Coffee, Black

I first drank coffee when I was in love with a silent, handsome painter back in college. He was, I believed, fascinating and mysterious in ways that made up for his not ever talking. We would cut class to get a cup of coffee and there we’d be in the campus diner; cute couple, dead silent. I, gripping my coffee mug, would peer, concentrated, into the black depths of, not of his eyes, but of my own coffee. Staring into my coffee postponed the moment, any moment, when he and I would need to talk. He never said a word. Then again, neither did I.

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Forget the Four-Hour Workweek

Is there anyone out there multi-tasking the way they used to? Don’t answer that if you’re going to say yes, because that’s not what I want to hear. If I can’t juggle as many task as I used to, I sure don’t want to know that I’m the only boomer who feels that way.

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Product Placement Notes

I’m holding my nice hot coffee mug and the character in our book is chatting amiably to another character, a buddy of his, and the buddy lights up a cigarette and the brand name is mentioned and then the character says—he actually inserts it right into the novel—he quotes the advertising slogan for the cigarettes.

Visit boomspeak for more

Forget the Four-Hour Workweek

Is there anyone out there multi-tasking the way they used to? Don’t answer that if you’re going to say yes, because that’s not what I want to hear. If I can’t juggle as many task as I used to, I sure don’t want to know that I’m the only boomer who feels that way.

Visit boomspeak for more