Columns

Over coffee the other day, two guys told me that they met at the Stonewall Inn a month before the gay rebellion that began on June 28, 1969.

Although born in Detroit, I was in Flint, Michigan for kindergarten through third grade.

I am thinking about estrogen. And I’m nervous.

Go ahead, walk through our home, spot a picture of me when I was young, and say, “You used to be cute.”

When the Universe manifests itself in us as unexplainable and seemingly unwarranted sanctification, we are said to be living in a state of grace.

The beloved, wood-handled hairbrush that I use daily will get dropped into a black plastic garbage bag after my death, unless I die before Ray.