good morning good morning -You all wanted some Warren Zevon songs last week. And so today I will oblige you with two Zevon tracks. Get your weekend started right
Today’s hoddle is a collection of four strands of thought from your HIC last week.
I look into the eyes of one.
I think of the eyes of another.
It’s a Friday night in Clarendon.
I break eye contact. Time drags through mud. Forty-five minutes feels like forty-five years.
So, now, tonight is the night when sixty seconds a minute does not comprise?
I look to my right, willing the waitress to end my misery.
The check mercifully lands on the table.
Words sound muted. My mind is in another hemisphere. The string of sentences and thoughts I do hear from the other side of the table are most troubling.
There is a peninsula that jets off the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. The East Potomac Park. To the south you can see Gravelly Point and Washington National Airport.
On a clear day, the Washington Masonic Memorial.
To the north is The Wharf. A bustling boardwalk with two Gordon Ramsey establishments, a music venue, themed restaurants and other establishments whose identities are too new to have any sort of significance to anyone.
This morning I am sitting on a bench at East Potomac Park, facing The Wharf. I prefer this side of the water. The derelict benches and squawking seagulls are more comforting than the buildings opposite me.
It’s becoming my place of refuge, this park. My place to sit, to be still, to listen to and watch the flowing waters of the Washington channel.
The last time I sat on this bench I dared to daydream about Company. I daydream now.
I once stood on the other side. On The Wharf. I had wondered what it was like to be here, to face the boardwalk.
A steady, bucolic stream of water harmonizing with the gentle breeze of the wind.
These thoughts are broken by some most troubling words from the other side of the table.
Fitzie’s track of the day, part one: The Rosarita Beach Cafe, by Warren Zevon
It’s a Friday night in Clarendon.
I break eye contact. I can’t stand this any longer. I sign the bill.
We say goodbye. The moment could not have come soon enough. I look at my watch. It’s only been an hour.
Three steps in the opposite direction is all it takes for my mind to drift elsewhere.
It’s a cold, windy night. I should have brought a warmer jacket. I have a tendency to under-dress, and tonight appears to have only confirmed my growing suspicions that I am ill-equipped for any apocalyptic should hell freeze over.
No, it is not sustainable to measure periods of time this way. And yet, I do so anyways.
Hours, days and weeks pass. Hours, days, weeks and months longer still to come.
Alas, I am home. There is enough bourbon left in the bottle for one more pour. And so I empty its remaining contents. I turn on perhaps the only person whose music I can bear tonight.
This is recollection of a dream I had on Friday night, retelling it to the best of my memory
I am saying goodbye to Someone after what feels like a tortuous amount of time together. I walk around and sit down outside a concert hall. Inside the concert hall is Another.
Is Gustavo Dudamel composing tonight?
There is a garment sitting on my lap. Some sort of knitted outerwear. I can’t quite make it out except that it is blue. It is not mine. I am safekeeping it for Another, and I wait for the show to end and for Another to exit the concert hall.
Next to me is a Woman roughly 20 years older than I. She keeps me company and offers to share a loaf of bread. I gratefully accept the bread and her company.
I then walk around the outskirts of the concert hall, patches of grass dotted with trees. I run into Someone, and am reluctant make any sort of conversation with them. I dread the thought of seeing Someone.
And so I end up by myself, sitting on a patch of grass under a tree outside the concert hall. I hold onto the garment, hoping to give it back to Another.
I wait, and I wait. And I wake up.
Fitzie’s track of the day, part two: Desperadoes Under the Eaves, by Warren Zevon
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