The mouse is back. Today's unenviable task: unplug the keyboard, walk it to the trash container behind the front desk, shake out numerous little brown fecal crumbs. A great-looking day so far. Beginning with a burnt-toast smell in the apartment around 2 a.m. Lights on, stuffed animals blinking sleep out of their shoebutton eyes. Not us, nossir! Blue smoke coiling lazily out from under the front door. Out into the hall. Idiot neighbor fanning thick grey clouds out of her apartment. "Fell asleep, left the toaster on. It happens, y'know?" Do I ever. Back to mumbling sleep, head under the covers, the thick scent of carbon still hanging heavily in the air.

Lights off, power off at the coffee bar. What do you order when there's no hot water? "Iced drinks." Cold scone and the NYT, SWAT troops fanning out across a green Virginia campus. A video clip on Steve's laptop last night at the Whip, the flat harsh crack of each shot, campus police crouched uselessly behind their vehicles. Meanwhile, an authoritative-looking woman walks around the restaurant, tapping a knife against the side of a highball glass. Some lame-ass New Age West Coast ritual? No, speed dating, and the tapped glass is the signal for every man in the restaurant but Steve and I to get up and move to a different table. All the participants have little scorecards, and some of their pens start moving even before their prospective partners sit down. Hipster A doesn't sit in the chair provided, but cozies up to Bachelorette B on the couch. Smoothie C slouches in his chair with his legs splayed out under the table. Women outnumber men, so Bachelorettes D and E stare moodily off into space, or frowningly study their scorecards. Cougar F is all physical -- lapel brushes and cleavage flashes that make me wonder why she and Rude Boy G are even bothering with the scorecards, instead of just exiting the premises. Lost Guy H sits down opposite Ice Queen I, who shakes her head, offers him a tight-lipped smile, and indicates her "friend" next door, who doesn't seem too thrilled by Lost Guy, either, but at least allows him the courtesy of a 2-minute chat. Everyone smiles and gestures over-animatedly, as if auditioning for the job of host on a Food Network show.

"Never doing that," is Steve's and my resolution, as we roll out of the high-pressure world of meeting total strangers into the equally high-pressure world of trying to be usefully critical of the work of artists we admire, while not wanting to destroy their legendarily fragile self-confidence, nor our own.
- posted by cjb @ 9:21 AM