Willow drops myself and Chris off in front of Borders. I timed things too early, but I'm sort of glad it's kickin' in. Chris heads inside but my trajectory (orbit?) puts me next door. I'm loudly and enthusiastically greeted and I hope I didn't leap a foot in the air. I turn a corner with a Gainsbarre stagger, propping myself up by leaning on a pyramid-studded Judas Priest box set. The haze meant any lucid lascivious thoughts could wait til later. I wanted to enjoy this. I can get 'First Band on the Moon' for a dollar in Kutztown probably, I don't need to pay $3.99 for it here. That new Yeah Yeah Yeahs single is playing, and that new Yeah Yeah Yeahs single is actually on CD for $1.99. Easy buy. I raffle through the used 'B's and later find the copy of 'The Red Shoes' I saw a few weeks before properly filed under Bush comma Kate. The cashier tries to sweettalk me into their membership thing again and I take the little information pamphlet to feign interest the best I can. She says something about how I got two used CDs and if I buy a 3rd I get a 4th for free, but I remind her the YYY's single is new and afterward it occurs to me she might have been trying to cut me some awkward deal. I meet up with Chris and he's raving over the coffee. I should've seen whether they considered Lürzel's Archive a magazine or book - I could've used my coupon. I grab this one stupid nightlife paper on the way out. I chalk it up to a buzz-addled compromise, neglecting to remember things like this remind me of the most cloying 'why' of leaving. I want to believe that escape is more than delay ("...til they catch up with you again," my pessimism reminds me). I have to remember: As much as I need to keep certain memories at a distance, I can't forget to take the long way around to return to sweet parts. I check my reflection and I look vaguely unfamiliar, but almost daring? The things I love that don't make sense - the jagged, minor affronts that I can brush off effortlessly are footsteps on fresh ground. Soon enough it's time to leave for Marietta. The novelty of 2 Hyped Brothers & A Dog has worn off somewhat and we end up with something else on most of the way up route 30.
We mill about the former Sultzbach-Reinhart house a while. I give Ray and Emily a mix cd they'll either not listen to or hate and after Willow and Joan are done catching up, we walk toward McCleary's. The reservation will take a little while. A new face approximates an appropriate hybrid - that doesn't happen too often, and it seems to only occur to me. The rain acts like some vague fence around the front porch of the pub. If the light falls just right, the Marietta I loved isn't dead. To keep my mind off of it I take a photo of the steel structure over the railway. I needed to change the wallpaper on my phone cos that was May and May is dead. I keep hoping no one inside hears the conversation outside, and Ray inevitably comes back to the idea of the staff supposedly hating him. We're in limbo so long that I can't remember the walk inside. I remember marvelling over the patio roof I never noticed, I remember thinking the waitress we have tonight is cuter than I remember, I remember I need to hurry up and decide what drink I'm ordering. The wine pairings on the menu catch my eye and a couple of 'dare I?'s flit back and forth in my head but I give it all a miss. I order a bottle of nearly-on-tap-but-not-quite Fat Dog. It starts to bridge the seemingly neverending 'Point A to Point B', but it's richer than I'd hoped. The food arrives after a while and the smooth, Boca-esque edges of the patty lend it an appealing appearance. I'd take 'oddly formed' over 'grain-heavy' any day. Heading back to the house is done in two groups - Me + Kish in his car (cos he needed directions), everyone else walks.
We all expected the Kish/McKeeby marriage to last forever, but it looks like they'll be filing the papers soon. They keep at it, arguing in circles so much that when I peek my head above water, it surprisingly doesn't sound like a train crash of synonyms and redundancy. It almost sounds as if each is paying attention to what the other is saying. I feel absolutely nothing. Ali and Willow join in. I feel absolutely nothing. It dawns on me that I'm too drunk and the room is too loud for me to keep from reading the same two sentences of 'A Fistful of Gitanes' over and over again. I try to get it together. The 'absolutely nothing' I'm feeling turns into impatience. It looks like nothing except leaving the room will let me regain my focus, but I don't want it to seem like Mr. Misunderstood's comfort's been breached. I don't want my mistaken intentions to give anyone unearned satisfaction for the second month in a row. The storm passes thanks to cupcakes and beer - various conversations flow. At some point the ladies turn to me sort of smiling and Ali says something about how they're talking about me as if I'm a celebrity but I'm right here in the room. I react reflexively humble and a Bertrand Russell quote I can't quite remember lurks in the shadows of the room next to the kitchen.
At some point the flavour of distraction is YouTube and various unfortunate news blunders. Half these people probably died, but we like to think not. Loading entails finding reception in that room next to the kitchen, then returning with an armful of cached gold. At some point either this will get boring or I'll take too long finding QVC ladder mishaps. The screen goes black and I realise on returning to the side room I didn't bring the charger. If I'd only have the brains to have grabbed it I wouldn't have risked a grinding halt. I take a deep breath and walk to the next room to collect it with no awkwardness whatsoever and somehow succeed. I don't know who I'm trying to placate. I don't know if this is my job now. I think "Don't be sorry, just be happy" and the Black Dog leaves my periphery a little while longer. After long, Willow and I think it's getting pretty late. When you can figure that out without looking at the time, it's definite. I direct us back to route 72 and prompty pass out.
By the time I come to in Quentin, it's as if The Voice of Frank Ski is attacking me. Chris isn't doing much better.
We mill about the former Sultzbach-Reinhart house a while. I give Ray and Emily a mix cd they'll either not listen to or hate and after Willow and Joan are done catching up, we walk toward McCleary's. The reservation will take a little while. A new face approximates an appropriate hybrid - that doesn't happen too often, and it seems to only occur to me. The rain acts like some vague fence around the front porch of the pub. If the light falls just right, the Marietta I loved isn't dead. To keep my mind off of it I take a photo of the steel structure over the railway. I needed to change the wallpaper on my phone cos that was May and May is dead. I keep hoping no one inside hears the conversation outside, and Ray inevitably comes back to the idea of the staff supposedly hating him. We're in limbo so long that I can't remember the walk inside. I remember marvelling over the patio roof I never noticed, I remember thinking the waitress we have tonight is cuter than I remember, I remember I need to hurry up and decide what drink I'm ordering. The wine pairings on the menu catch my eye and a couple of 'dare I?'s flit back and forth in my head but I give it all a miss. I order a bottle of nearly-on-tap-but-not-quite Fat Dog. It starts to bridge the seemingly neverending 'Point A to Point B', but it's richer than I'd hoped. The food arrives after a while and the smooth, Boca-esque edges of the patty lend it an appealing appearance. I'd take 'oddly formed' over 'grain-heavy' any day. Heading back to the house is done in two groups - Me + Kish in his car (cos he needed directions), everyone else walks.
We all expected the Kish/McKeeby marriage to last forever, but it looks like they'll be filing the papers soon. They keep at it, arguing in circles so much that when I peek my head above water, it surprisingly doesn't sound like a train crash of synonyms and redundancy. It almost sounds as if each is paying attention to what the other is saying. I feel absolutely nothing. Ali and Willow join in. I feel absolutely nothing. It dawns on me that I'm too drunk and the room is too loud for me to keep from reading the same two sentences of 'A Fistful of Gitanes' over and over again. I try to get it together. The 'absolutely nothing' I'm feeling turns into impatience. It looks like nothing except leaving the room will let me regain my focus, but I don't want it to seem like Mr. Misunderstood's comfort's been breached. I don't want my mistaken intentions to give anyone unearned satisfaction for the second month in a row. The storm passes thanks to cupcakes and beer - various conversations flow. At some point the ladies turn to me sort of smiling and Ali says something about how they're talking about me as if I'm a celebrity but I'm right here in the room. I react reflexively humble and a Bertrand Russell quote I can't quite remember lurks in the shadows of the room next to the kitchen.
At some point the flavour of distraction is YouTube and various unfortunate news blunders. Half these people probably died, but we like to think not. Loading entails finding reception in that room next to the kitchen, then returning with an armful of cached gold. At some point either this will get boring or I'll take too long finding QVC ladder mishaps. The screen goes black and I realise on returning to the side room I didn't bring the charger. If I'd only have the brains to have grabbed it I wouldn't have risked a grinding halt. I take a deep breath and walk to the next room to collect it with no awkwardness whatsoever and somehow succeed. I don't know who I'm trying to placate. I don't know if this is my job now. I think "Don't be sorry, just be happy" and the Black Dog leaves my periphery a little while longer. After long, Willow and I think it's getting pretty late. When you can figure that out without looking at the time, it's definite. I direct us back to route 72 and prompty pass out.
By the time I come to in Quentin, it's as if The Voice of Frank Ski is attacking me. Chris isn't doing much better.
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