Damn You, Henry Miller

I'm in Medicine Hat. Boyfriend's here working in the field and I'm pathetic and needy and want hugs and attention. So I came. And spent all day by myself in a cheap hotel that smells of potpourri.

I was writing in the room and some maintenance guy let himself right on in. "Oh!" he said. "I'm sorry! I didn't think anyone was in here." And then he stood there, even though there was very obviously someone in here. Kept standing there and saying sorry. I was like, "Listen dude. People make mistakes. Go ahead and come in or go ahead and get out, but make a frickin' move, brother."

I ended up leaving. That room, full of "silk" plants and potpourri stink, was getting me down. And Henry Miller wasn't helping either. Facilitator Bill suggested I read Tropic of Cancer – famous memoir of Paris and whatnot. Beautiful, detailed, evocative writing for sure, but depressing as all hell. Not a sunny fellow, Mr. Miller. And desperately in need of a 12-step program for sex addicts.

I hightailed it to the Starbucks down the block. You know, the one past the Pasta-bilities Restaurant and the sad, out-of-business cell phone store? Pasta-bilities. Yeah, there.

I stood in line behind four rich guys in black suits. One of the rich guys wore a tall blonde. They were all gorgeous and perfect and spotless. I realized that I've been holed up writing by myself and hanging out with poor writers for so long that I actually forgot what rich people looked like. They're pretty. But they tell stupid jokes. You know the standard Starbucks joke where you start rattling off stuff like "half-caf, double-decaf, non-fat, blahblahblah?" That joke is about seventeen years old.

I tolerate the joke from Boyfriend because he is new to coffee. My friend Ross and I used to imagine the perfect partner and he or she HAD to love coffee as much as we did. And then we both ended up with coffee-hating partners. Only, mine converted. And it wasn't even my doing. It was Ross' doing, actually. His tricked-out, high-tech, stainless steel espresso machine turned Boyfriend's head. Now I have someone who says, "Let's go get a latte," at various intervals and therefore my life is perfect.

So, I tolerate the half-caf joke from Boyfriend, but not from the rich people. If they can afford those expensive suits and the gas-sucking, enviro-bomb of a Hummer they drove up in, they can afford a better joke.