I’ve had my own 3G iPad for a little over two months now and I get it the bad rep it gets. If you’re bored or tired of talking you can simply slip out your iPad and play a game or check email. Our great-grandfather and mothers would probably take it as the height of rudeness (after they got over how shiny it was).

And yet, you don’t hear a lot of folks talking about the ways it brings people together. My iPad travels with me everywhere, I take it out everywhere and I use it a lot. There’s three or four pages of apps that you have to flip through (in landscape mode). So I have quite a bit to show off. Inevitably, when I’m out, a total stranger will stop, take a sharp intake of breath and go, “is that an iPad?”

This simple question has been the basis for many a small talk conversation with a waitress, coffee shop customer, or small child. Once I even had a woman nearly run up to the table I was sitting at in Starbucks and bounce with glee, “isn’t this thing wonderful? My husband and I love ours!” Another time, it was a waitress at a restaurant who sat down at my table to talk about how she could use the iPad for a small home business she wanted to start. This past fourth of July my parents and I were playing Scrabble on the iPad (pass and play) while we were waiting for the fireworks to go off. That’s when I noticed that the nearby group of kids had gathered around us.

“Whose winning?” One kid asked.

“My mom is.” I replied.

“Can you read books on that?” Another kid asked (see, kids still like books folks).

“Yep. I have six books on it right now.”

“Ohhhhhh.” The kids said collectively.

“Look, she has an iPad.” One of the boys told another boy who just wandered up to us.

“An iPod?” The boy asked, confused.

“No, an iPad.” The first boy responded. “It’s so cool.”

Later, as the evening went on, the kids would come up to me and ask who was winning the Scrabble game and peek over at the shining screen. We had several small chit-chatty conversations after that.

Social interactions? I’ve got them.

Or, consider my recent flight where I was playing Boggle. The stewardess (who seemed tired and cranky most of the flight) leaned over and said, “did you get stairs?” When I replied I hadn’t yet, she smiled and was so pleasant the rest of the time.

My favorite story about how social an iPad is comes from friends of our who have 5 kids, all under the age of 14. The four boys gathered around my iPad on their coffeetable and played Plants vs. Zombies for about four hours. Now, if you have’t played Plants vs. Zombies you may miss the beauty of this. Technically it’s a one player game. But the four boys worked together to collect the needed sun, plant the correct plants and watch for invading zombies. There were no squabbles or shoving or pushing (my iPad never was in danger) and it was so much fun to watch them having such a great time.

So yes, I could be a hermit with my technology. I see why folks worry about us isolating ourselves and burying ourselves into our Blackberry (I’ve seen that one way too many times), but I submit it’s not the tech — its the people using them.

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I could rationalize it away and say that it was a high school fantasy. Stick to my strengths (which don’t include a guitar). But somewhere inside of me there is this desire to try and try hard.

So, this morning I went about learning. It still feels awkward when I hold it. Not at ease like a pen or my keyboard. The parts of it still confuse me (though I think I got the idea of frets and am starting to remember which string is which note). It doesn’t feel like home yet. But I want it to.

April a year ago I was riding in the car with a musician friend of mine who seemed amazed that I sang along to songs I didn’t know. I didn’t even notice it. I’ve got songs etched in my subconscious that are wanting to come out.

Notice I never said that I’d be good at it. I know a lot of facts about music (thanks to my awesome mom who added in music education to my homeschooling). I knew some basic piano. But this guitar thing is gonna be something else.

So for now I’ll struggle through the awkward phase of finger placements and strumming. Maybe soon it’ll feel like another home to me.

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Kisses rarely happened like this. Raquel knew this logically and empirically, but standing out in the rain, her hair slicked back and her fingertips freezing, she realized she didn’t care what she knew.

Thomas’ kiss took her by surprise; they had been walking, looking for a bus to take them back to the El train. They had been at a concert, not realizing that the bus they wanted to take back home stopped long before the concert had. Chicago was like that.

An hour after leaving the bar Raquel was near tears. It was dark; the city had turned from its familiar vistas of closed stores and large warehouses into a quiet suburban street. Raquel had stopped under a bus post and tried calling the CTA number on her cell. The overly cheery automated voice and complex menu system only had her more frustrated. It wanted to know where Raquel was and damn, if she knew where she was she wouldn’t need help. She was tempted to throw her cell phone to the ground in utter defeat, but she had already replaced it once and one hundred and seventy dollars didn’t grow on trees. Even if it did, there weren’t many trees in Chicago.

Near tears she shoved the offending object deep into her purse to ward off the moisture that was everywhere. Thomas suddenly took her face in his hands and tilted it upwards. The touch was gentle and firm all at once. Her brain instantly screamed a thousand messages at once (about 90% of them being what the…?) and somehow the air had been sucked out of her body. Thomas had never been the boyfriend. He’d been the fellow student, the co-worker, the best friend and the safe guy. The guy you go to concerts with and eat deep-dish pizza at Gino’s. He was the guy that stands in the rain with you without complaining. Thomas was that guy! Not the kissing in the rain guy!

Despite the icy cold that twisted around her wet socks and nipped at her toes and despite the continued, oppressive rain Raquel melted into Thomas’ kiss. In an instant the hundreds of voices stopped, they washed away with her tears and all she could feel was Thomas. He must have felt her relax and took it as an open invitation; he slipped his hands down and around her body and pulled her into him. They fit together, as if fashioned that way by a master craftsman. Raquel wrapped her arms around his neck and breathed in his cologne. It made her eyes roll back slightly with the sheer, overwhelming power of its scent. She pressed into Thomas with an automatic need to feel him everywhere.

Gone were the mysterious suburban streets, the rain, and the tears that had threatened to spill over. In their place was Thomas. He kissed as if he could feel her heart sing in his ears. He tasted like cherries and, on further exploration, the rum drink he had earlier at the bar. She sampled and tasted his mouth gently, letting him lead her on the journey. Wrapping fingers in his short, dark hair, she found herself needing to breathe, but not wanting to let go. There were quiet murmurs of pleasure that escaped both of their mouths and a short break as they collectively took a breath before plunging back into the euphoria of the kiss.

A yellow cab drove up slowly and there was a small whirl as the automatic window slid down. “You kids lost?” A voice called from the cab. The voice paused. Realizing he may not have been heard, he called out louder. “Need a ride?”

Raquel’s eyes blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. She had heard the cab drive up. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice had said, hey idiot there’s a cab, but she didn’t break free from the kiss to investigate the noise. Now, with his second shout, the cab driver had fully awakened her and Thomas.

Thomas broke free slowly, touched his finger to her lips and had then turned and informed the cab driver they would like a ride. Raquel slid into the cab almost reluctantly and visibly cringed when the door closed. Thomas slid his hand over hers and squeezed it causing ripples of warm, euphoria to flood through her body again. She relaxed against the seat as Thomas kissed her again.

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Poizner previously said he supported legislation that gives schooling to children of illegal immigrants and he supported Former President Bush’s plan to give illegal immigrants a path to immigration.

I don’t get involved in politics too much, but I do believe in stepping up for illegal immigrants in this country and if there is one hot topic that will push my voting buttons.. it’s this.

*******

Dear Steve,

While I was actively excited about your campaign I am most distressed by your current comments about illegal immigration. I’m a 28 year old, white, single voter (you know the people who got Obama elected). And while I am fiscally Republican and believe in most of the Republican party I’m shocked and dismayed that you think illegal immigrants are here only looking for what the government can hand out.

Illegal immigrants do not need the welfare system to want to come to America. When the average person in Mexico makes $5 a day, the USA is a welcome harbor. I wish you would instead focus on how to make illegal immigrants legal, tax-paying citizens instead of condemning a group of people to being little more than common sewer rats.

At this point I can not give my support to either you or the rapid-attack dog Meg and will probably vote Democrat on election day.

Sincerely
Tabitha Smith
San Pedro, CA

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Yeah, who I am.
- Nick Jonas and the Administration

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Here’s the assignment: Your two-page story must be written in the THIRD PERSON, must be written in the PRESENT TENSE, and must be written entirely IN ACTION—what can be SEEN. No dialog. No inner thoughts. You are a camera.

Sitting in a large, LA Metro bus are three African-American girls. They sit towards the back of the bus, obvious to any of the other seats. Sharonda, is a bit more buxom than her counterparts, but still cute. She’s got a scrap piece of ribbon tied under her shoulder-length dark hair and flourished with a bow at the top of her head. She has a tight white t-shirt, short dark blue mini-skirt, black nylons that are shredded on purpose and then bright pink thigh-high pink boots. She fiddles with one of the giant bracelets on her arm and looks off to the side.

Then Sharonda starts picking at the shredded nylons, tying together some of the looser strands with the air of a delicate craftsman. She is thus engrossed when the bus stops. There’s a hiss as the hydraulic doors open and Jerry, a white 20something jumps on.

Jerry greets her as he stops in front of Sharonda, putting his butt in the face of her friend Lily. Jerry slips sunglasses on top of his head.

Sharonda blinks in response to his greeting. Her fingers hesitating over her thigh and she doesn’t respond for at least five seconds. Then the fingers fall into her lap, tightly interlaced together. Instead of greeting she merely inquires how he’s doing with a thin smile. He shrugs as he sits beside her she shifts slightly away. Her fingers wriggle out of the intertwinedness and she starts picking at her nylons again.

Jerry leans in, whispering in her ear. Sharonda doesn’t even look up. “No.” Her voice is flat, short and she continues tying. He attempts to say something again, but she ignores his questions.

It’s two months later, Sharonda is wearing a dark blue sweater, picking at dark black nylons without any holes. Once again she sits in the back of the rumbling orange Metra bus. She brushes back a stray hair, tucking it back into the silver ribbon that ties her hair off of her face.

Looking out the bus window Sharonda stares for a long time. The seats of the bus are nearly all empty, a couple of elderly folks dot the front of the bus. She furrows her eyebrows and squints out the window of the bus, then she looks at the LED sign at the front of the bus. Checking her purse she digs out a small Metra map and consults it.
With a small nod she pushes it back in the bag and picks up a single white rose and a thick envelop from the seat beside her. There’s a large, garishly decorated “sorry” handwritten on the envelop.

Sharonda sighs as she looks out the window again. The city gives away to rolling green hills covered with tiny gray headstones. An imposing gray stonewall is topped off with rings of barbwire. A large white sign, or at least it was probably supposed to be white, officially says Angel’s Cemetery. Unofficially the spray-painted parts of the sign mark it as Piru territory.

Sharonda picks up her rose and an overly photocopied bulletin with Jeremy Jones in a cursive font right above a series of dates. She stands by the back door of the bus, looking at the bulletin with a sigh. The bus doors hiss as the bus stops across from the cemetery.

Stepping off the bus Sharonda waits for it to pass. She stares at the bus as it leaves. Then steps off the curb and she heads towards the dark iron gates of Angel’s Cemetery.

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There’s nothing about Tola that screams of her importance. China white skin gleams except for a long dark smudge along her leg. Zosia touches the synthetic curls with a finger and lets her eyes lose focus. Tola’s eyes are blue, bright and unblinking. It was a while since Tola had been removed from her sacred cardboard box under the bed.

Holy, bright light jars Tola as she looks at the older woman who holds her.Tola is young and old at the same time; she tries to push out that thought from her head. Her eyes are always open. She’s seen everything. Never blinking, never shielding and never unseeing. Tola, for the first time, notices her nakedness.

Zosia clicks a tongue and touches Tola’s hand. Only Zosia knows Tola’s story. Sighing Zosia licks a thumb and runs it along the smudge on Tola’s porcelain skin. The dirt responds to the slight moisture.

Tola would shiver, but being a doll, she can’t.

“We need to get you a dress,” Zosia says softly.

Her voice is warm, but Tola can hear the slight breaks in it. The last time Tola had seen Zosia she had been young, tiny and moved like a chased rabbit. Tola thinks Zosia’s gray hair and crow printed eyes are merely curtain dressings on the soul. Behind the bespectacled eyes Tola can still see the little girl who snuck into her mother’s room and pulled Tola out. Zosia had been very young and there was longing in her touch that Tola could feel. Zosia’s mother returned and Tola had been put hurriedly back in place and not brought out again.

Tola knew Beata had died. The musty smell of the house sings the news. Beata believed the house should be clean and placed in order. And the sounds of the house tell Tola cleaning had not happened in a long time.

Zosia sets Tola on the hard, oak desk. Tola watches, again unblinking, as a shiny silver needle weaves in and out of a lacy material. Tola stands at attention, the amount of colors in the room astounding the senses. Reds, blues, whites all mix together and play off each other like a field of children. The laughter of their movement fills Tola with brightness.

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I never know what I’m going to write when I get a topic. Though I often try to puzzle it out before I start. Once fingertips are on keys it just comes (or doesn’t). But I often have the “jump to the end” mentality that tries to anticipate where my writing will go. It’s as if I’m a kid again opting to switch to the last chapter to find out what happens.

Yet, I never can. Very often in the middle of my final journey to the end of a story I realize that I knew nothing. My characters know everything. I’m, once again, a doofus.

So when handed a writing assignment in class I endeavor not to skip to the end. Yet, I couldn’t help myself. In the lull of conversations over dinner I find myself wondering. “What do I do with a drunken sailor?”

Only a writer, I imagine, has these thoughts. I know from experience most of the folks in my immediate life can’t put themselves in the eyes of a best friend, let alone a character in another historical time period, gender and culture.

But here I sit, fingers posed over keys trying to get into the mind of the imaginary Sanchez, the lazy and drunken ship’s cook for Cortez’ trip to Eastern Mexico. I’m trying to decide on voice and style and my own distance from the character. I’m trying to decide what a drunken ship’s cook in 1519 would say about Cortez deciding to scuttle the ships and burn them. Trying to decide what a drunken person would do in such a situation at all is a bit of a stretch.

What does one do with a drunken sailor? I’m not sure, but I can’t wait to find out.

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