Had a beer here in the loft. Only one. Then… some food. Thinking one of Jeff’s crazy inventive salads. Today, Friday, so I’m quite confident I deserve it. This will always be my favorite spot, my favorite writing spot, yes, but MY spot. Palooza… and forget about it being a “writing spot”. It’s my centricity for meditation. This loft, and yes the writing has a lot to do with it, but now for example— the reggae playing, no one up here with me… just a place to inventory.
Ordered the Farmhouse Salad, no blue cheese anything for me, sub in thousand island, and smoked chicken. This spot is tangibly positive, immeasurably inspired and inspiring, about expanding and changing stories with beneficially bolstering momentums. This loft is an escape for me, something elevating and reassuring, that you can have whatever you want from life. It’s as simple and direct as ordering something from a menu. Palooza, which infers endless party, is the bridge of fantasy and reality, a certain postmodern unionization of ideal and real for this writer. Creative corner in this loft…. As Jeff reinvented himself, I self-actuate, the like enact. This place, my place, where I used to escape on lunches when I worked at a nearby winery, miserable in a tasting room, I’d come here to re-assemble self and my spiritual and creatively sensible fortitude.
And this all started from a hot dog cart. Now, my friends have a restaurant going on their third year of operation, serving everything from hot dogs to artisanal burgers, pastas and steaks, to a salad so unique that you’ll be photographing it longer than lifting it to palate. This’ll be only one of many ode notes to my place, to this loft, to this long table by the pool table and empty beer kegs. This is not a ‘once’, this is a life, a scribe sage, a stratospheric stack of Composition Books. I’ll keep my life, my party, here, going, actuated and animated.