The Worshams were eccentric. They were wealthy-Old Money Virginians—so they could afford to be. They lived down at Yellow Sulphur Springs. Yellow Sulphur, as we fondly called it, had been a resort in the late 19^th century, a hot spot for rich folks to come out and get some fresh country air, drink the healing waters of the spring, or whatever rich people did on resorts a hundred years ago. But when I knew it, it was a bunch of run-down, paint-peeling Virginia historical landmarks with full-length covered porches, scattered on the slopes of a wooded hollow through which a creek, fed by the springs, gurgled its way. Some of the old wooden houses were closed up and due for renovation sooner or later (hopefully sooner, since I doubted they’d make it until later). Others were inhabited by odd characters, even stranger than the Worsham family—a Native American guy named Arnie, who also went by Ravenfeather or something like that; a man who made statues out of PVC pipe filled with concrete and collected all kinds of old junk; granola hippie women; and various other mysterious, unseen characters whose existence added to the Yellow Sulphur mystique. (more…)

1. Silk

At the fabric market, a two-tone silk in mauve and gray shimmers, then billows when I free it from the bolt. Delicate cranes fly along its fold. An old woman studies me studying the silk; I can’t let go. “This is so soft,” I say, “so—” But it’s in English. The old woman squints and says something over and over that I finally realize is “pajamas.” Of course, I think. The last person to make me homemade pajamas was my mother in Minnesota. She held the tan tissue paper patterns against my stomach, my breasts, my arms and legs, her fingertips warm through thin paper. This old woman, too, touches me freely: spins and tucks and measures and pinches. I buy three meters, feel the heavy weight of it in the plastic bag as I walk away. (more…)

“Tell us about your first kiss.
Who was it with? How old were you?”

I don’t remember my first kiss. But I have a much better story—about the first time a guy showed me his penis! I was in high school—I think it was the summer of 1978—so that would make me 15.

I had a major crush on Tim—but he was WAY out my league. Soooo handsome. Sooo smart. Soooo funny (he could recite every Steve Martin standup routine from heart! In fact, he was even at the Blues Brothers ‘concert’ where Steve Martin was the opener!). I loved being around him but knew I only got to be there by being best friends with his best friend’s girlfriend, Kathy.

Kathy had bunches of friends from Chicago staying at her home for the entire summer (she had just moved to SoCal that year). Pretty much the entire rest of our clan also stayed at her house overnight. We must have enjoyed a big pool party because on this particular summer night, there were 33 of us sleeping on the floor in the living room, her bedroom, and the downstairs den. (more…)

Isn’t it weird how size determines how important the life of something is? If this was 10,000 rabbits or 10,000 dogs, would the response still be the same? (digg comment)

I am visiting my family in Florida for the holidays. I was chillin at my sister’s house when we looked out back and noticed a swarm of honeybees congregating on their swing set. There are a lot of kids around, including my sister’s 3 kids. They were inside at the time, fortunately. (read more @ something awful)

Experience in Miami is as fluid as its geography. Rolling, glassy turquoise waves melt into the fine sands of the beach, which kisses the city. South Beach, at any time of the day, is a fantasy. Art Deco buildings are illuminated by pastel-colored lights and it feels as though Mickey Mouse should be dancing in the streets or posing for our photographs. In the early morning, a street sweeper comes and cleanses the roads of any dirt we may have created.

The Pig Pink Restaurant, known for unfinishable portion sizes, sells dinner plate-sized chocolate chip cookies. Big, tasty, and lacking sustenance. People are giddy and awake with the crumbs of these cookies.

On one extreme, South Beach is nothing more than a pretty backdrop to the filthy rich. People whose ultimate catastrophe is a Botox malfunction. And people like us - spring breaking college kids - are simply here to bear witness to a world that we will never really understand. Middle aged men in multi-thousand-dollar suits, their long hair pulled into tight ponytails, wear Armani-clad younger women on their arms like Rolexes. People like this enter the world out of red Ferraris and do not, under any circumstances, glance at us. They drink themselves to sleep at night. He probably has a secret male partner and an alternate existence. Drenched in everything they ever wished for, these two are the saddest happy people in the world. (more…)