Today is a good day, a very, very good day. My laptop almost gives up the ghost, and for a moment, I sink at the prospect of not being able to load new music or work. After much screaming obscenity and broken calluses on the keyboard, I get it to spin up. I load some music transfer the songs to the iPod, and hook up the computer to the backup drive. I am going to buy a new one, but I am attached to Clark. It is only a hunk of aluminum, plastic, and silicone, but we’ve gotten extremely cozy; Clark does everything I need, but it’s joint are getting a little too stiff.
I start my weekly Zen chores; it is the usual latrine duty, and crusty dishes, birdcage and floor-–paw, paw, I’m tired of the fecking chores. The new music aids in rhythm, and I’ve gotten lucky on recent choices. Momentum, I start with something fast, flames on horsehair strings, Worlds Collide, Apocalyptica is heavy-metal cellos. It finishes with a surprise, a German version of Heroes with Tim Lindermann of Rammstien on vocals, scrape. Then for good measure, Red of Tooth and Claw, Murder by Death is forlorn soul like J. Cash and fiddle with a story to tell. I level out with Mexican Spaghetti Western; Chingon is a Robert Rodriguez electric mariachi project. I am tall in the saddle and in the vacuum cleaner corral, suck, suck. Yeehaw.
After a lunch break–pastrami, cheese, pickled artichoke hearts, mustard on two slices of a sweet batard with chips and sweet ice tea–I choose something completely different, Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, 100 Days…100 Nights. It is like soul from the late 50’s early 60’s only modern. It sends me back and forward, a sultry smile on the back of the tongue. And to climax, Boo, Was(Not Was) is P-funkenstein like George Clinton only better production values and satiric lyrics. I am stepping to the hustle, the funky chicken, and other 70’s, high school prom trash. One of my parrots, Caliban, digs the funk and whistles along. I push the mop in his direction, and we’re bobbing and flappin’ our wings on the base downbeats. The floors are the finish, exhale, so I gear down and am off to shower.
Time to run a few errands, so I walk to the Marina super. I need some fruit for the birds and a few munchies for the humans, lamb steak and beer for the weekend and on the iPod, my choice has gotten strange. JimNoir, title effort, is 50’s, 60’s Donovan with reluctant Don Knotts features; Britpop bubblegum, it’s a way out lava orbit on a Barbarella space pad. Need another trip around the world?
Packages in hand, canvas bags, I start home, and to shine the chrome, it is a SF wink. A 90’s 5-liter black convertible Mustang pulls next to me as I walk on the sidewalk. A four inch brown fedora, Bogart crown, with a post Any Hall sensibility and tie, and the usual fashion goggles, she is drivin’ slow, crawlin’ for a parking spot. She is watching to see if I am the soon to be empty, too bad I am on boot; and as the Mustang parallels, her passenger turns and stairs at me in anticipation. It is a boxer. I swear it is studying me; the dog turns to its owner and back, and tongue out of mouth, it smiles and winks at me. I am not hallucinating
I can’t help but smile back. It is a very, very good day.
