Too Pretty for Bloggy
God, it's amazing out today: blue skies, sun, Washington's Birthday, revised, plus Lincoln's Birthday, revised. This means no worky for Sara and Mr. Bir Toujour. In a little over an hour I hope to go on a nice, long run all over Albany, El Cerrito, and Berkeley. Joe's going to walk down to the Bulb and leave some Anonymous Artwork in the area we call Thunderdome.
Me, I'm going to sit in here and write. Kind of a drag, kind of not. I gots shitloads of work to attend to, two articles, a chapter in the ol' novel, plus some things to read and comment on. It would be nice to do all of this on the patio of a cafe while drinking a Pernod, not like I even like Pernod...okay, a Lillet, and I'm in the south of France and on vacation and can linger there for hours on the cafe's patio, sipping aperetifs and writing away.
The closest thing we have here is Starbucks. In a 2-mile radius I have 4 Starbucks to choose from. Sure, there are other places, but (ack!) they all suck more than Starbucks. Annoying people, no good place to sit, bad coffee...Starbucks is evenly mediocre in nearly all aspects, no matter which of the 4 I go to. You'd think in this hippy nest called the East Bay I'd be able to find a decent cafe to work and study in...but nooooo. Oh, the most vital thing: a bathroom. It's hard to find a coffee shop with a bathroom handy. There's no way a gal can get any writing done over a span of 2 coffee-sipping hours when there's no loo to be found.
This morning at breakfast (Mr. Bir Toujour and I went to our favorite eating-out breakfast place, Royal Cafe), I read in the paper that Hunter S. Thompson had died from a self-infliced gunshoot wound. Geez. That's something I never expected to hear. I figured he'd live forever, preserved in his own picking jiuce of liver secretions. Really, I thought he'd sort of ossified himself over all these long, hard years of ceaseless self-abuse on the chemical front.
I guess that he shot himself makes sense; probably he didn't want to die a helpless invalid old man with poo poo diapers and baby food lunches. Maybe this was his plan all along...or maybe it was an accident, the result of a typical HST revelry of hyperbole, drugs, firearms, and overinflated terror. Maybe this was the accident that's been threatening to bite the ol' Doctor in the ass, and it just happened to him in his more twilight years.
67. That's how old he was, 67. These days, 67 is not old. Mr. Bir Toujour's dad, for instance, is 67. Sandra Dee died a few days ago, and she was only 63 (I think it was a kidney diesease thing). My mom is close to 63. Oh, mortaility. The older I get, the older those I love get. Mortality's creeping up on them, a prelude of things to come. I don't mind getting old, but I do mind other people getting old. You can act like you're 23 all of your life, but your body doesn't get it. It will think a 67-year-old vessel is 67, despite everything. I guiess that why Hunter S. Thompson opted to exit his vessel before that fact clicked in too much.
Me, I'm going to sit in here and write. Kind of a drag, kind of not. I gots shitloads of work to attend to, two articles, a chapter in the ol' novel, plus some things to read and comment on. It would be nice to do all of this on the patio of a cafe while drinking a Pernod, not like I even like Pernod...okay, a Lillet, and I'm in the south of France and on vacation and can linger there for hours on the cafe's patio, sipping aperetifs and writing away.
The closest thing we have here is Starbucks. In a 2-mile radius I have 4 Starbucks to choose from. Sure, there are other places, but (ack!) they all suck more than Starbucks. Annoying people, no good place to sit, bad coffee...Starbucks is evenly mediocre in nearly all aspects, no matter which of the 4 I go to. You'd think in this hippy nest called the East Bay I'd be able to find a decent cafe to work and study in...but nooooo. Oh, the most vital thing: a bathroom. It's hard to find a coffee shop with a bathroom handy. There's no way a gal can get any writing done over a span of 2 coffee-sipping hours when there's no loo to be found.
This morning at breakfast (Mr. Bir Toujour and I went to our favorite eating-out breakfast place, Royal Cafe), I read in the paper that Hunter S. Thompson had died from a self-infliced gunshoot wound. Geez. That's something I never expected to hear. I figured he'd live forever, preserved in his own picking jiuce of liver secretions. Really, I thought he'd sort of ossified himself over all these long, hard years of ceaseless self-abuse on the chemical front.
I guess that he shot himself makes sense; probably he didn't want to die a helpless invalid old man with poo poo diapers and baby food lunches. Maybe this was his plan all along...or maybe it was an accident, the result of a typical HST revelry of hyperbole, drugs, firearms, and overinflated terror. Maybe this was the accident that's been threatening to bite the ol' Doctor in the ass, and it just happened to him in his more twilight years.
67. That's how old he was, 67. These days, 67 is not old. Mr. Bir Toujour's dad, for instance, is 67. Sandra Dee died a few days ago, and she was only 63 (I think it was a kidney diesease thing). My mom is close to 63. Oh, mortaility. The older I get, the older those I love get. Mortality's creeping up on them, a prelude of things to come. I don't mind getting old, but I do mind other people getting old. You can act like you're 23 all of your life, but your body doesn't get it. It will think a 67-year-old vessel is 67, despite everything. I guiess that why Hunter S. Thompson opted to exit his vessel before that fact clicked in too much.
posted by Lefty at 10:45 AM
1 Comments:
you can try Peet's for the caffeine fix, or Peaberry's up in Rockridge. my little sister is the head roaster there.
Starbuck's sux.
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