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After Shocked
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Café Luna is the coffee shop of coffee shops, at least on the island. The walls are painted a dep brick red, and the floor is a checkerboard of green and terracotta lino tiles. Right now the art on the walls is dark brown, gold, and brooding - almost photographic oil paintings of wine, women in black dresses, a sepia pallet.

I am here, eating a cinnamon roll with pecans and drinking a café au lait. My belly is empty and I'm dying to dig in. This is no ordinary cinnamon roll; it's made of flaky brioche dough, and the sugary sweetness is not overwhelming. This is no Cinnabon. Those have their place, but not on my island.

I use the fork only to anchor this little delicacy, then use my fingers to pry off a manageable piece. Brioche is of the devil, and thank God.

The café au lait is one of those "cup-of-ccinos" that Mike Meyers drank in So I Married an Axe Murderer, broad and deep and hot and frothy. I strayed from my usual Blueflower Earl Grey, and while this is just fine, I'll go back to that next time. The palate will not be denied.

I got done with the show last night and went back to my friend Phil's 50th birthday party. It was the perfect come-down spot. No food left, a little beer, a warm fire in the fire pit. I settled in for about an hour and then went home to my bed.

Hormones being what they are, I couldn't sleep. But I did take my blood pressure, just to see what it was, and I got 124 over 78. Beautiful. My body at peace.

The base side of me wants people to compliment me for my singing last night. Then I kick that side of me right in the nuts and tell it to go back in its dark, selfish hole. I will have memories of this forever.

The perm is continuing to mellow. I woke this morning to my Medusa head, not wanting to wet it down or deal with it in any way. Then I remembered I have these plastic, U-shaped hair pins that are meant for making buns. To my utter delight, they stay in my now-curly hair very well. Three pins and I'm bunned up and ready to go. And it even looks good. I'm quickly losing the remnants of any buyer's remorse I might have had about my decision to perm my hair.

The Cajun and his girls and our friend Heidi are coming over tonight. Heidi and I are taking him to dinner to celebrate him passing his PT test. He almost didn't, but squeaked by with 13 seconds to spare. One of the consequences of not passing was the possibility of his staying at his current rank until retirement, and he'd like to make another stripe. Trust me, now that I know what NCOs get paid, I do not in any way begrudge him a better retirement package. He has in some ways eviscerated his life to serve the last 20 years; 6 months at a time away from his wife and kids, scraping to afford to buy a house, innoculations, wondering how to pay for his kid's braces...in so many ways it's a good ticket, but overall, not a great living. The travel, I think he would say, has been the best opportunity.

Anyhow, I'm buying him a ridiculously expensive and artfully crafted Cosmopolitan tonight. He better do handsprings. :)

Can I just say that, with rare exceptions, white people look fucking ridiculous in dreadlocks?

Well, this entry is taking on Netta-like proportions (shout out, baby Netta, not a slag!), so I'll wrap up for now. I leave you with this from Michelle Shocked:

If love was a train
I think I would ride a slow one
One that would ride thru the night
Making every stop
If love was a train
I would feel no pain and
I would never get off

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