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My friend Clayton died just before Christmas. He threw himself from the forty-fourth floor of the Marriott Hotel. Clayton Brooks was a poet, an actor, a taxi driver, a playwright, a drug addict, and a lover of humanity.
By SparrowSeptember 1996As we waited outside the theater for Pam to arrive, the late-afternoon sun buttery and generous, I was struck by how healthy everyone looked: we could have been the bowling team, the swim club. AIDS seemed remote for a moment: distant, unreal, a bad dream from which the world would one day awaken.
By Sy SafranskyOctober 1995Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, conscientious-objector declaration, the Tet Offensive
By Our ReadersOctober 1995Whenever Dad came up to Nooksack from Seattle, he took my brother and me to the movies, or to a sandwich place on the waterfront where we shot pool. He booked a motel room in town where we’d watch color TV before he returned us to Mom’s.
By David MasonOctober 1995Two wedding crashers, three strikes, four hubcaps
By Our ReadersSeptember 1995There was a tear in our screen door and I would peek through it at the little houses across the street. The house across from ours was purple. There were many wild-colored houses on our block, like a row of cheap drinks; their great snarls of TV antennas were the swizzle sticks.
By Poe BallantineAugust 1995Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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