Nashville, TN, February 7, 2012

This afternoon I spent a long time at Vanderbilt’s gym. Working out, I often catch myself thinking that I’d like to look like a Greek statue. However, like many things in life, extending this line of thinking to its logical conclusions renders it absurd. The amount of exercise and special dieting required to actually look a Greek statue would mean that this one objective would consume my life. And, furthermore, once attained, it’s arguable that I would only be marginally more attractive, or even less attractive. In this manner I have a small or even sometimes large inner struggle with myself when I’m pumping iron.

After working out, I napped. Sometimes it’s a god-send just to lie down. Consciousness is sometimes simply too much of a burden. My thoughts in particular are tiring, though other peoples’ can get to me too.

That afternoon I had an interview scheduled for a dishwasher position at one of Bongo Java’s partner restaurants. It proved to be irritating, like so many things. I arrived at the place and one of the employees pointed out Rusty, an unremarkable man in his late twenties or early thirties standing in front of the register speaking to a middle-aged woman. Restaurant managers are often unremarkable, I’ve found. Wait, I do like some of them. He told me he would just be a few minutes. I sat and waited. I was wet from the rain outside. I forgot to mention that it was raining. I had chosen to wear my bright red sweater, which sometimes people compliment. At a table near mine there was a skinny, pretty co-ed eating vegetarian food. Another pretty, skinny co-ed joined her. I eavesdropped. The first one made a remark about how terrible her outfit was. Honestly, I thought she looked pretty good, and I don’t ignore outfits. I wanted to interject this comment. I thought better of it.

Rusty called me over and I went to his office. He asked me about myself. Unlike Brandi, I could see it was a perfunctory question. Wait, who’s Brandi? My manager from the other place. These interviews are ludicrous. Considering the nature of the work, what is the point of them? I had assumed it was just a formality, and I was going to get the job. But Rusty told me he was interviewing other people. I wondered if that was really the case, or if that was just something he could say to feel some psychological leverage over me. He was really rather dull. I was becoming indignant. I don’t think it showed, but, how shall I say, I wasn’t radiating enthusiasm. I was feeling generally out of sorts, due to some water in my ear from the pool that was impairing my hearing.

That night Lewis and I decided that we would see some music. It seemed like the thing to do, or anyway, a thing to do. We biked to the Basement, a popular venue on 8th Avenue South.

When we got there a young man with a guitar was doing his bit, a sing-songwriter kind of thing. This was followed by my favorite act of the night, Megan McCormick. She had short, trendy hair, with a wave of it carefully streaked across her forehead. Again, southern chic.

I had many profound thoughts throughout the show. That always happens to me when I hear live music. I can’t remember any of them now, otherwise I would write them out in great detail. I also checked out the girls, what do you expect. God knows some of my thoughts had to do with them.