Way Down in the Hole

Slept long, woke tired.  Went out last night with a friend to dinner.  We sat at the bar to eat, of course, two men not in an intimate or business relationship.  Guys.  And after eating too much, we went to another place for drinks.  It is a new place on the Boulevard, Italian by menu but otherwise more of a western mountain town sort of place, a fairly hip kind of decor with mile high ceilings with exposed beams and ductwork.  The bar runs for miles island style with patrons surrounding it on all sides.  Tables galore, both cafe style and more formal seating and a healthy mix of people.  It was interesting.  But I was not.  I have not been out enough in the past decade, I guess.  I've forgotten how to stand, forgotten how to look other than invisible.  What I mean is that this is a place you go to for only one reason--to be seen, to be in the milieu. I saw one of my old nemesis, the comedian Carrot Head, and as is his practice, he avoided me.  I will look back to see if I have told you my Carrot Head stories or not, and if not, perhaps I will.  But I am out of practice of standing in a crowd and my personal space is too big for crowded bars and so when some young fellow bumped me as if I were invisible. . . I responded.  I do not belong in such places, I know.  I never did.  But my friend was talking to two girls and so I stayed standing awkwardly in one place behind their chairs looking around into the nothing.  Finally I could take no more and so tapped my friend on the shoulder to tell him I was leaving.  He said he was as well, so we walked back out onto the boulevard.  We would be at Sundance in a few weeks, and we talked about which movies to see and about skiing.  And then we said goodnight and went our separate ways.

I was home, and it was not late, so I had plenty of time to think about what might make me happy.

I checked my voicemail and there was a message from Q.  He was taking his wife to the hospital to have a baby.  He was calling from the car.  I thought it best not to call him back, of course.  He would be much occupied.  Q will now have something to take his mind off of himself.  That is the best thing, I think.  Thinking about oneself is a curse, of course.  He will have plenty of help to avoid that.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, look at me, look at me, look at me. . . ."

Good for you, old sport.  No irony there.

I poured a drink and sat with the cat.  There was plenty of night left if I wanted it, but I was tired, beaten from a hard bad week back at work.  I didn't want to think about anything at all.  Somebody needs to hook a brother up, I thought.  No, no, no. . . gotta keep the devil way down in the hole.