Got Goss?

“Got any good gossip?”
 
With my social interactions pruned, this has been my first question out the gate of any hang. The query is often followed up by a more desperate plea:
 
“It doesn’t even have to be about people I know!”
 
In my ongoing process of matrescence, hunting and gathering juicy tidbits has been vital to my wellbeing. Anyone who knows me is like what else is new. Along with many writers, I pride myself on a deep and abiding thirst for all manner of eavesdropping, low key spying, and, the contact sport of the journalistic endeavor, gossip. Beyond the the base pleasure, I like to think of myself as a gifted interrogator of human behavior and motivation. As Elizabeth Hardwick apocryphally delineated, “When we talk about people it’s not gossip, it’s characterization.” A writer I know made the distinction regarding her deep and abiding fascination with a certain married gentleman scoundrel and his bountiful affairs: "I’m not [REDACTED]-obsessed, I’m a [REDACTED] scholar!” Think of me as your 21^st century Truman Capote. (Though it didn’t work out so well for him.)
 
I believe my yearning has something to do with being out in the world less, given to domestic concerns and hermitage more. When the babysitter is with the boy, it’s a sprint to Do All The Things, and oh yeah, write my book. Rarely do I find myself in a scenario where something gnarly and intriguing could go down, so I’m living vicariously through the lives of others, getting contact high off people I don’t know. In other words, my life is delightfully, mercifully, blessedly boring. So spill the tea on a mutual acquaintance. Fine, I’ll settle for your sister’s co-worker!
 
This week I recommend unabashedly: gossip. It’s free and boy is it efficient. If we are having lunch let’s cut out the parts about how the baby is, how work is going, your summer plans and get right to the good stuff. Tell me about someone else’s obscene and confounding choices!

In the first four weeks of my young son’s life, I can readily identify one of my highest moments, beyond the baby gurgling, etc. I had a rough delivery and sustained some “birth injuries,” the most atrocious of euphemisms. If someone tells you they have “birth injuries,” they have had body parts cut/stitched/cannot walk/cannot perform their elimination functions without great woe, and on and on. So, sure, “birth injuries.” And then the inevitable bits of sleeping twenty minutes at a time, attempting to breastfeed (scene: me crying, the baby crying. Me, through tears: “The most natural thing in the world, huh?!”), forgetting words. (Scott couldn’t access the word “doorknob,” so we renamed it “the freedom turn.”) So, great intellectual feats were out of reach.

One evening within this fog of war, a great good friend and colleague came over. Somehow, worlds collided in that his pal happened to know two people I consider nemeses and true evil doers (see, my gossip follows a ((questionable)) moral code). He delivered a good three anecdotes about this pair that had me in a state akin to post-coital glow. “This is the best I’ve felt postpartum!” I cried.
 
 
Believe me, I realize how unbecoming this might sound. During a dharma talk I once attended on right speech, which tragically precludes gossiping, I actually raised my hand and asked the teacher, “Are you sure?” I mean gossip seems like it’d have been even harder to give up in the time of Siddhartha, what without subtweeting and iOS press releases. It seems awful to deprive ancient peoples of their stories.
 
Of course, this kind of easy transgression is the province of the petty. Do I yearn to be vast, to transgress my pettiness? Sure, but like the recount I demanded of my Shambhala teacher…must one cancel out the other?
 
The best encapsulation of this feeling resides in the beautiful Laura Kasischke poem “Palm,” about a woman having an affair:
 
“Die/with this secret but no regrets. Remember/this is how the

small survive, the way/the small have always survived.”
 
As the internet says, DRAG MEEEEEEEE! And do let me survive.
 
Anyway, if we see each other soon, please give me the dirt. I am but your humble shovel. If we are far apart, feel free to send me your best material. I promise to protect the identity of the guilty.
 
Auxiliary recommendations:
 
Listening to “Welcome to Homecoming” while walking to work. Nothing like a drum line to get you psyched to…. transcribe interviews!

The Pain of My Belligerence
 
Have we even talked about Eva Price’s (and Rodgers and Hammerstein’s) Oklahoma!? I had the thrill of seeing it at St. Ann’s Warehouse and now on BROADWAY where it is nominated for a gazillion Tonys. Worth it for Ali Storker’s performance alone, and Damon Duanno singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” Grab a mop, ladies amirite?!?!
 
Knock Down the House CRYING throughout
 
Everyone has said this a million times and I am here to underscore…Fleabag S2, a perfect season of television
 
Buying the things you need to remain upright and conscious in bulk.
 

HRH Sonja Morgan of RHONY, who is bringing it this season. Just Sonja, all the time. She’s not manic, she’s happy, okay?!

(I am desperately trying to cover BravoCon, if anyone editors out there need an expert gossip and intrepid field reporter on the case)
 
 
Nooz you might be able to yooz:
 
MASTERS AT WORK: BECOMING A YOGA INSTRUCTOR is out now! If you felt so inclined, you could give it some stars on Amazon.
 
I wrote a guide on introducing your pet to your baby for the New York Times Parenting section, a new endeavor I cannot recommend full-throatedly enough, for parents and non alike. As you can see the summit is going tremendously well in my house.