Bring It On Home

I missed today, just too much work to do and they apparently don’t give a rat’s ass about the fact that I have a blog posting to write. I realized tonight, at home, that I was not going to be able to do one tomorrow either. I have the video shoot at work then – which I’m sure will be a fertile breeding ground for dozens of snarky comments that I can share with you come Wednesday – and then a read through for a one act that a fellow actor wants me to do tomorrow night.

There are a lot of little things that I’ll let slip by the wayside, things like a full cat box and student loan payments, but apparently two days of no blog is something I’m willing to postpone sleep over.

On Saturday, we went down to Georgetown, one of the oldest parts of Seattle. It’s a wondrous part of town where it looks as though nothing new has been built in the last 40 years, and what seems like a quarter mile of street is overshadowed by a deserted brick factory.

There was a street fair/art fest in the neighborhood, and honestly I was a bit worried about the hipster quotient. I tend to get annoyed by being within ear shot of 2 or 3 of these self important “artists” – says the man babbling away on a blog where anyone can read it – but the anger tends to get the best of me when I’m drowning in a block party of douche bags.

I also realized the sad fact that all of these people with sleeves of tattoos, something that should be an act that individualizes a person a bit, well now they all look just like everyone else.

A search for food took us a ways away from the main drag, mostly for the lack of establishments that would allow an infant inside, and this is what I want to tell you about.

We found ourselves a nice little bar/restaurant that served things like pita pizzas and shepherd’s pie, but more importantly a wide variety of cold beer, and by the pitcher. There were also singers up front performing as if we were bobbing our heads in musical unison within a 60’s coffee shop in the East Village. A truly gifted singer with a subtle complexity to her acoustic guitar playing floored me.

I looked around at the rest of the clientele to see if they were enjoying this woman as well. They were absolutely, but I suddenly noticed the blend going on in there. There was this great mix of black and white and gay and straight and hipster and working class and twentysomethings and parents and children, and I just breathed in that music and the calm togetherness and sighed out a shaky but well meant, “well all right.”

Holding onto that feeling through the trip home and the delicate transportation of a sleeping baby into the apartment, I felt the sweetness of true hope for the world, simple as that.