In boredom, I've taken to random walks around town. Generally these take place along 21st or 23rd Avenues. I don't usually see anything stimulating, so the benefit of walks like these is debatable. But it's still an opportunity to walk, to move around, and god damn do I get frustrated after long hours without it. It's also an opportunity to clear my head. Thanks to technological advances of the last fifteen years I can write and walk at the same time. Question: would Joyce have written Ulysses worse, as well, or better with an iPhone 5?
I consider happy hour at Mio Sushi, and remind myself to try the relatively new restaurant, Fireside, residing where the old Music Millennium used to be. I see lots of people. I've noticed two cat-printed shirts more than I noticed last year. Everyone is just as white as they've always been. I think about walking up to some of them and introducing myself. I ask them how they're doing and what they're up to tonight. I see them floating down the Willamette River on inflatable T. Rexes with marionberry daiquiris in their hands, under the city lights. They all have beards, even the girls. There are hundreds of them floating by. Some of them are tattooed from head to toe, others are naked, still others are both tattooed and naked from head to toe, which beckons some truly grotesque imagery. Dispersed throughout the flotilla are designated photographers in bowler hats and reflective safety vests. Bursts of shouting move peripatetically from bow to stern in coordination with camera flashes. It's a party.
I imagine this until the recognition of a coworker's voice brings me back to myself. It isn't him, but I looked hard enough and long enough to give him the wrong impression.
A block later, I'm home.