(no subject)
The long weekend. We started off with our yearly tradition of going to the pre-Thanksgiving function at an art studio on the Hill, where the artists' collective throws a dinner for their friends. There is also a simultaneous event at a bar and art gallery just downstairs from the arts space, so it's two dinners in one. The bar dinner was well attended, all the tables filled, and they projected a Yule log video on the wall as people dined and talked. The studio dinner was likewise full up, and the spread was Trimalchian. By tradition, the organizers played "A Thanksgiving Prayer" by William S. Burroughs before we dined. Noel talked to a guy who was baffled looking: the space usually has a life-drawing session on Wednesday nights, and he'd come for that -- it was his first time, and he must have thought it was quite a lavish spread for a mere life drawing class. (He seemed ill at ease during the evening, and when we left he'd broken out his sketch pad and was drawing the people there.)
We'd planned to make game hens for ourselves on the day, and then a friend invited us over for dinner, but we were sick and cancelled on both. We'll have the game hens tomorrow. Actually, Friday was a lazy day as well. I wonder if the "great dark" of late Autumn isn't getting to us; we slept all day both days, and into the night. We even went and got coffee drinks on Thanksgiving day and tried to rally, but then went right home to bed.
Saturday I hyped Noel on going to Ballard for barbeque. She'd had a craving for it on Friday, but the only place in our area had closed for good in the spring, and neither of us wanted to go out to, say, Georgetown to eat there. But there is the place in Ballard, and it's not so far, twenty minutes on the D Line from lower QA. We went. The place was reasonably quiet, three screens showing all day foot-a-ball, incongruous hits of the late 70s playing on the muzak. I got a half rack of pork ribs, a slab of meat the size of a dictionary. Noel opted for a pulled pork sandwich that was less than spectacular, dry and fibery.
On our way back to the bus we passed a curious fellow. He was tall, about 6' 4". He was wearing hospital blues, barefoot, had a back brace supporting his head, possibly a trach tube in his throat. He was striding with purpose from the Bartells' drugstore with a 750 ml bottle of whisky in his hand. We were trying to figure him out all afternoon -- had he crushed out of the nearby hospital? That seemed obvious. Was he in the rehab program? That hospital is known throughout the city as having a very good rehab program. How did he manage that? If so, he would have resources, since the hospital doesn't admit people to the program if they don't have full-on insurance (they don't accept ACA patients). How would he get his bottle back into his room? Would they nab him before he got back, if he was going back? If he did get back in, where would we hide it? He was a walking short story.
Today I haven't done much either. Did the dishes, which had started to stack. Walked my books back to the library. I have a giant balance due, fines, so I can't check anything new out. Drag! I had Amy Tan's new memoir in hand. Oh well. I walked back through the grey, with the telecommunications tower over on Fourth looming in the background. I might take another nap.
We'd planned to make game hens for ourselves on the day, and then a friend invited us over for dinner, but we were sick and cancelled on both. We'll have the game hens tomorrow. Actually, Friday was a lazy day as well. I wonder if the "great dark" of late Autumn isn't getting to us; we slept all day both days, and into the night. We even went and got coffee drinks on Thanksgiving day and tried to rally, but then went right home to bed.
Saturday I hyped Noel on going to Ballard for barbeque. She'd had a craving for it on Friday, but the only place in our area had closed for good in the spring, and neither of us wanted to go out to, say, Georgetown to eat there. But there is the place in Ballard, and it's not so far, twenty minutes on the D Line from lower QA. We went. The place was reasonably quiet, three screens showing all day foot-a-ball, incongruous hits of the late 70s playing on the muzak. I got a half rack of pork ribs, a slab of meat the size of a dictionary. Noel opted for a pulled pork sandwich that was less than spectacular, dry and fibery.
On our way back to the bus we passed a curious fellow. He was tall, about 6' 4". He was wearing hospital blues, barefoot, had a back brace supporting his head, possibly a trach tube in his throat. He was striding with purpose from the Bartells' drugstore with a 750 ml bottle of whisky in his hand. We were trying to figure him out all afternoon -- had he crushed out of the nearby hospital? That seemed obvious. Was he in the rehab program? That hospital is known throughout the city as having a very good rehab program. How did he manage that? If so, he would have resources, since the hospital doesn't admit people to the program if they don't have full-on insurance (they don't accept ACA patients). How would he get his bottle back into his room? Would they nab him before he got back, if he was going back? If he did get back in, where would we hide it? He was a walking short story.
Today I haven't done much either. Did the dishes, which had started to stack. Walked my books back to the library. I have a giant balance due, fines, so I can't check anything new out. Drag! I had Amy Tan's new memoir in hand. Oh well. I walked back through the grey, with the telecommunications tower over on Fourth looming in the background. I might take another nap.