It’s Monday. I don’t have any Mondays left in America this trip, not once this one has fallen into Tuesday in about nine hours time. Stupid Mondays running out on me like that, just when I was beginning to be happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.
In truthnessity, though, I’m not an unhappyist right yet, I’m still thankful for these people and this experience and for the many coffee beans that have lain down their lives that I might drink their ground up, liquidated ghosts. There is no finer bravery than for a bean full of caffeine to sacrifice itself for my beverages.
“How was the symphonic noise experience, Steve?” I hear you not ask because I can’t hear you over the Internet unless you post videos of yourself saying things. Which you haven’t. Or if you have, you didn’t post them here. Which, you know, you’re free to not do, and all, but makes me cry a lot because it implies I’m just not that important in your life, you cruel, cruel persons.
I’ll tell you how the concert was anyway. It was wunnerful. I felt my savage breast both calmed and stirred in equal measure. Those cats Debussy, Listz, Berlioz and Strauss truly knew how to throw down musical shapes and the Toledo Symphonic Orchestra really know how to gather up those shapes and present them towards people’s ears in beauticious ways. That lady at the front with the Harry Potter wand was having some kind of seizure, though. I hope she got some medical treatment afterwards. Her shoes were super shiny, however, which must help with conducting.
The auditorium itself is a gorgeous space, marble upon marble upon marble. And I’m not talking kids games involving lobbing spherical bits of coloured glass around. There were Doric columns too. These are nothing like newspaper columns and are therefore not #FakeStone or nothing.
Oh I’m sorry, am I being glib? I don’t mean to be mean to your reading equipment. I’m just napping and trying to forget the shitty service we got in a Ralphie’s at lunch time. First time for everything and it’s the first time in two trips to the States I’ve been somewhere the waitresses didn’t know their own menu nor did they seem to care whether our dining experience was a pleasant one. Don’t go to Ralphie’s, I say. Go to Richie Cunningham’s instead; you might even meet The Fonz. Ralph Malph was a dick anyway.