Caffeine. Or, How to Bore a Dog
The tea bag was invented and marketed at the World's Fair in St. Louis in 1904.
I, however, prefer my caffeine these days mostly in the form of coffee. I use it to make the streets glow. I use it to propel me out of my inertia and into the day, or night, as the case may be. A Vente Americano with a few extra shots is, next to cigarettes if not in combination with (having quit the one), the best way to feel very busy without actually doing anything.
At a table outside the Larchmont Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf recently I was on a roll. Fully loaded, charged, wide-eyed and exhilaratingly, startlingly alert, explaining to my companion with flashes of insight almost too quick to express in words the finely nuanced distinctions I had discerned in his screenplay which required extensive analysis and frequent recourse to a vast assortment of classic film and television references. So focused was I, so intent, I barely noticed the man sitting behind me, his old dog collapsed beside him on the sidewalk, except that had I noticed I might have mistaken him for the sort of fellow you see through the window of a laundromat, waiting slack-jawed for an open washer with a load of darks dumped at his feet. Looking, that is, like someone with nothing better to do than sit and wait and no other place to do it but in public, alone.
As I paused to draw breath in what felt to me like a fascinating exegesis of film theory, the mound of ancient canine below us lifted his head and yawned in that almost human fashion large old dogs are capable of. A mournful, loud and plaintive bass note that rises and falls away with a wet snort and a flapping of pink and black lips.
"I know what you mean, buddy," replied the dog's owner, giving his remark just enough of an edge of intentional but deniable meaning. Meaning, that is, me. Meaning, that is, my apparently and unavoidably eavesdropped-upon monologue.
The downside of caffeine is the clarity it occasionally affords you. That rare moment you will cringe over later, when the self-obsession drops away, simultaneously with all sound and movement in the world around you, so there is nothing to distract you or your audience, and you see yourself as you are most afraid others see you. Right before everything goes back to a comforting blur, mercifully out of focus, you catch a reflection of this ridiculous creature who has nothing better to do than sit and prattle on in public, a foolish, silly old thing boring everyone to death, even animals. Oh dear.
Hopefully, when this moment of clarity comes, you pretend you don't see that dog or that man and you suddenly remember you have somewhere else you have to be. Right away. Either that, or the sidewalk opens up and swallows you whole.
I, however, prefer my caffeine these days mostly in the form of coffee. I use it to make the streets glow. I use it to propel me out of my inertia and into the day, or night, as the case may be. A Vente Americano with a few extra shots is, next to cigarettes if not in combination with (having quit the one), the best way to feel very busy without actually doing anything.
At a table outside the Larchmont Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf recently I was on a roll. Fully loaded, charged, wide-eyed and exhilaratingly, startlingly alert, explaining to my companion with flashes of insight almost too quick to express in words the finely nuanced distinctions I had discerned in his screenplay which required extensive analysis and frequent recourse to a vast assortment of classic film and television references. So focused was I, so intent, I barely noticed the man sitting behind me, his old dog collapsed beside him on the sidewalk, except that had I noticed I might have mistaken him for the sort of fellow you see through the window of a laundromat, waiting slack-jawed for an open washer with a load of darks dumped at his feet. Looking, that is, like someone with nothing better to do than sit and wait and no other place to do it but in public, alone.
As I paused to draw breath in what felt to me like a fascinating exegesis of film theory, the mound of ancient canine below us lifted his head and yawned in that almost human fashion large old dogs are capable of. A mournful, loud and plaintive bass note that rises and falls away with a wet snort and a flapping of pink and black lips.
"I know what you mean, buddy," replied the dog's owner, giving his remark just enough of an edge of intentional but deniable meaning. Meaning, that is, me. Meaning, that is, my apparently and unavoidably eavesdropped-upon monologue.
The downside of caffeine is the clarity it occasionally affords you. That rare moment you will cringe over later, when the self-obsession drops away, simultaneously with all sound and movement in the world around you, so there is nothing to distract you or your audience, and you see yourself as you are most afraid others see you. Right before everything goes back to a comforting blur, mercifully out of focus, you catch a reflection of this ridiculous creature who has nothing better to do than sit and prattle on in public, a foolish, silly old thing boring everyone to death, even animals. Oh dear.
Hopefully, when this moment of clarity comes, you pretend you don't see that dog or that man and you suddenly remember you have somewhere else you have to be. Right away. Either that, or the sidewalk opens up and swallows you whole.
When the sidewalk opens up to swallow you, I'll be sure to scoot over. I LIVE down here!
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George, you're faaaar too sensitive, taking this little encounter like an arrow to the heart. Me, I'd deflect it. Like I should accept criticism from a dude who talks to his dog?
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