The jazz weekend in Cork starts tonight and not having the bus fare into town and not wanting to walk 10 miles in the dark puts me in the house in the B-Ghetto. I know there are many things I could be doing: I could patch my other jeans, read about wine science, clean, or engage myself with a patronizing TV documentary. I just can't convince myself to embrace the joy of a domestic night in when I know that small city magic is occurring down the street just out of reach of my wallet. Is this myopia? Maybe. Sometimes a dirty kitchen just isn't enough adventure for me. Or maybe I need to be more creative, like making a replica NH state capital building out of expired ready-break and sultanas.
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