The setting of the scene remains vivid in my mind: vodka martinis and cigars on the balcony of Morton’s, the one overlooking Connecticut Avenue in the District of Columbia. I had recently gotten engaged and was chatting with a friend of a friend; he congratulated me on the news, warning me that everything was about to change. Don’t worry about that too much, he said, as it would all change again when you had kids.
“I can’t watch movies anymore,” he confessed.
“Oh?” I asked, confused.
“There’s always a little kid getting killed – some (expletive deleted) writer with no kids using a dead one as a plot point. I hate it. I can’t watch things like that anymore. Makes me too angry.”