Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

Having spent the last week holed up in my apartment writing, I decided to celebrate my week of city life by donning a dress and the “bitch” boots, (thrown in for the attitude factor,) and hitting the Avenue Grille next door for a $2 mimosa. I haven’t actually interacted much with members of the community, unless you count the awful stare down in the alley way with the big angry chick, and was curious and a little nervous to see what kind of people I would run into.
I took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a mimosa, then pulled out my writing book to make notes of my past week’s adventures. A nice gentleman seated next to me was inquiring about a ball game on t.v., and I inquired about the team—the Rockies. He confirmed that yes, they were the local baseball team, and told me they were doing well in the season so far. I sipped my mimosa and wrote in my book for a few minutes, sizing up the room.
Before too long he asked if I was keeping a journal, and I informed him that it was my book of life. I get the question often when I pull the book out at a bar. I re;lied that it was my book of life, and I was chronicling my latest adventures. After a few moments of chit chat about Colorado and the neighborhood, I asked him what he did for a living. He responded with a line I know all too well—mainly because it’s my line.
“I’m a writer.” he said.
Huh, imagine that. The first person I officially meet in Denver is a writer. I was starting to feel right at home. He’s a writer for the Denver Post, and has been writing for them for 14 years. I refrained from unleashing my tirade about the current sell-out of journalists and that daily papers deserved what they were getting. We had a very pleasant conversation trading journalism stories, including working for big papers and small town papers, the pros and cons of both. Before I knew it my mimosa turned from one into a second, as we talked about the old days of journalism versus the new. After my second mimosa, and with a warm fuzzy feeling flowing throughout my body, I thanked him for the great conversation and walked the 50 steps home to my apartment, where I felt even more at home than I had before I left two hours ago.

April 11, 2011 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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