There Goes the Neighborhood!

You may think, for a lover of coffee houses, there would be nothing worse than seeing a burgeoning neighborhood get its very own café, only to have it turn out to be a complete and total bust. Denver is a city of vibrant neighborhoods, each one rife with an eclectic cast of characters, folks who not only deserve, but are practically begging for their very own gathering place; a destination that both caters to and reflects their unique eccentricities. When you have to sit idly by as your favorite haunts go under, it’s pretty annoying to watch an endless string of also-rans pop up all over the place.

There is, however, something worse than that for the coffee lover (especially one who occasionally catches himself daydreaming of owning his very own joint) – and that’s when that very same neighborhood gets a concurrent barrage of half-assed coffee shops, sausaged, one after the other, into the exact same location. One ill conceived independent gets bought out by a lazy franchisee is replaced by some Johnny-Come-Lately corporation. Wash, rinse, repeat. Yawn.

A few weeks ago, #1 son and I were heading up to Cheeseman for a day in the sun when I spotted a Capitol Hill cutie walking down the street with one of those brilliantly iconic/annoyingly loud Dazbog cups that said coffee company supplies to their many local accounts. Cool, I thought… maybe at long last some enterprising individual has come along to challenge Diedrichs default title of “Official Coffee Supplier of the Queen City Queens”. I couldn’t wait to visit this sparkling new utopia, with it’s mismatched couches, and charming baristas, and down-tempo house music thump thump thumping away into the wee hours of the morning

Imagine my disappointment when I looked up to see the Diedrich Coffee sign on the corner of 9th and Downing replaced with a crookedly hung tarp reading (yeah, “duh”, I guess) “Dazbog Coffee”. Meaning, they aren’t just supplying the bean-juice, they are dictating to the hapless franchisee what kind of music gets played, what sort of art makes it onto walls, what color Dazbog logo’d tee-shirts the employees will wear, and what sort of drinks you can find on the menu (which means, presumably, you won’t be able to order a Mr. Brown and Kalua anytime soon).

In the past, I have unequivocally stated my support for the Dazbog brand. It’s just that, lately, they’ve been sprouting up locations all over town. Does anyone still think of this as a novel idea? Or even a potentially lucrative business plan? Does a city which has gone through Peaberry Coffee, Tuscany Coffee, Ink! Coffee, Caribou Coffee, Brio, Brothers Coffee, Diedrich Coffee, Coffee People, French Quarter Coffee Company, Perk and Pub, Gloria Jean’s Coffee Beans and Java City really need one more chain?

I suppose if some smart ass were to answer that completely rhetorical question with a “yes”, then the corner of 9th and Downing is as good a location for it as any. After all, that spot has a storied history, and serves as a graveyard for more than a few of the joints listed above.

See, once upon a time, back before Denver was the thriving, cultured metropolis that it is now, if you wanted a simple, decent cup of coffee - and you didn’t have an hour or two to kill while the waitress at Muddy’s or Paris poured it for you - you had precisely two choices; The Market, or Brio. Brio was an itty bitty chain that served drip coffee, espresso drinks, and one (1) kind of sandwich daily, which could not be customized, because it was pre-made in a commissary deep beneath the earth’s crust. But you didn’t care, because that one sandwich was one of the best sandwiches you could get within city limits. And Brio was good; the owners were smart enough to hire hipsters to man the locations, most of which sat in the bottom floors of office buildings where workers toiled away from 9 to 5 in their business casual.

The owners eventually sold all of their locations to the Boyer Brothers, who thought it would we be an ingenious idea to start a brand new chain of espresso bars - and viola! - Brothers Coffee was born (Their father Bill, owner of “Boyers Coffee”, sued his own sons for the use of his name, leaving his sons with their generic moniker). The brothers remodeled the store from late 80’s black and white deco into a wood grain motif, stuffed the staff into that denim shirt-and-tie combo that was so popular back in the mid-nineties, and basically drove the place straight into the ground. Their only real contribution to the Denver coffee scene was opening the shop across from Queen Soopers. The clientele affectionately referred to it as “Sister’s”.

After a few years, Diedrich Coffee acquired all of the Brothers locations, deciding it was high time to bring their popular SoCal brand to Colorado. I did my time at Brio, and at Brothers, and at Diedrich; and in that time I learned one very important thing - the people of Southern California love them some monumentally crappy coffee.

Ah, Diedrich. What can I possibly say about them that I haven’t alluded to many times before in this blog? Probably nothing, but it all bears repeating… Martin Diedrich is an egotistical, arrogant twirp of a little man, whose idea of coffee training is standing in front of a group of people for four hours, and telling them all about his “family crest”, which is emblazoned on every cup. The man spoke his own name with the hushed tones usually reserved for Hitler, or maybe Jesus. Yeah, yeah, their drip coffee was pretty good, but their espresso drinks were foul. If anyone has ever told you they got a halfway decent drink at Diedrich, it’s because their barista had at one time worked for a better shop. Or they had their sense of taste irreparably damaged due to a severe brain injury.

When the Diedrich plan to establish a new world order, on par with that of Starbucks (while always bemoaning the big green label in the same breath) fell through, they handed the reins over to a franchisee, one who also owned a few Burger Kings. Because, you know, the King knows coffee.

Under the direction of this new franchisee, the store fell further into disrepair, the service got worse, and the staff exhibited that sort of slacker anarchy that happens when the owners just stop caring and the clientele is far too entranced in their habit to go anyplace else.

Over the years, I’ve overheard many an entrepreneur muse about getting their hands on the 2 Diedrich locations that book-ended Cheeseman. And I’ve no doubt the reason none of them jumped on it was that they would have had to take a few of those old Brio locations off their hands, as well. So, now, we’ve got Dazbog.

And how do they fare? Well, credit where credit is due – the coffee I got there on a recent visit was 100% better than anything that’s come out of that location in the last 5 years – maybe even ever. I watched the barista pour a flawless shot of espresso into my red-eye, causing my mouth actually water (and to think, just a few years ago I heard Leonid say that automatic machines were the way of the future – for shame!). On another visit, when I asked to have my beans ground for a toddy maker, the barista didn’t even bat an eye, which was a refreshing change from the apoplectic fit that the average Diedrich employee would’ve had at the same request.

But how is Dazbog really different? Where does it truly distinguish itself from what’s come before? The truth is, it doesn’t; the signs on the wall are the same old humdrum advertisements, and the men’s room still looks it belongs in a New York City subway station (though to be fair, the prospect of cleaning it is more than a little intimidating – we used to have this regular that we called “The Naughty-Potty Man” who would go in there for an hour and… actually, just forget I brought it up.)

It’s funny though, go check out the comments section re:Diedrich Coffee at the Denver Coffee Blog. It’s proof positive that every coffee shop, no matter how pathetic, is somebody’s favorite. And every single owner, from Brother’s on, has had to deal with the complaints when change happens.

My advice for the new owner operator is this – get to know the Boyz in the Hood’. Get a new coat of paint on the walls. Ditch the Muzak. Maybe get yourself one of those hazmat suits and hose down the john.

And most of all, put your heart into it… maybe there’s still a chance to make it everybody’s favorite.

Muddy's Memories

Following my new policy of “Fresh Content on a (Semi) Regular Basis”, here’s a link to the page for a much-missed Denver institution.

I was always more of a Paris/St. Mark’s/Euphrates guy, but I definitely did my time sipping coffee amongst the books in Muddy’s ratty old loft.

Truly, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore…

Blockbuster Coffee!

So, this has been a pretty monumental year for me, what with the lay-off in January and the two new jobs since then. Earlier this week, I even interviewed for a possible third (I’m still in the early stages of that one, we’ll see what develops) I had my 10 year wedding anniversary in May, and in March, I officially entered my “mid-thirties”.

35 came with exactly no more and no less fanfare than I would’ve wanted. My advancing age isn’t something that’s bothered me much lately; as a matter of fact, for some reason the idea of 36 seems sort of dignified to me. Like its real, true adulthood - implying all the respect and experience therein (but then again, talk to me when I’m 40).

Oh, sure, there have been some little landmarks that are disorienting, if I allow myself to ponder them for too long. I totally outlived Jesus, for one. And If I lived in the 70’s style, futuristic dystopia of Logan’s Run, I would have been offed years ago. Not only that, but I’m two whole years older than Shatner was when he took the helm of the Enterprise. What seems strangest of all, though, is the fact that I’m no longer part of that coveted “18-34” male demographic that all of pop culture is said to be geared to.

My favorite birthday present this year was a Toddy brand iced coffee maker. Long time lurkers on my blog may recall my love of The Market’s iced coffee. They make theirs “Toddy Style”, and that’s where the Missus bought my 'maker from. It’s an entirely low tech affair; no electrical plug-ins or doodads. A pound worth of coarsely ground beans brew overnight in nine cups of cold water; the resulting, filtered concoction is a thick, pitch black concentrate, to which you add two parts water. That last part is of the utmost importance, and should be printed on the directions in ALL CAPS, italicized, and perhaps even be written in blood. Less a suggestion than a mandate, like “Don’t Feed the Mogwai After Midnight” or “Look Out! Swimming Pool Filled with Infected Hypodermic Needles!” Upon reading it, there should be an ominous thunderclap in the distance… you must make sure that you cut the stuff with a sufficient amount of H2O, and what ever you do - DO NOT drink the concentrate straight. It is dark. Potent. Intense. Like juice squeezed directly from Keith Richard’s right lung. It is an oily, shimmering, foreboding substance, like an alien life form that could crawl out of it’s carafe to bond to your body and take over your mind.

Speaking of which, I finally caught “Spiderman 3” last weekend. I’m sorry to say that it’s a mixed bag, at best. Maybe the way to go for Hollywood would be to have all of the movies top out at a duology; the trilogy thing too often ends badly. Spider-Man the Third doesn’t quite plumb the depths of stupidity mined by Superman III or Batman Forever, but neither is it as good as the good parts of Return of the Jedi. Remember Chewbacca’s groan-inducing “Tarzan Yell” at the climax? This whole movie is sort of like that - “cute”.

Sam Raimi seems to have decided that the success of the Spiderman series is less about watching 40+ years of comic book history played out on the big screen, and more about watching references to the first two movies (the upside down kiss, more flashbacks of Peter’s dead uncle, etc.). And really, can they come up with a climax that doesn’t involve putting Mary Jane in peril? I don’t care how google eyed, dodo yoohoo in love you are (and, oh, are they ever – yeeech), that would be the relationship breaker right there. If they make a fourth, they can just call it “Spider-Man 4: Sucks to be Your Girlfriend”, and it can be about Kristen Dunst and Bruce Campbell fighting off Zombie Uncle Ben.

Part of the problem for me was the whole “alien suit that turns you evil” subplot (or maybe that was the main plot and the other 15 plots were all “sub” – I had a hard time keeping up) The first time in my life I realized I was growing up was when they started the symbiote storyline in the comics. MY friendly neighborhood Spider-Man fought freaks of science localized here on Earth, like the Rhino, or Electro, or Hydro-Man, not other-worldly cosmic threats (because that would be, you know, unrealistic) He left all that stuff for the Fantastic Four or the X-Men. Seeing the previews, I begrudgingly accepted that this was the way they’d be going with the movie. Unfortunately, nothing could prepare me for the fact that Peter turning eeeevil would be illustrated by having Tobey Mcguire look like a coked-up Kyle Maclachlan in “Dreamgirls” and doing a dance number while Mary Jane sings in the background. Badly. (Stop giggling, folks who haven’t seen it yet – I’m Not Kidding.) If they really wanted to him to act evil, they should have just given him the straight Toddy concentrate – it’s called method acting, people. My proportions were a little off this morning, and I was like a paranoid schizophrenic.

The Peter vs. Harry stuff worked okay, and the finale was somewhat satisfying, if a little reminiscent of Ghostbusters (Man! Gremlins, Ghostbusters, Temple of Doom – second in a trilogy, I might add. 1984… now that was a year for summer movies). So of course, all this begs the question… is my enjoyment of this sort of thing diminished by my advancing years? Has my pop-tolerance been left behind, along with my membership in the “18-34” club? Is little Caff all grows up?

I sincerely doubt it. I think it has to do more with the fact that these gigantor budgeted movies are all micro-managed now, in order to appeal to the widest possible base. That means more Saved By the Bell-style flirting for Peter and MJ, and more heart to hearts with Aunt May. This morning, the two women I work with; women who talk about “Brad” and “Angelina” and “Rosie” with the same familiarity that multiple-cat owners use for their pets, were discussing how that new Fantastic Four movie looks “cute”.

Hear me now, world. If they screw up the Silver Surfer, I will go berserker… caffeinated or not.

Tales of the City...

I have a chip on my shoulder. Maybe more like a blemish. A growth, mutated from exposure to certain realities of my life the same way a melanoma develops from exposure to UV rays. I am a townie, a chronic local. I’ve lived in D-town long enough that to call myself anything other than a native makes all the transplanted Californians laugh out loud. Some other circumstances of my life would bother other folks more, were they to find themselves in my shoes. High school dropout? Never bothered me much. Barely a semester of film school, at dear ol’ Red Rocks Community College? I can live with that. Bi-weekly paychecks from a giant-sized, notoriously conservative media behemoth? Oooh, pangs of liberal guilt on that one; but hey - a brother gots to work somewhere.

But if I dwell too long on the fact that I’ve never slept on second hand lawn furniture in my very own basement efficiency apartment in Greenwich Village, suddenly I turn into James Stewart in “Vertigo” - you know that trademark Hitchcock shot, where he closes the camera in tight on his subject’s face, while he “zooms out” at the same time – resulting in that queasy optical effect? (what can I say, it was a very productive semester)

It’s not as though I’m pining for some Jungian “Heroes Quest”. Sure, I respect the drive to climb the highest mountain, in order to ask the old man at the top “what it’s all about”, or Cassie’s joining the Peace Corps in order to make the world a better place - but those things, I presume, come from someplace just south and to the left of your shoulder (Your heart, that is; or maybe your gut. Not your naughty bits). My own chip, though, was at one time just a simple, average sized, non-terminal wanderlust-gland, which, had I toured the hostels of Europe for a mere six weeks, would most likely have remained benign.

When I do have the opportunity to travel, what should be a simple romantic getaway with the love of my life takes on this mad, aimless urgency. I must peel beneath the simple facade set up for those accursed tourists, and truly grok whatever strange new land I find myself in.

And so it was in San Francisco, as the wife and I celebrated our tenth (!) anniversary. We consumed as much of the city as was humanly possible in our 5 short days; by streetcar; by trolley, through the ominous subway stations where George Lucas shot “THX-1138”.

(not me)

But most of all, we got by on foot - thanks to that glorious oxygen they keep so much of at sea level. I was there to dig it, man; to lose myself in the neighborhoods of Maupin’s “Tales of the City” and to find and embrace my inner hippy on Haight Ashbury.

The first thing I realized, once we got settled into our hotel, was that even the most legendary of coffee towns isn’t immune to the Starbucks virus. I figured that the corporation of choice would at least be the locally spawned Peet’s. Alas, we saw only one of those, awkwardly wedged into the Castro district. Little matter to me - I would be drinking my cappuccinos (my traditional “vacation beverage”) only in cafes where the disembodied spirits of Lawrence Ferlinghetti and his contemporaries floated freely.

Look at the Cafe Trieste website and you’ll discover that this small, unassuming joint was the first “Italian Style” coffeehouse on the west coast. Scooters – Vespas only, of course - are lined up against the curb outside. If you’re lucky enough to find a table on Sunday you can hear live opera being performed. If you’re lucky enough to go on the right Sunday, you may hear opera being performed by none other than Francis Ford Copalla (!) and family. Multiple pictures of Bill Cosby (!) adorn the walls, from his fighting-trim Chet Kincaid days to the thick-around-the-middle-late-Huxtable era. His celebrity affords him the ability, apparently, to walk behind the counter and whip up his own cappuccino. Sad to say, but I sort of wish he was there to make mine. Hidden beneath a modest layer of froth – more just “foam”, really – was a watery latte of no great consequence.

The next day we visited Haight Ashbury, where I was sure to not be disappointed - if for no other reason than lowered expectations. If I’ve learned anything in my half-a-lifetime of drinking coffee, it’s that, while college towns and hippy hotspots (Boulder, the “Ave” on the UW campus, etc.) feature no shortage of espresso bars and cafes, the coffee is usually nothing to blog about. But at least I would be in for some good people watching in a groovy atmosphere. “Rockin' Java” fit the bill nicely, decorated as it was in funky-junk modern and featuring the archetypal tattered couches. One barista saw that I was re-reading “Virtual Light”, and struck up some small talk about Gibson’s day after tomorrow vision of San Fran. However, the pleasantries were cut short when this overzealous Gestapo barista, one of those proud “assistant to the assistant manager” types, took issue with the Missus taking a few non-intrusive snapshots. Really, dude, even if we were from the Dunkin Donuts home office, planning a corporate takeover, I hardly think you’re gonna be the guy to stop us.

And again, my cappuccino was mediocre.

Now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression… we had a wonderful time. And San Fran is a pretty cool city. But really, I was noticing a theme, here. It’s taken me 35 years, but I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I’m small-town. I imagine my naiveté as being one of my charms, really. And when I go to a “big city”, especially one of those nigh-mythological coastal cities that visitors to Denver endlessly compare us to (always unfavorably, of course), I am prepared to accept nothing less than having my mind entirely and completely blown. Through my urethra. By a renegade army of socialist lesbian DJs from the future. (Or some other such anachronistic subculture).

Searching for just that sort of adventure, we took the F line to Castro. Here was the one place I wanted (and got) archaic certainties. Though it’s older, and wiser (and no doubt safer) Castro just feels like I imagine the pre-HIV 70’s and 80’s must have been. But still, if there was a kitschy and flamboyant coffee shop where drag queens served boys in short shorts and Doc. Martens (a la Big Cup in NYC) I didn’t find it.

But of course, caffeine wasn’t really why we were there; this was our one night of sheer unadulterated debauchery. We imbibed, of course, and here again there was a distinct lack of minds being blown. Or if there were any, it was theirs, not ours. Funny, we can go to any gay club in Denver to a general lack of comment; there, the assumption was that we must be mustachioed and candle burning swingers. And really, how was I supposed to know that to dance on top of the pool tables with the boys in golf shoes and tighty whites, you were supposed to be on the payroll? I figured in the great big city that sort of thing just sort of “happened” all the time - like harmonic convergence, or speaking in tongues at an old fashioned tent revival.

So after a few more less than stellar cappuccinos, a couple romantic walks through the town and one absolutely brilliant Italian meal later, we were back home. In the “real world” as I like to call it.

Driving home from a family day out, last weekend, we stumbled across a street fair happening on Larimer Square. Rainbow flags hung outside a few of the bars, there was visibly more Y chromosome going on than usual, and a DJ was spinning outside the Market. I’ve surfed the internets and I still haven’t been able to figure out what was going on; but to tell the truth, the music was better than anything we heard in SF. We danced in the street with the kids, way past their bedtime. I realized that, even though the wife and I have a lot more miles to cover over next ten years (and maybe some mustachioed and candle burning style-swinging, if I can break her down) it’s nice to know that I’m pretty content with where I’m at.

This is Religious Fundamentalism...

...this is Religious Fundamentalism on caffeine...






any questions?




This half-assed post has been brought to you thanks to the generous inspiration of Daves Long Box. Read and love!

Monty Python - The Galaxy Song

The Way I See It # Two-Million One

So maybe I should have taken just one quick minute to add an itty-bitty note to my last "post", clarifying that the picture contained therein wasn't meant as a commentary on my new job - good, bad or otherwise. Work is ok... lower case "oh" lower case "kay". Sometimes even upper case "Oh". Maybe I'm in a little rut; but the good kind, when you know you're not at risk of getting thrown out the door on you're ass (if that doesn't sound like that a ringing endorsement, Congratulations! You've never spent all 40 hours of your work-week wondering when you're going to get thrown out on your ass.)

Indicative of said rut, however, is the fact that I'm back to visiting Starbucks on a regular basis, when I'm not making the stuff at home.

I know, I know. And trust me, it does make me feel all dirty inside. Lately, though, it's worse than just the crypster guilt of not supporting the local guy. It's those idiotic "The Way I See It" anecdotes printed on the side of Starbucks cups.

Yes, I know I've complained about this before; I realize that I should just ignore those obnoxious transmissions from "Clever-Clever Land", use my own, environmentally-friendly cup, or maybe just get some 7-11 "Energy Coffee" if I'm in such a damn hurry. But it's like driving by the proverbial car accident, or looking in Pandora's Box, or reading The Family Circus on your way to the horoscopes - your free will becomes the illusion that so many philosophers have claimed it is; you're powerless to turn away, no matter the consequences. (DAMN YOU, BIL KEANE!!!)

The other day my "Shot-in-the-Dark" came w/ an extra shot of ass-clown, raving about how "Darwinism" is responsible for all the world's perceived ills. As is to be expected, not implied among those ills were war, famine, gluttony, greed, deceit, coveting your neighbors wife,

coveting your neighbor's horse, Sloth, jealousy, any disease that could possibly be construed as The Almighty's punishment for something or other; getting my chocolate in your peanut butter, or getting your peanut butter in my chocolate.

But really, what are you gonna do? "Reason" with him? Waste your time trying to explain to this guy that there's no such thing as a "Darwinian Fundamentalist"; zealots who take ol' Chuck's work as (ahem) gospel, just because he wrote it a century and a half ago? Baby, there ain't a cup venti enough in the world for you to try.

So, as if to illustrate this isn't just some quirk, today my cup featured the musings of that wise and all knowing sage Dr. Laura, ruminating on nothing less than the "Meaning of Life". What the Hell? I wouldn't even trust Dr. Laura's opinion on the movie "The Meaning of Life".

Whatever. Mine has never been any sort of "issues" blog (see pic of Sloth chillin' w/ Chunk, above) People can believe whatever claptrap they want. I just don't know that I want to drink from a cup that spews this kind of ignorance.

It's like in that movie "What the Bleep", that whole "Molecules of Emotion" thing, where the water meditated over by a bunch of monks had prettier molecules than the water that people directed ugly sentiments at; no, I don't really buy it either, but I'm also not about to eat from a bowl that reads "Shit: It's What's for Dinner".

And don't get on me about not supporting "free speech". I'll drink me a double tall, extra-dry cup of the free speech right now. But free speech has nothing to do w/ some perceived "right" to proselytizing on the side of a coffee cup, or a constitutional guarantee to your own radio show, for that matter. Yes, as a matter of fact, if I don't like it, I will change the station, thank you very much. And if your advertisers are dropping like flies because of it, that's not some vast, left wing conspiracy; it's old school "let the market decide" style libertarianism - and sometimes, I can hang with that. Get a blog, crybaby.

As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of people in the world; ones who want to cram their beliefs / religions / multilevel marketing opportunities down your craw; and folks who, like the Hulk, just want to be left alone. Sadists who are interested in "Reasonable Discourse" are relatively few, most certainly far between, and definitely aren't to be trusted.

Yes, this is a little disjointed, and just barely on topic. That's what happens when I blog from home, at night, with the world outside my door going so crazy as it is lately.

Speaking of the meaning of life, i think it's apropos that we add one more "Way I See It"... no, f*ck that... "The Way It Is" quote. A tribute to one of the late, great ones. Written originally as a comment on how the world greatest, most sincere lovers could none the less hurt one another, I think it applies just as much to all the martyrs and heroes out there so overzealous to share "The Truth" with the rest of the world.


"Please, a little less love, and a little more common decency"

Kurt Vonnegut

Barista

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things...

2 entries in one night!

WARNING! - wildly Off-Topic post!

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. " -- Mathew Broderick in Ferris Bueller's

When you consider that the film above came out in 1986, and is now of legal drinking age (!) the point is well-taken. And things move even faster in the post-modern a-go- go 21st century. Ted Haggard was cured of The Gay in just 3 weeks. In less than a month, Brittney Spears has already been into and out of rehab twice already. Add to these dubious signs of the times the fact that since I was laid off in January, since my last entry, I've had 2 new jobs.

The first, for a small dot-com, was trumped by the benefits and better pay offered by a broadcast television station. It was a tough move - the dot-com employed Hot Women; women who made art and played in bands during the off hours. Short hair and pierced noses were the office uniform. At the station, the uniform is stretch-pants with stirrups and Winnie the Pooh tee-shirts. Sure, there's some "attractive" women at the station, running around, primping for the 9 pm newscast, but they're the cool kids, with their very own table in the lunch room. Up on my floor it's cubicles decorated with happy meal toys all the way.

Now, once you get to know me, it's perhaps not so surprising that I've been employed 3 different places just in '07. As a legal adult, I've had no less than 27 jobs (though I'm pretty sure there's a handful of others I've forgotten about in there). I have to admit, it's nice having choices for once. Options. Even if I did have to fill out an application for my current job. Is it just me, or do you ever wonder why you bother endlessly editing, revising and updating your resume, arguing over formatting etiquette as if it was religion ("You must fit everything on One Page!"... "Never supply your references until asked, naive!") if in the end, you have to sit and fill out a bunch of itty-bitty fields by hand, like you're trying applying for a shift-lead position at Wendy's?

But it was cool for once, as hard as it was to walk away from the hipster chicks at the dot com, to leave on my terms - and for more money. To not have to hop on the first job I came across and hump it's leg like sexually frustrated cocker spaniel. To not give two weeks notice, regardless of what my parents may think, because it's not like the man always gives the same courtesy in return. Sometimes you're the windshield, and sometimes you're the bug, baby.

(Yeah, I quoted a country song. Bite me. I'm tired and I'm not used to blogging from home... at night... how do people do it?)

Furthermore, its was good to have a practice run through the usual "Stages of a New Job". I got to get my usual reaction to days one ("Hey, this is great! Everyone is smiling at me and wants to buy me lunch") through five ("Why did I have to get married and have kids? I should have slept around more and wandered the earth like Caine on Kung Fu!") out of my system.

So, here I am; I just have to decide where to go from here. Do I try to work my way up - sell out and attempt to claw my way up the corporate ladder? I toyed with the idea of getting a "personal coach", though admittedly, they'd have to be more Dustin Hoffman from "I (Heart) Huckabees" than Greg Kinnear in "Little Miss Sunshine".

If nothing else, I think this could be what I've always dreamed of; a real live, well-balanced "day job", one that I could actually come home from and still have the piece of mind to indulge in my creative pursuits. My last job, it took me 6 months just to reach "incompetent". This, I think I'll have mastered in 3.

I've been getting my coffee at Moe's Broadway Bagels, pissing distance from the office. So I should be able to write about that, just as soon as I get all this self-indulgent, personal life stuff out of my system.

Get with "THE PROGRAM"!

(The following is from an unfinished post; originally written on 12/15/06!)

Ach.... gnnnf... gwwwrrch...










AUUUURRRRGHH!!!!

Whoo hoo! Wowsers. Yes, folks, your eyes do not deceive you... there's nothing wrong with your computer... once again, I control the horizontal, I control the vertical... believe it or not... I'm still here!

By "here", of course, I mean not so much "present", like, an active part of the blogger community at large, spewing thick, sticky ropes of profound witticism from the depths of my keyboard; but "here" in the "behind my desk, staring red-eyed at my computer monitor, buried sphincter-deep in 'Annual orders for '07'" sense; licking my post-election wounds, as political season in my business means an endless barrage of attack ads to unleash upon the unsuspecting public. (Though, the elections for me personally certainly turned out pretty good)

As this blog has always been the most reliable (all right, occasionally reliable) source of the most subjective, completely biased coffee house reviews on the web, I figure it's only appropriate to review the place I've been drinking my coffee at most regularly, during my vacation from blogging, or, as I'm loathe to call it "real life"...

My Work



That's right. Superman has his Fortress, Batman his cave, The Shadow his "Secret Sanctum" (Giggle... Tee heee... No, seriously, he calls it that.) Me, I've got a six foot by six foot...








.....................

AND THAT'S IT... that's as far as I managed to get (See? See? I told you I was busy!). But, hey, it started off as a promising enough post, didn't it? What with all the photos of where I'd been spending my days (and more nights than I care to remember)?

And the jokes... OH, the jokes; all of them, gestating in my oversized cranium for a over month now, about how my son's picture revealed our membership in a blue-scarab worshiping, Neo-Egyptian cult ("Har - dee - har!") And the way that my Hello Kitty fetish crosses so far over the line between aging Gen-X irony and "creepy old man" that it almost goes all the way back to ironic again. ("Guffaw!") And the way that my politically correct sensibilities are trumped by my love of visiting coffee shops, as evidenced by the paper cup sitting next to the reusable, eco-friendly mug on my desk. ("WHEEEE!")

Here we are, a month and a half later, a whole brand-spankin'-new year, and I'm finally getting around to dusting off and finishing up this tired ol' entry. But now, of all the pictures, I keep finding myself focusing on two in particular... The lyrics for the King Monkey's "F.E.A.R", there to mull over anytime things got bad at work, over the last two and a half years. And then there's my bamboo plant, with only two stalks, because the third had withered up into nothingness. The wife warned me that it was bad luck, feng shui-wise, to have an even number.




Damn her and her voodoo ways...

***************************
On January 4th, 2007, after sitting though the company's annual "Holiday Bistro" (pushed back because of all the storms) , listening to the managers pat themselves on the back for being the bestest of all the corporate entities in all the whole-wide world, bragging "Whoo Hoo! Lookit how we crushed that '06 budget! GO TEAM!!!"I was lead into a bottom floor, windowless room with both of my managers, and the head of Human Resources. There, I was informed that I had been selected for

"THE PROGRAM" (!)

As with all things ominous and of a highly delicate nature (the existence of Fight Club, employment in the CIA - pre Bush) the exact details of "The Program" shall remain steeped in mystery, per the scads of legalese-heavy paperwork I've signed off on. However, it is safe for me to disclose that the ties to my previous employer have been effectively severed. I can say that. I can further add that, on a good day, when I'm not obsessing over the mundane details of where I'm going to get a new job, and what kind of benefits that new employer will offer, "The Program" is not entirely unlike Summer vacation.

Oh, sure... there has been a fair amount of combing sites like Career Builder and Monster, but a good portion of that has been accomplished by utilizing the free terminals provided by the good women (womyn?) of tHERe Coffee, sitting alongside such Denver luminaries as Maris the Great. I did occasionally use the computers at the Englewood Public Library, and I once sat next to a woman who was posting an ad on Craigslist erotic services section. Talk about in-demand job skills!

So, what else does "The Program" entail? Well, aside from lots of quality time with the wife kids, I got to go to Lipgloss one Friday, where I was surrounded by youngsters oblivious to the fact that Morrissey's OTHER legendary guitarist, Boz Boorer was spinning the classic soul and Jam-n-Clash era punk that they were shaking their booties to. He even broke his vow of never spinning his own music, and played "You're the One For Me, Fatty" per my request.

(I cornered him in the "loo", as those silly Brits call it).


I went to the Denver Public Library and mulled over the "On the Road" scroll, the endless length of paper on which Jack Kerouac typed his most famous work. I even got a picture, in spite of the clearly posted signs that informed doing so was forbidden. I'm just a rebel like that.




I proceeded to go upstairs, under the highest point in the library, to drink my coffee at the legacy table, where the last decent president sat and... I don't know, did something presidential.






Alas, what "The Program" hasn't entailed is blogging. And here's the rub; the "good news / bad news", as it were... I start a new job on Monday. I'll be swathed in business casual and cubed once more. All snark aside, it's a good opportunity, and I am ready to get back to work. But I'm just not sure what it will mean for my little corner of cyberspace. I do know that I owe it to my family, to myself, to throw everything I've got into this new job. I also owe it to myself to not let this blog turn into a graveyard for ephedra and viagra spam.

So to everyone who's sent me gentle reminders to post anew - thank you. While it's not expected, it's much appreciated. (Yes, even the messages from the missus, written under various pseudonyms)

Who knows? Maybe I can still turn my writing into a marketable skill. I could always be a freelance copywriter for the Craigslist Erotic Services section.

The Way I See It # 2,000,000,000

So the Missus, knowing as she does that I can't write from home, has told me that I'm not to leave work until I've posted something to my blog. Which is incredibly sensitive to my creative needs, if you think about it. Perhaps she's the modern day incarnation of Thalia, the Greek mythological muse of comedy, inspiring me to more and better work.

Or maybe it's just sort of bitchy. I reserve judgment for now.

So: my job... busybusybusy. INSANELY so. I should probably be using this breather to double check my work, in order to make sure I haven't overshot the razor thin margin of error I'm afforded by my employers. But, baby, I just DO NOT feel like it today.

Awww. I've missed you, too! Didja lose a few pounds? Ya' look great, I mean it.

I've been so busy that I'm back to drinking (Scooterdad's gloating will resume in 5, 4, 3, 2...) Starbucks. It's just so damn convenient. Plus, they opened a drive thru mere blocks from my house. Which, yeah, it's a corporate joint and all, but may I just take a moment to say WOOOO HOOOO! We're gonna gentrify this neighborhood like a MOTHER F_____!!!

I pulled up on my way to my daughter's daycare and she said "COFFEE." Actually, it was more like "KF'FEEE" but I thought it was completely adorable. Or maybe kinda sad. Again, I reserve judgment.

The unfortunate reality is this - Starbucks coffee is actually a hell of a lot better than just about any of the coffee shops that I haven't bothered to review here. That said - just what is the deal with the inane blather they have printed on the side of their cups, under the heading "The Way I See It "? Really, is there someone out there who's coffee going experience is incomplete until they've received Oprah-caliber wisdom from an acoustic guitarist who's featured in heavy rotation on the Starbucks XM satellite radio station?

I've decided to compile some quotes to of my own for the the cups at my own, imaginary coffee house, a shop that I'm currently calling "The Coffee Clutch" (after a line in the Roger Corman classic The Wasp Woman. As in "Oh, we were just having a little coffee-clutch." Like, water-cooler talk in the break room at work. Catchy, innit?)

(DRAT! Blogger's photo capabilities have gone all wonky, once again - so all you get is the golden tressed, atom powered nemesis of the Man of Steel. I invite the completists among you to perform a Google image search for the great thinkers listed below...)

----------------------------

"maybe I'm the faggot America; I'm not a part of the redneck agenda"
Billy Joe Armstrong

"It's not what you are like - it's what you like: movies, music. These things matter." Rob from High Fidelity.

"What's real? What's not? That's what I do in my act, test how other people deal with reality." Andy Kaufman

"Life is an obscure hobo, bumming a ride on the omnibus of art."
Maxwell H. Brock, beatnick poet extrordinare, Bucket of Blood.

"I'm so cool you could keep a side of meat in me for a month! I'm so hip I have trouble seeing over my pelvis!" - Zaphod Beeblebrox


"If you don't tell me where she is, I will hurt people!" Nuclear Man, from Superman IV: The Quest for Peace

"You know, my son, I wouldn't be Emperor of the Galaxy if I didn't have a few powers at my disposal. Imperial Battleship, halt the flow of time! " Emperor of the Galaxy, Starcrash.

"The very existence of flamethrowers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, 'You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done.'" George Carlin

Feel free to add your own! You know you want to!

Let's Get Down to it, Boppers...

As I alluded to in my last entry, three weeks ago (!), my workload has gotten much, much heavier recently. Such is the injudicious nature of my workplace; some of us will be working at a leisurely pace for months on end, strolling into our cubes 20 minutes late on a daily basis, taking long lunches and forwarding along tired email jokes from 2003; while others weather a veritable shit-storm of work piling up endlessly on their desks. I suppose I can't really complain - I spent the first part of 06 in the former catagory. And of course, it would be unreasonable for me to expect that I should have time to write a great-American novel's worth of blog entries while I'm on the clock. But you'll excuse me if it grates on my last nerve when one of my go get'em, twenty-something coworkers sits complaining about "not having something to do".

Ah... the folly of youth. For me, "to chill" is a skill - one that I've honed over a lifetime of hanging out on coffee house patios and perusing used book stores and record shops. Alas, my talents are being sorely wasted.

Yeah, I know, I know... I could be, probably should be, writing at home. But blogging, in my opinion, is a subversive discipline. The difference between blogging at work and blogging at home is the difference between waiting for your parents to go to bed so you can have sex with your girlfiend in their house, and putting your children to bed so you can have sex with your spouse in your own house. Like graffiti displayed within the confines of an art gallery, something is lost in translation.

I haven't been visiting too many coffee shops lately, anyway. In order to save money, we purchased a 20 dollar Braun, the Saturday-Night Special of coffee makers. I've been picking up my beans from Paris on the Platte, fresh out of their small-batch roaster. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy drinking coffee at home; a fresh pot waiting for me right when I step from the shower. Or a cup on lazy Saturday afternoon, while my daughter sleeps and my son watches a movie. And sometimes, every once in a great while, if I'm just tired enough, a couple of sips over whatever book I happen to be reading before turning off the light to go to sleep.

When I do make it out for a coffee, it's an event. The other night, Scooterdad and I began our "Boys Nite Out" at Paris. Our seats were tucked neatly around the far side of the bar, where we had a clear view of the kitchen and could avoid the smokey teenagers smack-dab in the middle of their rebellious stage. One of the advantages of hanging out with SD is that he understands the importance of the pre-bar cup of coffee. The other advantage is that I get to hang out with all the cool scooter kids without having to actually own a scooter.

Outside Paris, we got a call from SD's compatriot, Elie. The first thing you need to know about Elie is that he's a dude - a straight one at that. The next thing you need to know about Elie is that he's The Man; a legend, a modern day myth. Like the character "Door" in Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, Elie is a living, breathing portal to events so utterly hip, happenings so utterly fabulous, that their very existence is to be denied to anyone who is not cool enough to know Elie in the first place.


The last thing you need to know about Elie is that if he and SD ever have a falling out, I'm totally getting his number. I don't know what he does for a living, but look at him. It has to be something with graphic design.

Elie told us to meet him at the Oriental Theater; he'd put our names on "the list". (Okay, SD's name... I'm assigned the humiliating role of "Plus One", proving once again that I'll never live down my reputation as his lackey / first wife) The last time I was at the Oriental was back when it was a dollar theater. My brother and I caught a double bill of Wrath of Kahn and Flash Gordon. As I've never been much of a live music guy, I was excited for the chance to check out the extensive re-model of this beautiful old art-deco movie theater. When we showed up, two DJ's were spinning on stage, a complicated remix of Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" and Wham's "Careless Whispers" that somehow managed to make both songs palpable. But the real payoff was the main event... a multi-media extravaganza - a "mash-up" of one of the greatest B-Movies of all time - THE WARRIORS!!!

The premise of the film is simple; the visionary gang leader Cyrus brings every gang member in New York City area to Central Park in order to unite them under a common cause - a massive take-over of the city with his own gang, The Riffs, leading the charge. Right as his rousing speech reaches it's crescendo, he is assassinated. The Warriors are blamed, and must fight their way back to Coney Island - their "turf".

Now, maybe it's because I'm a parent, or perhaps at heart I've always been a square, but I don't usually care for hyper-stylized action-movie violence in the context of real-world social ills. And when the film was released in 1979, there were plenty of "Concerned Parent" (TM) kinda groups of the same opinion. Luckily for me, this movie doesn't take place anywhere near the real world. When you see a multi-racial group of teenagers, basically the Sweathogs with cigarettes (complete with afros for the white and black members alike) going up against mimes in top hats, the plight of marginalized inner city youth is the last thing on your mind. And when The Warriors manage to not get their asses handed to them by the bat-wielding Baseball Furies, you know dealing with an out-and-out fantasy.

Now, as this was a "mash-up", the film was enhanced by the two DJ's spinning in front of the screen with film and video clips intercut over the movie. Maybe some people though it was overkill when Scandal's video for "The Warrior" came on. Perhaps others thought they were reaching too far when Mascot Mannie, the squirrel from The Yummies, rushed the stage to perform a rap; I personally thought it fit the scene just right.

I got in a conversation with some people about how gangs from other movies would have fared if they were in The Warriors - how would the Mods or Teds from Quadraphenia fare against "The Boppers"? Would Fonzie's gang from Happy Days survive against an attack by the all-lesbian "Lizzies"? Then we talked about how The Warriors would look if it took place in Denver; Scooterists against wirey-limbed bike couriers vs. RollerDolls against Crotch-Rocket riding Larimer Square assholes. Somehow, I don't think cruiser riding coffee drinkers would fare very well. It made me think of SLC Punk, "Rednecks kick the shit outta punks, Punks kick the shit outta mods, Mods kick the shit outta skin heads, Skin heads kick the shit outta those heavy metal guys, The heavy metal guys kick the shit outta the new wavers, and well, the new wavers did nothing cuz they were the new hippies."

The night was moving forward at a great pace; sure, this stuff isn't so "cutting edge" as everyone likes to act, but I eat it up with a spoon. Unfortunately, as it happens so often with these "multi-media events", the Fashion Show began. I'm going to make a tee-shirt that says "FASHION SHOWS: Killing Your Buzz in Denver since 1994" Seriously, who are these snot-nosed, junior high bodied girls strutting around, and why should I care? Do I need one more slim hipped tattoo-palate in my life giving me a negative body image?

And the show was going so well... models and clothes are something you drag out when you're trying to distract from the fact that there's nothing interesting happening on stage - like dancers, rollerbladers, fire-eaters, and whatever else Puff Daddy has on stage with him during a performance.

I'd definitely come out to another show put on by these guys, but The Fashionista's pretty much signaled the end of our night - our buzz-killed, execution style. I guess what that means is, if The Warriors took place in Denver, everybody else would get beaten down by a bunch of cooler than thou, hipster-fashion models. It's just sad, really.

HA ha!

So, when I get back to work on Tuesday, I'm going to be working with a whole new group of people (one of whom is my sister. Damn you, Karole!) Already, their work is piling up at my desk. Lots more work, for the exact same amount of money!

The next couple of weeks may not be very blogger productive... which sucks after what has been a pretty blog-intensive week for me.

But I would be remiss if I didn't at least acknowledge this news item...

While I don't condone the sort of shenanigans that the perpetrators of this particular con have engaged in, I do think it's pretty hi-freaking-larious.

WHO WANTS TO BE A SUPERHERO?

Dig all the ways you can deliver that line...

Who wants to be a superhero?
Who wants to be a superhero?
Who wants to be a superhero?

This may not jibe with the casual reader's impression of me, but believe it or not, I'm not actually a comic book geek. If one were to read through some of my past entries, they'd be excused for the misconception - seeing as they'd come across a cornucopia of super-hero metaphors; comparisons drawn between, say, a caffeine high from a particular type of coffee and some random character's superpowers (I.E. - "weak diner coffee is to the 1980's incarnation of The Flash as Turkish coffee is to the Golden Age, time-busting, 'speeding up my molecules in order to enter Dairy Queen without utilizing the door' version of The Flash." No, I never actually wrote that before, but it's apt, so there it is now.)

I'm certainly known to enjoy the occasional comic book - a black and white indie or a dog-eared issue of The Avengers, selected haphazardly from the "4 for a dollar" bin at the lonely shop up on East Colfax. Sometimes I'll even read "The Classics", assuming they're reprinted under one cover and available at a reasonable price. And I have some definite geek tendencies; I get goose-bumps on the rare occasion that a comic book movie "gets it right". Like when MJ delivered the classic line "Go get 'em, Tiger..." at the end of Spiderman 2. Or when Superman fixed the great wall of China by utilizing his little known "brick and mortar vision" in Quest for Peace. You know, all that stuff that's right out of the funny books.

Superman IV - Great Wall of China Vision
I can appreciate a comic for all the cool, detached, ironical crypster reasons; I can appreciate them for the pseudo - Joseph Campbell "it's contemporary mythology!" reasons, and I can appreciate them for the sheer visceral pleasure of groovy pichers. Like Jack "The King" Kirby's "Kirby Krackle", the fizzy-pop distortion in the fabric of reality that accompanies cosmic characters like The Silver Surfer. Or Darkseid. Or me, when I'm dancing. (Seriously, people, it's a thing of beauty)

But honestly, I don't think that makes me a comic book geek - whether the connotation is meant positively or negatively. I don't have hundreds of four-color, FABULOUS 1ST ISSUE!s hermeticly sealed in plastic bags, indexed by "inker" and locked away in a filing cabinet, right alongside my hopes of ever seeing a real-live naked woman. I don't argue in chat rooms over who the best X-Men writer is. I don't even own a trench coat.

Sure, every now and then I imagine that Caffeinator_X is a guy with a great set of abs, a cruiser bike that transforms into a cybernetic exo-skeleton, and the ability to inflict his enemies with the less desirable effects of coffee (jitters, paranoia, "hafta poop now", etc.) just from his stare. And true, I did get a call back for the show, based on my initial application (for the all-new, all-different character "CENTRIFUGE! The Flippin' Idiot!"). But I never could have beat that "Feedback" guy, who looks like one of those Larimer Square crotch-rocket dudes who dress up like they're Japanese animation.

But really... do I want to be a superhero? Nah. I want to be a writer. Or, a paid blogger... that'd be good.

And someday - dream of dreams - I'd like to have my own coffeeshop. And I'll tell you what... somebody who shares that dream could do a HELLUVA lot worse than SML Coffee, off of Washington and Speer. I got the following message from proprietor Brian, just yesterday...


SML Coffee shop for sale - $20,000


Here is an opportunity to own a start up coffee shop at a ridiculously low price.

All the start up work has been done for you.

Lease negotiations
Build out
Licensing
Zoning
Building dept. sign offs
Initial customer base created
Equipment purchased and installed
Tables and chairs
Supplies stocked and ready
Take over the coffee shop, make it your own and make it great.

The customer base is strong and the potential growth is even stronger.

There is opportunity for additional signage and expansion onto the adjacent patio area.

The shop is in a really cool building on the busy corner of Speer and Washington with free parking in the attached lot and additional parking on the street.

Price includes all equipment and supplies, most of the furniture and all the customers.

Please email to schedule an appointment squarewheeler@gmail.com

http://www.myspace.com/smlcoffee

Now, I gotta tell ya - this breaks my heart. That "make it your own, and make it great"? Yeah, it's already great. Though it doesn't have the hang-out-all-night vibe of Monkey Bean (moment of silence, yo); in the short amount of time since it opened, SML has become one of my favorite places in town.

So take heed, whoever jumps on this... don't you dare change a thing. Keep each and every one of the baristas - especially that slim-hipped morning guy who whips up dry cappuccinos the consistency of milk-shakes. Keep the Wednesday movie night. And keep Brian's promise to me to have an annual showing of Bucket of Blood, every Halloween.

Do all that, baby, and you'll be MY superhero.

FAUX COFFEE WEEK - DAY 3

In her book "The Meme Machine", Susan Blackmore posits that the meme is as important to human evolution as the gene. Like the gene, the meme is a replicator of information. But rather than genetic code, the meme is a cultural replicator; transmitting ideas, belief systems, habits, philosophies, fashions, fads, and all of the other stuff that gets knocked around between our oversized monkey brains. Memes, like genes, thrive or perish based on natural selection. A caveman "infected" by the "how to light a fire" meme would have a better chance of getting some cro-mag nookie than his in-the-dark competitors; therefore, it would be his genes and memes that were transmitted to the next generation.

Also like genes, memes are "selfish" (not in the Janet Jackson, "what has he done for me late-ly?" sense, but in the unstoppable, Terminator robot on-a-mission sense); both genes and memes exist only to replecate themselves, whether or not doing so will be beneficial to their "hosts" (i.e. us... We of the oversized monkey brains). Genes compel humans to procreate in times of famine, memes compel you to order the "Windsor Pilates" 6 DVD set when you're channel surfing at 3 am, even though you're too lazy to ever actually use it.

A good example of memes in action is "The Lovely Latte Ladies Auxiliary". These are the women who visit coffee shops in small groups and try to out-do each other with increasingly complex drink orders. ("Double tall, non-fat, decaf vanilla latte") Their behavior is learned through mimicry, like monkeys at the zoo. Each successive order is placed more loudly than the last, so that any nearby women who are not part of the gaggle can return next time to spread the meme among their own group. ("SOY, NO FOAM ORANGE MOCHA!") There wouldn't appear to be any evolutionary benefit to this behavior, as it's extremely hard to believe that it's the kind of thing that would help them attract a mate. But the memes march on...

The simple reality is this... nobody is safe from the influence of memes. I myself got infected, just the other day. Sitting at Kaladi Brothers, I witnessed a half-caf, 2% milk caramel machiato get trumped by a "Mate Latte". ("THAT'S RIGHT! MATE LATTE, PLEASE! MMM, DELICIOUS! TAKE THAT, WHORE! POW!") Seeing as Kaladi's, with it's DU professors and it's marathon moms, is basically a scale model of the People's Republic of Boulder, I was pretty confident that Mate Latte would be made from rice milk (but only after they asked the rice real nice-like) and organic tree bark. But in the spirit of FAUX COFFEE WEEK, I decided to find out for myself.

Only one problem... when I rushed into Kaladi's this morning, toddler in tow, I was sympathetically informed "I'm sorry, we are out of Mate Latte... can I get you something else?"

So there I stood, a recovering addict in a crack-den, the aroma of the oily black beans firing my synapses to full attention. Didn't these people realize this is FAUX COFFEE WEEK? Doesn't anybody read this blog??

Arms pinned to my sides, I ran out of the building, Napoleon Dynamite-style. My canine-obsessed daughter wailed hysterically as we ran past the friendly-looking golden retriever parked on the patio. I knew just how she felt.

I stopped by Scooter Joe's, figuring that they would be just earth-y enough to carry the stuff. The barista whipped up the drink by brewing the leaves/bark/whatever through the espresso machine's portafilter and topping it off with steamed milk, just like you would a regular-old latte. But then, he put an extra tea-bag of the stuff directly into the cup because it "looked a little weak". I have to tell you, the only thing weaker than what I drank this morning would have been cup of evaporated tap-water. I mean, no disrespect to the barista, he probably made it exactly the right way. The thing is... it's tea. I hate tea. Tea tastes like soap; like a big gulp from a cup of "Bed Bath and B'nasty". Now, I don't hate people who like tea. Not all of them, anyway. Hate the drink, not the drinker, I always say.

(Except in the case of Lipton ice tea drinkers. That stuff tastes like obese-man bathwater, and is surely an abomination against... I don't know... something. )

But if I'm going to be one of the "Meme Machines" who's spreading the word about this stuff, giving throngs of rampant soccer moms one more excuse to raid their local coffee shops, like SUV driving zombies, the least I can do is affect my best Charlton Heston and scream "IT'S TEA! MATE LATTE IS TEA!" Even if you like tea... this is worse than Lipton. Step away from the hype machine... they're trying to brainwash you...

Hello...? Is this thing on?

Coffeecrush, The Motion Picture!

Waaaay back in 1991, Francis Ford Coppola predicted that the wide availability of inexpensive film and video equipment would mean film making would truly become an "art form", freed from the restraints of finance or committee. I'm paraphrasing, of course; Coppola's actual quote referenced a hypothetical "little fat girl in Ohio" becoming "the new Mozart", which offended my sensibilities as far as women who are, shall we say, rounded, are concerned. But the sentiment remains. Similarly, in the novel "Pattern Recognition", William Gibson gives us the "Garage Kubrick", a brilliant auteur operating outside the cult of personality.

As you can see, from the clip above, the future is NOW, dude. If you imagine the camera just a little more still, you can see Jim Jarmusch's sense of mis en scene. And that ever so brief, blink-and-you-miss-it cameo at the end? Can you say Hitchcock...?

Of course, I'm a little biased.

Faux Coffee Week!

Remember when you were a kid, and you would be "anxious"? Anxious for Christmas, anxious for summer vacation; anxious for it to finally be May 25th, 1983, so you could prove to your stupid brother once and for all that when Yoda said "there is Another", he was referring to Obi Wan Kenobi, who would have to come back from the dead to rescue Luke (who of course would be turned to the Dark Side) and not Lando-freaking-Calrissian, because that would just be lame. "Anxious" was a code word for sheer, depthless joy, unbridled and unbounded; a word your parents and teachers used to describe you, back before there were more technical terms like "ADHD".

In adulthood, we call it (along with ADHD) anxiety. Anxiety is the same vacuum, teaming with the same vibrating nervous energy, but now its filled to the brim with all of your grown up baggage. Work! Money! Kids! "Holy Crap, the north facing wall of my 100 year old house is sinking into the earth!!" that sort of thing.

Anxiety, if I'm not careful, becomes a sort of default setting for me, the fumes on which I conduct my busy day after the inevitable caffeine-crash happens. Mornings at Casa Del Caff are a tightly choreographed affair. Out of bed and into the shower to drag a razor over my melon. Get Princess Plucky (a morning person) out of her crib and feed her whatever she wants to eat(Usually "Ba-na-na-na-na!". And whatever her brother doesn't finish). Tend to my son (emphatically NOT a morning person) who stumbles out of bed every morning in his tight little underwear like an angry white Gandhi; force feed him the exact same breakfast he's been eating since he broke his first tooth (two Eggo waffles with butter and a glass of apple juice), then drive my daughter to daycare while the wife talks number one son off the ledge. I may have the better end of the deal, but the routine can still get a little stressful.

I was running late the other morning, so I stopped by Mile High Coffee for my morning jolt, avoiding the 3 Starbucks that are also within the same distance from my house. I want to support this place, I really do. But man, does their coffee have some problems. And it's not like it's consistently bad, It's just that, when I least expect it, after a couple of visits where I've actually gotten some good stuff... that's when they'll hit me with a cup that's as flavorful and aromatic as a can of motor oil. By the time I got to work, 100 proof, pure liquefied anxiety was coursing through my veins. Compound this with the fact that every 15 minutes, the radio on my co-worker's desk taunted me with the meandering pop-pabulum of "Had a Bad Day". This was not a "bad day", this was what the kids call a "bad trip". After gritting my teeth through the mind numbing Deejay banter, they follow up with the umpteenth playing of "How to Save a Life". Hey! Corporate radio overlords, wanna know how to save a life? TAKE "HAD A BAD DAY" OFF OF HEAVY ROTATION!!

I actually wasn't even having that bad of a day. I was just a little annoyed. Intense. Slowly, it dawned on me what was happening... this was the work of my old arch nemesis....

MR. COFFEE NERVES!


Just look at that smarmy, see-through bastard, torturing those poor people like that - with his clunky moniker right there on his shirt, and that stupid little handlebar mustache. You just know he twirls that thing between his thumb and index finger. What an asshole.

When Mister CN comes back into MY life, fraying my nerves until they're the limp consistency of the fringe on the back of a heavy metal chick's acid washed jean jacket, I know it's high time for a detox. A couple times a year, just to prove to myself that I'm not actually an addict, I go on a caffeine purge. I mean, whoa... not all caffeine, of course. Let's not get all crazy, now! Usually, I'll have some green tea in its place. And, you know, not necessarily a full week... we're supposed to be going out with some friends this weekend, and I certainly can't deny myself the traditional, post-club coffee and pie. But just a few days off the stuff will do me some good.

So, dear reader, welcome to my nightmare... this is 'FAUX COFFEE WEEK!" If I'm not my usual charming and clever self, I'm sure you'll understand. Just don't bug me when I'm shaving, like the picture above, or I'll cut you. I'm not kidding.

Rather than make you, the reader, suffer through the long, detailed account of my DT's, and to prevent this blog from being polluted with the sort of existential musings that come along when one faces the long, dark coffee break of the soul, I've decided to experiment with some popular "coffee alternatives". So you don't have to. You can thank me later.

I started off this morning with a big, tasty cup'o POSTUM. Postum is a CAFFEINE-FREE coffee substitute that's been all the rage among the Big Love crowd since 1895. If I was the flavor of Mormon that could have a couple of sister wives to cavort with every night, I could actually see trading in my coffee for this stuff. Hell, if I could have a couple of sister-wives to cavort with, I would trade in my lungs for this stuff. Not that I'd actually ever drink it... I'm just all about the hot, sister-wife on sister-wife action. The drink itself tastes like a thirst quenching gulp from a glass of sand, flavored liberally with molasses. Is there anyone who can't be described by the term "mountain folk" who actually likes the taste of molasses? On the bright side, Postum is chock full of healthy, fiber-licious WHEAT GERM. Considering I drank it alongside a great big bowl of oatmeal, and chased it with a couple of prunes, there was one effect from my morning coffee that wasn't missing.

In the advertisements seen above, Postum was hailed as the bane of Mr. Coffee Nerves' existence, the liquid equivalent of the Scooby Doo gang, leaving the villain cursing it's amazing ability to bring families back from the very brink of distraction. Time will tell. But right now, Mr. CN is walking outside my house, sneering, mumbling "you'll be back, bitch." under his breath.

JAVALERT!

You know, here we are, on the very day of an attempted terrorist attack, and the President has helpfully taken time out of his busy day (he'll tell you himself... it's "hard work") to come on television and explain that "It is a mistake to believe there is no threat to the United States of America". Even his ol' buddy Joe Lieberman has likewise explained how this attempt "should serve as the latest, most serious evidence that we are in a war against a brutal enemy that intends to attack us..."

Boy, I'm just beside myself! As a latte-drinking liberal, I did not realize that terrorism is dangerous. I'm gonna go change out of my "Terrorism - It's Not So Bad!" tee-shirt right now!

I mean, it's not like the president hasn't taken every single opportunity to explain how the world was changed on "September Theleventh" - even if he had to veer wildly off-topic in order to do so. How could I be so stupid? These terrorists, they hate freedom! They don't shop at Wal-mart! They blow stuff up!

Since we're all just a bunch of sushi-eating, Volvo-driving, New York Times-reading, Hollywood-loving, left-wing freak show elitists, the current administration is requiring me to display the JavAlert (TM), Terror Advisory System, utilizing, at long last, language we can understand.


GREEN - As in, "Korben m' man, we are green". There is no threat, citizen. Go forth, and enjoy your civil liberties (until told otherwise).




CINNAMON ROAST - general risk. I think. Wait, lemme check the polls...






CITY ROAST - Oooh, this is a tough one... which city? Like, say, Houston or Dallas, you're cool. Austin... not so much. Those folks are a little iffy.




FULL CITY ROAST - New York City or LA? Yeah, you guys are screwed. But you probably have it coming, what with all the gays, and stuff.




ESPRESSO - it's dark. That's how we know it's bad.





FRENCH ROAST - Well, this is clearly bad news. Hello? Are you paying attention? It reads "French" right there. French = Bad. Freedom Fries are not free, people.

And I'm adding my own, "situation immenent" level...

DEPRESSO - as in, sit back, and get used to the taste of this. It's a long time 'til 2008.




Maybe by then we can elect somebody with some real solutions to complex problems - not just a color-coded Rainbow of Fear.

Lost In Translation

You never know how far reaching your blog really is. There are days when I resolve myself to the idea that, despite my best intentions to turn "coffeecrush" into an internet phenomenon, on par with Dave's long box or Engrish, maybe I've just maxed out at seven readers - family and good friends all, humoring my usual delusions of grandeur. Then, out of nowhere -and during a particularly long period of blog-abstinence - I receive an email from a San Francisco-based artist named CW (follow that link... very cool stuff) about a post from nearly two months ago. He was questioning my translation of the Turkish proverb,"Coffee should be black as hell; strong as death, and sweet as love."

Sure enough, after a little Googling, I've discovered a plethora of variations on a theme (black as night/hot as hell/sweet as love; hot as Thora Birch/gayer than Paul Lynde/slightly less conniving than Joe Leiberman - and on and on and on) Lost in translation, I suddenly don't feel so bad for my befuddled take on the Middle East crisis, a world-view worthy of my altruistic grandmother - "Why can't they all just get along?"

But I digress. At long last, I've decided to find out for myself which version best applies to the brew at Habibi Hookah Cafe on South Broadway. Past the bars, past the train shop where Gary Coleman used to work, past the (ahem) "massage parlors" ("Innovative Therapy"... Like my dad says "yeah, that's not so innovative"), this place sits in the run down remains of a gas station, strobe lights around the parameter announcing it's presence to passers-by (and warning off epileptics). Inside, the espresso machine looks brand spanking new; a good sign, as the only kind of coffee I want in a place like this is Turkish, brewed directly in a metal ibrik, like campfire coffee on Mars.

I order my coffee and tell the proprietor that I may get something else later. Embarrassed, he quickly advises me that he can't serve any food inside. Apparently, as part of the city-wide smoking ban, not only can you not smoke after your meal, but if you are allowed to smoke, you don't get to eat. I, for one, think it's about time that the government step in to protect smokers from all that second-hand food. Little matter, as the main reason people come to a place like this is for the exotic, ornate hookahs. The proprietor asks me if I'd like to partake, and I decide for one night to lift my own personal smoking ban in the name of visceral experience.

Waiting for my order, I sat down and watched the other patrons; a mix of foreign men playing backgammon... and, as always, the "barely legal" crowd. I once made the mistake of going to a place called Marrakech Cafe on a weekend night, and I was shocked to find it packed with teenagers. I wondered if maybe, for "Generation Z", Sufism (the mystical arm of Islam) would become what faux-Zen was for Generation X. Are these kids enamored with the whirling dervishes, who get strung out on strong coffee and spin wildly around, all in an effort to become one with God? Are they embracing Middle Eastern culture as a slap in the face to their Bush-voting parents? Alas, eavesdropping on their conversations, it's apparent that it's all about the forbidden smoke.

My coffee and hookah arrive. In the tiny cup sits a substance somewhere between the states of "liquid" and "solid", which fits every variation of the proverb and more. Bean-remains float throughout the cup; when the drink finished, the grounds can be turned over onto a napkin and "read" by a fortune teller. Generally, they won't see sleep in your immediate future.

The server is tolerant of my ignorance regarding how to smoke - a hell of a lot nicer than I was as a barista. (Soy milk!? Heresy!) Once I get the hang of it - between the smoke, and the music, and the caffeine - I definitely start to feel a buzz. Nothing like the buzz you get from a certain OTHER substance smoked from a hookah (by which I mean unflavored tobacco. What did you think I was talking about?); but when I notice myself, hose hanging from my lips, saying "Haw Haw Haw! Jeeedy Jedi! JEEEDY JEDI!" under my breath, there's definitely something going on.


Then something strange happens. A man stands up from his table... and walks outside to light a cigarette. I wonder to myself just how far we've gone to demonize good ol' fashioned cancer sticks, when you can sit at a inside at a table and smoke "double apple" (one of the many sweeter-than-candy flavors) from something that looks like a hybrid of a sex toy and something you would administer an enema with.

When I left, I didn't head straight home. Rather, I rode my bike for a while to shake the buzz. The whole "hookah cafe" experience is an acquired taste. It fits with a very particular sense of aesthetics. But it's something every coffee lover should experience at least once, if for no other reason than to get a brief sample of a culture that we Americans know precious little about; even though it's fate is now so intricately entangled with our own.