For a Good Time

I have an unexpected confession to make.  I've never- not even once- written on a bathroom wall.  While I always read the notes left by vandals, salesmen and pimps, I've never had the impulse to contribute to the graffiti.  Some people might suggest that it's related to my compulsive hand washing.  I think it's because I grew up knowing that someone was going to have to pick things up- and it was probably going to be me.

The Eternal Mrs. Bridge

Evan Connell died Thursday.  The stifled protagonist depicted in Connell's incisive 1958 novel Mrs. Bridge lives on.  Mrs. Bridge glares at my unkempt hair as I shop for groceries.  She sneers at my rustbucket from her hermetically sealed Lincoln.  After church, Mrs. Bridge asks me if I left my tie in the car.  The worst part?   Mrs. Bridge's disapproval actually stings me.

Perishable

A Japanese tourist once accompanied me on an ordinary shopping trip to a grocery store on Wornall Road.  He was astounded by the aisles of abundance.  His reaction reminded me that the multitude of processed food to we've become accustomed shouldn't be taken for granted.  Even so, I was taken aback by the empty bins and limited selection of perishable goods at the Hy-Vee between Lamar and Metcalf on 91st Street during the store's final day of business last Saturday.  The friendly service, inexpensive meats and solid selection of ethnic foods had made the location my preferred grocery store.  I'm going to miss it.