Sunday 19 January 2020

Sunday Project

I'm at breakfast, 8:30 a.m., at The Plaza—it's about 10 degrees outside, but the significant thing is the 20 MPH wind, which makes it unpleasant enough to walk anywhere so that I'll concede to not leaving the building yet. I usually prefer to go outside as early as possible on any given day, but when it's cold enough, I have the luxury of eating breakfast in the cafe diner of the building where I live—which also happens to be my favorite diner in Milwaukee.

The subheading, “Sunday Project,” is something I've been using for at least 20 or 30 years, in writing in notebooks, usually at breakfast, and usually on Sundays. The origin of that is when I used to go to this family restaurant in Kent, Ohio, autumn of 1987, that I can no longer remember the name of (since I've since fictionalized it). (Country something, Country Manor—I don't know...) I liked to walk in the woods, then end up there, eat sausage gravy and biscuits, drink coffee, observe people, and write in my notebook. I later wrote a zine about it, called “I Go To Vomit.” I also, later, got a dishwashing job at that place, for awhile. This is ancient history. You could get a dishwashing job just by asking, and the Cleveland Browns were actually very good that fall. I lived in a house with six people and one bathroom, and it was (usually) not a problem. We made homebrew in the basement.

I started this “Sunday Project” thing years later—I'm not sure when—thinking I'd make another zine sometime, with that title, but I never did. So now it's just a meaningless sub-heading. I don't even really get the same feeling—from the breakfast, or the writing—and I suppose (and I have done this at a coffee shop, or on a Saturday) it's just about sitting somewhere and writing in my notebook.

This morning, at the Plaza Cafe, the counter was almost full when I came in—the early crowd, who all left almost immediately. I always sit at the counter when I'm alone. It's the best lunch counter in town. Besides me, there are four couples—without staring too much—it looks like four couples of one man and one woman each, of varying ages. The one couple just left—I'd say they are in their thirties—the guy had a very large beard. They made some loud exchanges and dramatic gestures upon leaving—I noticed a ruddy complexion and a particular shine—and then I noticed they had each finished Bloody Marys, in Mason jars, 7 ounce bottles of Miller, as well as coffees, and water. That's a lot of liquid, but they ate, too. I usually draw the line at two liquids, except when I'm at home at night, drinking coffee and tea and water—but I feel a little insane about it.

The middle-aged couple just left—people I'd guess were my age, but I'm probably wrong, they're probably younger. Maybe they're in their fifties—they look like people who are both still working in office jobs, might be my boss, and make a lot of money, and drive nice cars, and live in a suburban home that's too large since the kids are gone. Maybe they're on a cul-de-sac! The young people next to me are in their twenties and they are both eating pancakes and eggs and bacon. The woman has a Carhartt knit hat, and put syrup between the pancakes, as well as on top—I've never seen that! And finally, there's the elderly couple at the table in the corner—they're definitely older than me—they have snow white hair, both of them, and eat slower than I do (quite slow). They look like they could be kindly or extreme bastards—you can't tell, so I'm going with kindly.

Now a woman has come in by herself (this is a place where you will see a woman dining alone—which you won't see at a lot of places). She looks like she could be my age, but is probably younger—she looks German to me, is wearing no makeup. Am I at a diner in Berlin? She has an interesting look—I'm trying not to stare, since she's alone and will notice. Next, three women who look like they are a mother and two daughters, in their fifties and thirties, but probably younger, all frowning enough to sour milk or wilt flowers. One of them will probably be my next boss. Now, a guy by himself who looks exactly like Spike Jonze—maybe it is—what's he doing in Milwaukee? But Spike Jonze is older now, and this guy is too young—but rich people get cosmetic work that can keep them looking younger, right? The German woman just drank coffee and left. There's another couple, twenties or thirties, the man has a hat with a logo I don't know. They are texting with identical phones, frantically. The three women are all looking at their phones. Two women came in and are sitting to my right, in intense conversation. No way they are going to get on their phones. Spike Jonze is talking on his phone pretty elegantly, keeping it quiet and brief. He's wearing a wedding ring. Now he's reading an actual book. I don't think it's really Spike Jonze, but I like this guy.

I just moved to the lobby, sitting in a comfortable chair, in a ray of sun. I feel like I was wearing out my welcome, but not done writing. People are coming in in droves now. It's 9:30 a.m. I got a text from Kiki—happy birthday! Thanks Kiki! (I'll text back thanks, don't expect her to see this.) My brother texted happy birthday at 8 a.m. Maybe we can talk on the phone today. My “Plaza Scramble” came to $11.67. Did the price go up in the new year? That's exactly six cents less than I make in an hour, at my job. That's with tax, maybe breakfast tax went up. The music's always good at The Plaza—there was Bee Gees, then Louis Armstrong, then someone singing “Stormy Weather”—and since I've just been writing about a Lena Horne record, singing “Stormy Weather,” I let my phone look up this version—it's Etta James—a nice version. A great song.

Yesterday was a big, snowy day—wet and slushy, early, windy and bitter, later. I didn't fall on my ass, making it a good day. I returned books to the Central Library, checked out some DVDs, then ate at a new taco place (Lazo's) which was good, and I talked to the owner (one of them) even, super nice. It just put me in a good mood all day. I magically caught a bus without waiting. You can't beat that!

Then I did some fun stuff with Sara and Mark for my birthday. Did I mention it's my birthday today? That's why I'm writing so much. I will very definitely not make a habit of it. It's my birthday resolution to be more concise, brief—in general, to shut the fuck up more. Sara and Mark and I went to The Domes—it's been a long time since I've been there—one of the 10 best things in Milwaukee! You could call it a treasure—but I say “Eighth Wonder of the World.” I love The Domes. Then we went to dinner at Lazy Susan, a fun restaurant that has a lot of gluten-free stuff. Someone at that place knows how to cook—and that waitress is the best. And then we went to At Random, another place I haven't visited in decades. It was in danger of closing, but it looks like they remodeled it, it's beautiful inside—and it was totally full and happening. It's one of the best dark cocktail lounges I've ever been to. Bryant's is great, too, but At Random has a better name. So that was my very fun birthday, thanks guys!

I feel bad about neglecting my friends, in general—and so it's nice to see people—I wish I could have seen more this weekend—but I'll never have a birthday party—no way! I'm terrible about getting ahold of anyone, anymore. I've been working full time, and then trying to write as much as I can, with all my remaining energy. Explore, walking around, then writing. It's a full time job—I mean, really. And a full time job is also a full time job. So I just neglect people—I feel bad, but there are only so many hours in a week. And even less energy.

I might just go work on writing now. I really should clean—but I probably won't. I haven't cleaned for several years. Maybe I'll go to the art museum so I can walk inside somewhere. The Packers are playing tonight—if they win, they go to the Super Bowl, and if they lose, the season is over. For Packers fans, this is a big day—much bigger than my 60th birthday—I don't make much out of birthdays, or of the obsession with the base-ten, but I'm allowing myself, today, to dwell on it a little. What birthday is it?—silver, gold?—oh, it's the “You'll soon be dead” birthday. Maybe I'll buy a car this year, so I can add “parking” to all my problems. Or maybe I'll get a raise, or get fired, or start writing a new novel. Maybe I'll read the best book I've ever read, or start running again, or start drinking again, or smoking, or find that $350,000 that I hid somewhere and don't remember where I hid it. One thing I am going to do is continue to struggle to read my handwriting, type my journals, post them on my website, calling them “memoir” (kind of a joke, I know) and start a new project, a new website page, this one, called “Sexagenarian Diary” (kind of a joke, indeed). If there is one thing that keeps me going, it's starting new projects—and occasionally finishing one, even. But starting things is the thing.