I've come in to work today after celebrating the twenty-first birthday of one of Scott's friends from Trader Joe's. We had an absinthe, car bomb and girl drink bout at the Tin Star, while the bartender played concerts by the Pixies, Prince and the Revolution, and Roy Orbison on their gorgeous, large digital television. When I see images like a purple guitar being swung rhythmically to "When You Were Mine," I can understand a little better why people like digital televisions so well.

There were two TJ's friends, and the older of the two is a crazy man named Zeke. He's a fount of energy, waving in place and narrating odd tales even when he's not drunk. The bar stools were perhaps to restrictive for him, because he nearly fell off his several times, expressing only a moment's amazement that he didn't crack his head before jumping into another engagement with whoever's next to him. The bartender's jeep now knows the feel of Zeke's vomit--and to be clear, that's not something I give the check-plus to or anything, but there are some people who can somehow pull that off as fun, and Zeke's one of them. When the bartender came out for a smoke and saw the tire, Zeke burst at him and playfully threatened to do worse, whcih again could go either way (leaning toward shamefulness), but from the bartender's reaction, Zeke obviously has built up enough good will to pull it off as boisterousness. His body and mind leaps from one thing to the next, and though he doesn't quite shout at phantoms, he comes close.

The younger guy, Milljen, is a more laid-back affair, although without Zeke showing him up he'd hold his own. He's a slim, curly haired metal/prog guitar player and recording student at College of Santa Fe, planning to leave before he gets his degree to go full-time with a recording studio in town. His nose is a solid block of bone protruding from the middle of his eyes in a chunk, like a beak, and he can also launch into excited and jumbled stories, but unlike Zeke those stories are a little more predictable; when listening to them, you don't suddenly run into Amelia Stickney, or a gun barrel in Zeke's mouth, or an attempted discussion about Kierkegaard with a pompous Annapolis Johnny.

Eventually, after a quick stop at the Matador (which last year was pitched quite accurately as "Santa Fe's newest dive bar") we made our way to the Atomic Grill for nachos. The Atomic is the only restaurant downtown that's open past, I don't know, nine o'clock. Indeed, they're usually open past two, probably to make sure they get the entire after-bar rush, because somebody has to. There's this one waiter who's almost always there, and even though no one knows otherwise, no one thinks he's the owner. It's a tiny Brit in his thirties or forties, with constantly changing hair color and an endless string of post-punk t-shirts. He's polite, efficient, and hopelessly broken. I wish I knew what happened to him, and why he's always either working at the Atomic or wondering the liquor aisles in grocery stores. (Anne and I have both seen him in a couple of liquor aisles.) He'll listen when customers speak, and smile his broken, reserved smile, but very rarely will he reveal anything about himself. Whether it's busy or not, he mostly stays behind the counter, or quickly circling the tables (always there just when you need more water), breaking down the outdoor set-up, or pacing with a cigarette.

But I've come in to work, and now it's not last night any more. Now it's the cemented sinus, droopy eyed morning after, and I've come in to work even though I could have easily called out sick. Is that sunlight really the gray of a dusty old raincoat, or is it just me?