Fires burn, heart beats strong, sing out loud the chain gang song.

Grace Jones – Slave to the Rhythm

Rhythm is both the song's manacle and its demonic charge.

It is the original breath. It is the whisper of unremitted demand.

I. Penman, "The Annihilation of Rhythm."


It’s cheese sandwiches all the way down

My weekends have been making me happy but they don't make good copy.

It's Sunday evening. I'm sitting at Prism Cafe. Seven other laptops — various Macs and a rogue Dell — are open and aglow. Something wickedly, mournfully trumpety, chat and polyrhythmic is playing overhead. There may or may not be a glass of pilsner at the table next to me. Across the street, two dryers should be spinning my dark clothes to a warm, soft finish.

Saturday started with good quality A. time, including doro tibs at Cafe Colucci (yummers). After bidding her good afternoon, I crawled into San Francisco through thick clumps of weekend traffic (after lucking out and noticing my damn-near-empty gas tank and finding the only West Oakland pump that hadn't heard about the recent price dropoff) and made it to a co-worker's boyfriend's birthday party in McLaren Park. A dozen years in the Bay Area and I'm still finding parts of the city that are completely new to me. There was beer, cheeseburgers, friendly volleyballage,  ex-co-workers become friends-of-friends materializing out of the ether, dogs running around and loose jams on acoustic guitars.

Then most of the partygoers adjourned to a warehouse loft/practice space off Bayshore Boulevard, where a bit of jamming with members of Sweet Crude Bill became a rousing 80s-pop acoustic singalong. I'm going to say the peak came somewhere a Journey song that, until I remember differently, was probalby "Don't Stop Believin'."