The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.
Yeah, right.
I’m a musician. For my money, the best part of waking up is rolling over and going back to sleep. A close second might be Marilyn Monroe… in her prime… in a controversial position…. begging me to… well, you get the idea. But spare me the Mrs. Olson – Juan Valdez and his coffee donkey stuff, Okay?
Firkin commercials.
After twelve to fifteen hours of writing and playing piano all night, I pass out about seven… maybe eight… A Frikin M!
The phone rings at about eleven or so.
The party on the other end of the line brings me back out of my dreams, back from playing twister with Carole Lombard and Rita Hayworth in their prime and at the same time, on the beach… the nude beach… and the voice on the phone always says something like…
“Still sleeping, eh? Boy, you musicians sure have the life.”
I’m in a cold sweat, kind of like semi in shock. I try to respond to the loud, energetic voice. It takes me a couple of tries. My throat is still sleeping back on the dream beach. It’s a lot smarter than me.
Finally, the words creak out… three and a half octaves lower than my natural “awake” voice. ...
“Yeah, right.”
Of course, after we hang up, I can’t fall back asleep. Opposition scores first blood.
At this stage of the day (if you could call it that) I hate the sun. It is the “S” word.
For one thing, it’s so bright and cheerful.
For another thing… it’s up.
Man I need some serious coffee.
It’s summer. The windows were open all night. It so hot and smoggy out that my eyes are burning indoors. The cars and trucks are making a symphony of noise and pollution in the key of reality… answered by police and fire sirens left and right. It’s like the charge of the mother firkin light brigade.
The girl next door puts on her stereo. This morning’s selection is Michael Jackson… volume 1,000,082. Everything in my apartment is bouncing to the beat… including me. I bounce on over to the window using none of my own power. I’m powered by stereo…. Dude.
Looks like another sunny day… I firkin hate L.A.
I close the windows and the curtains. Activate “A firkin C.” I bounce into my bachelor type kitchen. I put on the bean (coffee). The girl next door… my very favorite human neighbor of all time in the universe, turns the music up. It’s at least twice as loud as before. I want to know where she got her speakers.
I feel like I’m gonna scream. I scream. Nobody hears me… the music’s too loud. I bounce into my bathroom to shave. For joy, for joy…
No hot water! I shave with cold water, bouncing with the stroke, never against it. I should get a gold firkin medal. I can smell the freshly brewed bean a callin’ me. I figure what the hell. I try to moonwalk into the kitchen. I have to settle for moon bouncing.
We bad.
As I reach for the coffee, it makes me feel good inside to know that it’s mountain grown… the richest kind.
Yeah, right.
Just pass me the mud so I can open my eyes enough to go get my shotgun and shoot the teenage menace next door with the industrial strength stereo of doom.