I took myself to breakfast Monday morning because of my dog.
I don’t have custody of my dog, because I live in an apartment, and can’t have him. I miss the hell out of that dog. The thing is, no one at the house will get him groomed, or keep him clean. I get it, he’s a big boy and it’s not easy to get him into a tub. So: I do it. Not often enough, no, but a few times a year, I either take him to the dog wash - most often accompanied by my youngest son - or to a groomer when he needs something more. It’s expensive, but he’s a good boy, and totally worth it.
ASIDE: Most of the frustration comes from not being the beneficiary of living with my dog. The joy, the calm, the laughs and smiles … living with a dog is, 99% of the time, better than living without a dog. On the other hand, he gets more love and attention when he’s clean, and since I love him, I keep cleaning him, even though I can’t afford it, and I never really see him. END ASIDE.
So, I was out in the world, deep in south Sandy, with a couple of hours to blow, having dropped the dog off at the groomer. I took myself to breakfast. There was something new on the menu that caught my attention: Chicken Fried Steak Benedict. Yup. replace the ham with chicken fried steak in an eggs benedict. Holy. Shit. The order was simple, and we went over the side options, “white, wheat, sourdough, English muffin, grits or a pancake?”
If you know me, you know I love English muffins.
The food came out and looked amazing, except, there on the plate was a small bowl of grits, topped with bacon crumbles and cheese. No English muffin.
“Oh, well,” I thought. “I like grits, too.” I’m not the guy who sends food back. I’m just not. Servers work hard, and so do cooks, and the last thing they need is a prima donna caterwauling about what is, at best, a minor thing.
ASIDE: Chicken Fried Steak Benedict is, hands down, fucking awesome. END ASIDE.
After eating for a couple of minutes, I noticed that the cheese on the grits was still pristinely shredded - not melting. I took a bite and … cold grits. Shit. I looked around for my server and caught sight of her cleaning up after a family that had absolutely destroyed their booth.
“Oh, well,” I thought. “It’s not that big a deal.”
And it WASN’T. It really wasn’t, but such is the state of my moods lately that I will admit it bummed me out. It got stuck in my head like a sad mantra. Cold grits. Cold grits. Cold grits. So: I paid up and left.
I decided to take myself to a bookstore for the first time in nearly 4 years.
There used to be a time when I was in a book store at least once a week, if not more often. I own thousands of books, all that I’ve read at least once, that live in a storage unit because, again, apartment. I miss my books. I miss being surrounded by bound paper and words. It’s that dusty, well worn smell that gives me a sense of contentment.
The last few years I’ve been reading e-books, when I’ve read at all. Quitting smoking really cut my reading time to near zero. Weird for me, to be honest.
I needed to pick up a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road. It’s been an easy 20 years since I read it last, and I’m eager, after a chat about it on The LEFT Show the other day, to see how my brain drinks it. It’s a book that changed the total direction of my life in my late teens. It’s the reason I moved to Denver. It’s the reason that, in the quiet of the deep, dark night, I lie to myself and lay claim to being a writer … if a failed writer. A childhood dream smashed to myriad bits against the realities of my 30’s, and the depression of my 40’s.
30 years ago, Kerouac was music for my soul, and my soul needed to wander off and see what being random would bring. Epic 20’s, I’ll happily admit.
Anyway, the thought of digging through a packed storage unit to find one beat the hell out of paperback was too much to process, so off I went to the bookstore.
Holy shit, that smell … that wonderful smell. It felt, for the first couple of minutes, like coming home. I just stood, a few steps past the entryway, and breathed through my nose. I decided to visit old friends: authors I love and have loved, but that I haven’t read in awhile. I got excited thinking about finding new books from writers that have moved me in some way over the years.
They were missing.
Douglas Coupland - nowhere.
Steven Brust - one book.
Bernard Cornwell - a small few of so many.
Patrick O’Brian - 2 books (not that I was expecting anything new, I mean …)
Bruce Campbell - nada.
I kept going from section to section looking for something familiar, and coming up short. There were plenty of books from authors I’ve read recently, to be fair, but having so many old friends, if you will, having passed into out-of-print obscurity was heavy; funerial heavy. Cold grits, if you will.
ASIDE: Aldous Huxley’s Doors of Perception in a tiny little paperback now costs $24.99 … I mean, holy shit. END ASIDE.
I ended up buying a diabetic cookbook, and a fresh copy of On The Road that I am now nearly terrified to read. Cold Grits. Cold grits. Cold grits.