The Trailing Edge

For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. This morning, I am loitering on a street corner, in front of Starbucks, sipping my coffee. I watch a sea of humanity stream out of the Metro train station across the street into the courtyard. So many people. The stream comes in waves lasting two minutes or so. It’s as if the train has an upset stomach and is heaving up people. The first thing I notice is everyone pulls out their cell phone as they emerge from underground into the sunshine. They walk on staring at the little screen, Gotta check for messages just in case it's the end of the world and I must save it, like the teen-age girl always does in those alien invasion disaster movies. A pair of blonde women emerge. They are holding hands. They are pretty and dressed in professional light grey suits and white blouses. Finance banker types, if you ask me. They kiss, much lip touching and a full length body closeness that comes w

           For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. It's early morning, 5am or so, and I am waiting in Starbucks for the Barista to prepare my commuting coffee. I see this fidgety guy at a table, let's call him Joe, and I start to make up a story about him. Joe’s arms rested on the table holding his cell phone. He looked up and stared out of Starbuck’s window. He watched the sparse number of pedestrians passing by. About what he expected for early morning. He looked down at the picture of her, the one he secretly took of her in the office. Her hair was up in a bun showing off her beautiful face and cleavage. If there was a flaw, it was her nose, a little bulbous. Could use a bit of reshaping and a wee bit less width. Joe smiled. At least better looking than the last girl he perused. And what a leech she had been at the end too. Couldn’t accept when it’s over, it’s over. ” Your turn baby,” he whispered to himself.

                   For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. It's Sunday afternoon and I am sitting in Nordstrom's cafe, at the entrance to Nordstrom's store in a high end mall, sipping Nordstrom's coffee, watching Nordstrom's shoppers. After an hour or so of boredom, the people are so much the same - shopping, walking around, mingling with friends - I begin to notice how women dress and how men dress. Women's style is all about their body. I see spandex to show off hour-glass curves, low cut blouse to show off cleavages, mini-skirts to show off legs, short shorts to show off butt cheeks, tight jeans to show off both hips and legs at the same time, and yoga pants to show off ... well you know what. Then there are the women in sweats to hide their apple curves, long tunics to hide their hips, and baggy clothes to hide their weight. Men's fashion is about a look and rarely about their body unless

                       For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. I am sipping my coffee in Gregory’s Coffee near the World Trade Center surrounded by my fellow tourists to New York City. Down the street is the 9-11 Memorial. I offer prayers for our countrymen who went to work there and never returned home. I think of their families and hope that they are coping well with this hurt. I think of the images on TV of the Towers collapse. I think about the people I saw on TV coming over the Brooklyn Bridge covered in ash looking like ghosts and zombies. I think about lateness. Some people, good provider that they are, made the decision to get up early that morning so as not to be late for work at the World Trade Center and did not come home. Some people made the decision to get up late that morning, were late to work, missed everything, and went home. Something is off here. Do the right thing, make the right decision to be on

                   For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. I am in Starbucks, across the street from our Art Museum, sipping coffee, and bored as can be and reduced to staring out the window. All I am seeing is tourists covered in tattoos. Tattoos are a mystery to me. Here comes a tourist with tats (short for tattoos) all over his body. In the old days, if you saw a man covered in tats, he was a Hell's Angel biker, a mean scary bastard to be avoided. Now, a guy covered with tats turns out to be a Starbucks barista. He is so nice, smiles and greets you with, “How can I help you today?”  So harmless. Then there are the ladies with the "tramp stamps". A whole generation of women with tats on the base of their spine just so you can see it, along with their thongs. Yeah, pretty trashy. The best tramp stamp ever is still, "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me." I took a bold step and asked

            A daytime talk show this morning featured a popular TV actor who is all in a tizzy over the fact that his 15-year-old daughter has begun [gasp!] dating! A discussion ensued about how parents should prepare for this -- what to tell their kids "beyond abstinence, beyond the anatomical details," as one of the hosts put it. Often nowadays I hear earnest conversations about whether 16 is too young to date. Sixteen! Despite my advanced age, I am anything but a "woman of the world." On a classic Facebook meme, I score very low on "Have you ever" type quizzes. My life has been beyond vanilla. It's more like fat-free, sugar-free, imitation vanilla. And yet... I had my first date at age 13. And here I am, unscathed. Here's the complete sordid story! My closest friend at the time was Pam, and she was best known for being "boy-crazy." We haven't spoken in 15 years or so, but last I heard, she still was boy-crazy. But that

         Hello, anyone who might be reading this. And if you are ... don't you have anything better to do? This post is a work in progress, and it's basically just a place-holder. My name, for now, is Vol-E. I used to live in Tennessee, which is the VOLunteer state, but recently moved to Georgia, so I might change this to GeorgE, or something, since my first name starts with an E. My co-blogger is a wonderful fellow who calls himself The Urban Blabbermouth. He has many more ideas, and funnier ones, than I do. I am doing him a favor, to make amends for the terrible, awful, stupid mistake I made yesterday. I managed to delete our entire blog, Same as it Ever Was. Long, boring story as to how that happened. But anyway, the blog is back, so are we. Only the entirety of 8 years' worth of posts is gone. Drop a line and let us know your thoughts. It's good to be back.