Writer, editor. Erstwhile Philly museum curator and Southern Foodways Alliance board member, James Beard finalist. Typos no extra charge. IG: rowleywrites
There were a few false starts on Twitter alternates. I bided time until it felt like there was something with legs. This is promising. Same old handle, just at a new home. Here’s where you can find me:
Museum director ordered me (curator of collections) to trash hundreds of accessioned objects (illegal and unethical). If I had, and it got out, I’d’ve never worked in museums again. Told her I’d write up meeting notes and email them to her. “NO NOTES!” she exclaimed. I quit.
Remember kids, when you get assigned the special kinda illegal project at work – it's not because you're on the inner circle – it's because you're the expendable fall guy weakling who will misinterpret inclusion to illicit conspiracy as the illusion of respect you crave.
Friends took us to dinner last night at an Indian joint in La Jolla. Appetizers came on twee little wooden chairs. Not a fan of plated cuteness for adults. Or questionable sanitation.
Because I’ve spent years in restaurants, though, I knew how to close it down properly.
In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders.
The anonymous “He” from years of my tweets. Many know him simply as “Furnish.” I’ve never posted his photo here until now. But today is different. Today, our 25th anniversary, I’m marrying Tim Furnish.
Right. Cancer update. Surgery a success. Clean margins, benign, no call for chemo or radiation. Stitches out, bandages off. I’ll have a new scar the length of my middle finger (appropriate). I’ll take that as a win. First day back at the gym. It’s good to be moving again.
Wow, this is – hang on, lemme strap on my faerie wings, dye my hair pink, buckle on my chaps, work in a dose of rainbow beard glitter, and clip on a pup tail so I’m suitably queer enough – some hot, steaming horseshit.
Checked into hotel room. Alexa device on the desk. I frown and make the disapproving Marge Simpson sound. “Oh, good lord,” husband says as he rolls his eyes, then pushes a button and says “It’s off.” I reach under the desk, unplug it, and clarify: “NOW it’s off.”