And Now for Something Completely Banal.

I've found a new reason to get up in the morning. CoffeeGiant.com is carrying a new kind of Flavia packet called "Intense Dark Roast." Flavia rates the strength of their coffee on a scale of one to five, with five being the most intense. Sumatra, heretofore my favorite blend, was the only one rated a "5+." It was the "plus" that did it for me. The Intense Dark Roast, however, is rated 7 on a scale of 5. That's just good stuff. Believe me, a couple of cups of that will really sharpen you right up. Coffee is one of my few remaining vices, and as I've given up the others, I only make up for them with stronger and stronger coffee.

Speaking of vices, yesterday saw an increasingly rare phenomenon--a hangover. As I've gotten older, I just don't drink to the kind of excess, or with the complete abandon that guarantees nausea, headache, the whole nine yards anymore. I'm better about drinking water, eating, and doing all the other things (i.e., not just slamming drinks like I'm immortal) to spare myself that kind of worthless experience.

When you order that first tequila shot, that ought to be your indicator that you've had too much already. Unfortunately, this is the point at which you're already too far gone to have such a revelation.

The occassion? I had gone Saturday to Tomcat's on Commerce to see Error of Free Will. They opened for a couple of totally forgettable metal bands. The vodka tonics I was sucking down like water helped make them a little more tolerable, at least. It was EFW's first show, and I think it's safe to say they had a few nerves. They also have some balls: you've got to have some big ones to cover Toadies in Dallas, especially "Tyler." It seemed to go over pretty well, though. There was a pretty decent crowd there, especially considering how dead Deep Ellum has become, and there were more than a few heads bobbing along to that one and more than a few people singing along.

But forget the cover--the original material was where it was at. EFW is kind of a strange mutt. Dave lays down the funk, playing back in the pocket and putting the real bottom in the bottom end. DJ has the slashing, high-end guitar that, coupled with Dave's legato basslines gives the band an unbelievably mature sound, especially on "Shiny Steel Splinter," hands-down the best song of the night. If this is the direction they're taking the band, it's the right one. There's a real sonic distance between the two; too often, bassists and guitarists simply play the same rhythm and the same notes for a flat tone. These guys have some real musicianship and complexity going for them.

Not to ruffle anyone's feathers, but beyond that, I can't comment. I was significantly impressed by the union of guitar and bass; beyond that, I was too drunk to recall, and I've slept since then. Hey, this ain't no music review I'm writing here. Tell you what, guys: line up another gig, I'll come out, we'll do it again.

The Most Romantic Movie of All Time.

Spider-Man 2.

Of Course, We Could Just Kill All the Stupid People. That Would Improve Literacy, Too.

The push for simplified spelling persists.

I'm appalled. I have to say, as an English teacher, that this represents everything that I oppose. This is everything that in my life and work I stand against. The obvious satire of the article itself notwithstanding, the subject is nothing less than the decline of Western Civilization.

The idea of a top-down revision of official spelling--even if it could be done--really galls me. It's exactly the kind of thing would be championed by a President who once said that we have to ask ourselves the question--and I quote--"is our children educated?" I mean, I've always wanted to run the Boston marathon, but it's just so damn long. Oh, sure, I could train and all that. But why should I have to? Why not just change the marathon to suit the needs of an out-of-shape loser like me? I've always said that if I weren't teaching English, that I'd be a theoretical physicist. It's just that I'm not that good at math. But that shouldn't be a problem--we can always dumb down calculus as well.

Just watch as our nation excels at mediocrity!

All sarcasm aside, I'll be the first to tell you that not everyone can excel in every skill set. Math, as I've said, is not really my strong suit. Maybe it's just the way my brain works. Maybe it's that I wasn't taught math the right way, or at the right time: It's a simple and often-overlooked truth that the mill that is our educational system is based on arbitrarily arrived at, cookie-cutter models of indoctrinating certain skill sets at certain times in a student's life. It's one of those nature-nurture things.

I can tell you from experience that I can't reach every student every time. Sometimes they have to be ready. Since I'm teaching college-aged kids, sometimes I have to contend with years of poor teaching that my students bring with them, carrying it as they do their backpacks. There are many factors involved here.

The point is that whether you're a teacher or a student, education isn't for wimps.

Last Night, I Met One of My Heroes.

Last night when I got off work--not my teaching job, but the other one--I went to the Double Wide to see Mescalero play. I'll admit I sort of dragged my feet changing my clothes and getting cash from the ATM. It was one of those times that I resigned myself to the fact that I would either get there in time to see them or not. I didn't get there in time, but it turns out that I would've missed them even if I had hurried.

It was the Warped Tour after-party, and the Double Wide--usually a place that attracts a pretty authentic crowd in spite of its over-the-top white trash camp aesthetic--was packed with more emo kids than you could write a crappy poem about. I've rarely seen so many preternaturally long bangs and guys in girl pants in one place.

It's also been a long time since I've seen the Double Wide so packed; sizing up the crowd and mentally timing my wait in line to get up to the vinyl-wrapped bar, I decided it would be in my best interest to go ahead and get my next two Tecates-with-lime now, rather than try to fight my way to the front again. If you've never been to the DW, let me tell that cheap Mexican beer (with lime no less) is high toned for this joint--the Double is maybe the only place in Dallas where you can get an honest-to-gosh Pabst or Lone Star without the risk of getting in the way of some biker's game of pool.

I wouldn't really call the Double Wide a dive, but it certainly wants to be.

The Double Wide is also a place in stiff, if unspoken, competition with the Grapevine for the "smallest and most ill-placed restroom in a bar" category of next year's Dallas Observer Best of Dallas Awards. The closet-sized unisex toilet (and that's all it is) is conveniently located directly in front of the door between the patio and the barroom, the most highly trafficked area in the place.

I was mentally weighing my chances of being able to get past the drunks standing in line for the head without spilling my beers when I saw the unmistakable blue-green-brown dreads of Eric Melvin in the corner. He was standing behind a table with buttons reading "Guitar Hero" littering the top, chatting affably with anyone who stopped by. Mostly this consisted of girls, punks, and other hangers-on. All of them talked and talked while Mel smiled politely. You just know he's done this before.

You don't get many opportunities to meet your heroes, so my advice is always to meet them whenever you get such a chance. It's entirely unlikely that he would remember me any more than he's going to remember any other yahoo that walked up to him last night or any other night; that doesn't change the fact that you want to say something that--to you at least--is authentic and heartfelt. You want to say something that you can look back on later and say to yourself honestly, "I didn't make an ass of myself. And maybe, just maybe, I said something he doesn't hear from the same drunk assholes over and over."

I took my time and thought it over. I mean, what do you say to a guy whose band has been the supreme example of ethics, honesty, and courage? This is Eric Fucking Melvin, guitarist for NOFX, the band that wrote "The Decline," "Linoleum," "Irrationality of Rationality," and "Punk Rock Elite." This guy doesn't have to hold down a day job to live for his art; his art supports him and he can sleep well at night knowing the money he makes is his own. He didn't get it by selling himself, his audience, and his art to an evil corporation that exploits fans and artists alike. He's never turned his back on DIY or on the fans--in fact, he's a fan himself (just check out his side project Punk Rock Karaoke).

What do you say? What can you say, I mean.

I finished my beers. I walked over and waited my turn.

"Melvin?"

"Yes." I shook his hand.

"Thank you."