Saturday, August 04, 2007

Coffee and Classic Rock. I say GODDAMN.

This is going to be a discursive rant, just so you know. I'M IN THAT KIND OF MOOD.

Why? Because I hit the sweet spot with coffee consumption today. Two big cups, after a flippin' awesome night's sleep, made under my own steam in a quiet house.


I'm right on the rightside of the stomach-butterfly cusp. Little intimations of something stirring in my gut, but instead of feeling like puke, IT FEELS LIKE VICTORY.

I spent the late morning listening to music and nursing these perfect oily brimming cups of black gold. See, the key is THE GODDAMN CONE FILTER. Don't dick around with coffee makers, perculators, french presses, or other fancy-lad BUNKUM. HOT WATER, COFFEE GROUND AND WILL. THAT'S HOW YOU MAKE A CUP OF GODDAMN COFFEE.

It helps that in Berkeley, the WEATHER IS PERFECT today. Nice hint of marine layer cuts the heat, so you get just the perfect stir of cool, slightly humid beeze. The sky at the horizon line is the very softest baby blue and it deepens as you climb the arc until you're staring at a slick royal blue at the zenith. Plus you are complelely jacked up on PURE UNCUT Sulawesi, so everthing is that much more goddamn SWEET. Go 15 miles east, into the valley, and you are under a SEALED DOME of BUTT, of so it seems, from the butt-like heat.

After my coffee, I farted around town in the car, listening to the crappy classic rock station, because there was nothing else to listen to, and with your classic rock station they at least will mix stuff up a little bit. Today when I hit the intersection of Buchanan and San Pablo, Black Sabbath's Iron Man was ending and there was some solo hessier in the car next to me, ROCKING THE FUCK OUT, ie fully headbanging. We listening to the same douche bag rock station: I could hear Iron Man leaking from his car, enhancing my Iron Man.

As you no doubt recall, Tony Iommi totally rocks the fuck out at the end of Iron Man with a full Panzer freak-out. And as you no doubt also recall, Tony Iommi has like three fingers on his stumming hand, just like Django Rheinhart. Maybe Tony is pissed off that he lost his fingers to a Birmingham metal press, but something was eating him the day they recorded Iron Man. You can hear it.

Anyway, dude is rocking out. I get the green, I slide out across the intersection, and "Roxanne" comes on. From Black Sabbath to the Police. See? Classic rock station. Of course you have to put up with your occaisional 38 Special or Loverboy, but that you know that when you put your chips in. Classic rock station is not there to CODDLE.

So, at the next intersection, what happens? Some LADY is rocking out now to Roxanne. How freaing awesome is that? A lady wearing hair extensions is listening to the same frigging classic rock station. I mean, Roxanne is kind of a douchey song, but it's better than either Nickelback or Usher or whatever the fuck they're playing on someother crap station.

Now, one of my errands was chatting with an occupational therapist that Owen has been seeing (not romantically. He is only four). I got there kind of early, and sat on the wonderfully shaded elm tree-lined tree. (This is when I figured out the day outside was surreally comfortable and just really felt good on my skin).

Then I had a very, very strange moment, when The Classic Rock station began speaking to me. As you may recall, I went to my high school reunion recently and one of the effects of that that weekend had was giving me the perspective on how I much more comfortable I am in the world than I was as a teenager. Like now, I think I can say I have some sort of modicum of comfort with myself and people and meta-issues of security and self knowledge and piles of other gay crap, whereas in high school, I died pretty much on the half-hour, so mortified was I by the indiginity I perceived in myself. Started thinking about Owen's stuff, the frustrations he'll face being the smart and (thankfully) weird kid that he is.

And it was THEN, just then, that I heard a crappy Rush song. Now, I'm not one to look for wisdom in pop songs. I'd have to agree with Frank Zappa here, when he said in effect that when people believe pop songs, and the greater pop culture is general, people get fucked up.

But here, in this dumb overwraught Rush song ("Freewill" I believe it's called) was wisdom, wisdom that is particularly poigniant to the pimply stoner Rush demographic.

The song "Freewill" is essential about being banishing all the magical thinking crap people go through, and just respecting yourself enough to trust your own will. Jesus, this a fucking RUSH song. They sing songs about Snow Elves and shit like that, but there I was, in the car, nodding along.

I hope Owen doesn't have to wait until he's 38 to hear the right Rush song, but that's why he's going to the occupational therapist.

I'm crashing. Into every coffee buzz, late afternoons must fall I'm afraid. So, to summerize: good night's sleep, strong coffee and acceptance of the classic rock can lead to some kind of good saturday.

See yers.

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Blogger the Mickey's said...

I must be getting old... 30 + yrs ago. Iron man.


7:09 PM  

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