Late one autumn afternoon, in 1983, I drove my tired 1968 Rambler Rogue across the Connecticut River, as I did nearly every day.
July is a hard month for me. Twelve months ago, my friend Pat took his life by jumping off the George Washington Bridge. I never imagined that something like that could happen.
There is no doubt that female friendships hold hefty value in my life, but friendships with women exhaust me in a way that male friendships never have. They simply offer different things.
When I was a boy, my heroes were the strong, silent types portrayed in the movies. It took me a while to figure out what acting like a man really means.
The long held theory goes that women, in general, make better, and have more, friends. But I am sensing movement. But I am sensing movement.