DEAR BOODLES

Dear Boodles, 

What do I see in front of me? The Williamsburg Bridge jutting out and across the East River from Manhattan to Brooklyn. It’s gray, green, putty color, riveted girders and I-beams held aloft by an intricate spiderweb of cables that look delicate from where I sit, 10 stories below on a bench, but in truth are each as thick as my arm, fastened with turnbuckles and bolts and cemented deep inside the concrete caissons anchoring each end of the bridge.

Being studier of leg and without frills or makeup, it’s the lesbian sister of the Brooklyn Bridge a mile downriver but still

better looking that the ugly cousin Manhattan Bridge which squats between the two. Why I ascribe female attributes to

these structures, which are in most ways pendulous and male, like large, semi-erect penises, is something that I don’t

fully understand. Maybe because they span and connect disparate things and bring them together. Harmonizing – arms

outstretched and reaching across, gathering, touching – like women oftentimes are.

Men bridges would be grabbing across, punching across, shooting across the river, but woman bridges elegantly span the river and connect the shores. Oh please Miss Thing. Men bridges could be just as embracing, powerfully protective and elegant in their own way. Stop trying to bridge the gender gap!