This song has refused to leave my head since this past autumn. Not sure when, where, or why it placed itself in there. It’s not a bad song to have in your head for such a length of time, but I want to pass it on. You’ll catch yourself whistling it.
In preparation for tomorrow’s Thursday’s The Espresso Shot segment of my Syracuse New Times contributions (new day, same crass), I had to do some hearty preparation:
Just kidding. I wrote enough punches to my face in yesterday’s post. The funny thing is that a lot of people enjoyed the post. A lot of feedback was received. Please accept my deepest gratitude. Thank you. My parents even enjoyed the post, and that helped me remember/realize that they do read my work. They’ve come to terms with my writing, despite not knowing what to expect. They are used to it, after all. During an improv scene, a scene that took place in a gynecologist’s office, I did make a comparison that staring into a vagina was, in essence, breaking the fourth wall.
OK, clean the coffee you just spit off your computer screen.
The Universe, Fate, whatever you want to call it — Pennywise? — keeps giving me platters of goodness that cannot be turned away upon sniffing in a good waft or taking a small bite. If you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk, and the dominoes will topple over from there. As stated in yesterday’s SNT post, the last few months have been filled with encountering dates and short-lived relationships of the past; it’s a forced spring cleaning that comes with somewhat of a welcome. No one likes to be forced to do anything; however, an unexpected push could be what the doctor ordered. It’s ending a chapter, wrapping up a third-of-a-season finale. Blah, blah, blah… redundant, redundant, redundant.
But the circus that is life (this is what was scribbled in my note pad during last night’s Blue Tusk outing for my former supervisor’s retiring) gives you one hell of a show, doesn’t it? The song that was playing when I thought of this, or it should be noted that inspired this thought, was “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” by The Beatles. The night, the act of this deemed circus, was kicked off with calling a girl by the wrong name. I don’t know why my former museum cohort (yes, I knew this young woman to begin with, thus making my error that much more worse) looked like another girl I worked with; however, my taking a quick look convinced me to call her Name A instead of Name B.
My life is a comedy of errors, and my former museum staffer told me she’d be seeing her perceived doppelganger the following day, today.
She and the other 40 Below folk were a little peeved that we, the associates of the New York Senate, both donkeys and elephants, took up the second to near back room of the pub. They removed themselves when upon realizing that we were going to be having a fair amount of people joining us, and that the talking was only going to get louder. Oh well, first come means first serve. The far back room was reserved by the City of Syracuse Democrats, and there could have been two individuals could have shown up that could be tacked on the list of past dates.
Both ended not-terribly-but-not-great; one resulted in her not being over and going back to her ex, and the other didn’t seem to have much of an interest. The former was not present, but the latter was. The pretty young lady was in good spirits, and she is doing well. With pints in both of our right hands, going in for a farewell hug was as awkward as taking the world off of Atlas’ shoulders.
The rest of the night was spent talking with another female museum cohort. We recently got back in touch with one another after she sent me a very kind message about my scribbling. She reintroduced a picture of the two of us, which is of frumpy me from a handful of years ago: a time where my style was still evolving, when I had donned a goatee, and when the piercings were still in my ears.
You can find it on the big blue-and-white, but there will be no posting such a picture here.
And so it’s April 30th. The Cherry Blossom girl is definitely not going to be revealing herself on such an opposite and rainy day. It’s okay. There will be no losing sleep over this. While at the doctor’s office, an elevator was shared with an opportunity for conversation, but the elderly couple that I held the door for didn’t need to witness my poor attempt at starting conversation with the dirty blond (who locked eyes with me and did not turn away scared). During a venture to a big-name bookstore for a moving-away card (a.k.a. my finding a signature Malone blank card), after a decision to put back an very-much-intended Bukowski find–to put him away for another rainy day–and pick up a poetry book by the great Ryan Adams, cashing out resulted with a receipt and a coy smile.
The rainy day almost persuaded me to go to a different coffee shop, but the executive decision to veto such an absurd thought was placed. The blossoms are still budding, enjoying the rain, enjoying the liquid nutrient falling from the sky. The sun is peaking though the rain clouds as best as it can. After almost a three-week absence, the most recent interest is back, sitting at one of the tables. She took notice of me as I ventured to put my bag down before placing my order. She smiled, and her vocal hello waved me over.