First off -- Matt, I have those carrot cake cookies, but I haven't sent them yet. Consider the goodness of them my Christmas present and the tag attached to it my idiocy in forgetting where I've placed your address.
Second -- I was walking by a coworker's office this morning and all of the sudden Dame Edna was staring back at me, illuminated in the crisp, flat panel on his desk. After the subsequent jolt from staring into the pools of Dame Edna's eyes, I had a chuckle to myself.
Third -- "Most people go through life dreading they'll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They've already passed their test in life. They're aristocrats."
- Diane Arbus, photographer
Fourth -- Nothing feels better than having a hand in something bigger than yourself. If you have the opportunity to do this, jump on it. Take advantage of it. Live through and with it. And when you're done, do it again, and again, and again ...
Fifth -- I'm terrible, I know, and I haven't posted photographs in a while. I've been knitting. I shit you knot ... get it? Of course you did. Another coworker, not to be confused with the Dame-Edna-lit-up-on-his-monitor-like-the-4th-of-July coworker, told me that close friends with her and her husband both knit together. "They say it's kind of like meditation," she said.
When you walk in to a small, relatively unpopulated bar, it's like everyone inside is looking for a place to stop what they're doing and turn around to catch a glimpse of what the neon outside drug in. They do it so nonchalantly, holding their proverbial bookmark in one hand and beer in the other, they take a sip, insert the bookmark, close the pages to look at you and try to either identify with you or just plain identify you. When curiosity is sated, they return to what they were doing, opening the book, removing the mark and looking for the paragraph from where they left off.
In this instance, the book was a haphazard open mic night. A small speaker set-up broadcasted the soft voice of the first act, a woman and a guitar. I didn't even feign interest in her. I was too busy ordering an ale from the seedy watering hole's thin selection. In hobbles a gentleman, minus one of his legs. I'm told that he's probably the best guitarist in the region. I think that it was worth the trip, the poor brew selection and the stares from sunken eyes below fuzzy brows below what was once a hairline, just to see and hear for myself if it's true.
A table finds us and chairs find our asses and music finds our ears while I attempt to find the ladies room; however, in this place's case, I'm sure a lady hasn't graced it in quite some time. Washing my hands with watered down lotion soap proves my point further.
The crippled guitarist takes the stage, but not alone. He's joined by a saxophonist, a violinist, a vocalist with a guitar and the same mousy woman who graced the stage earlier now armed with a bass guitar. After the aged hippie-laden band takes a long tune, they break out in rock-and-roll covers. My eyes are transfixed on the one-legged guitarist who seems to know only the accompaniment of the violin.
I've had too much to drink.