Went to the Alleycat Coffeehouse (which I often mislabel as The Alley Cat Cafe) for a breakfast with Lisa. It’s tucked away in an alleyway in Ft. Collins. Up a long worn wooden stairway. Very bohemian. Makes me feel like I’m in Greenwich Village circa 1970s. Very cool local art everywhere. Graffiti on its walls (both Lisa and I have scribbled in the past – check it out the next time you are there.)
Only there were no laptops back in the 70s. There are plenty of them now, pretty much on every table. Among the students there, you will find an occasional writer. I’ve met NoCo legend, Eddy Cook. I’ve read both Spanish Moss & Further. Highly recommend.
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And yesterday while I was noshing on a delicious everything bagel with cream cheese, and washing it down with an oversized latte, I spotted a young man who just looked like a writer. He was perched at a tall table close to the entrance. He was observing the room. On the way out I had to ask. I was right.
Lou Duran is a young writer who is doing the right thing. Going to a local establishment and drawing from its energy. Working on his writing. Learning dialogue by listening in on passing conversations, and studying the regular folks, like Lou Meyers taught me to do back in the late 70s. Lou D knew who I was from listening in on I conversation I had about writing, possibly with Eddy Cook, at some moment in the past. I gave him my NY Minute of thoughts on writing – write with passion and don’t listen to other writers – and then ran out to the car and brought him back a copy of TWA, which I inscribed for him. Then I grabbed this photo. Who knows, Lou may be the next Jack Kerouac. I wish him all the luck in the world.
The point is, from Lou Meyers to me to Eddy Cook to Lou Duran, writers form an unbroken chain in this story we call life. That is why I never miss an opportunity to connect with another writer, especially a local legend like Eddy Cook, or a newer-by, like Lou Duran. You never know who someone will turn out to be.
Lou Meyers was an established New Yorker writer and cartoonist back in the day who treated me from the get-go like I belonged in his club. That shit is worth its weight in gold. Nothing is more important than believing in yourself. That is much easier when others who do the work you aspire to believe in you.
Towards that end, being acknowledged by your peers is a nice thing. Pass it on.
Once we got back to Casa Claire, I went and chopped some carrots for the week and then sat on the back deck with a coffee
Staring at the Devil’s Table. Kind of a phallic shot, isn’t it? Okay, now you are not going to get that photo out of your head.
A mourning dove landed on the deck fencing to say hello. Ballsy little critter.
And then Claire and Honey came back from the front property.
Spotted me fucking off and hung around just long enough by the two expensive trees that didn’t last one season to share that it was time I got off my ass and gave my wise asses their first of many afternoon snacks. So I did.
Lisa used the free time to go buy a new flag, which she then hung out front.
It’s a beauty. But of course, being Lisa, she then decided it may be a fraction too big and is taking it back today for a smaller model.
I better watch myself or I may be next.
So yesterday was a stress free Sunday, because today, Monday, is Labor Day. Which hopefully means no labor.
I love Monday holidays.
They leave you with a shorter week that starts with the always innocuous Tuesday.
So let’s get this holiday started.
A kitty cuddle and my rounds.
Hopefully you’ll all work in a barbeque with friends and family. Toast the unofficial end of summer, and start making those Halloween plans.
But whatever you do make today a great one.
And read a book. Any book. Maybe two.
5 Responses
Glad Bronx Boy continues to Nosh mit Schmeer.
Bronx boy to my last breath, and schmear.
The only things even arguably “phallic” in that pic are that scrawny left chicken leg and that Frodoish right big toe… Jaysus, Tommy, are there any good Freudians (or Franciscans) out on the Ponderosa to set you straight?😉🙄😆
Petey, I’ll have you know that I have the slender ankles of a thoroughbred race horse. No cankles on this boy. I’m built for speed and agility. And yes, I do have Hobbit feet.
One man’s “tapered” is another’s “scrawny”