Overthunk

     It would never have happened if I had an American Express card. Because Neiman’s only takes checks, cash, their own card, and Amex. It never would’ve happened if I hadn’t decided to go to the top floor in search of some form of house slippers for my hard to buy for grandma. But I did go to the top floor, riding the elevator among bouncing squares of reflected light from strings of plastic butterflies and mirrors, suspended emblems of spring hung in winter because snowflakes were oh so gauche. (I figured out their “use something springy in winter” trick because last year, they suspended strands of white feathers, causing me to glance about for Foghorn Leghorn, checking to see if they were numbered for just such an occasion. I suppose I’ve never noticed, but in high summer perhaps they have strands of icicles or Christmas ornaments in encomium of the cattywompus way high fashion operates.)      Gliding along the white marble floors (hustling quickly to get something in the way o

If you would destroy the evidence, Twittercide, posthaste. Hell hath no fury like the deluded Tumblr posts of a woman being willingly lied to. That awkward moment when you post 1,000 Tumblr pics of airbrushed models doing all the sex acts you and I have done in real life, to impress someone who is too far away to touch you on a regular basis. Love? You're just an actor. He's writing the script. The paycheck? Hoping you'll provide the confidence and worth he hasn't provided for himself. For you? Pro bono, baby. Wisdom is a long time in coming (at least six months, hundreds of texts, hours on the phone and together in person). Note to self: Fun is not love. Fun is just fun, even if it is pretty intense, and repeated, and other people seem to think it is love, and you do. It is just fun, even if the other participant in the fun says, "I love you" while looking you right in the eyes, in your own bed, after hours of touching, kissing, and laughing together,

Appropos of the ubiquitous holiday of the prevailing belief system at the current temporal moment, here is a not-awaited, hardly polished, non-genius parody of The Beatles' "I Am the Walrus" -- I AM AT WALMART. Lyrics: I Am At Walmart Begun July 24, 2011, finished Decemberish 2011. Daddy, mama, cousins, auntie, me and you and grandma shop together. See how they whine for everything that shines, see how they whine. Kids crying. Sitting by the cornflakes, waiting for the man to come. Exploded jar of pickles, don’t go in ‘til Tuesday. Otherwise you want to kill and lines are much too long. I just want eggs, man, but I’ll spend a hundred. I am at Walmart. Stuffed kangaroos. Rent A Cop Policeman sitting Driving his golf cart past the cars in rows. See carts fly, dinging cars, then guy in orange vest runs. Kids crying, kids cryyyyyying. Kids crying. Kids cryyyy. Yellow squishy filling, glistening in apple pie. Cheap crab legs, hey fish man, gimme 13 o

I'll turn the TV on, but I'll walk away. I might seem to be doing other things, but from afar, nonchalant, refresh the page. With a pessimistic twinge, I'll listen to the cheering and the roars of the crowd. A drink of water summons me if they get too loud. If they ask me who I like, I might say, "I dunno, really." I won't wear the colors, nor at parties drink beer from pails But in my heart, my hope for you never fails You turn bad vibes to good, to fuel the cheer of a whole city. Real fans sit close and watch the carnage when you stumble, trip, and fall. They'd disparage me, say I don't care at all. But if I watch, powerless, as you falter Your missteps turn to mine, face hot with shame, my whole perception altered To watch you fail dumps poison in my veins. I keep in sun; I can't abide the rain. --------------------------- "I'm not unfaithful, but I'll stray." - Tegan and Sara

In the first stages, One thousand iterations: This is who I am. This is who I am. This is who I really am. ----------- Who, who? Who, who? - Townshend, et. al.

Well, kids, there used to be a thing called AOR, and Album Oriented Rock radio stations would play entire albums from beginning to end, particularly in the late evening, and I used to stay at my grandparents' house as a teenager when my mother and I weren't getting along. This combination of factors led to my hiding between the window and the bed to muffle the sound and taping the entirety of Candy-O from the radio, after discovering that my grandparents' ancient, half-broken boom box would miraculously do so. The year was probably 1983 or 4. There I huddled, on the floor, right against the knotty pine window ledge, trying to turn the music up as loud as I thought I could manage without waking my early to bed, early to rise grandfather, or alerting my night owl grandmother. The doing involved some sacrifice, too, as I had to tape over something else I'd captured on the used-and-reused thirty-three cent cassette. How did I know about The Cars? My brother (nine years old

On the occasion of 10,000 tweets, August 8, 2011: -------------- As Vladimir said to Estragon, “Is Godot gonna show, or are we waitin’ for the bomb?” Estragon replied, “Vlad, I don’t know, didn’t the wall fall down many years ago?” “And what can we do, in this globe-warmed typhoon, To pass the time while we wait for our doom?” Vlad, thumbs a-flying on touchscreen sweet Fired up his wit and answered in tweets: “Swap hats, eat carrots, affirm through the day Anything to hold the terrible silence at bay.” “Not this evening, but surely tomorrow Prayer meetings and teabags will trouble borrow.” “From your bank accounts downturns continue to suck, Clutch your Cold War Certificate and cover and duck.” “I know as a toddler you learned to berate ‘Cause on your mama’s lap you watched Watergate.” “Against all manner of toil, death, and woe, We still keep waiting for our personal Godot!” “But Est: No matter what is comin’ to destroy ya, Let the gypsies sing out HOYA PARANO

Last night*, I went to the gun store. It's newish, having appeared in the local shopping center next to the Target about six months ago. I'd been curious about it, but didn't have a reason to go, really. I own an inherited firearm, a cheap, crappy, tiny .22 with a pink plastic-inlaid handle that my mama passed on to me when she passed onto the next plane. I wasn't raised with guns, really, unless you count the fact that about the time I was 10 or 11 years old, my mother must've visited one of the pawn shops that weren't too far from my childhood home, and purchased a gun. Then another. And a third. I'm not sure why she felt she needed this diminutive arsenal, except that she was rather paranoid. (That's what comes of reading forests' worth of true crime pulp.) She drove around, for probably the last 25 years of her life, with a very likely loaded gun under the seat of her taupe Toyota Camry. Any attempt by me to convince her that this was dangerous f

Alright, I know primarily entertainment-oriented, free internet dating sites don't stand alongside Harvard and Yale as strongholds of hard-hitting, accurate, valid research, but a few weeks back OkCupid, that fun repository of all sorts of personal information that I hope they aren't selling to The Man for parts, had an ad running: "Don't Date a Tweeter!" Being a member of this much-maligned collective, I found my short-lived attention piqued. Why, pray tell?  Well, as it happens, according to this article : "Just as with their 140-character musings, Twitter users seem to end up in relationships that are bite-size. 'Twitter users have shorter relationships,' says Christian Rudder, the site's cofounder and editorial director. 'How much shorter? Maybe not a lot... but the difference is measurable and consistent.' " So, let's take a quick look at this with a sampling of nice, round ages. Approximating as close to exactly as poss

It's rare I run across dweebuses of this magnitude, even online, as I avoid forums, bridges, and billy goats, in order to avoid annoyance at meeting trolls. Caspar: Hello there, Violet. I saw you on the "brains and curves" group. Nice to see someone literate. [19:44] Caspar: although I can't abide music, to be honest. [19:44] Violet: hoo me? [19:44] Violet: You can't abide it? [19:45] Caspar: Nor can I abide people who repeat what I very clearly just said, or part thereof, and add a question mark to the end, expecting some sort of response. [19:45] Caspar: Thanks for your time, and I wish you all the best, truly. [19:46] Violet: Well, telling me you hate something I clearly love isn't a good way to make introductions... [19:47] Violet: I am literate, but I have my biases as anyone else. [19:47] Violet: Also, a rather overdeveloped sense of humor. [19:47] Caspar: No, honesty is a terrible policy, clearly. [19:47] Caspar: You'd rather I bullshitted

In the new place Decorated like the old place Another world, another distinction, distillation A birthday party Formal gowns swirling, pixelated tuxes, faces You and I We knew the secret. "Those days will never return," I said. "I would say we didn't know how awesome it was. But I think we did. We stood outside the bullshit and we looked in and we knew. Sorry, don't know why I got in a sentimental mood all of a sudden. It's like we're sitting in the past." "It'll pass," you said, "if you hold real still. ------------------------------------------------ This is, for me, the essence of true romance. - Becker, Fagen

On a field trip with the youth of America today, a couple of weird things happened that are common themes in my life: circles and providence. For many years, I've experienced an odd phenomenon: I see people from past jobs, loves, classes, schools when I'm out and about and anywhere, despite not having any recent contact or connection with them for months or even years. This happened today, as I saw two people I used to teach with at my old school. Last year we were on another field trip, totally different setting. I saw yet another teacher, that I'd taught with at the same school, though she'd gone on to teach in a totally different district. A man from Peru that I'd taught in an English as a Second Language writing class also ended up being hired there as a teacher assistant. A couple of years later, he and I won teacher assistant and teacher of the year simultaneously in a single year. I go on a date or to a restaurant, and the waiter is someone I worked at my fi