Nature Is A Bitch

January, 1993

In the Irish night, the moon looked smudged and insecure through the microscopic mist. My face and raincoat were soaked. I had a huge scarf tied around my head, looking like my own Jewish grandmother as I stood at the edge of the lake in a quiet valley surrounded by the hulking mountains of Connemara. I heard a dog bark from a farmhouse a mile away. The 18-year-old boy put his arm around my waist. "Kiss me," he said.I don't like the way things shaped up with this Woody Allen thing. Whe...