I am an extremely predictable man. I possess consistent habits. Those habits morph over time, but my adherence to them during the time frame that I have them is admirable.
Take my wardrobe for example. My final three years of high school I decided I was the modern version of the Clint Eastwood character from "The Man with No Name" western film trilogy. My daily dress consisted of a baseball cap, collared dress shirt,athletic shorts, dark aviator sunglasses, flip flops regardless of temperature (but preferably barefoot if possible) and an Afghan blanket that I wore tied around my neck for napping purposes. I was known affectionately as "The Goat".
Picture a combination of Pig Pen and Linus of the Charlie Brown comics.
Except this is how I thought I looked. Note the discrepancy between my perceptions and reality.
These days my strict routine involves frequent visits to the Waffle House. I probably average about 5 visits a week and between 2 and 6 hours per visit.
Why?
The Waffle House appeals to me for several reasons. The main one is my curiosity. My fascination about various experiences and life paths of the people that pass through. The trajectories of our universes intersecting just long enough for a brief meal and conversation.
My opening description of my high school dress habits is meant to impart the idea that I have not taken an average trajectory through life. As such feel at home with the hodge podge of characters who frequent the waffle house along with myself. We come together and exist in a void. The nights pass imperceptibly. As Yogi Berra might say, nightime is not like the daytime. There is no sun moving through the sky to indicate the passage of time. Only the clock on the wall tells us, and that alone is not sufficient to stave off the feeling of existing in a vacuum, withdrawing into the abyss of night.
Thus, we are Nighthawks at the Waffle House, and famous painting is alive in the Southeastern United States. And it looks a lot like this:
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