It was so hot and humid this weekend that I did not turn off the air conditioner. Usually when a few of you walk in to the cone of white noise that is the Literary Cafe with it’s air conditioner on I will turn it off because the sound it makes annoys the hell out of me and probably you too. I’ll turn it on again when a critical mass of people come in because it’s not so noticeable. No such maneuvers this weekend. I knew that if I turned it off even for a few minutes the bar would get too hot. I love the heat but not without air conditioning to keep it all fake like I like it some times.
Featured on our juke box last weekend:
The Harry Davidson Quintet – “Hubcap Purgatory”
Tweeter Bollocks – “Ham Fisted Nightmare”
The Typefaces – “A four iron shot through chemical distress”
Blues Laboratory – “poopypants”
On Thursday night Al Ericson declared that Tisdale Nichols IS Cleveland’s best writer. His opinion was met with some skepticism from the one other writer that was in the bar but he was already a big fan of Tisdale and eventually agreed that Tisdale IS Cleveland’s best writer after jawboning the subject awhile.
I wouldn’t know. I hear y’all bandy ’bout a bunch of writers names every weekend and they might as well be the line up for the 1953 Czech water polo team. Maybe I’ll take a whirlwind reading sabbatical one of these years and catch up to you guys. Or not.
Linda tells me she read his essay titled The persistence of the Orange tiled Roof and found it fascinating. The premise is based on the fact that there’s all these distinctive Howard Johnson orange tiled roofs out there in America but they’re no longer Howard Johnson’s; they’re other businesses that bought the building from Howard Johnson. Why don’t they change the roof? Is the roof perfect and indestructible? And then finally I end with this sentence to make it seem like I’ve written allot.
I’d like to thank Adam for that last sentence in the previous paragraph. He thought of it.
