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Dec. 20th, 2001
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Dec. 20th, 2001 10:32 pmThere's something to be said for being too busy to think straight. Biz becomes instinct; making decisions, solving problems, creating solutions that no one has thought of before. The Zone -- the mythical zen of being one with the changing environment.... The fast pace, the dizzying technology, the people trying to get things done now before the holidays paradoxically suck the life out of commerce and everything halts dead for over a week.
I glance at my watch -- 9AM, late. Buckhead (home), zooming up to Dunwoody. Conference calls, emails, codecodecode. Buzz to Smyrna, back to Dunwoody, up to Alpharetta, over to Sandy Springs, back to Dunwoody again. I take quick glances at my watch...mere second to second, but no; it's noon, 3 o'clock, 4, 8. Two weeks of this, from suburb to suburb, city to city, climate to climate. Work hard, play hard. I'm off for a few, Sinatra booming loud alternating with Linkin' Park as I fly through Midtown -- in a hurry to relax. 8:30PM, in my favorite local bar, the one I describe, yet tell no one by name. My place, my zone (in another definition of the word). My favorite bartender isn't working, she's drinking, but perhaps too relaxed to socialize. Like me, it's playtime precisely at the moment when it can be grabbed, like a jarhead copping a nap during a five-minute lull of mortar. A few minutes of relaxation outside of actual sleep, silence to relax in the noisy crowd of a restaurant. Better than gold, better than cash, better than chocolate -- looseness, the luxury of the barstool slouch. A chilled Russian martini, a cold Scottish single-malt, and I'm back, tieing up loose ends before I jet off to the tropics to relax from daybreak to nightfall, and sleep in.
My cellphone will be out of range, even when it isn't.
I glance at my watch -- 9AM, late. Buckhead (home), zooming up to Dunwoody. Conference calls, emails, codecodecode. Buzz to Smyrna, back to Dunwoody, up to Alpharetta, over to Sandy Springs, back to Dunwoody again. I take quick glances at my watch...mere second to second, but no; it's noon, 3 o'clock, 4, 8. Two weeks of this, from suburb to suburb, city to city, climate to climate. Work hard, play hard. I'm off for a few, Sinatra booming loud alternating with Linkin' Park as I fly through Midtown -- in a hurry to relax. 8:30PM, in my favorite local bar, the one I describe, yet tell no one by name. My place, my zone (in another definition of the word). My favorite bartender isn't working, she's drinking, but perhaps too relaxed to socialize. Like me, it's playtime precisely at the moment when it can be grabbed, like a jarhead copping a nap during a five-minute lull of mortar. A few minutes of relaxation outside of actual sleep, silence to relax in the noisy crowd of a restaurant. Better than gold, better than cash, better than chocolate -- looseness, the luxury of the barstool slouch. A chilled Russian martini, a cold Scottish single-malt, and I'm back, tieing up loose ends before I jet off to the tropics to relax from daybreak to nightfall, and sleep in.
My cellphone will be out of range, even when it isn't.