being at home always throws me.
i'm used to people listening and not telling.
this is why i try to escape, this is why i leave town if i can't find anyone with desire/time to hang out with me in seattle or anywhere other than here.
last night i went to hang out with pat and we went to the blue moon tavern. i hadn't been there before, but well, it's my kind of place. there were all kinds of comfortable dissidents of late age there, enjoying themselves and freely being freaky and whatever they might so like. i talked to an old poet, Patrick McCabe (I'm pretty sure it was McCabe), who described himself as the resident poet, and talked to pat and i about the history of the blue moon and his experience of seattle crumbling into commercial hell.
i'm going to try to go to their open mic next wednesday, which is unfortunately christmas eve. hopefully i can do this without totally pissing off my mother. hrm, we'll see.