thesnobnextdoor's profile

It was always evening inside this red carousel top, circus-style tent. The space was lit by the machines and the track-lighting mounted to the aluminum frame. David picked at a bright red vinyl patch that had been glued to the faded red vinyl tent. There were lots of patches on this tent, and new ones were added at nearly every stop. He considered ripping off the small rectangle to let in a little natural breeze and light, but he worried about getting caught by Max Fremont, the uptight Aussi...

We ran like giggling Japanese school girls being chased by Godzilla around the corner of the large city block. Most of the expats I knew were running from something—not a Godzilla but oftentimes something equally large. There was a beautiful exhilaration, a clear blue freedom in the air as the sun began to set behind the high-rises of Seoul, South Korea. There is no feeling more freeing than being a stranger in a strange land on a perfectly pagan holiday. Moon awaited us on the other side of ...

"History doesn't exist until reconstructed. If you don't reconstruct it non-anachronistically, you construct only a version of yourself and your prejudices—a version of the present. You turn a potentially enriching encounter with the past into a cozy, self-affirming fireside chat with yourself." These were her thoughts following a telephone conversation with her mother. Her mother: a free-spirited dotcommer, a maker of candles shaped like various food items, a sister, a wife, a devout Christi...

Hi, Everybody! It’s Christmastime again, and I have reached the age where I find I can look back and reminisce on a whole heap of Christmases--well, probably 20 years of cognizant Christmases. The most memorable of which, is the Christmas of 1991, unofficially known around here as “The Year Mahalia Ruined Christmas.” I was nine, and I really really really wanted a Barbie house for Christmas. About two weeks before Santa came to town, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a 4’x 2’ x 4” ...

In the early afternoon, I wake up in the house of the dying man. I walk downstairs, still in my pajamas, hair all tangles and curls, to drink a cup of coffee bigger than my face. The stairs moan like a feverish child, and acquiesce to the weight of my step. "I give up," says the house. "Me too," I say. "Me too," says the dying man. The house is twice as old as me, and half the age of the dying man. In addition to the hard wear from a family of six, it has suffered significant flood damage. Po...