Here’s a great photo taken by the talented Chris Machian earlier this summer at a wine tasting event at the Summer Arts Festival.
Machian said the bottle of wine on the right, Little Black Dress, reminded him of me. So very true.
An aside: Not until this photo did I realize how long my hair has gotten. Yikes!
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Look. A whole Apple family (not including my 12″ PowerBook G4). Even more Mac for me to love.
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{Once again I found literary inspiration inside my favorite bar on a Tuesday evening. Enjoy.}
It is brighter and louder than the last time I was here — but it’s later, too.
It is Tuesday, the eve before the Fourth of July, and I am facing five days of uninterrupted vacation time.
Since my last visit here my longing for the written word has anything but wanted. A few weeks ago I had drinks with a fellow freelance writer. Kevin is in his 30s or 40s; I can’t tell and don’t really want to ask. He wears his shoulder-length brown hair in a pony tail and, most days, drives company vans and SUVs emblazoned with corporate logos. Kevin is extremely generous when it comes to buying his friends — and people he has yet to call friends — cocktails. And it helps when those drinks are purchased and subsequently served at Kevin’s favorite bar.
(A side note as I momentarily look up from my writing: I am wondering if the table of four, mid-20s “men” have drawn the incorrect conclusion that I am “emo” because of my black glasses and composition notebook. But wait; three girls with rather pronounced chests have just joined their table. I overhear introductions being made and quickly decide I am no longer significant or of interest to them — which I am fine with.)
But back to Kevin.
The few hours that he and I spoke about writing reinvigorated a fire in me that was in desperate need of gasoline. Through the exchange of stories and writing-related anecdotes we determined that we share several similar feelings on (and about) writing.
This craft that has become a blessing and a curse, we both agreed, moves alongside the blood in our collective veins. Writing, we agreed, is in us. We’re born with it; we live with it; and, it seems, we will die with it.
Should a blaze unexpectedly break out in our homes, Kevin and I agreed our books would be the first personal belongings we would risk life and limb to salvage. (I didn’t tell Kevin this, but I also would dart back inside my burning abode to save my Macintosh and — as of four hours ago — my iPhone.)
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Now here’s something I absolutely must document, because its occurrence is too coincidental not to mention.
About a month ago I went to a new cafe near my job to hammer out a 1,200-word freelance article that was five days past its deadline. As I sat at my Macintosh and attempted to fill the electronic page with words while I attempted to fill my belly with a BLT and fries, the restaurant’s host struck up a conversation with me. While I believe he tried to be charming and welcoming in every way possible, he quickly became a great distraction. He tried to convince me that I shouldn’t spend my lunch hour “working,” but, rather, eating.
During several brief exchanges (he was working, after all), I did my damnedest to explain to him that my poor planning over the previous weekend forced me to sit in this very seat over the noon hour — in this very cafe — using my fingers to outrun my overdue deadline.
Which brings me to this very moment in this very bar. That very host just approached me as I ordered my second glass of champagne at the bar. I just learned moments ago that his name is Grant, and he remembers me.
“Ever finish that article?” Grant just asked.
I smiled when I recognized who Grant was. At this point I couldn’t help but tell him that I ran into him — for only the second time — as I wrote in a public place. This time, however, I am not devouring a delicious BLT and fries.
My eyes now sting from the cigarette smoke drifting from the table behind me. I am slightly buzzing as I work through my second glass of this sugary-sweet liquor.
One of the busty females from the table across the way asks if I went to KU. I smile and mouth my negative response while I gently shake my head from side to side.
“You look really familiar,” she says.
It is the second time today that I hear this reaction to my presence. The first occurred while I paid for my new iPhone at The Apple Store. There was some confusion about this particular man’s purchase, and he joked about paying for my 4GB iPhone.
“No, I don’t know you, but you look very familiar,” he said with an odd smile.
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This bar is packed now and I am feeling cramped. The table of originally three cigarette smokers has grown to include two young men, one of which is a mere 12 inches from my right elbow. I now decide that the 25 minutes I spent showering and “getting ready” were completely unnecessary tonight. I should have forgone the shower and appearance preparation to have arrived early for more time to write.
My eyelids are heavy; it is time for bed.
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I have seen (and held) the iPhone.
It is magnificent.
And as of 5:23 p.m. today, it is mine!
Photos are forthcoming.
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Crank up your speakers for this one. This 5-second video clip made me laugh far too hard (with tears, no less!) during the past two days.
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I’m sitting here deciding if I should swing down to Mick’s in Benson tonight for a glass of wine to begin the weekend a day early. Or maybe I should just stay in tonight.
Decisions, decisions…
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Now that it’s summer, I’m more in the mood to cook at home. I use the word cook extremely loosely, however; I’m someone who attempts to prepare food simply by: boiling water, cooking food in a crock pot, making toast, etc.
Based on my aforementioned culinary “skills,” do you have a simple recipe for me to try? I have a wide variety of foods that I like. And I’m a sucker for a great dessert.
Post ’em here, please.
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You are a King, Tristan.
For you are one of the time-tested few that leave the world, when they are gone, not the same place it was.
Mark what you leave.
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{Drafted longhand on Thursday, June 14, 2007. Yet another reason why I’m never without a pen and notepad.}
Several writers I’ve spoken with often find their literary juices flow most easily in the quiet confines of a coffee shop or a comfortable chair.
But not me.
I write — when I’m not at home — most easily in bars, when I’m alone.
If it were most socially acceptable — and less smokey — I’d bring with me my Macintosh.
But much like the light tan ales and rainbow hued vodkas, words, at times, flow most easily for me inside bars.
The obvious and quickest conclusion many would draw is that the booze makes it easier for me to write. I don’t believe that’s the case, though. More times than not, I retreat to a very small list of local bars to hide … and the writing just seems to follow me.
In my attempt to hide in a venue traditionally associated with socializing, I find it most comfortable to cozy up in a corner booth or table. I nuzzle next to the wall like a lover on early Sunday morning.
In this particular bar, I avoid the booth 10 paces in front of me. It’s where he and I shared a drink on our first date so many years ago that it feels decades have passed.
The champagne tastes sweet on my tongue as I watch other couples in this bar. While I want to kiss the kind soul who used his (or her) hard-earned cash to play “Devil’s Haircut” by Beck, I think of the thousands of moments that have passed since that night in that booth.
I am grateful that this bar is not more crowded on this muggy Thursday night. The noise level is ideal to (unfortunately) to hear a woman in her early 20s talk about “shit going down in front of that Taco Bell.”
Such banal discourse, regardless of this young woman’s blood alcohol level, enrages me to no end. Would you be willing to discuss meatier topics? More events that satisfy human curiosity and impact life on a grander scale?
But back to the booth.
I am just now realizing how much life I’ve lived between the span of that night and this one. I wonder if the dirty black ashtray sitting on the tabletop, in the rear left corner, has remained all this time.
I outstretch my legs as the TV asks me (and everyone watching) if the San Antonio Spurs are the “next dynasty.” (Do I care? No.)
A song by INXS I recall but do not recognize is now playing, and I envy/crave the close proximity of the other couples in this bar.
Here’s the thing about sitting in this now-empty bar on this now-darker Thursday night: I don’t feel sad or alone or any feelings of that nature. In fact, I feel quite the opposite.
I feel empowered and aware as I put these words to paper.
But now I hear a cell phone ringing … and wish it were my own.
It’s true: I am in love.
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