Extraordinary stories from everyday life.


the best thing about us is the people we know.

Leather Lane // Thursday, 8.58am

At last I know where the Amish are coming from when they abjure cameras, fearing the theft of their souls.

At last I know where folks are coming from when they read the profiles I write on them, and freak out, and want me to take the posts down until we can tool it into something that restores their sense of self.

It is a weird thing to read about yourself in print. Even if there’s nothing wrong with it. Anything but glowing effusion makes you suspect you’ve been reduced to a collection of qualifiers.

(“Skinny headband? 20-something?" I'm so much more than that!") I’d like to point out that the dear lady who made me a part of Psychology Today article clearly has little contact with actual hipsters. And it’s fun to think that, by her estimation, I made the cut.

Or…maybe…she doesn’t really think of me that way. Maybe she knows exactly what a hipster is, and simply cast me in that character because it made for good copy.

In interest of our real objective, the truth is very bendy.

"That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out."