Thursdays are never good for me. Beyond the annoyance of being told by a gangly stranger with a bad suit and an even more vapid girlfriend that “hey… hey… hey, dude… hey… hey, man… hey. You look like that guy from The Hangover, did you see The Hangover? Hey…” (I think he said more but by this point I’d returned to my meal and turned off my auditory senses) I’ve a severe dearth of WordPress views. That is to say, other than being confronted with the occasional human impression of a car splashing a puddle, unexpected, unwanted, and slightly filmy, thursdays also provide an unwanted internet calm. The (comparatively) dizzying highs of wednesday’s visits proceed directly into a bedrock flat-line of trafficlessness the next morning. I must be less interesting every forth day of the week than I am the other six, apparent similarities to Zach Galifianakis aside. I shall endeavor to change that. Or the similarities. Or both. Probably both.
Still no word on the car. It’s been fewer than three days but I’ve gotten used to driving the Suzuki. I still miss my car but it’s no longer a desperate, anxious worry for the return of my only means of conveyance. Now I just want my car back to get the Philly turn around trip over with.
It’s very hot here. Even inside, in St. Thomas’s, it’s too warm for me. It’s set to get hotter before it cools even slightly, I don’t look forward to kung fu at noon. My house is noticeable warmer since the removal of my trees, something I’d expected, but it is also noisier, which is surprising. I’d anticipated the heat, the house now barring the full brunt of the sun the entire day, but I hadn’t realized how much noise the Yews in the front had stopped from reaching my door. There’s much to be done before I can relay either the front or thee back yards, but for now I’ve gathered up my ailing potted trees to reuse their soil for the hardier and indigenous maples and put the healthy ones along the steps. Clark’s Moveable Forest is taking a decided turn toward the deciduous.
The baristas (baristesses?), who all save for the owner, can’t have been born before ninety-five, have an alternative station playing on their satellite radio. I’m briefly reminded of my narrow years visiting Philadelphia coffee shops. That was a time when writing seemed less a pretension and the chess boards and stacks of books were brought by and presented to the clients out of a genuine interest rather than as affectation. Perhaps it’s rose tinted nostalgia or the difference in region, but coffee shops now seem more akin to T.G.I. Fridays than they do The Last Drop or Coffee on Forth or any of the myriad of independent shops that Starbucks pushed out. On one hand Starbucks and its ilk repopularized coffee shops, on the other they homogenized them, stripped them of their independent edges and made them all a sort of safe for soccer mom zones. Gone are the teardrop tattooed poets and angry grad students. Gone is the greater sense of organic growth. In their place is greater comfort, blander atmosphere, and broader appeal.
Still, some manage to be pleasant in their inoffensive way. This one, St. Thomas, roasts its own coffee in a large machine set to the left of the counter. Behind me is a girl discussing poetry with an antiquated relative. Amidst the pile of blue-hairs and young parents what was once seen as edgy music still plays.
Never mind that the latter most has become pop for a generation responsible for a culture for which one has little use. Never mind that the girl discussing poetry has a farmer’s daughter’s understanding of literature and the pretense of book discussion quickly lead to gossip. The roaster stands firmly independent. And in the occasional times in between the mommy and me tea time and affected imitations, there are others who come to write and more importantly, to think. I’m not the only one. It isn’t all fucked.