2010-06-14 - 10:57 a.m.
Moments, lately, for some reason. There's this: Perfectly fine, hot Saturday afternoon in a large American city. Crowded inside a dark, cool Irish bar, all eyes on the big television sets. Juiced up on pints of Guinness and big cans of cold Pabst. The other team scores, and a few shouts from the corners. Then, forty tense minutes later, a weird goal and the bar erupts: all-at-once, total shouting, total joy. High-fiving strangers and who high-fives anymore? I do, I guess, and we all do, in these kinds of situations.
Hard to come back to a place like this, with its bad coffee, its air piped in so cold it makes the ladies around here wear sweaters, shawls, cardigans, wool, cotton, thick stuff. It's bizarre and I don't like it. I'm keeping notes, though. I hope I get to use them. I'm going to nail this place one day. I really think so. Going to recreate this strange, artificial place where manners rule the day, where it's all emails, copy paper, conference calls. Going to nail it, but make it more interesting. I think that's how fiction writers do it. And they need stories, I know. Going to work on a story. Going to make the central character come alive. Going to imbue hopes and fears. Going to nail it and in that, maybe, I can gain some kind of redemption, some kind of redemption from four years now of bad coffee.
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