Speak of the Devil . . .

. . . . And he appears.

Most people don’t know that’s how the whole saying goes.

Of course, most people have better things in their minds than the interesting but useless bits of trivia that I keep in mine. For example, despite my general dislike of all professional sports great and small, I know that the Lakers got their name because the team was originally based in Minnesota. I also know that Lou Gehrig died of Lou Gehrig’s disease.

You woulda’ thought he’d have seen that one coming!

But I digress.

If you scroll down a bit, you will see that I provided an interesting, if somewhat high-handed and generally humorous take on the subject of coffee; that foul and most loathsome of drinks. No sooner had the ink dried on the page . . . or rather my hand had finished clicking on the mouse key, than the Devil, Lucifer himself, the Morning Star and First of the Fallen Angels, must have known that I was on his track. His little helpers, the eight-legged-freaks of myth, lore, legend and detox hallucination, scurried to do his bidding.

In Southern California, it grew cold.

Not just a little cold.

Damn, damn cold.

So suddenly had this cold hit that I was not prepared. I happened to be at a high school debate tournament, helping to coach and judge the talented youngsters from Diamond Ranch High School in their regional qualifying rounds. Cold, I tell you! Bitter, bitter cold. The kind of cold that can kill a man and strip his flesh from his bones in 18 seconds. Apparently, Damien High School, where the tournament was held, doesn’t believe in listening to the weather reports OR in turning on the heat.

Damn Catholics anyhow.

I know, I know what you’re thinking. But honestly, where was I going to find rubber pants in my size at that hour?

So there I was, there I was, there I was, in the cold. My hands had lost all sensation earlier, and all attempts to keep my scarf secure enough about my neck so as to warm the rest of me had failed utterly and miserably. Burning my team’s briefs was out of the question, and the smaller freshmen had formed some kind of mutual non-aggression treaty, preventing us from sacrificing them to the sun gods.

And then, salvation.

That’s right loyal readers, it was coffee.

Liquid evil.

Made by a cut-rate teacher’s lounge coffee-maker in a stained generic pot, smelling of forgotten and moldy grounds, un-distilled water and bargain-basement ground coffee that had gone stale. I’ll admit, I probably don’t know a good coffee from a great one, or an expensive coffee from really expensive coffee, but I do know what good coffee should taste like, even if I have to suppress the urge to run to the nearest confessional and beg forgiveness for drinking it.

This was not good coffee.

This was just short of nuclear waste spillage.

Foul, disgusting, murky black water with the taint of madness and grief.

Coffee, most foul and unnatural.

But warm, and a man will sell his soul for a little warmth in that bleak, bleak Southern California cold.

Maybe I’m getting acclimated too much.