No title. That would require effort.

Random theater. Dim the lights.

Well, I’d love to say that my experience at a certain Irish pub this evening contained good food, good service and good friends, but one out of three ain’t bad. I wouldn’t know how the food was because I didn’t have an opportunity to order any (I served my own drinks. I wasn’t able to take my menu and cook my own damn food), based on the appallingly horrible service I received, but enh. I don’t have to go back. That, and the friends? More than made up for it.

And besides, there’s a ‘Tilla next door, and while the thought did occur to me to go get food there and bring it back to the table at Four Courts, I do have some measure of class. Not much, but some. 😉

Besides, the purpose of the gathering was to have a sort of Irish wake for a beloved Irish cat. A four-pawed prince who deserved a million toasts in his honor. (UPDATE: A slideshow of him growing up. Awwwww!)

This was a big day for me, actually making personal plans and showing up for them — and on time, at that. Not that the hostess was at all helpful in knowing that my party existed and was THERE. But that’s OK — I had a few drinks at the bar and had some time with my thoughts, although I would have rather spent that time with my friends.

It was strange being in Clarendon again, although I’d just been there for my friends’ wedding. I mean, I know my way around Arlington and I drove straight to my destination, but I don’t take that route home anymore. I don’t need the GW Parkway or I-66/50 or whatever else. I barely graze the Beltway on a normal day, just enough to take me to Connecticut Avenue, which will eventually take me home.

It was a nice drive (now) — I liked taking my old route, knowing that friends would be at the end of it. But I also liked taking my blackened chicken quesadilla from California Tortilla home to my own neighborhood. I think this is maybe the second time in four months that I’ve felt like I were actually coming home. It’s weird how Northern Virginia, like Pittsburgh, has become a place that holds people I love but that’s all — it’s not somewhere I miss otherwise.

I’m from the generation that’s spiritually homeless — we may pay rent somewhere, but is it home or just a residence? But it’s not the “where,” but rather the “what” — what it represents, what possibilities it holds, what we’ll look back on and remember when we’ve moved on and, hopefully, up. So when we lose a pet or a relationship or something that once filled that space, the void is more palpable than an object that takes up a portion of a room. And I was glad tonight to come home to my adorable pain-in-the-ass cats because they’re what makes this place mine. I know my friends will someday hurt less because of the void that’s taken the place of their furchild, but I wouldn’t wish that void on my worst enemy. His baby brother Jack’s got some stupendous paws to fill.

One Lonely Response to No title. That would require effort.

  1. Old Freind :

    Dear Jesus, that place looks like a leprechaun exploded!

    Places and people always change…it’s the transitory nature of our existance. It is the memories, those fleeting warm fuzzy moments, that remind us that regardless of our gains and losses that we have lived, loved, and lost.

    Thanks for the memories….old freind, whenever I need a laugh you’re one of the first ones in my thoughts.

    To Guinness! My he be in heaven ten minutes before the devil knows he’s dead! (Gotta love the Irish for their toasts)