Archive

Tag Archives: essay

We never saw it coming. There was no warning, no time to say, “You know you really ought to have a Twinkie. It’s been so long, and who knows how much longer they’ll be around.” Don’t be stupid, any of us would have said. Twinkies will be around forever. Not so. Twinkie the Kid is gone.

This, notably, is the only time “fresh” has ever been used to describe a Hostess Twinkies snack cake. Also notable is the tagline, “The fresh snacks with a snack in the middle!” Twinkies are a snack within a snack—a snack2. Isn’t this really all we ever really wanted?

keep reading >>>

As of today, I am out of clean underwear. Two jobs and a partially-unpacked suitcase have left me with only questions, and no time to straighten them out—questions like, Did I wear these already?

If I’m being truly honest, my second question is typically, Did I wear these…twice? I know, I know, yuck. Cut me a little slack. (Incidentally slack is typically the two-wear giveaway.) Let him who is without laundry laziness cast the first stone. I’m out, plain and simple.

keep reading >>>

Two weeks ago I lost the top button of my pants in a urinal in Grand Central Terminal.

When I say “my pants” I mean my favorite pants, black chinos. Have you ever had a pair of pants that seemed to you like no other pair ever factory-assembled? That you put on and thought, Damn, whose ass is that? These were those pants. My Pants. They were rare and wonderful, and all the right shapes. Never since have I been able to find anything even remotely as flattering—nor as ass-flattering. If I had I would have bought ten pair, invested my life’s savings into pantsing my future. But, alas, Urban Outfitters was sold out.

Truth be told, the button in question had been displaced for some time, having initially wriggled free over months of fastening and unfastening. I wore these pants almost every day for the two months after I bought them, and also I drink a lot of coffee. The button on these chinos was a little metal post, like a jeans button. Now it was gone, lost to a filthy, piss-drenched drain on 42nd Street.
keep reading >>>

On the occasion of summer’s early weeks, my suburban hometown has hung an enormous banner above Main Street, touting itself as, quote, “A Bicycle Friendly Community.” Each time I drive by one of these, my editor-homunculus fights an urge to park, shimmy up the pole, and deface the sign with a hyphen—that is, in order to better facilitate “A Bicycle-Friendly Community.”

“A Bicycle Friendly Community” [sic]

Without a hyphen to unify “bicycle-friendly,” the word “bicycle” seems strangely without purpose. To proclaim this “A Friendly Community,” however banal, has perfect grammatical logic. Likewise, “A Bicycle Community” is straightforward, if awkward, but suggests some sort of bicycle commune.
keep reading>>>