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September 30 Laying The Beat Down What can I say, craigslist is great. It's because of this Web site that I am now the owner of a Pearl Export Series Drum Set. At first this felt like a frivolous purchase to me. It's something that I've wanted since I can remember, but it's been one of those pipe dream wants that you never seriously think you'll get. But then craigslist came along.
Since then, I've been hitting the skins, laying down some phat beats. Yeah, I realize I just said fat with a 'ph'. It's shit like that, that reminds me that I'll never, ever be cool.
Once I had found out that the drum set was mine, two realities set in: 1) I now had a legitimate reason to own drumsticks and 2) the set was in Everett, which is fucking far away. The first item was wiped out over lunch. The second task, however, required well more than a 30 minute window.
Going to Everett meant a couple things. For starters, I couldn't get there until after work, which nowadays (counting the bus ride), would put me there around 7:30PM. Most normal people would guess that traffic at 7:30 would be light to nothing. This too was my understanding, prior to moving to Seattle. Since then I-5 has taught me a few things: 1) the left lane isn't necessarily the fastest and 2) it could be jackoff hour and still be stop-n-go traffic.
I'm expected to work, ride the bus and drive to and from Everett with no sustenance? Clearly, this couldn't do. Thankfully, I'm in Seattle, which means that I can find a coffee shop easier than a restroom. Sure enough, I step off the bus and low and behold, ye olde coffee shope, purveyor of overpriced pastries and wake-up juice.
I walk in said shop and look over the menu. I have no idea why I do this because I know exactly what I want before I open the door. It's like I'm entertaining them or something, when all I want is a medium drip coffee. Typically this exchange is quick. "What can I get you today?", she says. My token reply is, "Hmm, well, what drip coffee do you have?" For some reason I always ask this even though I've already taken the time to spy what drip they're serving. Not only that, but for some reason most places have two types of drip coffee: one that sucks and one that doesn't.
One variety is guarenteed to be decaf. I actually know people who like decaf, which completely baffles me. It's like drinking non-alcholic beer, if you're gonna drink shit, what's the point? My selection is easy; I tell her to hook me up with a medium house blend. She relies, "Room for cream?" I always say yes and wince. Again, if you put creamer in your coffee, paricularly to the point where it looks like chocolate milk, you shouldn't be drinking coffee. This shit is the black blood of the earth. Fucking enjoy it or step off.
While she's getting me my drip, the Barista at the other end of the cafe shouts out, "Grande non-fat 1/2 soy iced decaf mocha, extra cream." I instantly realize that the person who ordered before me is a huge asshole. He's a guy with medium-length blonde hair, perfect teeth and stone washed jeans. Seattle has made me realize one, largely unknown scientific fact: how big of an asshole you are is a function of who complicated your coffee is. Yes, I legitimately used the word 'function', I know total nerd...
The first thing that crossed my mind was, "If his coffee is this rediculous, I'd hate to pick a pick a restuarant with this motherfucker." Seriously. I get my coffee, settle with the Barista and head over to the 'coffee station'. This is basically a bar that provides more condiments than McDonalds. I reach for the sugar - the only thing I give a damn about - but WHOA, I get cut off by Blondie. Normally, I'm a laid back person, but I've got two things working against me: Blondie and a serious need for some caffeine.
Instantly, I think that if I was forced to fight one person right now, I'd fight this dude. At the same time I think about how much Cassie hates it when I say shit like that. She says, "You always say that; you're so full of shit." I can't disagree.
Finally the sugar is relinquished and I'm on A-street. Within the first few sips, I can feel that shit hit my veins. The sudden rush and invigoration. At this point I'm pretty jacked up; I'm going to get a drum set and I just got a coffee fix.
The drive to Everett turned out to be more benign than I anticipated. After shelling out five benjis, the car was packed with a gray-black drum set. Like a kid at Christmas, I unloaded the relic into a spare room into my basement. Without saying, it's damn cool. It's official; I've been promoted from Music Snob PFC to MJR Music Asshole. Comments (5)
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