The lonely little thrift store up the street is having a sale, so I went in to check out the paperback books and mismatched crystal. In terms of those two items, the thrift store very closely resembles the place where I live, so I feel right at home wandering the aisles.

Although the shoes on display were instantly dismissible--lavender stretchy microfiber loafers run down at the heels, grungy foam platforms--I lingered nearby to watch, on the big-screen TV in the livingroom tableau, a concert performance by Donna Summer. The show began with what appeared to be dancing janitors, twirling artily with mops to a moody saxophone intro. And then, because nothing else on earth could possibly top moody twirling janitors, out came Miss Donna Summer, woodenly singing "MacArthur Park" in a sequinned dress, staring blankly and creaking around the stage. I'm not positive it wasn't a drag Donna Summer impersonator, actually. I've never seen her perform, so perhaps her zombie-like staring is her signature move, like the Moonwalk, only more subtle. Another sign that points to a Donna Summer impersonator is the fact that she sang "MacArthur's Park." Is that always the way she sang it? It it possessive? I don't remember, but then, the years and years of disco-ing down in the wee hours of Studio 54 have taken a toll on me, so my memory isn't what it once was.

I didn't need the excuse of the Donna Summer concert to linger in the thrift store. I would do that all day, if I could. I recall the year I lived in Tucson as an endless succession of thrift store aisles on warm afternoons, browsing through oddities. It helped that I was unemployed while I lived in Tucson, and had many free hours in which to drive to the Super Thrift and mill around in the $3 jeans section. Much of the time, the weather was stuporously hot, being summer, and it was soothing to stand under the swamp cooler outlet, holding, say, a checked men's shirt with pearl snaps and an olive-green glass lamp circa 1960, missing its shade. Meditative, even.

I found wonderful clothes in Tucson: beautiful dress shirts by Lanvin; leather jackets; troves of 1960s dresses brought down for winter leisure by snowbirds, then abandoned to St. Vincent de Paul. I bought a nine-foot Spanish rococo-style sofa upholstered in black leatherette, and after scrubbing it thoroughly in the front yard, installed it in my living room adorned with a sea-green shawl. My house on South 5th Avenue became a riot of thrift-store finds: the chrome name plate from a Plymouth Volare; a lace panel hung over a window to filter the afternoon sun; chunky glass stemware in absurd, baroque patterns, olive, amber, cobalt blue. I had gone to Tucson to relax and recover from a relationship, but the constant heat and sunshine combined with the slow tick of the clock to drive me quickly insane. I couldn't stand to be alone with my thoughts, so I shopped for hours, digging through discarded belongings of strangers rather than sorting out my own jumbled memory. I quickly realized I had come to the wrong place to relax.

Before I'd ever been to Tucson, I asked an acquaintance who lived there what people did all day. He shrugged, and answered laconically, "Smoke weed... Go to Mexican restaurants..." I laughed, and disbelieved him, only to find out that he hadn't been kidding. The lassitude I encountered there was staggering, even oppressive. My friends would gather on someone's front porch at, say, 11:00 a.m. and open a round of beers. They might make plans to do something later on, maybe around 2:00, or to attend a political rally, or to smoke weed and watch The Simpsons. People would arrive and depart, and more beers would be opened, eventually necessitating a run to the drive-through liquor store a few blocks away. Someone might ride past on his bike, and stop to say hello, then abandon his errand to sit on the porch and drink a beer. If someone needed a haircut, scissors would be produced, and the hair cut. Soon, it would be dark, and people might depart for dinner or to go downtown, or to attend that political rally or smoke more weed. Should the gathering last until nightfall, there was almost certainly an argument, followed by departure of one or more angry parties.

Long before then, I'd be anxious to go into town, to see a band, to do something other than sit and watch the river of people flow by, and discuss local politics with people growing increasingly stoned. Part of my discomfort stemmed from not smoking pot, but I made up for that by drinking beer in great quantities. I never developed the knack of sitting on the porch and waiting to see what happened, for the simple reason that very often, nothing did happen, and the inaction tried my patience, and turned my thoughts in on themselves, adding to my increasing anxiety about my future.

I say I never developed the knack for it, but on a day like today--a sunny, lax day of no particular order--I want nothing more than a long afternoon with no schedule, and a thrift store near a bar that serves very cold beer on tap. I want to sit and listen to my own thoughts for a while, and see who walks by.

Star of the day. . .Lash LaRue