Happy freaking Saturday. Got 10 hours of sleep, got strong coffee in my new favorite mug, got breakfast (homemade bagel-egg-and-cheese, which got to be a bit messy as I was overambitious with the cheese) in my tummy, got sick of war news on NPR punctuated with the sad version of their theme song (thank you B.J. Liederman, O He of the Appropriate Teutonic Surname), got Calexico on my stereo, got no deeds to do, no promises to keep. (Am I the only one who’s had “Feelin’ Groovy” going through her head 85% of all waking hours thanks to the Gap commercials for stretchy khakis?)

Last night I et Thai food in Allston with T. and K. — Brown Sugar seems to have yet another name, Den’s Place. The menus were done up in cutesy colorful fun-fonted style and had charactures — and let me tell you, I’ve seen better exaggerated likenesses on the boardwalks of New Jersey — of the owners? waitstaff? on the covers. I had zilch hunger (thank you, lunchtime burrito of doom) and thus have plenty of pad Thai left over.

After dinner, we saw Calexico at the Paradise. I was all sick-feeling and tired and hot, despite our having lucked into mezzanine-level seats with a great view of the stage and full cocktail-waitress service, and didn’t think I’d last through the opening band (Nina Nastasia). But during the break, I ordered up the flattest Diet Coke ever poured and the club’s ventilation came on. By the time Calexico began, I was getting my fourth or fifth wind. Not that I could have left once they started to play — definitely one of those exhilirating, chill-inducing, completely mesmerizing musical experiences that reminds me why I still stay up past my bedtime and suffer cigarette-cravings. I was especially excited when they covered Love’s “Alone Again Or,” which fit their Southwest/Mexican badlands style to a T. I ended up buying the two tour-only CDs afterward plus their new one, which I’d meant to grab anyway. As we drove through Allston, I felt so bubbly and bouncy that I wanted to hoist some beers at the Model Cafe or the Silhouette Lounge, but that was false energy as it turned out — I got home, checked my email, called D., and fell right to sleep.

The past couple of days were notable because I encountered not one, but two blessedly crazy people. The first made his presence known Thursday as I rode the T home. The car wasn’t too crowded, but he was at the far end and all I could make out at first was some man yelling what I assumed was a Tourettey rant. My fellow passengers were doing their best to ignore him. When we stopped at Central Square, though, I could hear him better and I grabbed for my notebook. “Is there anybody on this train that’s CPR-certified?” (Initial concern that he was having a medical emergency was allayed, viz.) “Except for me? No one? Oooooh-whee! I can’t be-LIEVE I am the only one who’s CPR-certified! Ha ha ha ha!” Further shouting was muffled until we slowed down to approach Harvard: “Bostonians, so-called! Huh! Live in a frame house. Front porch, wooden floors. Cheese every day. I know all about you! I do! Oh, well! Mmm-mmm. My homeboys. Harvard. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Harvard got it goin’ ON. How’d to get to be? That guy have moustache. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Then he got off the train, much to my disappointment.

Then last night, as I was waiting for K. and T. to pick me up in front of my building, I heard a blues harmonica somewhere behind me. They guy playing it walked past me, a short, wiry-looking fellow in a brown pleather bomber jacket, his whole torso swaying and dipping to his playing. A couple pushing a stroller passed him walking the other way, and he turned as they passed and shouted, “Yeah, your child will be all right, as long as his head’s spinning. IF it’s spinning in the right direction! Ha ha ha!” Another guy came up to him and advised him not to bother people with kids, then left. Crazy Harmonica Guy walked away from me, then abruptly turned around and homed right in on me. “Hey, can I tell you something?” I froze up with that old familiar urban dread that rides in the sidecar of talking to strangers in the city. “It’s OK. I just want to tell you something. Sometimes I’m playing music, not here, but downtown, in Boston Common. Only I’m playing soft; you can barely hear how loud I’m playing. And I see these babies being pushed around, and I can see them — their heads, their heads through the whaddaya call it, the window, the back of their strollers? And they’re looking RIGHT at me. Their little heads turn right around! And not because of what I’m playing! No! Because of the music” (He spreads his arms wide over his head and waves them.) “The music that’s out there, all around. They hear it! Their parents don’t hear it, but they do. See? Know what I’m saying?” I nodded, and he turned to go. “That’s all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but you see?” Then he walked off toward Dunkin Donuts and started playing harmonica again.

Coffee’s starting to make my heart race, so I think I’ll sign out and run around in circles in my living room for awhile.