I knew it was a mistake to vote. There’s something un-American about voting, after all. I mean, sure, it’s great that we can vote, but to actually go through it — to get hold of one of those hard-to-find registration forms, fill it out, wait for your voting card in the mail and then show up on a workday at some high school you never heard of and stand on line to pull a lever on those ancient machines — well, if you ask me, it all smacks of some kind of nutty European socialism.
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On Thursday, I took a water taxi out to the Fire Island lighthouse museum with Lucy and her family. The museum was closed, but the park ranger was nice enough to let us in to watch a video about the lighthouse. “It’s very homemade,” she warned us as she popped it in the VCR, thus defusing my sneering cynicism before I could even get it started. Afterwards, Lucy and her family took the water taxi back, but I decided to walk, lured by rumors of a nude beach in the vicinity[...]
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We planned it as a reconciliation, “a time to bury all the old dead,” as you called it, as the first small hard drops, like cutting remarks, splashed against the windshield, punctuating the silence that would stretch out like the road before us…
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