Two things are going to happen now, and neither is good for our country.

I’ve ridden passed Bill Cosby’s house hundreds of times — his Montgomery County mansion is off a main road in our suburb, and was, for years, a huge point of pride. But even as a kid, I remember hearing stories that he had attacked a Temple student, and most likely paid to have it kept quiet.

When the stories started pouring out in full, that mansion was a lot less Buckingham Palace and a whole lot more Castle Dracula. And as of this afternoon, the Count has returned.

Cosby’s Hollywood Boulevard Star. Original photo from Adobe Stock.

Writing for the Associated Press, Maryclaire Dale reports:

Trigger warnings across the board, I’m coming in hot.

Original image from The Guardian

“It’d be better if you bring her back in in a month,” the insurance agent told my Dad. I was only five pounds underweight for my height, and my period had just stopped. “In a month, she’ll be safely underweight and have had two or three months without a menstrual cycle, and we can authorize her to be admitted full-time.”

“So when someone shows up at the Emergency Room with a fever of 104, you tell them to come back when it’s 108?” my Dad barked. “Or 110? Or when they’re unconscious and seizing?”

Insurance backed down and authorized a…

The attitude toward anti-social personality disorder seems to be shifting toward a kinder view of the previously demonized, without account for their danger.

“The new guy looks like Brick from Anchorman,” a co-worker told me at lunch. It was an apt description: short, average to slim build, dark hair, nerdy vibe.

Steve Carrell as Brick Tamland. Our co-worker strongly resembled him. (Image from The Village Voice)

Our Brick was the new on-staff attorney, hired to direct the Planned Giving arm of our Development Department. He’d actually started two weeks late because, according to our Vice-President, his wife’s parents had died in a traffic accident in Puerto Rico.

It was obviously heartbreaking, and, although we were already a friendly office, we’d made sure to really roll out the welcome mat. We had cake and sparkling cider. His desk furniture was replaced, and the office assistant purchased flowers for his desk. We were all smiles, asking after his wife, encouraging him to bring his kids by.

As a…

I’m a white woman who (almost) been exclusively pursued by men of colour. I’m unsure where allyship ends and harm begins.

Original image from Adobe Stock.

My friend “Sarah” and I hadn’t seen each other in years, but we grew up together. She had recently moved back to our hometown, and I was crashing at my parent’s house while working a contract position (pre-COVID, of course).

We met up, shared two bottles of wine and some horrific frozen food in our hometown’s local hotspot. As with the best of friendships, it was as if the years had never passed. We could talk about everything and anything and so the conversation inevitably led to our dating histories.

When I joined the online dating world, I wasn’t surprised…

Rowling’s letter is a play-by-play on how an ally felt persecuted by the community she sought to understand, and ended up on the wrong side as a result.

The mob came before Rowling’s mind was made up. She chose sides accordingly.

The first article I saw on J. K. Rowling’s now infamous essay dealt with tattoos. Then I saw some memes. Then I hit Google to figure out what in the Hufflefudge was happening. I read her essay three times and still feel lost and confused as to what its main point was about, and how or why this very intelligent woman felt this would be anything other than damaging.

But what I did manage to glean was this: the essay is bleeding with frustration and resentment. She lays out a blueprint as to how she started out wanting to become…

Knowledge may be power, but it can’t always protect your feelings.

Photo by author, taken the week this story takes place.

We were somewhere in Florida, when I had a job on the conference circuit, when a married father of one seated to my left announced that he “would never understand how some women have rape fantasies.”

It was, admittedly, an extraordinarily heavy topic, especially in a conference room with views of palm trees and one of five swimming pools, but this particular member of the production crew was known for being blunt — and drunk — at these events, and he also worked a great deal on true-crime documentaries, which were, admittedly, screwing with his head.

“I don’t understand how…

Laurel Bowery-Hill

New Orleans based writer, reader, history lover, and occasional hothead.

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