Friday, February 8, 2002

one in the shop window series

warning at art house

"It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it."
Chesterton

I arrive at work in time for a meeting. I'm cheered to see the progress, pained to see the, well, pain. I will skip a meeting in the afternoon, to which I haven't only lately been invited, ostensibly to avoid interfering with progress but really because I'm so tired of the topic.

I take SuRu to Mirabelle. Her birthday is Tuesday and we are celebrating several times and places.

I have a cup of turkey soup, the little salad they always serve and a duck confit crepe with vegies. It's a lot. It's OK. We were there early. The place is hopping when we leave. A John I know says hello and mentions that he and a Jonathan I know were mentioning that we were common friends.

After work I wolf down some cheese and guacamole and chips and we go to the ballet early enough to get a good parking place. We hang out reading, talking to friends and drinking a Crown Royal until the performance. Three pieces in a mixed rep. Very enjoyable. Stephen Mills gives a little Q&A after. We skip the Partners backstage party and go to the Four Seasons.

On the access road the traffic is awful and there are rowdy people and rowdy cars. Oh. Yeah. They are having a Mardi Gras on Sixth Street. Only. It's Friday. We creep along. I lock the doors. I realize that I saw a guy at the ballet wearing Mardi Gras beads and just thought it was a typical Austin oddity. I'm such an idiot.

The Seasons is busy. We sit by the fire place. A man alone sits on the couch. He seems odd. Not badly dressed but odd shoes. To racially profile, he looks Middle Eastern. His eyelids droop. He doesn't drink any of his drink for the longest time, just staring. FFP and I grab a table that frees up and whisper that we both thought he was getting ready to blow something up. He was probably just drunk and alone. He bums a cigarette but doesn't interact with anyone otherwise. Some guy sees him smoking and tries to bum one from him and is directed to the guy he bummed from. Then he sleeps. Sits on the couch, head drifting further and further down, sleeping.

A bunch of people arrive and I speculate they were at the UT Men's basketball game. FFP and Rebecca think they have come from Bingo.

I have coffee and water and FFP has wine and we eat some potstickers and he eats some boiled shrimp. We listen to Rebecca and then get tired and pay up and leave the Bingo players and the sleeping terrorist and a few oddly mini-skirted girls and other hangers-on and grab our car and drive back through the streets filled with beaded drunks and home.

JUST TYPING
Dislocated in place and time.
But I've got that groove back.
Where everything seems right.
Just because.