Blog Club
“I sat at one of the tables against the wall. I remember that I sat with my head in my hands. I heard her voice without looking up. I remember that she said, “Can I get you something?” and I said something about coffee with cream. I sat there until the cup was before me, a long time like that, thinking of the hopelessness of my fate”
July 27, 2004
First rule of blogging: Don't blog about blogging.
Fuck it.
I used to write a lot more about my "feelings" on this site. I don't know, maybe it has something to do with my parents discovering it, or that there are so many friends who stop by to check in, but lately (my California trip aside) I find that all I ever write about are random encounters in coffee shops and bar rooms. I hadn't been back from California for more than two days before writing another post about a conversation in a bar. It's getting boring.
Gunge left me this comment recently: "no wonder you're broke.. all you ever write about is buying coffee, tea, beer, or booze.. and not from the discount wholesale places, either, from real live establishments. don't that git pricey in nyc?"
Well sure, I guess it does. Although, the more often you go to a coffee shop or a bar, the more likely you are to get in good with the wait staff. which means that can easily find yourself with a free coffee or beer. But it's not the money that has me worried. No, it's the rut of it all. The routine of "no routine."
I started reading "Ask the Dust," by fellow diabetic John Fante. I'm only about half way through, but so far there's an awful lot of lounging in coffee shops and lingering in bars going on. All amidst complaints of no money, no less. The book was written over fifty years ago. How is it that my life echoes with that character so thoroughly? Fifty years and thousands of miles, why can I relate so intimately with a character like Arturo Bandini? The book is beautifully written -- and I'm not out to review it -- but it makes me sad in a way. So sad, in fact, that I can't seem to put it down.
Apparently a movie is in the works starring Colin Farrell. Though, even with an Irishman cast as the Italian lead, I'm pretty sure I won't relate to the movie as much as the book. I mean, that's just the way it goes. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I'm going to make an effort to stop writing about wandering aimlessly into a local bar, being the "quiet guy in the corner” who gets into funny conversation with drunk girls. And in order to stop writing about it, I need to stop doing it. I mean, seriously, what the hell kind of life is that?
