The stoplight felt endless. I flipped through the radio dial—sick of the same old stuff—and paused at a soft hits station. It blared some power ballad from the 80’s. Not my music. I reached for the dial but hesitated, vaguely captivated by the hypnotic mélange of synthesizer, melodramatic falsetto, mechanical drumbeat. (read on…)

Some women lose their cool when they miss a 50 percent-off sale at Sak’s. Others have a hissy fit on a bad hair day.

Me, I get pissed (or piqued for those delicate souls) whenever I can’t hear the rest of an interesting conversation. I don’t mean conversations like when you call your best friend and she shares a hot office story, but then she hears call waiting and says, “Gotta run.”. I mean conversations we don’t intend to hear (but do anyway) in hair salons, airports and other public places. (read on…)

Dr. Louise Fuller exits her house on Bristol Way promptly at three, the bells of St. Michael’s tolling the hour as she makes a right at the corner and strides down the sidewalk. It will take her exactly fifteen and one-half minutes to walk to Stanley Hall, wherein are located the offices and classrooms of the university’s English department. After fourteen years, during which this time has never varied, not even once, Louise accepts it in the same way she accepts the other constants in her life and with the same lack of concern. (read on…)