Essay: The Sound of Coffee 

To 'errrr' is espresso, to go nutso divine. My aluminum 'Euro' espresso maker is making this soft chiding sound. "Err, err, err." I think it's telling me I'm a cheesy American. I think it's correct. I'm no John Phillip Sousa. I'm crapola compared to John Wayne or Randolf Scott. My self-esteem appears to have spontaneously combusted and died on an ugly used living room couch.

When I was using a generic Mr. Coffee knock off, banal years ago, it made this urinating sound. I felt as though it and I had something in common. We both piss. Before that, a plastic percolator from McCrory's was like a heart that had been stabbed with switchblade that had done stellar acting in West Side Story. After drinking five cups, I'd skip around the living room singing, "There's a place for my sick ass, somewhere..." That was a long time ago. Since then a pall of alienation fell on me like a gigantic tone arm on a portable vinyl record player. I no longer know what it means to be a total failure in America.