In early March of 1997, I went on a ski trip with my parents. We normally made the drive up Interstate 80 to Lake Tahoe from the Bay Area at least once a year, but almost always to Northstar, on the north shore, on the California side of the opal
I helped dig two stuck cars out on my block Tuesday. I didn’t know, and had never before met, either driver. One was a pest control worker, who had tried to veer his truck into the alley to avoid pedestrians walking down the street — the only passable corridor, with
I'd only ever felt unsafe once living in Washington, D.C. At least until last week.
Hi friends, it's been a minute. If you're receiving this newsletter, that means your email has successfully made the migration with me from Substack over to Ghost, my new host platform. This move was long overdue, but one that I'd mostly chosen to address
And knowing a good deal from a bad one
At least for a moment
A few words, then a short story
In writing, and in person
And other existential threats
As the sky falls
I picked a hell of a week to start writing about food again
The dying art of research in a crumbling information ecosystem