The Trailing Edge

Note: In the blog that recently went away forever, I had playfully posted several times about branded products I owned, knowing (or believing) that somewhere out there, data analysts were busy compiling this information to get a consumer profile of me. But not being much of a consumer, compared to most people, I ran out of stuff to tally. Well, it's a new time and a new place (new state, new environment, etc. etc.), not to mention a new blog, so here goes. Get out your pencils, everyone! [Ticonderoga or Pedigree are my preferred brands of pencil, btw.] ~

           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 wh...

                   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 abo...

                       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 h...

                   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 ...