Adorable dishy barista at Dancing Goats: I overhear the words “Jude Law”, “Oscar Wilde,” and “couldn’t happen 25 years ago” from his conversation with an older man in a suit. A bearded-striped-sweatered-buddy-holly-glasses friend of the barista’s comes in and they lean in together in time as he passes over the drink. I think perhaps they’re going to kiss, perhaps on the cheek, but it’s only confidential gossip, registered by a leap backwards, into the Monin syrups, and a swish of the dishtowel. I love queers.
I consider that a totally successful morning with the Dekalb County municipal court (EVERYTHING IS OK it involved demonstrating proof of insurance and paying $25), and I hope never to do it again. A friend-of-a-friend who’s in that band I saw that one time was also there. I saw two other people recognize each other with a high five in court too - I suppose you know you kind of, sort of, live in a small town when. I think that Atlanta has that property of being a huge city yet letting you run into people you know everywhere. That started happening to me here 3 weeks after I moved to town, when I knew a total of about 9 people but they kept cropping up in grocery stores, coffeehouses, parks. That happened hardcore in Buenos Aires, too - I mean, I lived there 6 weeks; it’s comparable in size to New York, yet I ran into acquaintances from queer tango on the subway and made friends with boys in parks because they’d seen me at gay bars. Is it geography or is it just queer shit, as usual?
I’m home for a Whole Entire Week, between the Carolinas and the Northeast. I am doing laundry so hard, hopefully throwing together a vegan potluck, and having coffee with a friend who promises to lend me a book on psychogeography. Which I have never heard of. But it sounds promising.