I have not done this for some time. Sit down. At one of my desks. (Lucky man that. I have the computer desk I am sitting at now in addition to my Smith Corona word processing station.) And write.
Fucking ipad took me away from all this. The computer desk could not compete with the comfort of my big man chair in the front room.
Feels good sitting here however. Like riding a motorcycle for the first time after a crash and much rehabilitation.
I have the office stereo on. Sony MHC-EC9091iP. A large mini-stereo by today's standards. Sounds so good it makes me think, mistakenly, I could live without all the other much more powerful stereos that power my rock 'n' roll household.
Lou Reed's "American Poet" is entertaining me. The dead bodies pile up in mounds.
In both my offices I am surrounded by books. Some shelved, others piled in precarious stacks. Anarchist philosophy to the left. Political party Treasurer and activist records to my right. Behind me everything from handicapping manuals to over 30 year's worth of Fred Woodworth's magnificent The Match!
Coincidently it is St. Patrick's Day. A day I do not take lightly. The old boys in the family tree shot up fucking English after all.
See you in the bar, motherfuckers. Your first shot is on me if you are not an Englishman.