When I share anecdotes, I worry whether my posts will look like this drool, a simpering attempt at profundity. The actor from HBO’s Girls, new to New York City and homosexuality, drinks Cosmos with a blue-eyed handsome man in 2001 while ignoring his sister’s phone calls: his newly divorced father suffered a heart attack. The lesson?
I had straightened out much of what felt so wrong that night. I now had a job I was proud of, an apartment I was proud of. I had buried my father and in doing so had buried that whole chapter of my life. Which meant there could be no Brad, no trace of that time, of that night.
It wasn’t generous of me, or kind, but that’s what I did. Most importantly, I never got highlights again.
The details — the can of Pringles, the blue-eyed boy’s half-erect penis, Rannells’ Nokia flip phone — adduce the time spent in a couple creative writing classes. I’m wincing as I type because in June 2016 I mentioned my first trip to the gay bar while my great grandmother slipped out of consciousness. Using the death of a parent to illumine an account of casual sex is an act of vulgarity: Rannells cheapens the death and guts the erotic section. Perhaps I’ve been too recently steeped in Isherwood, who had the sense to concentrate on one incident at a time and didn’t add pretty little maxims as if rewarding the good boys and girls who reached the end. Well, I’m delighted the comments suggest the column grossed readers out too.