Last night I sent my drink back to the bar. I ordered a rye Manhattan and it was undrinkable. I’ve never — strike that — I’ve only once sent a drink back. The bartender poured me a whiskey at a bar in San Francisco and I did not like it, and said so when he asked. But last night the Manhattan I had was awful. My companion tasted it and agreed. That drink tasted like everything I’m angry about.
I always feel weird about complaining in restaurants, I’m not sure why. It’s not like I wouldn’t send back a pair of pants that didn’t fit, why so twitchy about sending back a plate? I suppose like most things it’s about being polite; if you’re not a jerk, everything should come out fine, right?
The drink was part of an afternoon/evening of eating delicious food and hanging out and bullshitting, much needed given that every single person I know has been in a dark space since the Orlando murders. I’m calling them murders intentionally, it’s what they were — when we say “shooting” there’s a grain of hope for survival, but this… well, you know.
Spring has had me in a blue funk anyway, what with my husband back in Europe and Some Other Things, including a rare case of my biting off more work than I can chew. It’s hard to leave work on the table when you’re freelance but that’s what I did. Saying “no” helped ease the stress some. I indulged too, in daytime backyard lunch with pink wine — tis the season — and a cocktail which was improved with the second attempt, and eating more than my share of the General Porpoise donuts during my writers group, you said you didn’t like the lemon curd.
If I have a little bit of an indulgence hangover today, I’m not sorry. I’m not a particularly self-indulgent person beyond the process of writing my way through my feelings, already, and that’s supposed to be healthy, if a bit weird that it’s so public.
So. Here are the things I indulged in this week that made me feel a bit better. As always, there are Amazon links for which I get a little something something and you get the thing you order at no extra cost.
And may your budget, your body, and your Buddhas forgive you your own indulgences.
Music therapy: As part of a Friday of doing fun things (and sending back cocktails), bandmate Pete took me to see Gregory Porter at the Moore Theater. Sweet Jesus, that was an incredible show. The band was air tight, the bassist smiled so big the whole time it lit up the room, the piano player — an older guy in a red suit — brought the funk, and Gregory Porter? Man. The voices of every soul singer you love, of Marvin Gaye and Issac Hayes and the Reverend Green and Barry White and all of them are inhabiting the body of Gregory Porter. I think I said “That was fucking incredible” 73 times during the 15 minutes it took for Pete to return me to my house. I’m trying to remember the last time I was floored by a show like this. Maybe Allen Stone?
Buy his music and go see Gregory Porter, already. “But I live in Norway,” you are saying (or whatever). No excuse. Check the tour schedule and take your 70s R&B loving ass to see this guy. G’wan. Git.
Retail therapy: I needed to go meet the good people who make Seattle Ukulele happen, and prior to that my fellow board member asked me to tag along to the open house for Seattle’s ace camera store, Glazer’s. I was not intending to spend money, I was just curious about what’s new. I ended up dropping a pile on a used FujiFilm X-T1, their micro four-thirds mirrorless blah blah blah camera talk goes here. I got a zoom lens, too, and will probably drop a bit more cash before I’m done on something shorter.
I hadn’t updated my kit for a good five years. As much as I love my Lumix, sometimes a girl wants more than a pocket camera — shooting the Grand Canyon a few years back showed me that. I don’t have anything exceptional to show you yet, just weird shots of Harley the Dog and my backyard, but I’m grateful for those hours in art school photography classes. The X-T1 wants me to know what I’m doing.
Black humor therapy: I say this kind of shit, people get mad at me, Henry Rollins does it, he’s an internet sensation. So Henry Rollins… thank you.
“Is travel designated for smirking self-satisfied Caucasian males? I’m mad already.”
Just watch while our man Rollins takes down, of all things, “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” by Dr. Seuss. It’s fucking amazing. I will say that 73 times before I get back home.
Always an enjoyable read. I would love to see Gregory Porter. His voice is like liquid chocolate.