I am drinking the worst coffee in the world. That came out of my very own French press. Hours ago. It was this bad hours ago. It was this bad when fresh. Tasted like the proverbial 20 year old Converse sneakers that climbed up on the counter and said look I’ve got holes in my soles I really am a pot, try me. What is this, certainly not coffee, I thought. But it was made out of the same beans as any other time so I drank it, because it should have tasted the same. Same beans, should be same taste. Every time I picked up my cup and had a sip, same “Eeeeeewwwww gross” reaction on my part and still I drank the nastiness. I woke up a couple of hours after bedding down (not unusual for me) and came in and poured myself a little of what was left and the pucker up eeewww gross reaction was still there, it was still as bad, it was never going to transform into coffee. I don’t know what it is. And I suppose it says something about me that today I stubbornly stuck with drinking the nasty brew when I should have tossed it. And am only now brewing a fresh pot, like, “Ok, you had your full day in which to get into shape and you didn’t so out you go.”
While I’m sitting here with the nasty rotted sneaker taste of that coffee lingering in my mouth some fifteen minutes after my last sip of it, I’m thinking how everyone is crawling all over Rove and how it seems like I should be, really should be interested in this whole Rove thing. I should be using his effigy as a trampoline. “Hey, look how high I can jump!” Should be bounding, should be touching the ceiling. Except, I dunno, I figure with someone like Rove, he may look like he’s down for the count and I’d end up whacking my head good on the ceiling, coming down in a passed-out crumple and waking up to find the effigy gone. Like somehow one of those anti-murder mysteries, the kind where Jane Fonda goes to bed with someone and wakes up and they’re lying dead by her side? Only instead Jane had done the guy in via some lethal means that is too much trouble for me to figure out and she passes out and wakes up and wanders into the kitchen to find the guy making flippin’ pancakes.
Not that I believe Rove will squeegie his way through this mess. I haven’t even given it enough serious thought to consider if he may.
To me it’s bad Roman theatrics that briefly mistakes itself for Greek tragedy, goes to the oracle and the oracle simply says go away, don’t bother me.
Because that’s what my oracular innards keep telling me. They said it the first time, “Go away,” and I every so often go back and knock on the door and say, “Hey?” and again I get the turned-up nose, go away, quit bothering me. And kind of taking their cue, Rove has wandered by with my slinging nary a line in his direction.
Making my coffee just now, taking out the bag of beans, grinding, dumping them in the French Press, I did a little prayer, “Please, be good this time and don’t come out tasting like sneakers”.
I’m afraid that when it’s done brewing, I’ll take a sip and find myself again going Eeewww gross.
And from now on all my pots of coffee will taste like, “Eeeewwww gross.”
Am I that much a pessimist?
Ok. Ready? I just poured myself a new cup from the new fresh pot. Even traded out my Marvin the Martian cup for my Tazmanian Devil cup. It’s hot. I take a sniff. I guess it smells better. Maybe. I’m thinking I can’t remember the last time I had a cup of coffee that made my taste buds tingle, don’t know why that is.
Ok, ok. Much better. That tastes like coffee. Like plain old Columbian French Roast.
I suddenly want a really really really good cup of coffee and this isn’t doing it for me.
Something’s up with my computer. When it goes into idle, when I move the mouse the monitor isn’t coming back. It stays black. I have to cut it off and on several times before it will respond. This has been happening the past few days.
People are having all kinds of fun with Rove, tossing him about, and his effigy sits on my shelf wondering why I’m not flinging him about and maybe I’m wondering a little too.
I’m going to take an aspirin for a headache now.
Rove is like a dead man to me, when I think about it. I can muster up a Marilyn-Aphrodite to pursue Tom Delay and mock him. Remember the old Blackglama furm ads? Was it Blackglama? Something like that. “What becomes a legend most?” I keep thinking what road kill would best suit Rove. And I can’t come up with anything and I realize it’s because he’s like a dead man to me. I guess that means he walks through walls and doors. Funny, with Tom Delay, I would look at pics of him and think of the things he was doing and his Achilles heel was positively screaming. “I am an alcoholic with a heap of history kicking my ass to where I am today! You think it’s sitting around a corner waiting to crumple me in the future. Hell, it’s eating me live now!” But Rove? Nothing. Open the can and there’s nothing there. A true demon in that sense. A zero. Which is why he can walk through walls. No hint of a Green Goblin anywhere in his face. Empty. I’d say maybe a tad of spite is observed in his flesh but that too I’m convinced is just part of the robot facade for what is best magically self-programmed to suit the situation.
If I reach really really really really deep I can find Rove in the musical “Oliver” singing “Where is Love?”
Right then, Oliver Twist, your bed’s underneath the counter. You don’t mind sleeping
among coffins I suppose? It don’t much matter whether you do or you don’t cause you can’t sleep
Where is love?
Does it fall from skies above?
Is it underneath the willow tree
That I’ve been dream of?
Where is she?
Who I close my eyes to see?
Will I ever know the sweet “hello”
That’s only meant for me?
Who can say where she may hide?
Must I travel far and wide?
‘Til I am bedside the someone who
I can mean somethin to …
Where is love?
Who can say where…she may hide?
Must I travel…far and wide?
‘Til I am beside…the someone who
I can mean…something to…
Where is love?
Only it’s not Oliver singing. It’s Rove as Nancy. Breasts bursting at the seams as much as they are able without horrifying the G rated audience. And it’s a very very long time ago, right before Oliver Reed shows up in the middle of the song and beats her skull in and that’s all there’s written for Nancy, Rove has been dragging her around at his heel for the past 50 odd years but no one can see her there because Reed, when he was done bashing her skull, ran her through a meat mincer.
And somehow out of this Rove became Rove. Because he had to deny Nancy. He had to tuck the breasts in. He couldn’t let them hang out and climb up on the table and dance and sing for the boys and let his hair run wild and free. He had to shred the red velvet gown. Bury the cute Victorian boots and corset. He even had to get rid of the shawl, which was the last straw. Because what harm was a shawl. But no, couldn’t keep Nancy’s shawl either.
Thus was born Rove.
It’s all I can muster up for him. The only vague read I can get. It’s like in the movie “Oliver”, and after Oliver Reed kills Nancy you want to see the body, you have to see the body but you’re deprived of that, she moves so completely into ghostdom that there’s nothing but a bag, clothes and a wig, Nancy’s gone, but because there was nothing at all left to mourn that wig hangs around and begins to pick up its own unresolved life. If Oliver Reed hadn’t fallen to his death he would have eventually put on that wig and dress and been forced to play Nancy out, continue strutting her stuff for her. But Oliver Reed fell to his death and somehow all that was left was Rove, neither Nancy nor Oliver Reed acting out Nancy’s ghost. Just Rove.
I haven’t figured it out yet.