Spitball Army

I stopped by the local Starbucks this morning because I wanted my first human contact of the day to be a mix of indifference and caffeine.

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The Damned Don’t Cry! (1950): Pulpy semi-noir of a hyper-ambitious social-climbing Joan Crawford that could use more heat and skin. Everyone Says I Love You (1996): Including an Indian cabbie. And Woody Allen and Julia Roberts thank God they have talents outside of singing. Daniel (1983): Disjointed, ultimately satisfying story of two criminalized American radicals […]

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Woman slides several ice cubes into her gas station coffee, turns to me unsolicited: “Too hot for all this plastic in my mouth!”

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Your Facebook post: I liked it. You liked my like. I liked your like of my like. You liked my like of your like of my like. Etc.

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George Harrison: Living in the Material World (2011): First half: Obligatory Beatles history. Second half: Graceful portrait of a spiritual man. The Avengers (2012): Thank goodness the movie and its explosions were loud enough to drown out the screaming and crying child in the 7th row. The Five-Year Engagement (2012): In which two grown women […]

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My hands smell of garden onions; the garage smells like paint; dirt is under my fingernails; the cat has been chasing lizards all afternoon.

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“It’s pronounced igyooAHN’ah,” she tells me. “Not igWAHN’ah.” I immediately regress to the shame of my WorSESS’tershyer past.

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Q1: Where were you born? Q2: Describe your taste in sexual partners using colors. Q3: How close – in inches – is the nearest Starbuck?

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Toast = roast – r + manic – mania + t – c + a = bread + toaster + electricity = breakfast. Just add coffee.

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Lawnmower churns a snowdrift of fallen dogwood blossoms into uneven layers of makeshift hoarfrost. Winter: it just hangs in there.

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