Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 1: Coffeemaker

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

My name is Rodman Stockton Swindle. This is my story.

 

After traveling to southern California in the big rig of my trucker neighbor, for a rendezvous with Kookshow Baby from Cult Radio A-Go-Go, I lapsed into a funk at home in Ohio. The thrill of that trans-continental adventure had been an uplifting experience. Yet with this episode now in my rearview mirror, and daily life having returned to the drudgery of old, I began to sag emotionally. Work time in the home office became unproductive and tiring. I found myself turning for comfort to the household beer stash, and solace on the front porch. Weeks passed without any communication from my distant contact at the abandoned drive-in of Terry & Tiffany DuFoe. Something that I had expected with her many responsibilities. Eventually, I started to withdraw into habits of my Appalachian heritage. I survived on one meal a day, from my Weber kettle grill. Usually, chicken or some form of pig meat. Always cheap cuts to meet my meager budget. I drank late, and awakened early. A schedule that meant my brain cells lingered in a fog of depravation throughout each week.

 

This downward spiral of fatigue met its end one morning, as I attempted to make coffee just after daybreak. My BUNN system hadn’t had proper maintenance in a year at least. So, when set up as usual, it rebelled in protest.  Still sleepy and dazed, I stumbled toward my kitchen to discover that only a slight residue of black distillation was present in the bottom of its carafe. A sputtering drip of liquid ebbed from the filter basket. I tried bumping the appliance to cause a surge of water in its tank, but got little benefit in return.

 

My eyes were narrow, and heavy. I cursed and thumped my disability canes on the floor.

 

Following this brief visitation of woe, I searched online for brewing alternatives. As a youngster, I remembered that my father used a plain, redline boiler to make java on the stovetop. The enameled vessel was both primitive and durable. He would bring water up to temperature, add spoons of ground coffee, and then pour the yield through a small strainer, into his mug. The flavor was honest and full-bodied. Akin to what might be served at a roadside café, somewhere far removed from the bustle of metropolitan areas. Or, around a campfire, outdoors.

 

With some hunting across a variety of websites, I found that such a throwback creation was still available, from purveyors of camping equipment and accessories. I could not quite match the item remembered from childhood days, but came close enough. What I ordered was a 12-cup, Graniteware pot. A basic, metal reservoir. I guessed that it would do well as a backup, when such moments of beverage chaos arrived.

 

Meanwhile, I needed to clean out my BUNN. In the household pantry, I found a jug of vinegar bought sometime during the previous year, but left on the floor under accumulated shopping bags and cleaning aids. Once I filled the coffeemaker with a full measure of this natural cleanser, it returned to dribbling and popping bubbles of air. I had to allow this slow process to continue for over two hours. Finally, there was a belch of dirty water from its internal tank, and a geyser on the other side. The plugged pipes had been cleared at last.

 

A raw aroma of heavy, hot cider filled my kitchen. I made a mental note not to wait so long before performing this necessary ritual, again.

 

While letting the flushed effluent cool in place, I checked my Facebook account for recent posts from friends. At the top of my phone screen, there was a video from a group called ‘Old Drunken Buzzards.’ A band apparently from Seattle, Washington, with whom I was completely unfamiliar. Their presentation came across as decidedly basic. Just guitar, bass, and drums. All of the group members seemed chronologically older, like myself. When I played the track, it delivered a punchy, captivating sound of straight-ahead, instrumental Rock & Roll. I was intrigued by the tones they created. A big boom from so few in the lineup.

 

They asked for suggestions about naming the tune, with a promise of contest winners receiving gifts, if chosen. Suddenly, words began to echo inside my skull. I sat down at the desk in my home office, took a sheet of paper from the computer printer, and started to write out lyrics, by hand. The result was two verses and a chorus, scribbled in about five minutes.

 

I had to ponder this result briefly, before deciding what to do, next.

 

Back in the Game (Old Drunken Buzzards No. 1)

 

“I know that you

Have traveled through time and space

Here we meet, by accident

In this lonely place

I’m not ready to be human

Not ready to be seen

But there’s a taste of tomorrow calling

From the pages of a CREEM magazine

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game

 

Don’t be shy now

There’s no reason to abstain

I might have passed you by

By chance

But there’s a jester’s heart in pain

That ember burns in my chest

It cannot go cold and gray

So take my hand, Rosita

Let us dance and pray

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game...”

 

I decided to play their post on my computer, and then use the cellular device to capture added vocals which would be rendered in demo form. I managed to record this burst of inspiration in one take. I captured my vibe as a distant, impulsive contributor. Someone who had been out of the music scene for many, many years. This exercise evoked memories of working with my friend Paul Race and his cohorts, chiefly from Corning, New York. I had learned a great deal about pacing and rhythm while improvising words to his gritty, guitar doodlings.

 

When the west-coast fellows watched my submission, they were both amused and impressed. Kind compliments followed in my timeline, and an offer of band merch. I shared the post office box used for Swindle Shack communication. And thanked them for having the opportunity to participate. Yet afterward, my angst and ennui returned.

 

I had only one thought in mind. How would any of this help me get back into good standing with Kookshow Baby?