Slow Coffee, Slow Run

Went for a run this morning with Chris. He hadn't run in a couple weeks but was willing to take on a five-mile hilly loop when I said we would go slowly. We did. It was good. We talked and ran. I showed him the cemetery and the house with the pool out of which I hope Phoebe Cates will rise. (I don't know that anyone's ever swum in the pool. The gate is unlocked so I'm likely to dive in someday. No one will mistake me for Phoebe.)

After the run, we sat on my front steps drinking water and he told me about his coffee maker dying. A programmable drip machine, it used to brew as he slept. Convenient! He replaced it with an insulated French Press. Not so convenient. He has to wait for water to boil. There are fewer cups of coffee. But the coffee tastes incredible. 

Chris isn't lazy. He's building a fine-art business and hustles to make it happen. But, he says, I miss coffee being ready when I came downstairs. I get that.

My coffee hasn't been ready when I wake for years. I use an Aeropress and hand-crank grinder. A single cup of coffee requires two minutes of cranking, time to boil water, and another minute to press and then clean out the thing. It's as inconvenient as any coffee you can imagine. 

Which is what I like about it. 

It's not just the press that makes the best coffee. It's the pressing of it. The time we take making coffee makes it taste better. Slowing down to make a cup of coffee, that's just choosing to be part of living. 

It's okay if you don't buy that, but know that drip machines make weak coffee. Don't even bring up Keurigs. That thing is poison to the earth and makes pseudo coffee. Screw that. 

Our slow run felt good. Moving slowly, I savor the run. And why hurry the run anyway? 

It's the same with the coffee. We each took time to make coffee. It was slower than his automatic drip machine. All of five minutes slower. What were we going to do with that five minutes that's better than creating something? 

The act of creation, that's the best part of waking up. Forget about Folgers in your cup. 

Memorial Day

First thing this morning I saw on Facebook, a link to someone singing that god awful Lee Greenwood song "God Bless The USA." I didn't click, but the song began playing in my head anyway. Though I'm loath to subject you to such abuse, here are Greenwood's lyrics which may make you wonder, as Bob Dylan did, "Is there a hole for me to get sick in?" 

“If tomorrow all the things were gone
I worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife
I thank my lucky stars
To be living here today
’Cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can’t take that away

CHORUS
And I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
And I won’t forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I’d gladly stand up next to you
And defend Her still today
’Cause there ain’t no doubt
I love this land
God Bless the U.S.A.

From the lakes of Minnesota
To the hills of Tennessee
Across the plains of Texas
From sea to shining sea
From Detroit down to Houston
And New York to L.A.
Where’s pride in every American heart
And it’s time we stand and say

CHORUS X2”

— Lee Greenwood

This guy is proud to be an American where at least he knows he's free? What the shit does that even mean? Free from what? Free to do what? To whom? Given the current administration I would guess it means free to carry an automatic weapon, hate anyone less fortunate, take babies from their mothers, and wear a red hat saying America isn't great. 

"'Cause there ain't no doubt, I love this land." Well, not the land so much as _the idea_ of the land. The actual soil is ours to poison. The water too. And if poor folk drink the lead, it's because they're too stupid to trade the right stock or be born to the right parents and inherit enough wealth to move somewhere nice. 

The whole song is vapid bullshit. This is why it plays so well to its demographic, the same people who think Springsteen's "Born In The USA" is a pep rally for blind patriotism. Bruce doesn't go at anything blind. He's no follower. 

“Down in the shadow of the penitentiary
Out by the gas fires of the refinery
I’m ten years burning down the road
Nowhere to run ain’t got nowhere to go

Born in the U.S.A., I was born in the U.S.A.”

— Bruce Springsteen

That's a hard look at this country and what it stands for. Greenwood's is straight up nonsense or propaganda and instead of that we should listen to Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land," especially the last three verses which you probably don't know. Woody's patriotism ran deeper than a red hat with a racist slogan, a long red tie wound too loosely around the neck of a bigot, or a stars and stripes flag waving next to the Confederate banner. Woody's song, unlike Greenwood's, and even more than Springsteen's is a kind of national anthem that reads in part: 

“As I went walking I saw a sign there 
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.” 
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing, 
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people, 
By the relief office I seen my people; 
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking 
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me, 
As I go walking that freedom highway; 
Nobody living can ever make me turn back 
This land was made for you and me.”

— Woody Guthrie

This Memorial Day I remember those who fought in lost, foolish causes: Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I mourn the senseless loss of life and curse the privileged who sent them to die. 

This Memorial Day I mourn those who fought throughout Europe, The Mediterranean, the Pacific, and more against an axis of true evil. 

This Memorial Day I reject Greenwood and embrace Guthrie's. We are most American when this country belongs to everyone. We are strongest when we are most accepting. We cannot accept hatred as leadership. 

This Memorial Day, fuck Lee Greenwood and the big orange maggot. My flag stays in a dark corner of the front-hall closet until we start acting like real Americans. 

Rust

“Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
And once you’re gone, you can’t come back
When you’re out of the blue and into the black”

— Neil Young, "Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black)"

I got to thinking this morning of Neil Young, a guy whose music I usually like but with whom I often disagree. I remember when he put out a super-duper digital music player and I thought, no way is that going to sell. It didn't. And he wrote this book that felt like the whining of a child or the grumblings of an old man. Still, he's Neil Young and has made incredible music, done good charity work, and been working at a high level for longer than I've been alive, so I should cut him some slack and have some respect. 

Still, this morning, getting in my car I got to thinking, "Neil's wrong." This was occasioned by the sight of rust weeping from under my driver's side door. 

My car, bought new in 2005, has 170,000 miles on it. We have been through a lot including one serious crash. Each morning, despite all the years, all those miles, and that crash, I open the door, climb inside, and my car starts on the first try. It gets me where I need to go. I like that and I'm sad to see the rust, know the exhaust system is dying, and feel it is passing the point of diminishing returns. 

It was raining this morning when I went out to the car. I opened the door and rusted brown water dripped from the rusting sill. I heard a voice sing, "it's better to burn out than it is to rust" and thought, "shut up, Neil." The rain and the rust had me a little pissy. I was thinking about Dad too. "And once you're gone you can never come back." God damn it, Neil. 

Driving to work, I thought over those two songs that I file as one: "Out Of The Blue And Into The Black." I didn't remember all the lyrics, but felt like arguing with him anyway. I wanted him to be wrong so maybe the I could be right. I remembered the album title: Rust Never Sleeps which I changed to Rust Never Stops. And rust always wins, Neil. 

Looking at the lyrics now, printed on clean white paper, out of the rain, I don't see much to argue in them, but I'm fighting what's happening to my car, what happened to Dad, what's developing in me. "There's more to the picture than meets the eye." I'm pretty sure Neil knew that rock and roll can and will die. Everything does. And even if he didn't know then, he knows it now. We're all forty years closer to death than when he sang his way out of the blue and into the black. After forty years, the rust is undeniable.

Did Dad burn out or fade away? Did he just rust? Is he out of the blue and into the black? Can he never come back? Is he forgotten? 

I'm not expecting answers. I sure as hell don't expect to hear answers from Neil Young. Or my car. Or Dad. I'm no longer in the mood to argue or fight. I'm just humming along with the song in my head. A memory or maybe an expectation. It goes like this: 

My my, hey hey and hey hey, my my. And goes on from there to wherever. 

Honestly, It Pisses Me Off

I ordered The Bad Plus's new album Never Stop II on vinyl a few months ago. It came out on digital stream a while back, but the distributor had difficulty getting the vinyl produced and shipped. No big deal. I listened to the download and waited. This week the record arrived in the mail. Actually, two copies of it showed up. Odd. 

I only paid for one and so wrote to the distributor saying I would be happy to mail one back if they paid the postage. My guess is I'm dealing with an operation run by one or two people, and I like small businesses too much to keep something I didn't buy. Even with large businesses I'm pretty much honest. Why wouldn't I be? 

The guy got back to me with a shipping label and thanked me for being so honest. I told him it was my pleasure even though it bugged me that he didn't expect honesty. I understand and am not offended, but it's weird that honesty is such a surprise. 

I'm glad I returned the record I hadn't ordered, but was left as conflicted as I was in college when I returned a wallet to a guy. Here's the piece I wrote about that years ago:

I Found A Wallet

bgfay - August 2016

In college I found a wallet. It was really thick. Brown leather. Worn edges. My own wallet was velcro (it was the eighties) and very thin. I had pretty much no cash and had bounced three checks. I carried my wallet mostly out of habit and for my meal card. I saw this wallet, picked it up, and brought it back to my dorm room. 

Inside was a wad of cash. Just shy of a thousand dollars. Color me impressed. There was a college ID like mine but with another guy’s picture and a name I couldn’t pronounce. My friends were impressed with the money too. We marvelled at a kid our age having that kind of cash. Wow, we thought. 

In the paper facebook listing all the first-years, we found the guy. I dialed his number. He picked up right away. I said, I found your wallet, and told him my room number. He said he’d be right over. My friends and I had music on and were just hanging out. There was homework we weren’t doing. In fourteen months I would fail out. 

The guy knocked. I recognized him from the facebook. You found my wallet? he asked. Yeah, I said, handing it to him. He opened it and passed his thumb over the bills. He said, but it’s all still here? I said, yeah. He said, you didn’t take it. I looked at him. 

I couldn’t have taken his money. None of my friends brought up the idea either. We weren’t especially good or moral boys. We were mostly cash-strapped, wondering how to buy the next beer. But it wasn’t our money. 

Two months later when the vending machine gave back three dollars on every purchase, we emptied it at the expense of a vending company that extorted for Snickers and Coke. The wallet though belonged to a guy who lived across campus. That was his money. 

He tried to give me some cash. A reward, he said in a thick accent. I waved him off. I wanted to be done with the whole thing. His surprise bothered me, made me angry. He thanked me. Two of his friends were standing in the hall. I looked at them. They looked at me. I said, no problem, and closed the door. I never saw him again. I wonder if he remembers any of this.