After an early and marvellous evening at the Temple Bar (somebody, quick: how many references do I make, on this whole whopping blog, to the Temple Bar? Answer: roughly a bazillion), Morgan and I set off into the sunset, on a mission for entertainment. This brought us to the Wild Buffalo, where one of Morgan's co-workers was apparently performing with his band.
What sort of music do they play? I asked.
She didn't know.
What was really happening, we learned--after paying our cover, getting our hands attractively stamped with a black-light reactive "B", and finding ourselves inside the Wild Buffalo as we'd never seen it decorated before--was a circus. An honest-to-goodness circus. To which her friend's band was providing the soundtrack.
There were balloons and streamers everywhere, and servers in odd costumes--face-paint, corsets, black boots and ruffles. Clowns, wigged jugglers, people in stilts and gold lame and/or cheetah print pants--to say the least, we were outnumbered, because it was not just a circus, but a costume ball as well.
But it was wonderful. The opening band was a bit rough, and far too loud, and an act involving a clown-themed striptease was a bit disturbing, but the band, Captain Seahorse, was excellent, and every act (except for the creepy, stripping clown) was funny, engaging and a bit amazing. What fun, to stumble upon a small, independent circus, particularly when it was so good and so brilliant.
Showing posts with label Temple Bar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Temple Bar. Show all posts
9.08.2005
The Temple Bar
Today, Thursday, is my lucky day. I snag what I consider the best of the tables at the Temple Bar--just left of the door, and surrounded by windows, therefore ideal for people-watching--and sit down.
I smell like work (what is that? Chemical mint and fluoride? There's no telling, but it's a distinctively dental smell), and I feel like a week's worth of good news and bad news has alternately lifted me up and thrown me to the ground. Bruised and weary, oddly elated, I order a glass of the house red wine and start pulling books and notebooks (yes, plural) from my bag.
I love the Temple Bar, I really do. Something about the sturdy, thick-grained tables and the red glass votives that flicker, warm and snug, on the table tops, catching reflections of themselves in wineglasses and windows, appeals to me on a very cozy level. White Christmas lights, good music, red velvet cushions. Pretty much my idea of heaven.
The waitress brings my glass of wine, deftly sliding a coaster across the table toward me. She is very pretty, with honey-colored hair in a pixie cut, strange silver-fringe earrings and a pale blue top. "Oh," she says, noticing my book, "I read that."
This is a line that works on me every single time.
"Really?" I ask. "What did you think?"
The sun is setting and, ray by ray, it slinks across the pages of my book. I am distracted, looking up every time somebody walks by, watching them round the corner. I make notes; I draw sketches of strangers in my notebook; I realize that everybody in Bellingham is beginning to look vaguely familiar.
By the time Mitch shows up to meet me and walk with me home, I've read less than five pages of Sophie's World, scribbled half-a-page worth of notes on complete strangers, and my wine glass is empty but covered with fingerprints.
I have done nothing; I feel magnificent. My very long week is ending.
I smell like work (what is that? Chemical mint and fluoride? There's no telling, but it's a distinctively dental smell), and I feel like a week's worth of good news and bad news has alternately lifted me up and thrown me to the ground. Bruised and weary, oddly elated, I order a glass of the house red wine and start pulling books and notebooks (yes, plural) from my bag.
I love the Temple Bar, I really do. Something about the sturdy, thick-grained tables and the red glass votives that flicker, warm and snug, on the table tops, catching reflections of themselves in wineglasses and windows, appeals to me on a very cozy level. White Christmas lights, good music, red velvet cushions. Pretty much my idea of heaven.
The waitress brings my glass of wine, deftly sliding a coaster across the table toward me. She is very pretty, with honey-colored hair in a pixie cut, strange silver-fringe earrings and a pale blue top. "Oh," she says, noticing my book, "I read that."
This is a line that works on me every single time.
"Really?" I ask. "What did you think?"
The sun is setting and, ray by ray, it slinks across the pages of my book. I am distracted, looking up every time somebody walks by, watching them round the corner. I make notes; I draw sketches of strangers in my notebook; I realize that everybody in Bellingham is beginning to look vaguely familiar.
By the time Mitch shows up to meet me and walk with me home, I've read less than five pages of Sophie's World, scribbled half-a-page worth of notes on complete strangers, and my wine glass is empty but covered with fingerprints.
I have done nothing; I feel magnificent. My very long week is ending.
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