I might be developing a wicked crush on Michelle Obama. Keep that vaccine away... So. There were were: Knitting/Drinking Group Otherwise Known as Jessica and I in Sproul Plaza, hip-deep in the Inauguration broadcast with two thousand of our new best friends. And as the Inauguration broke up on the massive screen, the band launched into some old brass heavy march that was familiar only familiar to me as the tune KQED plays during PBS pledge drives. I mentioned this to Jess who launched herself into the greatest improvised fund-raising schpeil ever: "We have a goal of Three Trillion! And some excellent thank-you tote bags! Call now and pledge!..." Jessica cracks me up.
Texting is not communication. Texting is the passing of a cooler friend in a crowded hallway on the way to fourth period French. Texting is the “lifting of the chin” reverse-nod. High school hallways can do as much damage as anything else, but it was a quick way to learn rejection, surrounded by hostile and vibrant energy. I never knew if I was going to be swept up into an embrace and swung around until I laughed with delight or ignored entirely, that uncertain fragility and fear. That is what texting feels like now. High Fucking School. I am so long done with that. One discovers that what other people think is none of your concern, so you’d best be clear expressing one’s open-ended love and avoid damaging the feelings of others. The sign says: Be kind or be gone. I mean it and will not live by less. Sometimes I’m down for being the one texted when one is bored and possibly aroused. With you that pays such lovely, extraordinary dividends. Our chemistry is amazing and, a