Tuesday’s Bumper Sticker
Coffee Lemonade
My wife and I read that coffee lemonade is the latest hot new thing. Sadly, no businesses around here are offering. People that I speak with are not even aware of it.
It’s sad to live in such a backward and remote part of the world. I guess I’ll need to travel to a metropolitan area to sample coffee lemonade.
Quick check: what alcohol should be added to coffee lemonade to give it added zest?
Coffee
Tasting the coffee today, I raised my eyebrows in appreciation and admiration.
It was the second cup of the day. The first had been at home. I was now in the coffee shop.
But this coffee —
“Mmmm,” I said to myself, like I was Wolf the cleaner (Harvey Keitel) in Pulp Fiction, appreciating the coffee Jimmy (Tarentino) had given him.
I enjoyed the coffee sequences through that period at Jimmy’s house in that movie, because it was so damn real, a pause within the gritty to appreciate a flavor.
Pulp Fiction, Get Shorty, and Reservoir Dogs all need to be added to my dirty list, along with Serenity. How could I forget them? They’re mos def movies I stop to watch when I come across them.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Re-affirmed
Once again, I’ve been reminded that travel brings out the best and worst in coffee. People have different ideas about what tastes good, but they’re also part of geographic trends. “Isn’t that good coffee?” they ask, handing you some swill.
Which challenges politeness. I always err toward gratefulness. Coffee’s aroma helps ground me and restores my balance, to give nothing away about what the caffeine does to stoke my will to live. “Yes, yes, it’s very good coffee,” I reply. If pressed, I’ll mention, “It’s not quite what I would usually drink, but this is delicious. Thank you.”
Unless, of course, my taste buds are so offended that they’re lobbying my brain to spit it out. Then I swallow the coffee and say, “Mm mmm,” and complain privately later.
Some of that hotel and aero-plane stuff really pissed off my taste buds, though. I was afraid they were going to stop speaking to me. But then, they were given pie, and they were happy.
The Rhythm Method
“I’m trying to cut back on my coffee,” she said.
He said, “I use the rhythm method. I allow myself coffee on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesday and Thursdays, I permit myself a few cups of coffee. Then, on weekends and holidays, I’m entitled to a few more cups of coffee.”
“You’re drinking coffee every day.”
“Yes, it keeps my rhythm synchronized.”
The List
“I love hot showers,” he said. “They’re my second most favorite thing, right behind pizza, cold beer, hot coffee, lemon meringue pie, watermelon, grilled steak, the beach, and the fourth of July.”
His wife said, “Where am I on that list?”
He said, “I’ll get back to you.”
One Of Those Nights
It was one of those nights. My muse didn’t recognize my need for sleep and refused to issue permission to shut down my brain and close my eyes.
Such times are productive, even though I feel like shit in the morning. I’m exaggerating for effect, of course; I really don’t know how shit feels. I feel guilty, implying that shit feels terrible. For all I know, shit feels great.
Sorry for the shitty detour. I know, terrible humor. Hey, I just confided that I had a rough night. Grant me some latitude.
Back to the muses’ nocturnal gallop through my mind. I’d just been complimenting my muse (or muses – I think there’s a congress of muses within me) about the pleasant week of systematic writing established and reflecting on the progress made. When last I left off writing yesterday, I had a damn good idea of where I was next going.
I’m still going there, but the dark silence of night brought out the muses like they were in heat. Instead of allowing me to sleep, wake up today, and go walk and write to work out details, the muses began shotgunning details into me. The people look like these. These are their names. They’re all women, and —
It’s not polite to ignore your muse, and it’s rude to tell them to shut up. I obliged them by listening. When I thought they’d finished, I attempted to use one of my honored processes to engage sleep. I thought it worked, too, but then, the muses thundered out anew.
When sleep and I finally met, quicksilver dreams rushed in, flashing kaleidoscopes of scenes and words. Awakening, I had a lot to think about between dreams and night writing, and a desire for about four more hours of sleep.
Got a big ol’ cup of dark, unadulterated caffeine loaded coffee steaming in a mug to my right. Time to write like crazy and get all this stuff down, at least one more time.
Virtually
I thought about having a cup of virtual coffee today, but I wasn’t sure that the virtual caffeine would give me the virtual lift I needed. On the plus side, I could think of virtually no health risks to virtual coffee. It came out to be a virtual tie with drinking real coffee, until it came to the taste. Virtual coffee has virtually no flavor.
Michael Seidel, writer 