Saturday, July 21, 2012


There I am in San Francisco, one of the greatest cities in the world; I’ve gotten all my work done for the day and it’s only 9:00 at night.  You’d think I’d want to go out and tear it up, wouldn’t you?  You’d almost assume I have a responsibility to do so.

On the contrary, all I really had in me was a walk around the block and back home to bed with the Steinbeck book I’m reading.  Lame, I admit, but this is the person I’ve become, apparently.

I no longer have the appetite I once had for what lies outside my ears.  The idea of standing around in a bar or nightclub with a bunch of strangers sounds like less fun than curling up on the couch with my novel, even though the book I’m reading, In Dubious Battle, isn’t one of Steinbeck’s best.

Perhaps this is partially a reaction to the way I’ve spent the last few days, which has entailed a lot more schmoozing than I’m used to.  When I’ve had to be charming all day long with folks I hardly know, perhaps it’s not surprising that come evening, I’m ready to cocoon.

It certainly wasn’t always this way, though.  When I was younger I never wanted to be all by myself in the evening; even going to a movie in a town I was visiting seemed like a failure. 

It wasn’t so much a matter of meeting people as being around them.  Jen and I would go to New York, for instance, and only return to our hotel room to sleep and change clothes.

I still like feeling connected to the world at-large; I just am satisfied know that it’s going on out there without me.

One night, I did manage to hang out and watch a bit of a baseball game at my old haunt, The 500 Club; as soon as it was over, though, I finished my beer and left.


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