July 30, 2008
I met a poet yesterday. A goateed gentleman who composed a poem at the very table where Mr. A and I were playing scrabble, at a very crowded Lestat's around midnight. A table, no less, which he kindly sacrificed so we'd have a place to put the board. And I didn't even have to ask.
I started with the word "rude," which Mr. A added eventually turned into "crude." As I waited my turns, I got to talking with this gentleman. Shakespeare, the balcony scene, melancholy, Romeo's restrained exuberance when he first meets Juliet, graduate school, the San Diego literary scene, and the art of poetry. After Mr. A plunked down a 45-point behemoth by adding "de-" to "flower" over a triple word square, he told the poet, in a most brazen (aka sexy) fashion, "You know, she actually has a blog. You should check it out. The address is..." And he proceeded to spill the details of this project. Blush.
Then, the poet asked me if I ever ask for "random" things. So far, no. It's been fairly controlled, fairly reasonable. But that's about to change. My mind is racing at the possibilities.
UPDATE: Later is now. I was meek today. So meek. Squeak. I simply asked, at a dessert joint I occasionally frequent (aka Extraordinary Desserts), if I could have half a portion of their bread pudding, for half price. At $9, it's also sized for two people. It made sense.
"Um, we don't do half portions here." That um, nasal and indignant, a plea to "stop wasting my time, idiots, I have some demerara sugar cubes to order." That was from the manager, summoned by the cashier who, I could tell, was ready to say okay but thought to check first with her boss. Wise cashier. Lame boss.
It was a small asking. I didn't surprise myself. I didn't risk a thing. I guess, one cannot expect to be interesting every day. Or, for that matter, every day to be interesting.
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