Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

It all started with this email from my friend Michael about this new iPhone app for podcast listening: From: Michael To:  stacey Sent: Monday, June 17, 2013 11:26 PM Subject: New Rogue Wave iCatcher will overwhelm you with options and configurability. I love it. Like to listen to WTF at 1.5x speed but Sound Opinions at 1x, no problem. Download all new episodes of Song of the Day but want to pick and choose episodes of Bieber Aficionado, no problem. Options galore. It's great.  http://joeisanerd.com/apps/icatcher Of course, I immediately bought iCatcher and checked how fast I could listen to podcasts. I'm a playah. Andrew is not a contender, in case you were wondering. Michael discussed iCatcher with Andrew but Andrew fully poo pooed the whole idea. Andrew does not understand the finer points of frenetic media consumption. He said as much while power walking back to our apartment after the Swedish Midsummer Celebration in Battery Park at two o'cl...

The full-color head + torso selfie incorporated in the letterhead arrests my attention.      While dining al fresco with Tom last evening, I had the sincere pleasure of opening up this letter. We had carried an armful of unread mail over to the restaurant with us. We sipped minty cocktails and we ate neat rows of handmade pickle spears and we poured over val-packs and condo board audited financial statements. That's how we roll.      Then my world comes to screeching halt as I study The Suit, the centerpiece of this print out of a Word document letter I received. The Suit screams bespoke and fresh from the cleaners. I wish I could catch a glimpse of the jacket lining. Undoubtedly, I think, the silk pattern would be something unexpected. Something dashing but ironic and cavalier. Like little watermelons or grenades on a royal purple background.      I wonder who the random dude in The Suit might be. To my great delight, the letter c...

A short story could easily begin here... My twin sister Meredith's lawn was green. Green because her husband Max fertilized with the passion of a man with nothing better to do. Meredith slipped her squat, middle-aged body through a break in the hedge between our properties. She picked her way over to my garden patch. I watched her out of the corner of my good eye, but I didn't turn my head. I wrestled with handfuls of weeds and plucked a strawberry by mistake. Damn. It was still white, only the tip had ripened to pinkish red. But the strawberry was big and perfectly formed and grown in good soil. I knew after half a day on the window sill it would transform into pure sweetness. Meredith watched me gingerly lay the strawberry aside. She smiled and snorted, "What a sad little white strawberry." I didn't immediately reply. What did Meredith know of strawberries? She was more of an indoor type, an admitted "brown thumb."  I suppose that is my ...

editors note: Hey! I wrote a short story! The Disappearance of Stars     One night last winter, Carla bought an astronomy app. A star chart. She wobbled her face up at the stars and down to her iPhone. She studied the pinpricks of light trembling far apart in a black velvet sky.       Carla stared until she could trace The Big Dipper, the most famous serving utensil in the Milky Way. On it, Carla's imagination forged a shiny copper finish. She let her mind hammer decorations along the handle and tint the ladle with a shadow so it felt more comfortable and real.  Afterwards, whenever Carla looked up into the night, she saw her Big Dipper. She never saw the stars again.       Carla has looked forward to this evening all week. Even more so when she re-reads the text from Joan with the name of the restaurant— Ursa Major. Ursa Major, the star constellation otherwise known as The Big Dipper. The corners of Carla's lips cur...