I could be anything starting today

What will I write about this year? I start most years wanting to do something artistic with my life, something with a sense of deeper purpose and discovery of who I am, what I find amazing and mysterious. I play with ideas in my head that feel at the time like they are worthy and should be shared with a pen and paper. And like the romantic notions of penning a concise resuce note that describes how to find me on a deserted isle which I toss into the ocean inside a wine bottle, I too want to lob my words into the tumult waters of opinion and point of view to see what comes of it.

I am no forecaster of things to come but these things I know. I will start writing daily, like once a week, until I allow myself to be distracted by much less rewarding activities. I will generate very well intentioned lists of things to do and people to write which I will then file under coupons I won't use and bills I forget to pay. I will change my oil one time at the precise 5,000mile interval and then forget to write the milage down and then neglect to change the oil again for like 2 months too long.

And I will allow myself to be deluded into believing I am making good use of the short time I have on this planet to do good things for others when in reality I could be doing much better and giving much more.

And so, my first writing of the year is done. And now I will find an old pair of jeans and place them in the Goodwill collection bin down the street. And my insipiration for a changed year, a special year is already almost complete. Yea me!

A bed of fire

My back, my scapula area, is jacked up. Nothing like a bike header or anything in particular. Just woke up this weekend and owie. Fookin bed.

Alethea and I, my future wife and love of my life!, are thinking we want, more than any other, a new bed and recognize we want one instead of a third blender, walnut wood cigarette dish, and kissing frog sculpture that says, "I am stuck on you". I agree, that's not even a great saying on a kissing frog sculpture.

A bed would save my life at this piont. I hate the thought of lying down on what is in the bedroom. I am pretty sure it pretends to be flat when I am looking at it. It is in collusion with the sheets and pillows, puffing up in the middle to appear firm and lovely. Either that or the box spring has incredible abs, a six-pack Arnold would be proud to have at his disposal. You ever do those ab exercises, a plank? Maybe the matress farts and it poofs up the middle area. In any case, the bed is a spoon and I am an alphabit destined to spin and float in the middle.

I like the spoon in a way. It pushes Ms. Fox and I closer together as the night slides to morning when I find myself face-to-face with soft and dark, smell good and smooth, happy sleepy love. I would sleep on a fork to have that in my life. So, in this regard it ain't that bad at all. But.

So please, if you care about (making) children, for just pennies a day, you can sponsor a new pad for our pad. If you have ever woken up and said, "Crap my back hurts" then help us avoid that anguish. If you see sleep as an escape not as a prison, help us help us won't you?

All coffee houses are not the same

I am in a new town workin' for the Man. It gets worse. I am two hours west of my love and two hours west of my home. I know, horrible. So, my first move is obviously to run up my bill and to pour passion into the phone. But the next moment, I need to find a coffee house to plunk down in each morning and get my happy groove workin'.

I am older and a bit wiser (no really) and so I have cruised the core of the city's streets. Streets named First, Cherry, and Parsons. And I found coffee. But the places had no soul beyond the friendly staff. A Kaldi's. eh. A gush darned Bread Co. eh. Lakota Coffee. better but eh. Something intangible is missing.

Side note: I had a famous person run-in during my coffee culling. As I waited on my Americano, I looked up to see another young(er) person in the place. Trust me, we were young in here. The place was filled with, basically, dead people: more wrinkles than a walnut. And hell! if this guy wasn't, "Mornin' Coach". Coach Gary Pinkle. He looks at me. He winces slightly and looks away with a bored mug. He says, "Piss off Meyer. Take a lap." True story.

So anyway, those places weren't workin'. But there was this one place, on a side street, attached to a ma/pa movie rental place with hip posters for indie films you know will break your heart and make you think you too can shoot films of importance. Like you have something important to say.

This place is cool. There's kid-art on the wall. Good stuff. Makes me pause and think, "No freakin' way; the parent did this one." The staff is friendly but centered. They are in a place of happy that goes beyond job-happy. They like what they do. They are okay with early rises to greet frumpy, tired people who flow in and out all morning. People who say, "Good morning" even though it is 11am and they themselves have been awake for seven hours already.

My chocolate croissant is a delight. It just came out of the oven: bitter sweet heaven in my mouth with a butter flake crunch smoothness. A cinnamon roll that is not the size of a softball, not gooey drippy, not a hunk of spice. Just darned good.

And I can sit outside as summer recedes into fall and watch this college town wake up. See and smile at bikes, commuters!!!, rolling by, their charges sweaty but joyful inside. I can reminisce about my college life, my joys and disappointments and my deep friends now adrift in their own kids and houses and jobs.

All coffee houses are not the same. Some bring you into a place that feels just right. It transends coffee and a bite to eat. This is one. whew.