kindness and warmth—but I was also going to miss her driveway. Especially her driveway.

I’ve decided not to mind that I’m losing my hair. Not that it’s really a choice. And I very much do mind. So maybe what I’m trying to explain is why I’m not going to do anything about it. Although I wish I could.

Middle of January be damned, we were three 17-year-old girls preparing for our first Dracula’s Ball, and there was no way we were going to take any chances that could result in social suicide. Granted, Dracula’s Ball was held four times a year, but who wanted to go to a vampire-themed party all sweaty in the middle of summer? Attending in the dead of winter made perfect sense on all levels. And did goth parties have coat checks? I didn’t know. I’d never seen a goth in a puffer coat, especially not one with a big fuzzy hood. I assumed all goths mastered the art of layering, or maybe they’d just learned to defy the weather.