Around Here

For some reason, I was dressed in all black on that hot afternoon. I suppose there had been an earlier assignment requiring reduced visibility, something political I’d say. A podium on a stage, a dimmed hall, where I sat crouched on the floor in an aisle with a zoom lens. When I got to the stadium, college teams from Illinois and Florida were halfway into the game under a hot blue sky. I took up a position off third base just past the dugout where all the twenty-something players, iconoclastic and cocky, were hanging out. A couple of routine plays put a runner on second base. I was on autopilot, focused on the world in the viewfinder, mind like water. Then a drive to right field brought the runner in; he tapped the plate and began to jog to the dugout. Somewhere in that few seconds, the camera came down and I was watching the athlete, like scores of times before, as I sized up my next shot in slow motion. A few high fives were sprouting from the dugout. Suddenly the coach was at my ...

On one of logophile’s recent posts, I commented that “I love the beach... They’re usually next to a beach town, which I love even more.” Fort Myers Beach is the kind of Florida beach town I was talking about… underdeveloped, underwhelming, lovable. Washed up on Estero Island, one of several barrier islands along the Florida west coast, it is flanked to the south by upscale Naples, and to the north by the expensive beach-cottage fantasy land of Sanibel/Captiva islands. It has neighborhood bars instead of bistros. Shops, not boutiques. Parasail rides. McDonald’s. Ice cream stands. A Turkey Testicle Festival. It’s a dozen or so miles from here, and a favorite getaway. And safe, for the nonce, now that the housing crunch has mercifully rained on development fever.

“Son of a bitch!” said Dana, scanning the computer on her desk in the  newsroom. Her desk was piled with folders, books, magazines, papers, stacked  two feet high in places. Here and there, papers appeared to be trying to  squeeze out of a stack and crawl away. Dana was the executive editor of the  Naples Tribune. Buxom, stylish, pushy. Her dismissiveness had a knack for  making you feel hugged. “This is all feature stuff,” she said, scrolling her mouse, her eyes a few inches from the computer screen. She refused to wear glasses. “I can’t run with this. I  have no local news.” “I’m working on the council meeting,” said Bill, a city desk reporter, a black Irish drinking man, from Brooklyn. We shared stories, landmarks and milestones, but unfraternally, the way ex New Yorkers do. “Where’s Ashley’s story on citrus blight?” Dana demanded, unimpressed. “She’s probably boffing the Department of Agriculture rep in the back o...

Paul's french fry post jogged my memory. When it slowed to a saunter I recalled this... I went to a fast food counter (I forget which one) a while back and asked for a chicken sandwich. After typing in the order, the girl called back over her shoulder "Gimme a chicken sandwich - and pluck it!" Then she turned back to me and smiled. "Anything else?" she said. A little taken aback, but game, I said, "Just a medium coke, and the chicken sandwich... plucked." The smile left her face. She stared at me expressionless, as if she had just noticed a fingernail clipping hanging from my nostril. (I didn't; I checked.) WTF?

                   A speckled bug,                    starling iridescent sheen,                    indigo, pulsates abdominally                    in the leaf’s                    unconscious shade.                    In tiny scrabbly fits                    it probes subatomic localities;             ...