I’m at DeSoto’s in downtown Phoenix and I don’t want to be here. I wanted to be at Valley Bar listening to my friend Chris perform his piece. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out. Actually, I didn’t realize Valley Bar was in an alley and by the time I figured it out, at least a half-dozen people beat me to the door. That makes it all the funnier that the person in front of me bought the last ticket to the show.
Yeah, I should’ve bought in advance.
I didn’t think they would sell out. I constantly underestimate the Artist and Writer’s scene in Phoenix. Its the New Yorker in me, instantly degrading any scene that is not the scene. I suppose that is amongst the many curses of being a New Yorker. Curses that include A-Rod, The Knicks, the haunting scent of subway tunnel urine, and a loco-cultural kinship to President-Elect Trump.
At least this situation gave me a chance to write and people watch. I am particularly interested in the dynamic of the post-teen hook up crowd. There are several predatory groups of men and women circling each other in the latest hipster flare. I stand amongst the masses, the Ansel Adams of the budding hipster set, quiet and observant. As the Bachata dancers fill in at the fringes of the space I am beginning to realize this spot really is not for me. Not tonight.
Besides, there’s a football game on and Vodka to be drank.
Some Thoughts:
- Maybe I make 3650 after all.
- Every Moment matters.