The Trailing Edge

                 "Mister, buy me something to eat?" a woman asks me as I pass her in the street. I inspect her - young, mid-twenties, in worn jeans and an old Rolling Stones tee. She smells clean although she does look seedy and run down. Typical, I suppose, for someone living in hard circumstances. Such a contrast to me in my light grey suit, white shirt, and baby blue tie. But, we are close in age and do share close cropped black hair. There is something else, a familiar odor... yes, I recognize it now, one exclusive to women. I nod to her and tilt my head to my left, "There a food truck over there. Is that OK?" She nods back. We walk over in silence and there, I say, "Get what you like." She orders Number Three, roast chicken over rice with salad and diet coke. I pay. Holding the plastic carry bag of food, she says, "Thank you," turning to go. "Do you know you are pregnant," I blurt out. "What?" ...

Here is an idea: There is no climate change.    I choose to ignore facts like: droughts in California leading to wild fires, hurricanes every week tearing up the Caribbean, floods in the Midwest where they never had them before, melting ice caps  and corresponding ocean rise that will put Florida under water. How, you are asking, can I ignore facts?    Let me tell you a story. For some women, childbirth is difficult and painful. These women swear they will never do this again, yet a year or so later, they are having another child. What happened? The women forget, or something like that, the difficulties and the pains.    It's what we do as people, we ignore the bad. In my case, I have more years behind me than in front of me. My life expectancy is a too small number. I am working very hard to ignore and forget my death. If I can manage that, surely it is easy to ignore climate change. In fact, I plan to be one of...

True story. I am walking to my car and I notice a couple of Jewish fellows, twenty- somethings, with bouquets of what looks like bamboo or palm. I know they are Jewish for they look Hasidic. They are wearing long black jackets, wide brim black fedora hats, and have curly sideburns. In truth, I classify all Jewish who dress like this as Hasidic although they may identify themselves differently. They are standing near the corner canvassing passersby. One of the fellows looks me over and asks, “Are you Jewish?” I look Jewish? This is a revelation to me. People have called me good names and bad names but Jewish is a first. Maybe he senses my love of bagels? They do say, you are what you eat. "No," I say, "what is that you're holding?" He is kind enough to explain the bouquet. He says that they are plants - he names them - to symbolize scholars who study the Torah and those who don’t, and people who do good deeds and those who don’t. There is more a...

It is odd how marijuana became legal: People voted on it. As far as I know, it's the only drug that is treated this way. Normally, it's the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) here in the U.S. that figures these things out. Doctors and researchers run tests, and the FDA reviews the results and decides, Yea or Nay . But for marijuana, the people voted to make it legal. What do we, the voters, know about medicine? We hold opinions that have no basis in medicine. Those who smoke marijuana and feel good using it want to legalize. Others see marijuana as a gateway drug - if you smoke marijuana, you will end using heroin/cocaine. This is so emotional and not based on any health research. We are in this odd voting dilemma because of weak-willed politicians. Politicians are seeking votes and will pander to voters. I give you what you want, legal marijuana, right or wrong, and you will vote for me. It's the worst side of politicians. Then pop culture presents marijuana as a fun ...

                  Jimmy watched her leave her garden apartment. Her name was Carmella Consuelo. Jimmy confirmed her name by checking her mail box. Her mother must have been a poet to pick a name for her that flowed off the tongue so beautifully.  Carmella was beautiful too, really nice to look at, dressing as she did in pencil skirts, showing off her fine figure and her alluring walk, like a gentle sway in a breeze. He had been following her about New York City for three days now working out a time to get at her. She went to upscale stores and fine restaurants.  Every day she went to her bank. She did not go to an office nor any place one could call her work place. This time, Jimmy watched her leave her apartment without following her. He had seen what he need to know of her. It was time for his next move. Jimmy picked the lock to her apartment.  It was easy. He chuckled, Carmella should complain to the building mana...

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 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 ...