LILEKS (James) :: The Bleat for Monday.

Friday, 3:15 PM, Trader Joe’s. Long lines, as you’d expect for this time of the day. Like the line to get transit papers out of Paris with the Wehrmacht shelling the exurbs. Finally my turn, and the clerk says “how’s your day going.” He’s been there since the place opened ten, twelve years ago. A constant. Wiry dude with a ponytail that now is trending grey. There’s one other long-time clerk with whom I exchange nods and recognition, and a very sweet lady who was a fan of my column and also knows I got dumped and turned out of my home, because we had a talk one day when I was tremulous in the yogurt aisle.

“I have decided to go to Trader’s Joe on a Friday afternoon and this makes me question my ability to make good life decisions,” I said.

He shrugged and beeped two bags of dark roasted coffee.

“As Franz Ferdinand said,” he said, “what’s the worst that can happen?”

“I appreciate a World War One reference,” I said.

“He really said that.”

“And then he went back in the car.”

He nodded and asked if I wanted the receipt. I didn’t.

Speaking of coffee!!

I do, I do! As you know, I’ve been having coffee problems that make the trials of a 60s TV commercial housewife look like honeymoon bliss. The Keurig Mini-Mate failed, clogged, begged for descaling after six cups, and behaved so temperamentally I threw it down the chute. I used the backup Keurig, which was like an old actor pulled out of retirement to star in Hamlet, except he was old and drunk half the time and confused. Here’s how it was supposed to work: you add water, put in the cup, then close the lid. The light goes on and a cool semi-circular light gently throbs, letting you know it’s ready. You push the large button and it drains the water, then makes the coffee. Well! The light stopped going on. I would push the button and it would make coffee anyway. Or it wouldn’t. Or it would drain the water and then lose its place and wander off, forgetting it had been given a very important task.

It was a hit-or-miss coffee situation.

Worse case scenario, I could French Press. Or use the Moka Pot, with its little Italian man insisting that he was the best. L'Omino con i Baffi, he's called, the "mustachioed little man.")

It’s a caricature of Renato Bialetti, the man who built the company from a small firm to a global brand. I love that illustration. The style is mid-century, the posture is proud and good-naturedly mocking the subject. You can imagine a story about a man no one took seriously, because he never spoke and was not of noble proportions, but quietly insisted on his own skill and ability. In the end, he won a competition! Or something like that.

Alas, the hand of my Renato has rubbed off after just two months of use, and I fear the rest of him will vanish like Marty McFly’s parents.

Anyway, if the backup Keurig dies, I can use the Bialetti for single cups, provided I cut it with hot water. You know, an Americano. The French Press, which makes two tall cups, is now relegated to a situation where I am making coffee for two people, something that is never likely to happen again. Oh, I might have someone over for dinner, but I think I’m the last man on earth who has coffee after dinner.

But all those issues are now moot. I cannot begin to describe my delight at the innovation I have discovered. Ready? Scroll down.

WOW

YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS

It makes an entire pot - and keeps it warm for hours!!!!

That’s right. No more single cups. No more knocking the filter basket against the trash can five times then hosing it out in the sink then hosing out the grounds in the sink then wiping the errant molecules of coffee on the counter. You just . . . remove the used filter containing the wet grounds and throw them away without muss or fuss WHERE HAS THIS BEEN ALL MY LIFE

I kid. But really. After what I’ve gone through in the last two months, it’s just such a relief. The first few pots were made using a Starbucks grind, which was on sale at Lundsanbyerly’s, of all places. Upon opening the bag I was struck by how got-dang fishy it smelled, but it made a good pot. Life is better now. I wake, I push a button, and the necessary ichor of life fills the pot. When I get back from the morning poop-walk, the second cup is already made. This changes everything.

A weekend of no particular merit. Friday I woke knowing the day would be a grey interval. Some days you just know you'll sit in the sidecar while Old Man Depression putts long at 10 MPH down the straight road to the e’er-setting sun. This can be endured as long as you don’t start rummaging through the box of cassettes for Anger Remixes and hitting PLAY until you find something with a good groove. That gives you five minutes of self-righteous self-satisfaction, but it’s an empty exercise.

OR, you can fight it! This requires the strength to fight it, and a reason to do so. To be honest ,most of this week I'v just gone through all the motions until I can reset the day with the nap. But Fridays are different, for stupid reasons. I’m going to have a pizza! I’m going to watch a movie! I don’t have to write anything that’s due tomorrow! In the morn, waffles! Hurrah for the weekend. Last weekend I was stronk like bool about these things and this weekend I’m just . . .okay I’ll do this until one day I piss blood and then it’s the bag over the head but I’d really like to go to Vienna first.

Or maybe Budapest.

The cure: create. After the nap I worked on a piece of about a strange magazine put out by a fascist spiritualist, then dined while a storm rolled in and lashed the windows of Fred Base One, then took Birch out in the receding drizzle for the evening walk. He had pooped in the Edina Spine park that afternoon, so we didn’t have to wander around Sunderland for 15 minutes in the tall grass. Back at FBO I watched and annotated a 1923 silent movie, then did the voice-over for a Small Things video. Laid out next week’s Bleats. The best part was a text from Daughter, simply asking for my address.

A bit too late to send anything for Father’s Day unless it’s flowers, which I doubt. But that’s okay. A phone call is the only thing I want.

UPDATE And that's what we had. At the end she said she was going to catch up on a Backrooms rewatch with her roommates, and I decided to do the same, since it had been a while.

Well. Soon enough I was reminded of last December, when we stayed at a hotel by Heathrow.

Looks a bit backroomy, eh?

That's because it's the exact place in the original Backrooms movie.

In keeping with our Monday tradition, which became a "tradition" for reasons I can't recall and probably don't matter, we continue with our Monday trademark. For this year we'll do 1936.