The Blue Room: It Not Only Hosts Jazz on the Weekends, But Also Provides Ample Ground For Me to Splay My "Work."

We're going out again tonight, John and I. More jazz. It's kind of soothing really. It used to play jazz . . . saxophone, tenor. Of course, I also used to play french horn. This was all back when I was an undergraduate in Chicago . . . I was in a couple ensembles. This was also back when I thought I was going to devote my life to the arts and soft sciences, when I a linguistic anthropology major. Obviously, that didn't work out for me. 

Anyways, I felt a little lackluster about what I had written earlier, so I decided to write some more. I finished spinning the wool. I think I'll hand it off to someone else to use . . . I just don't have it in me. After that, I worked. Did a little bit of dribble writing for some closure on some research and then took a shower. I had to wash off feel that my body coats itself with after sitting around on my bed with about twenty books surrounding me, Manila folders full of paper and copies and charts and graphs, and my laptop at the center of it, shining one of those haloed lights on everything else . . . It just makes me feel . . . grimy. I think I need to start moving these little "work" sessions to a desk or table. 

Well, I should go. I can hear John coming down the stairs, ready for a night jazz, drinks, and merriness. Hmm . . . that sounded kind of lame.