Just Black, Please

This has been a dark week.  It would be good to focus on something joyful.

 

Friday night I purchased a new coffee maker.  This purchase did not come easily, however.  I did a lot of soul-searching, intense research, and footwork before I had the treat of a superior home-brew.

 

Although they would deny it, my parents are responsible for my devotion to a darkly roasted bean.  In my childhood years, coffee was a rote occupation.  Get up, drink coffee, go to work.  As many likely recollect, it was the first "adult beverage" I coveted and was denied.  It was a part of our household, as much a member of the family as our dog, Jodie.

 

My grandmother was the first to regularly provide this banned substance.  I looked forward to sitting with her Saturday mornings on the farm, and talking.  She never curtailed the amount of cream or sugar that filled my cup.  I would outgrow such rash methods.  I am a purist, especially in barbeque and coffee.  If you must mask the flavor with some sort of dressing, then your original substance must be substandard.  I guess that sounds a little pretentious.  Oh, well.

 

Halfway through my college career, I noticed something different on trips home.  The quick java fix in the morning had become an exercise of reverence and ritual.  It was something to be savored.  It started, I suppose, when my mother subscribed to a coffee club.  It was cemented when my father returned home from the store with a new machine, and, in an instant, moved the family from basket to cone filtration.

 

Now, here I am.  There are emails extolling the virtues of coffee and tea, and comparing both to Volleyball.  Even at my few years, I sometimes get the sense that certain things should be experienced with deliberate enjoyment.  After reading reviews and opinions, I realized what I must buy.  To my bewildered disappointment, I realized I must purchase the same model my parents owned.  I would at least have the satisfaction of having a different color.  I walked away from two trips in one weekend empty-handed.  I finally found success on Friday, and I discovered joy.

 

There are several better ways to make coffee, I admit.  However, I awoke Tuesday morning not to the blaring siren of my clock-radio, but to the deep aroma of java penetrating my nostrils.

 

Now, I await the dawn.

I looked like a blue Santa

I had an ethereal experience last night. It was really super. Instead of the normal Tuesday night activities like karaoke or pouring soap into the hot tub, I went to the theatre.

Going to the theatre is a bittersweet experience for me. I see the stage and immediately removed am I to roles I've filled. Bright lights in your face with an audience beyond in the murk, words and emotion flooding your head. When taking stage during rehearsals, your first thoughts always center on how you will remember all those lines. Eventually, you just 'get' the character you're playing. And when that curtain goes up on opening night, it is the moment; you have just become something else. It's the only out-of-body experience I've ever known.

I don't think you're ever the same after you've been in a play. It's like keeping a secret; knowing whether the light bulb is on once you close the refrigerator door. For most people, once you've seen the audience from the stage, you always want to go back.

I was at the theatre last night because my friend wrote a play. Austin is a lot of things, and most people think it revolves around music. The bulk of it does, but there is every kind of art imaginable and the theatre thrives here. Last night kicked off something called FronteraFest. The first half is devoted to something called the "short fringe" which is a nightly run of five plays of about twenty minutes each. My friend's play is called "Hildegard's Dream" and it is a vignette of the twelfth C. Benedictine nun and mystic, Hildegard von Bingen. It was an amazing marriage of monologue, music, and imagery. To my great delight, I was able to contribute a small portion to the production.

And there was a spark. I really think I could write a play. I always considered myself to be poor with dialogue, something that has hindered previous attempts at fiction. It's possible to work through that, of course. This is not a story, but a history.

"[comparative] than some, not as [adjective] as many"

I went to see "The Producers" last night.  Man, that is funny stuff.  I went with a group of friends in May to see the touring Broadway performance.  It was a riot and everything I could have wanted.  While the stage is a more appropriate place for this type of story, it is a delight that it should become more accessible through film.  While I enjoy the occasional knee-slapper at home, I don't often get my funny on at the theater.  It was quite an experience to be surrounded by so many strangers all exhilarated by the on-screen antics.  There were few moments during those two hours that someone wasn't doubled over with laughter or incessantly chuckling.  If you haven't seen this show, then I urge you to get to a theater soon.  However, if any of you have trouble breathing, have weak lungs or diaphragm, or are not over 5 feet tall, then I warn you.  It will be a bumpy ride.

 

You may wonder at the title of this post.  Indeed, I continue to contemplate its meaning.  Here's the story.  During a phone call with Suzy (referred to elsewhere as Dr. Suze) on Saturday, she was highlighting the various possibilities for New Year's Eve celebrations to which she was invited.  Her complaint was that each one seemed to center around alcohol or perhaps other recreational substances (all within the realm of legality, I'm sure), and she was looking for something beyond that.  She wondered aloud that this might make her seem older than her 29 years, which is where I was prompted with the question, "Am I old?"  Despite the number of years, this is always a delicate question, as any answer (high or low) may yield an unanticipated reaction.  My response: "You are older than some, but not as old as many."  This, ladies and gentleman, are how sound bites are born.  Suzy declared this answer to be superlative humor; a statement of such refined political correctness as to confound the ages (paraphrasing).  When our friend Dylan heard this narrative the following day, he immediately seized upon wide-ranging applications.  This led me to present the generic form seen here.

 

Feel free to make this phrase your own, but proceed with caution.  Oh, and go see "The Producers."

Happy New Year!

I have uncorked the champagne and, after a pause of consideration, propose the following toast to you all.

 

May you greet the dawn of 2006 with joy overflowing your heart.  May you see a surprise from someplace you've never expected.  This, I know, will be a year in which we will draw our friends close and celebrate a time that is given us only once.  May this new year find you in a place of wonder in your life.  May you be exposed to details you've never before considered.  It is my hope that this new year provide for you what you've lacked.

 

I look forward to the same.  Thank you for this time, God.