Das Gaa Kaffeehaus
I noticed his gait first—he walked towards us with a spingy hop that looked eager, excited, full of hope.

I had decided I wouldn’t like him. Now I saw him and was wary. I could feel myself circling like an old dog for a fight in the dusty street.

Next I saw his hat, an old English cloth cap with black and purple checkers.

“Hmmn.” I thought, circling distrustfully. “A fool.”

It’s not best to meet a fellow on a recommendation of his mother through your mother. At least it’s not a good idea when you’re 17 and 18 and not used to having friends like we were.

I knew I wasn’t going to like him and I don’t think I’ve ever been more wrong.

I asked him some question that day—a regular type question with the half-hidden hope of getting deeper—and we argued about everything, anything, for the next six months.

Driving everyone around us a little mad as we talked the world, building a all-touching dioalouge that changed who I had been and defined who I was.

We’ve gone through a few changes in the last years, watching our grand mental constructs and world theories soar, spin and collide, great smashing collisions. Our opinions have come together, shifted, fallen apart and come together again.

We have come to comfortable silence, easy laughter, making fun of each other and ourselves. We have talked into the late hours of the night and explored any esoteric region of human experience.

Now my best friend, Jeffery W. Nelson, has come to the world of blogging. Seeing his first week speak of the poetry of Scott, Chesterton, Chinese artifacts, Seattle opera and learning to read, I’d say the electronic version is going to do fair justice to the man.