It's Sunday afternoon in Portland. Overcast. High 40s. The coffee shop I'm in is a third full and the lighting is perfectly low. Beck's Mutations plays at a nice, side-conversation-deafening level.
This folks, is my special place. It's what I've sought oh so desperately for the last year and a half. It's where my morning routine will live on. I predict, big things will happen here,
For one, my correspondence in this online space will improve - don't think I didn't know my shit's been stinking, lately. Horrible. Embarrassing. And all very uninspired by the lady who kept calling me out on using her can's place, which has only worsened since I last checked in. But yes, I really hope the new environs kick this column up a notch. Or many.
Second, and far more important to me now, is that I will complete a screenplay I've spent the last year working on. Again, I just couldn't relax in that last place and was too often forcing the issue. But here, I almost feel like I could bang the rest out tomorrow.
Third, I think I may just be a happier person. A strike against any upcoming content, sure. But a big plus for my social life which seems to be deteriorating along with any modicum of wit that came along with my general displeasure toward the world.
It is a few blocks off-route to work, but I always said I was willing to go a few extra blocks for the right place. And they do charge $2.10 for a drink that is always $2.00, which is just a pain in the ass cause then you have to have three bills, if you don't have any change, to complete the transaction, or break out the debit card. And I still don't give a fuck. I'll carry around a roll of dimes with me.
It's a little surreal to look around at the black, leather, Barcelona chairs, against a roll-up glass garage door, both of which are features I have special fondness for, but have never actually seen together, and instantly know that many good hours of my life will be spent here.