Tuesday, Mar. 30, 2004 - 11:13 pm
Um... I'm sorry.
This relationship just isn't working for me.
I'm at www.dailypreciousness.org now. So change that bookmark.
It wasn't the strange color of the sky that afternoon. It wasn't the cinnamon and black currant color of the cloud strewn sky. I'm not supposed to feel this way about the silvery gray chef hat vent rooftop. I should not hear symphonies when I hear the blood rushing through my head, even when the outside sounds are blocked out by little white pieces of foam.
But I did. For the life of me, for all the logic in my Sudafed head, I can't figure out why this was my best Saturday on record.
Let us examine the evidence.
Maybe it was the perfect tomato ravioli (with thyme and basil!). Or perhaps it was the way the little rabbit corpses dangled in the breeze. (Who could have hung them so carefully? It must have been somebody's mother.)
I suspect it was the combination of perfect weather, good company and conspicuously good timing:
It was pitch-perfect brunch. It was cheap, fun vintage clothes shopping. It was a quiet nap that curled the corners of my mouth with warm puppy-like contentment.
It was watching my first sunset of spring on a bohemian rooftop discussing the finer points of trade law. It was a quick run to the Ikea store for a dash of lingonberry juice and a bigger dash of scotch. It was a dinner with new friends. It was an impulsive visit to the cha-cha bar to hear victor spin. It was dancing until five in the morning, (as if I really have the energy for that sort of thing!)
That morning, after Jim picked me up, I remember not the sounds of the car. Not the early afternoon light. I remember the beautiful, bountiful bud-heavy trees. The scent of them played over me like a koto melody. (The blossoms are flirting with me again.)
And we arrive in traffic soaked Georgetown. Tracking the food with the GPS of my primitive, reptilian "give me some food" brain, I know just where to go. Past the porn shop, down the steps, saying "hello" to the smiling old crone shaping the dough.
Jen and Chris are immediately sweet and funny. Zero to sixty in, like, ten seconds. She's a fellow linguist, which I can always respect. He's an active volunteer and professional helping us to fight the Good Fight with several organizations that I respect.
Jim, Jen and I find our way later to t-todd's new place. Soon we adjust our pace to "t-time" (it's like "bullet time" from the Matrix but involves cocktails and convo instead of kung-fu and kill-bots). The sunset from the top of his place is relaxing and centering. "We're on a lay line," I immediately tell Erin. "I don't normally believe in that sort of new agey thing, but I believe in fung shui and this," I say, gesturing to our location, "is an example of good energy." She nods, smilingly.
We dash for a mirror at ye olde Swedish furniture store. Jim pours us a stiff one and we jingle our ice cubes dandily as we... anti-shop. (That's when you're positively NOT going to buy something no matter how wonderful or on sale it is.) Anti-shopping away, I pick out a dozen things to get next time.
Then we're off for a quick dinner. I meet Eric, who really should have played Frodo. Such perfect hobbit features! (Elijah would still be on an L.A. streetcorner selling crack if Eric had been born a Kiwi.)
The food's good, but the wait is interminable. Instead of a wait staff, it's a wait...staff. I nearly bit off my hand to have something to eat. But I didn't want to appear uncouth.
I get lost in large groups. The dynamic is difficult for me. And the table is too much. I sit back and watch. I shift from speaker to audience in the span of two conversational sixteenth notes.
We walk back to Jim's car. He picks up chicks on the way. (I thought Henry was the only one I knew who could pick up chicks!) They invade the car and nearly get us hauled off to jail. Or maybe that was just the police mistaking us for another car. I'm not sure. But the girls had bad vibes... and penetrating breasts that were a "bad touch" for Eric's head.
The club is cheerful and I (of course) know the only kimono-clad guy there, Edward. He's in a find mood and laughs at his "Of course we have money, we're white" comment the weekend before. Rich. (Like they say on Avenue Q, "We're all a little bit racist sometimes!")
The group starts pawing at little white pill-shaped things. When someone starts handing them out, at first I think they're drugs and I'm appalled. (Appalled, I tell you!) After throwing them in my mouth and nearly swallowing them, I realize that they are in fact they are earplugs, meant for stopping the ear-pounding sound from rupturing a drum.
And so, with a dayful of cinnamon and black currant scented memories, we cha-cha. We take the hanging rabbits, the playful vintage clothes, the nourishing cocktails, the playful warmth of giddy company and we... well, we live a little. Let go a little. Let ourselves get lost in the clouds of bass and treble. Beneath the aural diaphragm of the earplugs, we relish the music and start to move. Like Murakami Haruki says, "Dance, dance, dance!" We take his advice.
And that was my Saturday. Despite the Sudafed head today, I still think it was just about the most fun I've had on record in a while.
