Here I am again at BJ's, the cut-rate Costco. Why come back after the other day's purse skirmish? Need kale -- yes, I'm admitting it, sue me. So I grab a snowbanked cart from the lot to use, even for one item, thinking that the checker would be less likely to ask me to open my small black bag and divulge. My, there's a lot of paper garbage in the cart: the usual store coupon-books -- so primitive, they actually make you clip them -- as well as one of my favorite racist coffee-table reads: "Long Island Fugitive Finder." Issues of Fugitive … [Read more...]
It’s My Bag
Ever since I came out, when I was a grad student in '70 or '71, I have carried some kind of small bag. My friends at the University of California, San Diego, may recall that I was never without my red, mirrored Indian satchel -- until it fell apart, dropping random mica chips under the campus's fragrant eucalyptus trees. At the time, I occasionally wore bell-bottoms with lace I sewed on the cuffs and soft beige blouses, hoping not to get mascara on the silk: very hard to wash out. That was when the … [Read more...]