Sunday, January 26, 2003

Smoky bars. Smoky bars. Yuck yuck yuck. I don't know how, in retrospect, I ever dated a serious smoker, Lisa Greening, back in 1996, although it didn't seem so bad at first. Unless my nose was taken with the other senses and scents, and didn't notice so much. Peggy's table tonight was discussing the reality of the lives reasonably well-to-do folks in the 1950's through the sixties led, with cocktail parties, and nice dresses and jewelry. One was an estate sales guy, who said that he has a hard time, looking at some of the jewelry he runs into, that it's not costume jewelry, but the real stuff, that people wore in their cocktail party lives. Which is not to say that they weren't depressed and longing, just that they had these beautiful lives. Which makes me think of how harrowing Albee's, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf," was, especially seeing the play, live. I'm starting to think of how much richer my blogging would be with little background sketches of folks, maybe even pictures. Another project, for another day. I really, really need to get my photos and slides and negatives scanned and catalogued. There are so, so many, boxes and boxes, and they are just boxes without a library for them all. I finally get fill flash and reflectors, on the most basic level. Thinking of the photo of me and Loki in front of the sunset on Lake Michigan. Even just a small reflecting surface, stuck in the sand, probably would have been enough to fill in the shadows. Maybe Photoshop could fix it. But it's not really a contemporaneous shot any more. Just one I generally like.   10:55:34 PM

This is medication. Scotch and Bach. Cello Suite No. 2 in D-minor. The only thing I could imagine that would make this more relaxing, including writing, would be doing it in a hot tub, out under a bright moonless winter sky. Sometimes that almost fugue state of fatique is almost better than a deep sleep for refreshment. Especially with a double shift tomorrow. Crazy brunch and then the Superbowl deadness in the evening. Ennui. Eating chicken wings and pizza, and watching the door all night, until we get to go home, where everyone else in St. Louis is tomorrow night. The guys at the restaurant now have a new measure of attractive women. The really, really cute ones, they joke about saving her chair, wrapping it in seranwrap. Putting it in, as I call it, the Stu-sonian Institution, over the annex, for safekeeping. Sqwires is beginning to attract more and more genuinely attractive women. Not the Clayton restaurant variety. But more substantial, less makeup, looking good without being over done. Who like to eat. And can afford to. I really don't need to know a whole lot more. And probably shouldn't. 1:30:16 AM