Coffee. I
started drinking coffee when I was 23. My
cousin was already an avid drinker, and I first had some to stay awake one
night whilst bullshitting. It was not
long before my wife and I had some every morning, and began to get snooty about
the type of coffee we bought. I always
say it is like salsa and spicy foods. Once
you go past a threshold, you can’t go back.
If you are used to hot salsa, mild tastes like ketchup. Once you sip high-end coffee, Folgers and
Maxwell house are like drinking dirty dishwater.
There
is no real cache with coffee drinking.
In fact, I had to switch to decaf four years ago and I don’t even get
the caffeine buzz anymore. Coffee is a
hot drink. It is like tea. You can drink coffee on the go in a metallic cylinder,
but it is best when you can take your time and savor it. It is bitter and warm,
smooth and comforting. You have to be
patient with it. It wants you to slow
down, even though for a lot of people it does the opposite. It demands a little
attention, and I have always liked that.
There is a ritual to making a cup for yourself. It is not as quick and convenient as a
twist-top or cracking open a can. It
also gives you incredibly horrific breath.
My drums. There
is something in my blood that draws me to the drums. There is a strain of that gene that permeates
my family; it’s just part of my DNA. I
wanted my own drums since I was 8 years old.
I would not get drums until I was 29.
I had a big check from a new job, and all the bills were paid. I promised myself I would have them in my
garage one day; and I owed it to that little kid who watched everybody else
play guitars and saxophones. Buying them
was a little like plowing over my corn to make a baseball field for some
people, but the more years that pass, the more I believe it was a damn good
move. These days, I still pretty much
suck, but I have them in my garage every time the mood strikes me. I’ve recorded music, jammed a few times and I
am close to understanding my inherent need to capture the almighty groove. The
drums are dramatic. They can also be an
action movie. I always feel like I’m working on something special, even if it’s
the same beat for the last 10 years. I may not progress past Meg White level of
skill, but they still bring me joy like nothing else.
The smell of seasons changing. My
mother and I search for this smell every fall.
We were robbed of its awesomeness in 25 years of living in Florida. Everyone knows that fall colors explode
bringing in the coziest and most baked-good infested time of year. If you haven’t experienced it first hand, you
certainly have gazed at the endless available wallpapers for your desktop. But we want the smell. That scent of, for
lack or a better word, the death of summertime.
The falling leaves mixed with the crisp air create a sweetness that
words cannot possible come close to describing.
It is buried in the recesses of our monkey brains that this is a signal
that fall is coming, and winter is on its way. This smell, blended with a
distant wood fire or the odors of fresh baked bread are the key ingredients to
the feeling of home. Home as a concept; like if comfort itself were
an actual, tangible thing.
In
Oregon, we were also reacquainted with the smell of spring. This is a much different scent and equally
opposite reaction. Nature tells the flowers to wake up and the birds and bees
to get busy. To us humans, there is a
feeling of taking action. We want to get
out there and get things done. Even if
its cleaning and gardening and trips to the Farmer’s Market, there is a boost
of energy that cannot be ignored. It is
a nice bonus and a welcome companion to that golden smell of autumn.
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