Saturday, April 23, 2005

On A Saturday Sunny

Well, summer seems to have been skipped following an abbreviated taste of spring fever, and fall plops back onto Madison like a fat guy onto his sofa after a long walk to the fridge and back.
Dammit.
"Just when I think I'm out," right? Well, well, well.
This week has been pure Bukowski, and I am thankful for the break from myself on this Saturday afternoon, despite less than desirable temperatures out of doors. Just call me Chinaski.
Deciding to forgo delivering myself anywhere near a bar of any sort last night, I have left myself a day in which I have awakened to a head devoid of any post-alcohol-imbibing fuzziness and that elusive feeling of productivity. I almost forgot what that felt like. So what did I do when I cracked open my eyes at 8:14 am, rolled back over until around 11, and finally got my ass up at about 11:25? I went to Cleveland's, that's what. By myself. Yeah, that's right. It was wonderful, and I felt at one with the near-noon clamor of the busy diner and the slippery eggs. The clientele of the place is like a mix between a science experiment gone terribly amok or wonderfully brilliant. Between the two pajama-clad dudes debating the pros and cons of Marxism at the table in the corner, the group of coffee shop hippie poet wannabes all so helplessly trendy in their efforts at being "anti," the pair of rather butch lesbians practically making out with one another (wearing identical gray, Army T-shirts, no less), and the rest of the largely hungover cravers of all things greasy, I found it difficult to keep concentration on my crossword. So it goes. I could have done without the little red-headed girl they've got working there, though. She's always bubbly to the point of absurdity, and she runs on her way to do anything, however menial the task. It makes me nervous. I kept having horrid visions of my omelet crashing violently to the floor after she tripped over something in mid-gallop. No one should be that happy at work.
After breakfast, it was off to the coffee house to while away the remainder of the afternoon by drinking dark roast until I could no longer hold my book steady. So I guess my initial feeling of productivity never really yielded anything. At least I've been productive in my lack of productivity. I've got that going for me.

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