A nightmare featuring a hairy, naked monstrosity rousts my ass out of bed shortly past noon. I’ve yet to figure out how and why this otherworldly creature made its way into my erratic subconscious, and I don’t think I want to. Never been an early riser, but long shifts of bowing and scraping in the bougie box have made me burn nearly as much of the midnight oil as my worst self did with regularity when I first moved here.
I hit my coffee quota, take an alarming handful of dumps, call my mom, whip up an article I’d egregiously put off for my rinky-dink website, and rub one out to one of several foreign beauties that work at my coffee shop before leaving the confines of my east end abode. The changing of seasons, my mother’s health and an ill-fated opportunity botched by yet another wastecase intermediary have put me in a place I’ve struggled to leave of late, so I aim for a day of blissful solitude on the west side.
I read up on a variety of fascinating theatre productions I can’t make in an issue of NOW over a couple of paper planes at Northwood before taking my ass south for an early dinner at Bar Isabel. A half hour to kill until the tapas joint opens its doors to the hipsters, the faux creatives, the gentrifiers, the targets of my perpetual contempt. Ain’t no thing, at least not today. I detour to a nearby Scottish pub for a pint and a scotch egg. My waitress, a redheaded 30something with blue eyes approaches me as I – an Irish and bourbon man to the bitter end – interrupt my reading to admire the joint’s scotch program. An inquisitive D lets a few terms of endearment fly and leaves me smitten before tending to a pair of schlubbs who just walked in. The my loves and sweethearts I chose to believe were solely meant for me ride that Scottish brogue to new destinations.
Con artists, all of them. I’ve killed nearly an hour.
The grub was worth the wait. Consolation. I leave Isabel sated and get to steppin’ on College Street while the damp chill of fall sinks its hooks in. I think about the prospect of crossing paths with K and whether I could emerge from the resulting interaction unscathed as I head east through her stomping ground, D’Angelo’s “Another Life” the aptest of soundtracks to my dome’s denizens and the season’s abrupt arrival that feeds them. Enough, T. Enough already.
I cap the day with some Haagen Dazs, regional MMA and laundry. What to make of it? Great food and drink were had, a respectable – albeit uninspired – piece of work was published on a site run by a gang of glorified fanboys who’ve never heard of a nutgraf. Maybe I’d deem it a success if it had gone down at another time. I’m on the fence.