The chair was extremely wide, obtrusive, and low to the ground.  While sitting in it, my body unconsciously leaned forward, my elbows rested upon the wooden arms, and my hands folded up and in front of me.  The cushions on the back and seat of the chair were sympathetically comfortable.

***   ***   ***

As I spoke, I looked up at him; I felt as if I was in trouble despite being far from it.  Nervousness faded as the questions asked were more docile and friendly than anticipated.  Each topic, however, was left hanging and wading in possibility.  The potential brewing energy was high, very high.

***   ***   ***

Nervous energy wore a leather jacket, dark sunglasses, and snapped its fingers on the street corner; one leg was bent and the bottom of that connecting foot pressed against a brick building.

***   ***   ***

The dinner at Empire Brewing company was an old faithful.  The typical response to ordering resulted in the typical go-to Tumbleweed Burger, which is dressed in chipotle mayo and smoked Gouda and tumbleweed french-fried onions, served as a glorified evening of celebration of friends and family and great music.  The roasted garlic hummus for an appetizer, the sweet potato fries to accompany the burger fulfilled expectations in more ways than one.  The Mosaic IPA, enough said.  This was a quadruple carbohydrate load.

***   ***   ***

Mike:  You cut your burger in half?

Me:  Yeah, it’s too big to try to handle by itself.  Those who think they can only and actually end up with a mess on their hands.

Mike:  Same here.

***   ***   ***

Erin to me:  You save your fries for last?

Mike, generally:  He’s always eaten one thing at a time throughout his life.

I smile and shrug my shoulders.

 ***   ***   ***

My food baby kicked and screamed sooner than later into my evening’s one-term pregnancy.

***   ***   ***

***   ***   ***

The Palace Theater shown brightly, and if it were to have hands, the arms connecting to them would branch out.  A vocalization, a yelling, “HERE I AM,” would not be appropriate or fitting for such a landmark.

***   ***   ***

All that needs to be said about The Palace Theater is a picture, especially a black-and-white picture to capture residual elegance of years passed.

***   ***   ***

Jay Nash.  Never heard of him until tonight.  Central New Yorker lives in Vermont.  Surpassed expectations, and he’s proof of how an opener is supposed to perform.  After his set, he shouldn’t be called an opener.

***   ***   ***

Martin Sexton’s versatility cannot be surpassed.

***   ***   ***

A solo acoustic show without storytelling is as productive and satisfying as an instrument without strings or sounds–this is what Sexton doesn’t do.

***   ***   ***

Vocals, scat, that sound like a trumpet with a mute.

***   ***   ***

The percussion provided:  beating the body of the guitar with basic beat boxing.

***   ***   ***

A standing ovation.  Twice.

***   ***   ***

[Martin Sexton.  The Palace Theater in Syracuse, New York.  January 24, 2014]

***   ***   ***

It hadn’t been a long time, but she is a much shorter than I remembered her being.

***   ***   ***

The tattoo between her shoulder blades, the loose clothing allows a sneak preview.  Curiosity grows with wondering about what it might read.

***   ***   ***

The high school writers dream big!  Thoughts of a movie bounce from their minds, out of their individual mouths, off of the other’s foreheads.  The words shatter, and they are clearly not listening to each other.  One of the four sits in silence the entire time.  The movie they are suggesting, the story itself had expanded from one film to a series of shorts to multiple seasons.  I want to tell them to slow down and focus on one story, where they want to start and where they want to end before expanding the story into multiple seasons.

***   ***   ***

I want to tell the silent kid that his silent move is a bold and correct move, doing it right by not saying anything.

***   ***   ***

My regular reminder of Chicago presented itself on the leg of some guy’s sweatpants.  He looks like a blend of Richard Kind and Bill Cowher.

***   ***   ***

The sweatpants were burgundy and stained up the right leg; the stain looked like a combination of white paint and vomit.  He stretched, and as he arms extended and his back stretched back, a string of snot extended from his right nostril to his hand, swinging appropriately with his movements until his hand swiped it.  His hygiene was completed by wiping the valiant booger on his outer thigh, adding to the collage that is The Stain.

***   ***   ***

The guy with the sweatpants has a cell phone that plays loud classical music.  Perception has been changed.

***   ***   ***

Chris, they’re only in high school, Alexis reassures me.

I know, I respond, but they need serious help with this task.

***   ***   ***

The high school writers crowded around the high top table before moving to an adjacent table, and before moving to couches on the other side of the second floor.

***   ***   ***

The ringleader of the high school writers does not shut up his blatant redundancies.  He also mentions and highly recommends that they develop their characters first before developing the plot of the series.  He says they have constructed some great cliffhangers.

I want to shake my head and ask, What what are you simply trying to accomplish?  

They’re looking at a society filled with children, the parents–some of them–are the bad guys, and there is some quasi-Lord of the Flies allusion in there… somewhere.

 ***   ***   ***

I want to tell the high school writers that they should read Ray Bradbury, his short stories, before starting this task.  Philip K. Dick would be too much for their teenage arrogant minds.  They’re all not on the same level for this movie-turned-serial project.

***   ***   ***

 A group of 8-to-10-year-olds enter the second floor of the coffee shop, independent and clearly parent-less.

As they speak, they are clearly 8-to-10-year-olds going on 28-to-30-year-olds.  Think of the last time you went to a cafe, restaurant or bar with your circle of friends.  Just like that.  Strangely, the girls announce and opt to go with one another to the bathroom, the guys stay back at the table and whisper while their women are away.

They clean up before they leave.

Crazy.

***   ***   ***

[Fiction-ish]

The light that drapes upon her threatens to bleach her out.  However, her demeanor and overall presence is shielded from unflattering threat.  Her blue eyes display a halo of speckled white in them, giving the illusion of her having a hint of blindness.  She’s not blind, this can be assured.  Perhaps, if she were to stare into her reflection long enough, she’d see herself as she truly is and how she would bring such a physical loss upon herself and others, suitors, for that matter.  The detrimental fault would not result from the same narcissist impression as Dorian Gray, but out of humble disbelief.  It’s obvious that her confidence is worn much like her heart, an arm for each, but the crack of the corner of her smile shows that reassurance and contentment.  That unacknowledged guard is still there.

***   ***   ***

She drives with a Glock in one hand?  That’s cute and bad-ass at the same time.

***   ***   ***

The street is poorly lit, that for damn sure.  The snow that was coming down was unimaginable, and I had to stop the car.  While driving, the snow storm was so fierce that the road edge was barely visible.  Looking into the falling snow made me nauseous.

***   ***   ***

Syracuse blues is nothing without Carolyn Kelly.

***   ***   ***

***   ***   ***

The Chicago redeeming reminder came in the form of song lyrics.

***   ***   ***

Bartender:  Can I get anything for you?

Me:  Yes–gin and tonic, please.

The gin looks like cheap gin.  The gin tastes like cheap gin.  Note to self:  be more specific next time.

***   ***   ***

Blues music is the best music to dance to, because there is less coaxing involved.

***   ***   ***

The dancing woman wore a loose fitting white sweatshirt.  On the front was a black, stitched motorcycle, and the back was purposely ripped in horizontal lines.  Her frizzled white hair and acid wash jeans defined her 80’s persona, and the white boots with the blatant fuzzy white lining that puffs out only screamed fashion emergency.

Dan, to me:  She’s dressed and dancing as if she is in Toto’s “Rosanna” music video.

In fact, she looked/danced like a rabbit that accidentally touched an electric fence while trying to steal carrots.  The rabbit developed a tic from the uncanny experience.

In fact, the jittery rabbit actually danced like the band Wham! in the “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” music video, but more frivolously.

***   ***   ***

Dan looks like the bastard child of Bruce Willis and Russell Crowe, donning the beard of Chuck Norris.  He dates Christina, who is the identical twin of Amy Adams.

***   ***   ***

Dan:  Chuck Norris’ follicle-to-pore ratio is impossible to be determined.

***   ***   ***

He took the vacant chair without asking or looking at me, assuming no one would be joining me.  He carried is arrogance in his breast pocket, and it sat there like a pen and paper.

***   ***   ***

The chair-taker joined the rest of the weekly gathering of French speakers.  He presented himself, spoke, as if he was the ringleader.  Just like every week in the past, he proved to be the least proficient and fluid with his dialogue.

***   ***   ***

I cannot wait to go to Paris, Bruges, and Amsterdam.