Month: September 2011

Lorna Loves to Write

Lorna loves to write.  Her first short story, written on a yellow legal pad when she was six, starred a family of mice.  The next year, she wrote a poem about black roses, which caused her teacher to request a meeting with her parents.  Lorna has been trying to cheer the hell up ever since. She was a kid on a New York Island, and grew up in the Highlands of Scotland.  While there, she couldn’t wait to get off the mountain.  These days, she spends a lot of time trying to go back. Lorna left University twice.  She wanted to stop reading other people’s writing and concentrate on her own.  These days, she spends a lot of time trying to go back. Lorna is on wheels, and her day-job involves making the world a more accessible place.  She walks up stairs on the promise of beer and conversation.  She has been dragged up a hill backwards. Lorna lives with her boyfriend and a cat who thinks she’s a dog.  Her Dad was her first best friend and he’s still on the list.  Sad songs and bad coffee make her cry.  She cries when she’s happy, too.  This confuses people who don’t know she cries when she’s happy, too.  She does not care. Lorna loves to travel and then write about it.  She once fell off a toilet in...

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Thank You Again. Again.

On Friday, I posted my post and went to the pub.  I left my phone safely at home, and instead concerned myself with this delicious beer. After a few, we came home and I decided to check my email while Sarge brushed his teeth.  There were lots of little yellow flags in my gmail inbox, and I discovered I’d been Freshly Pressed.  It was the third time I’ve seen my little blog up there.  Exciting, as ever. I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to comment and subscribe, over the weekend or at any other time. And now, I have the somewhat dubious honour that my most popular post to date is The One Where I Was On a Break (from my phone).  Yes, that was me.  But at least I’m in good company. In recent news, I’m sitting here in striped socks and sweats, waiting for tomorrow when I get to take a train and a ferry to an island for some much needed fresh air and free time.  I will be unreachable by phone. What are you up to this weekend? Please stay tuned for:  My Island Diaries:  Mull...

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How To Lose A Phone in 10 Hours

Let’s say you forgot your phone somewhere. Left it on your desk at work/in your locker/in a field/dropped it down a toilet. This is what you might do while you waited to retrieve your phone, if you were in this purely hypothetical situation: Call it.  Five times.   To make sure it isn’t in the house.  Curse silent-mode.  Stare at your bag, where your phone should be.   Lift the  bag and call your phone again, to see if you can ‘feel the vibrations’.  The only thing you feel is like an idiot. Panic.  What if people are trying to reach you and your phone is whispering feebly somewhere, unanswered?  Let’s just say, as an example, that somewhere is on your desk at work, where you are not. Get real.  You know your partner is indeed coming home.  No, he did not choose this night to get run over by a bus only because you don’t have your phone, and no one could reach you if he was in traction in a hospital across town. Breathe, and feel free.  All the important people, parents/your decidedly unbroken partner/ friends/hospital staff have or could get your home number, and call you there.  Everyone else is on Facebook.  Even your Great-Aunt who lives in Florida.  Who is actually great, and really does live in Florida.  You are not disconnected.  From anyone. Rejoice...

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The Old Country

I don’t know why I’m writing this.  Wait a minute.  Yes I do.  I’m writing this because right now I can’t be anything more or less than I am.  I don’t feel like making something up, and pretending nothing happened.  This is not fiction.  Although I wish it was. I am an American.  Usually I don’t like to bring that fact into a conversation.  I don’t know why.  But there it is.  I am an American.  And a New Yorker.  I am from New York.  I am an American.  I am a New Yorker.  That’s why I cannot, this time, make anything up. I used to choose not to say the pledge in school.  This past week, I’ve said it twice.  In front of my television set. I’m writing this because like every other American kid, I went to the World Trade Center on a school fieldtrip.  In the sixth grade.  And then again to show some tourists around, the only other time natives line up to see their own landmarks.  It was a must-see.  For tourists.  I am not a tourist.  We thought it would always be there.  It wasn’t like some bastard was goint to crash into it or anything.  Well. I’m writing this because I love that skyline.  The best view in the entire world.  I’ve seen it how it’s meant to be hundreds of times. ...

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