The Escape Artist

When my son was born, he came out angry, two weeks early and mad as hell. “He looks like a prosecutor,” the nurses said. Fast forward two years. He wouldn’t hold my hand while walking to and from the car. He wouldn’t hold my hand in parking lots. He was always running away inside of… Continue reading The Escape Artist

Writing It Down

Yesterday, as I drove up the freeway to BART, where I would meet two girlfriends and one of their daughters to go to the city to see Hamilton again, I was composing my blog post, out loud, in the slow lane. I was on a roll, phrasing each sentence to perfection as other drivers wondered… Continue reading Writing It Down