Cash me on the ferry + links to all good things
My annual love letter to my most favorite place
You haven’t been hearing from me as much lately (SORRY!) because I’ve been grinding on a draft of my book on intuition which is due on September 5, which also happens to be Truman’s birthday and the first day of school. Am investigating a preemptive Lindsay-Lohan-in-2004-style hospital check-in for that day, or at the very least a reservation at an IV bar. The prospect of a trip to Rockaway was the carrot I’d been dangling before me on a stick as I revise away, contingent on sending this draft to my agent. But ya know what? The carrot shan’t stay dangling when one is famished. When is anything really “done” anyway??? I am fried to a crisp so last Friday I took the 7:30 am ferry to the most glorious stretch of seashore which surely boasts the largest overlap of DSA/MAGA patrons, the one and only Rockaway Beach.
shmood
Rockaway is not beautiful, per se, but it is interesting. It’s the difference between staring at the faces of Karlie Kloss vs. Vera Farmiga—you know which is more edifying to the soul. I like to be any place in the summer where I can be a Wyndham 10. This is a metric my sister and I recently came up with when we spent an afternoon at the rooftop pool of this hotel in downtown Philadelphia when a Dave Matthews concert happened to be playing that evening. (I’m a Wyndham 8, if we’re being real.) Save your Malibus and your Hamptons. The only Hampton I am interested in is Hampton Beach!
Some things I saw:
A man who dragged his personal collection of kettlebells to the boardwalk via wagon, not to teach or take a class, but to lift them in solitude, among passersby
A skinny white girl wearing a bikini and Tims (is that brat???)
An old man who made kissy noises at me STILL GOT IT!
A citizen picking up litter off the beach- thank you!
Lifeguards bringing each other cold drinks in cardboard carriers, which initiated a fit of nostalgia for the best job I ever had, which sparked a memory of how very badly I wanted to be a lifeguard when I was in high school. The position seemed so impossible, given the Baywatch/Saved by the Bell propaganda of the 90s, it seemed like something you had to be born into, along with tan legs and hair that looks good wet. But then I realized that if I took the class and passed the test, I could just… be a lifeguard. You can guess what happened next. So much of life is that way. Ya just frickin do it and then you are.
I’m taking Theo to the Rockaway Hotel for the night because it is 800 degrees in Brooklyn right now and I *did*, in fact, get my draft off to my agent this week. We’ll be celebrating with poolside sundaes and room service, as goddess intended.
For your August pleasure:
Free Prospect Park yoga: Every Thursday!
Long Island Compromise: Can’t put it down! All hail Queen Taffy!
Geena Davis’s memoir: A perfect before bed book—dishy personal writing. I drift off dreaming of Dottie Hinson.
Reiki with Joe Buffa: His hands are touched by goddess.
Watching Olympian teammate reaction shots: Just like me supporting my friends.
And the internet’s favorite pommel equestrian is from Worcester!
Janet Planet: Especially if you are or had a single mom.
Taking a rx steroid for a chronic pesky cough: I’ve informed relevant parties that I’m on that Ron Ron juice and can’t be held accountable for anything that comes out of my mouth this week, let alone the contents of this newsletter!
Faye Dunaway documentary: In praise of a “difficult” woman.
This Chris Heath article on why MFAs should be banned: The shadiness here is epic, these people are the worst, and Heath does not even attempt to veil his contempt. 10/10
I’m doing an event with the brilliant Swan Huntley next Wednesday August 7 at Powerhouse Arena in Brooklyn. Get the book and your tickets!
I WANT YOU MORE is a helluva beach read, wherever your beach may be.