Rocket Man

I woke up this morning and didn't smell the coffee. Somewhere in that Twilight Zone haze between Far Side dreams and full consciousness, 2 and 2 doesn't add up to 4. It's too cold, for one thing. Early bird Bobbie must be sleeping in.

A one-eyed squint reveals predawn's ambient light invading my darkness. Misfiring synapses smooth out as the curtain slowly closes on pulp fiction nightmares. Ravaged by time, plaque, and beer, full consciousness at this age is a process. Like starting a vintage car equipped with a hand-choke, it takes awhile to warm up and un-sputter. A painfully full bladder forces my hand... two steps, pivot, sit (too early to stand).

Then it hits me, why it's so cold... why I don't smell coffee, why there is no soft putter from Mr Buddy Heater. Bobbie's gone. She left to go home to Lovely Ouray yesterday. It feels weird, sad... but at least I didn't cry this time, like last year.

I spark Mr Buddy to life and go to work scooping out yesterday's grounds from the coffee press. I make a huge mess of Goldie's kitchen (there has to be a better way). It's 20 long minutes before I'm sipping my wake up drug of choice, but it's weaker than Utah beer. Put the kettle back to boil; drum fingers; add two more scoops; plunge-lift-plunge-lift-plunge-lift. Better. 

Mac Book says: "Trump's Health Care Bill fails to pass muster... Republicans pointing fingers." SOS in Washington... House of Cards now teetering.

I check Goldie's control panel. Blackwater, 3/4 full (how can that be?). I go outside to pee. Sunrise glints from tera cotta ramparts of "Back-a-beyond." Its cold, but clear skies show promise for a good long ride on "Bad Habit," perhaps the "Alaska loop?" No... too much technical shit too soon (sigh). My biking buddy is gone. Who will call 911? Play it safe, Mark. Wait a couple days, work on stamina.

i-Pod plays Neil Young. He's wailing, "keep on rockin' in the free world." I dance in place, stirring too much oatmeal (oh that's right, Bobbie's not here). Stomach growls at the aroma of cinnamon. 

Halfway through breakfast I have to pee again. Damn prostate. Oh well, could be worse, at least I'm continent. 

I say that a lot lately, "It could be worse." Who is that geezer with big ears in my mirror? What happened to Prince Charming? Could it be any worse? I mean, really. 

i-Pod plays Elton John. He's a "Rocket Man." I share his loneliness in "outer space." I sing along...

I miss the earth so much, I miss my wife
It's lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight

And I think it's gonna be a long long time
'Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find
I'm not the man they think I am at home
Oh, no, no, no.
I'm a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone...

Sun is well up; time to straddle my own "rocket" and take to the hills. Hopefully, on my return to camp, having burnt out my fuse of loneliness, I can drink a beer, ponder the Universe, this surreal landscape, and my continuing existence that defies all odds given my G-nome. It's lonely out in space, but, it could be worse.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to put on my helmet and cape...
I'm Rocket Man...