alfonzo's back: bloggin' on the road
Music: Dunno, but it sounds like Art Blakey I'm currently in my hotel room at the Hotel Boston Buckminster, which is only two cleaner pillowcases and a non-visibly-stained-with-body-fluids-comforter better than the brothel/flophouse I stayed in at a convention in Milwaukee many years back. It's simply nasty. I would elaborate, but the more I think about how nasty it is the closer I get to throwing up my dinner of white bread and peanut butter. Let me just put it this way: I bought some gloves to wear because my hands get cold in anything lower than 50 degrees . . . and I've taken to wearing them in the room.
The flight was an admixture of reading Ernesto Laclau's difficult prose and then listening to Robert Wyatt on my i-pod or the guy across the row from me who talked way too loud to the colleague next to him (less than 8 inches away--it is an airplane, mind you, but he all wanted us to know he traded stock or some bullshit; at least get some decent cufflinks if you're going to talk that loud, fuckwad), and a very, very, undisciplined three year old who alternately screeched bloody murder for being disciplined, or squealed wildly in glee for not being disciplined. Fortunately, there was no turbulence and the calm demeanor of the two pilots sitting next to me for over three hours obviated the need to hit the flask.
[break; subway ride] I'm now at Trident Booksellers and Café, drinking the fanciest decaff coffee you've ever tasted, sitting at a "coffee bar." To the right and left of the bar are seating areas, and behind me, a very very crammed bookstore. The scent of cumin is in the air; a young man with a burly beard that ages him ten years is to my left devouring a book titled South America; visibly gay men (in the sense of wearing way too tight clothing) behind me browse display tables with books titled, How to Iron Your Own Damn Shirt and 14,000 Things to Be Happy About; there's an Art Blakey-ish, hard-bop cover of a Blondie tune on the sound system . . . no, wait, it's transitioned to Rufus Wainwright on love; and I'm feeling lots of love for a bigger city at the moment.
I can see the cook in the back; he speaks Spanish but looks like a Eminem.
Well, I'm not doing very much conferencing. I have checked email and probably should head back to the hotel to finish one of my presentations for Friday. Oh, and two more things: the cashier here said that he has some stories about the Hotel Buckminster, and grinned, and said he couldn't voice them at work but they involved prostitutes, who apparently frequent the Buckminster. Ok, so, this is just like Milwaukee, only a tad bit cleaner. Second, Alfonzo is back. Alfonzo is a recurring zit on my right cheek. I named him Alfonzo because I used to work for an Italian restaurant--my first job, actually--named Alfonzo's. If you're going to have a pizza face, I figured, you might as well name your recurring zits Alfonzo. Anyway, wouldn't you figure: Alfonzo comes back the DAY BEFORE a conference, a place where people stare at you.
Dammit. I hate traveling. I hate conferences. But I love cafes like this, and I love seeing my friends.