One of the
perks of living in a major city is having the opportunity to go out on a
regular Tuesday night and actually be surrounded by others, who’ve also
ventured out. To me, this is a big deal because you can really only roam the streets alone so many times before it gets weird.
That was
pretty much the case last night (going out and socializing with others, that is, and not being like a young Christian Bale returning home in that scene in Empire of the Sun), and I might add that it made for a bit more intriguing
resolution to my evening than the planned ‘Snickers bar in bed’ routine, I’ve
been sporting much too often lately.
Anywizzle,
we ended up in a bar that singlehandedly had the most bipolar DJ of all times.
Upon entering this midweek-shindig, the guy (a bearded, scruffy type, who’d
probably judge you for not knowing Whitesnake’s back catalog) was playing your
run-of-the-mill crowd-pleasing soul, mixing it up with some Chuck Berry (you
know, to branch out), and eventually back to fusion jazz (whatever the crap
that even means).
BUT THEN
came the classical music. Oh the classical music. Oh the horror.
Now don’t
get me wrong. I love me some good ol’ Wolfgang – and I’m not talking about
Tyler and those little obnoxious punks. I think classical music is art and
science intertwined, and borders on the lines of the mythical. But in a bar? Really?
It felt like a pre-apocalyptic omen, punishing us for our audacity to go out on
a school night.
So we’re
sitting there and some random French guy approaches us. Pierre or Jacques or
something. The name part is blurry to me mostly ‘cause I couldn’t be bothered
to pay attention to what he was saying.
At any
rate, Jean-Luc asks me what I’m doing in the city and I tell him that I just
moved there. He asks me why I decided to move, and I answer: 'because I felt like
it’. Saying those few empowering words, without any further elaboration made
the awkward small talk with Frenchy bearable.
I had
breakfast today at 3.27 PM. ‘Why?’ you ask.
Because I
felt like it.
