VIVA BARISTA!

The first coffee job I ever had was at a kiosk in the Tabor Center, operating under the completely generic name “Espresso Cup”. Sort of an antiquated idea, the espresso cart, now that there’s any number of corporate chains conveniently ghettoed on every corner. It’s kind of like how the net café was made obsolete by the laptops on every table at those same coffee shops, or CDs being replaced by MP3 players, or cargo pants being edged out by those super-skinny girl jeans that all the hipsters wear. (I’m still bitter about that last one.)

Every day I came in at 7 am and - between reading books bought with the “tips” I got for giving away free drinks, and eating all the éclairs that our baker brought us – I made RIDICULOUSLY over-priced, absolute crap espresso drinks on a machine that was nothing more than a high-end home model. There are still folks in Denver who swear by their Folgers Crystals, due to the milk-scalded nastiness I had the audacity to serve under the auspices of “latte”. I was an angsty, directionless 19 year-old, too fat (what with all those éclairs) for it to even come off cool and disaffected.

Tired of dealing with all of the passive aggressive street people and other assorted loons who wandered in off the 16th street mall, I eventually displaced my anger onto the unfortunate Pacific Northwesterners who found themselves in our fair city, just looking for a serviceable cup of joe. I eventually went so far as to put a message on our menu board which read “The Espresso Cup Guarantee: Our Coffees Will Always Cost Less Than a Plane Ticket to Seattle.” Har-dee-har. What a prick.

A few of those folks braved my ire, pissing me off even more for the fact that it was obvious they wouldn’t get anything better, and were clearly just spoiling for a fight. And every single one of them, to a man, had one word on their lips, spoken with the reverence of Charles Foster Kane, longing for the innocence he lost along with his beloved sled, Rosebud:

“Starrrr…buuuucks.”

"Starbucks is coming”

“Starbucks will show Denver The Way”

“Starbucks will make you a ligit, world class city, and people from the coasts will never taunt you and your bumpkin ways again!!”

My point here is to illustrate the fact that there was a time, back before all the Safeway and Target locations, before Frappuccinos and breakfast sandwiches, that the little green label was viewed with respect and admiration by even the most discerning Javaheads. I saw an old post on William Gibson’s blog the other day, about how he can count on Starbucks for at least a decent cup of coffee, when he’s travelling through Podunk towns on a book tour. The guy certainly has a point; I remember on my honeymoon, it was the best cup I could find in Las Vegas, not exactly a bastion of coffee culture (or any other kind of culture, for that matter) and even in San Francisco last year, I found myself drinking more bad cappuccinos than good.

So last week, after my initial eye-rolling at the news about Starbucks closing every store in the country early in order to re-train their baristas, I have to admit I was intrigued. Aside from being a brazen (albeit brilliant) marketing meme that would naturally coast it’s way across the blogosphere, I couldn’t help but wonder: are the flat, too-hot drinks served from the Drive-up window in the last few years just the result of poorly trained employees, and not because of the much maligned, fully automatic espresso machines?

On the Wednesday morning after the training, I went to the Starbucks across the street from my work. I walked through the door, past the corporate approved sign reading “The Neighborhood’s Best Espresso” (gag). I must say, the employee I asked about the training at least gets points for attitude: she was sincerely excited about the push to become a respected brand again, and hopeful for the future. 30.2 seconds later (or however long the training manual deems appropriate) I was drinking my dopio from a porcelain demitasse.

The Verdict? It landed somewhere between ok (lower case) and good. Just short of the syrupy consistency of a great shot, and not quite strong enough - a shock, seeing as they roast the sweet bejeesus out of their beans. But it was at least the level of quality that Cayce Pollard would be happy to count on, after a transatlantic flight to Paris, or London, or Tokyo.

Contrast this, though, with the Mountain Regional Barista Competition last weekend. Bean Jockeys and Italian-Soda Jerks from all over Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana and Idaho came together in Thornton (which heretofore shall be referred to as “Ground Zero in the Coming Javapocolips!”) to display and hone their skills.

After their slot was up, competitors manned an espresso machine off in the corner. I got a fantastic macchiato made by a barista from Salt Lake City, who informed me she was disqualified for taking too much time. I can’t speak directly to her experience, since I wasn’t at the event for very long (I was with my 7 year old son, who I’m sure viewed somebody making coffee for a panel of judges as being only slightly more exciting than the “Galactic Senate” sequences in The Phantom Menace) – but I was a little put off by that. In a world where the most recognizable coffee brand in the world is trying to make the best espresso they can from a machine whose primary function is maximum efficiency - I'm more than happy to wait a few extra minutes for something truly special. If there's any readers out there who participated in the event, I'd love to hear about your experiences.

In the end, watching these folks do their thing and seeing them root for their peers was truly exciting – it made me remember why I started this blog in the first place (hint: it wasn’t to talk about Starbucks). I have to admit that I felt pangs of jealously for the outright camaraderie these professionals showed for one another, and the passion they had for their craft. And while I was a little disappointed to see that nobody from Denver slid into any of the top three spots (two of which went to Heidi Bickelhaudt from Trident and Nolan Dutton from Conscious Coffee - both Boulder shops) I think it's awesome that the guy who took first place is kickin' out wicked shots and stickin' it to the man from the back of a conversion truck.

Hm. Maybe the coffee cart isn't such an obsolete idea after all.

NOW READ THIS!

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m always on the lookout for the next big blog idea to exploit. I mean, it was this blog you’re reading right now, with a (supposedly) single theme that got me to thinking seriously about writing again in the first place. And now that I’ve meandered off all to hell and back, as far as “topic” is concerned - and now that I know a lot more about how a new blog goes about attracting readers (like, yeah, writing on a daily basis. Touche.) I think it would be cool to come up with that golden, one-in-a-couple-hundred-thousand idea that would land me up there as a “blog of note” on the blogger main page.

Because, c’mon, it’s not like that stuff happens in some completely organic fashion; like, trying to guess which band member is the leader by their press photo just happened to be your hobby. And let's face it, you don’t land a sweet-ass full-time blogging gig for ABC by reviewing your mid-eighties comic book collection half-assed. The widely-recognized blog doesn’t just happen; it’s flowering is the result of a combination of hard work, and a hot, steamy one night stand with a Greek muse. Like Xanadu, but without all the roller skating.

Remember how in the 90’s, everybody used to say “in the future, everyone will have their own television station”? It’s weird; maybe it’s because I get most of my boob-tube-style media nowadays through the internets - or maybe it’s because the nature of mass-media celebrity nowadays is more akin to a cancer that one tries to avoid at all costs – but I look at those “bloggers of note” as being superstars in their own right; pioneers of a medium that’s just beginning to discover it’s potential.

So, it’s not like she needs any more readers, but with all the hook-y, theme-ready blogs out there, I think today’s blog of note is particularly inspired. How cool is that? In a world where 1 out of every four adults didn’t read a single book all last year, where the hoytie toytie look down from behind their spectacles at the book selections of potential readers, here’s someone who’s celebrating something that should be one of the simplest pleasures in the world, whether it’s great literature or pulp fiction, holy book or maniacal rantings of L. Ron Hubbard. And it all takes place in San Francisco, where readers sit drinking coffee and perusing their books on Zen Buddhism and Paradigm Subversion for Dummies among the ghosts of Sam Spade, Mardou Fox*, and Chevette Washington.

As an ADHD’er and borderline dyslexic who’s raising the greatest little boy in the world, whose face flushes red with pride and exhaustion every time he finishes struggling though a book – I thought this was pretty freakin' awesome.

All right, whistle’s blowing – time to go. I’ve got a date w/ Dr. No tonight.

*full disclosure: I don't think I ever finished The Subterranians. My beatnick phase never really took.

MONDAY: A Coffee-Related entry!! Fo' Sho'!

Take this, all of you, and drink it...

I’d been searching lately for a few new coffee-related drinks to feature, in a half-hearted attempt to maintain my title as (one of) Denver’s greatest coffee blogs, but the products I turned up were mostly uninspiring. At the Valero gas station by my daughter’s day-care (purveyors of fine, Javalero brand coffees), they have “Stok” which is the semi-truck driver's equivalent of an “add shot” at Starbucks, served in those little containers that they put creamer in, that for some odd reason you never, ever have to refrigerate. Ass. I was ecstatic when I saw the giant tarp up at my nearby 7-11, advertising the “Slurpuccino”. Yes, I should probably be embarrassed to admit that, but I’ve been dreaming of just that sort of frozen sludge since my hazy-minded, munchie-addled early 20s - a $1.50, 40 oz. high-octane alternative to Peaberry’s Frozen Bear. Of course, you don’t really expect much from something that’s squeezed from the rear corner of an urban convenience store - but you'd expect it would taste, at least vaguely, like, y’know, coffee. I’m sorry to report, my fellow junk-food junkies, that the Slurpuccino is a Slurpee no-no. It tastes, more than anything, like an innocuous cream soda. If I was a maker of such decisions, I would market a Blak Slurpee and be done with it.

(And, please, don’t talk to me about “cost of product” – I’m sure the Coca Cola exec. who gave the okay to mass-marketing a $2 a bottle coffee and cola concoction has barrels of the syrup in his basement as part of his severance package)

Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered a new Mecca for myself: a new international market to satiate (but just barely) my well-documented, insatiable (and untented-to) wanderlust. H Mart in Aurora is a screeching, steel-twisting, no-reported-survivors car-crash of Asian cultures and goods, where Korean, English-as-a-second-language-speaking cashiers work amiably alongside the Spanish-as-an-only-language Mexican immigrants who bag your groceries. There are a couple of different food stalls, one of which sells the second best boba smoothies in town (next to, of course, Lollicup. Sorry “Boba & Crepes” – but, hey, thanks for playing), along with two dollar bags of popped rice cakes (which are blasted loudly from deep within the bowels of this massive steampunk looking contraption) and fish-shaped Korean Waffles on a stick(!?) For five bones, you can get a 40 minute, non-erotic massage (this is A-town we’re talking about here; so, yes, the clarification is apt). It’s from one of those high-tech chairs, as opposed to an earthy, associate’s degree wielding 23 year old hotty, but still. (If they ever manage to manufacture a chair that DOES give erotic message, sign me right the hell up!) On my first visit, they even had a flat screen TV set up in the front of the store, where the customers could sing karaoke (I don’t think that’s a regular thing: when I returned the following week, I psyched myself up to see if they had “Peace, Love, and Understanding” by Elvis Costello, but the whole set had up and vanished.)

Anyhoo, along with some frozen-ated coffee pops (mmm… like Mr. Brown on a stick) I got a couple of other Asian soft drinks, such as.........................




“It's like, how much more black could this be? And the answer is none. None more black.” Nigel Tufnel.


And that’s just how it tastes. Blacker that black. Like burnt charcoal basted in motor-oil. Like goth-poop. Yeah, I noticed that The Black Boss has some distinctly Anglo features, too. I’m thinking that maybe they mean it in the “deep, dark” underworld sense. Or the makers just aren’t giving it as much thought as I do. Or they’re just screwing with my mind.















Yes, yes, “What’s a Pocari, and why doesn’t it just get some damn antiperspirant?” Ha ha, you cheeky monkey. But all told, this stuff isn’t really so bad. You know in the 70’s how your mom, when she was doing Weight Watchers, she would drink “Fresca”, which - like “Tab” - was a diet soda with no non-diet analog? Well, this is it; Pocari Sweat is like Fresca, but with your garden variety, not good for you white-refined sugar, instead of the outright deadly poison that is saccharine. And it’s flat. So, it’s like non-diet Fresca, but left on the counter, with the cap off. Since 1976. So, no, it’s not actually “good”, per se, but it won’t kill you. Jeez, what do you people want from a soft drink named after an odorous bodily function?

Anyway, yeah, that’s how I’ve been spending my weekends. Sorry for the completely amateurish pics. Thank G-d The Onion just got a photo intern on staff – I am ass at taking pictures.

Maybe the H Mart offers a class.

The Depeche Mold

Ever since I was laid off from the cable company last year, I’ve toyed with the idea of downgrading to plain ol’ antenna-powered broadcast TV. I’m pissed off that they keep cutting back on what comes with our package (no more Something Weird and second season Facts of Life episodes on demand for free – the greedy bastards!) I don’t really have the time to keep up with the demanding, multi-layered story arcs that cable series are famous for - and besides that, it’s not as if I have all this extra money to burn. But the thing is, the wife and I (being the urbane sophisticated folks that we are) have this weekly ritual, where we sit down to watch two solid hours of public access programming every Friday night. It’s even better since the radical teenagers from Denver Open Media took over the programming last year. They’re like the 21st century, punk-rock Little Rascals, firing up their mid-grade digital video equipment and shouting “Hey, kids! Let’s put on a motherf**king show!”
Seriously, this stuff is pure comedy gold; uncut, uncensored, and usually unintentional. There’s this one program, VlogTV, where these two kids sit in front of a laptop and show clips off of youtube. It’s sort of like “Homemovies” that used to air on KBDI in the 80s, except everything is viewer-requested, so nobody reviews the content beforehand. There’s always this breathless, nerve rattling moment while the hosts wait to see if they’ve been duped into downloading hot MILF action.

Then there’s the “Chuck and Linda Lee Show” - Linda Lee is a new-ager of the “angels talk to me” variety, who talks all about creating your reality, while she herself pantomimes drinking a cup of tea. Chuck’s reality consists of getting the smackdown from Linda Lee anytime he opens his mouth to say something. And playing guitar.

The other thing I love about public access is that anytime I watch it, I’m sure to see someone I know. The wife - she used to do naughty with a guy that had a speaking part in Steven Spielberg’s “War of the Worlds”. Me – I watch channel 57 and see Rebecca, an avant guard artist who went by “Becky” back when she was cheerleading at dear ol’ Northglenn High School.

Last week, we got the kids to bed early so we could watch the monthly live broadcast of the “First Friday” event on Santa Fe. Right there on stage, belting out "Roxanne" in front of a group of middle aged guys, was a girl that I used make out with on a semi-regular basis.

You know how you have those paradigm shifting revelations about your own life? And you know how they don’t generally occur when you’re actually meditating, or hiking to the top of one of Colorado’s many 14,000 foot peaks?. Yeah, I had one of those, right then. A clear, cognizant reflection of my own reality; not one I’ve so much created, as one that’s a product of my advancing age.

Do you know how old I am?

I am old enough to actually know people who play in cover-bands. (!)

**********

I kid, of course. I kid, because I love. And because I can relate. Who am I to knock somebody for whatever it is that gets them through their eight hours of day job? And really, she effectively re-created that early to mid-nineties college rock growl. I mean, it wouldn’t be unheard of if they garnered some measure of success for mimicking their influences.

I remember, there used to be this band in Boulder called “Fluorescent Echo”. The lead vocals were handled by a dude who was a dead ringer for Erasure’s Andy Bell. The keyboardist looked like Jane Childs, and the bass player was Flea, just like every other bass player on the planet in 1991. While most bands Northwest of Denver were known for approximating The Grateful Dead, Fluorescent Echo effectively channeled Depeche Mode in order to achieve their 15 minutes of fame.

And it’s not as if they were the only ones – In the late 80s / early 90s, you couldn’t hock a loogie without hitting a sack full of Yamaha DX7s, all programmed to mimic the Mode. After some quick Googling, I realized that no one yet has put together a list of those bands. And you know what that means - - it's time to get bloggin'!

To wit:

RED FLAG

Now, these guys were just flat-out brazen. Not only did they recreate the Mode's sound, note for reverberating, hammer-striking-anvil note - but the lead singer had the audacity to raid Martin Gore's closet as well. But these guys knew who they were ripping off - you had to give them that. Their first album was like 10 songs worth of "Strangelove" - and their remix album, "Naive Dance", had tracks produced by Paul Robb of Information Society. So that's like a double dip of synth-y goodness.

MODE-O-METER: FOUR STARS

CAMOUFLAGE

Sure, I could have gone the easy route, and just put up the video for "The Great Commandment"; but I had a dream JUST like this one time. I was watching a government controlled TV network in Germany back before the Berlin Wall came down, and Matt Damon was wearing some Z Cavariccis and doing the Molly Ringwald side-to -side. Besides, I thought the hardest working band in Eastern Europe deserved some of the spotlight. You think it's easy to produce that kind of techno-pop when the commies in charge only let you use a conventional drum set? RESPECT, yo.

MODE-O-METER: 5 STARS

7 RED 7

Seven Red Seven (myspace page)

Okay, so I couldn't find any youtube clips for these guys. Which means nobody had a video camera at the Sacramento mall opening where they performed their triumphant live show. But listen to that music on their myspace page, and just try not to feel nostalgic.

(if you can do it, just leave me alone. You're dead to me.)

MODE-O-METER: 3.5 STARS

CAUSE AND EFFECT


To be perfectly honest, this track always kind of bugged me. I mean, sure, it has a good beat, and you could do the new wave "sweep a penny" dance to it; but the best Depeche Mode songs were always about longing, obsession, need. "You Think You Know Her" is a dark, haunting ode to taking some "me-time", in order to really be sure what you want out of life. And while that may be good advice for the average 17 year old who listens to this kind of stuff, it's doesn't exactly fit a grinding dance track. And what's up with their monicker? Do you think they go on couples spiritual retreats with Hall, Oats, Milli, Vanilli, Captain, Tenille, Big, and Tasty? And that hair - dude, didn't you get the fax that sportin' it like Rico Suave is no good for your alternative-radio street cred?

MODE-O-METER: 3 STARS

So there it is, folks - my comprehensive list of bands rockin' it in The Mode.

Why? Why not? This is how I get through my eight hours of day job.

yow.

1 (one) 450 word story, interviewing an employee of the local erotic bakery about their chosen profession.

1 (one) 850 word story about The World Romantic; who, in my opinion, deserve every word of positive press that I, and every other alterna-weekly lackey in town, can possibly give them.

due Feb 4.

25 (twenty-five) 75 - 100 word blurbs about local eateries and bars.

In Aurora.

due (ahem) January 31st.

and I'm not even hungry.

The 25 x 100 words - I'll have that every week for the next 4 weeks.

I repeat: "yow".

Teddy Moronic!

Ever since the turn of the millennium, I've spent the first few weeks of each New Year in this hard core retro-futuristic mode. In 2008, I’ve been listening to stuff like The Shamen, Information Society, and Prince (which, admittedly, is less futuristic and more late-renaissance era on Neptune, but still), I picked up a short-stack of vintage sci-fi novels from The Attic Bookstore (Downbelow Station, Babel 17, and Quest Crosstime), and I’ve been screwing around with my beat-up Rubik’s Cube. Perpetually. Like an obsessive-compulsive street person. (What makes a Rubik’s Cube – that ubiquitous artifact of 1980’s pop-culture - futuristic, you ask? It has to do with re-wiring my brain. Either that, or simple geometry, to me, represents the pinnacle of scientific achievement.)

I go through this for two reasons. One: because I’m still pissed off that I’m expected to live without all the nifty gadgets I was promised in movies like 2001: A Space Odyssey (though not having a Terminator-style nuclear winter in 1997 was nice. It all balances out, I guess.) And B: because, like all sci-fi geeks, I occasionally imagine myself as an android, able to be re-programmed and upgraded at will. A distinct advantage, when it comes to New Years Resolutions.

This year’s reboot/upgrade - “Ted 2.0”, if you will - is going pretty well. Along with the usual working out and being generally healthy, I’m de-fragging the ol’ ADHD addled noggin in an effort to speed up the processing. The thing is, I got a new freelance gig – for a nightlife and entertainment website called Metromix – so I’m going to need my cranium operating at full capacity.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m absolutely thrilled for the opportunity. But sometimes, I wish I could just take a pill, or step into the transmorgrifier, or fall out of an airplane and be rebuilt – faster, better, stronger – in order to beat the hell out of whoever it was that said “all great achievements require time”.

The other night, in the midst of my slow-as-molasses life-turnaround, I came across “Johnny Mnemonic” on TV. Now, it doesn’t matter what else I have going on; which of my kids needs attention, how many library books I have to finish reading in order to return them on time, or how long it’s been since my last blog entry… if Johnny Mnemonic is on the tube, it calls to me – demanding to be watched.

Most William Gibson fans loathe this film. And no doubt, there’s much to dislike, from one of the main characters being tossed from the original short story, to the fact that the whole thing plays like one of those early nineties, straight to video Terminator rip-offs, starring Don “The Dragon” Wilson and directed by Albert Pyun.

But me, almost as much as William Gibson, I love straight-to-video Terminator rip-offs. In theory, anyway: to actually adjust the tracking on your VCR in order to sit and watch one can be duller than waiting to grow tits - but the boxes, man, the boxes for those things were amazing, with the fourth and fifth rate Dolph Lundgren wannabes in trench coats and mirror shades, wielding their bad ass firearm, alongside some computer font non-sequitur, like “In the year 1999, there is no law… now, HE will whoop ass…” I can’t tell you how many times I got suckered into watching a movie based on one of those boxes. While Johnny Mnemonic may not be the film you would expect from one of today’s best loved science fiction authors and contemporary artist Robert Longo, it absolutely delivers on the promise of those boxes.

In The Future ™, data too “hot” to be transmitted over the internets (where it’s susceptible to hackers and such) is entrusted to information couriers, who store data using cybernetic implants in their brains. Johnny is played by Keanu Reeves, whose trademark acting technique (reciting all the dialogue in a zombie-like mono/bari/metronome) works for a character who’s supposed to have undergone a lobotomy for professional reasons.

As a protagonist in a mid-1990’s movie, Johnny is tapped for the proverbial “one last job” by slimeball Udo Keir, who promises him that once he’s finished, he can have his brain fixed (restoring his long term memory, in the process). Problem is, the data is way over Johnny’s storage capacity, meaning he’s got to get it out of head before it sizzles his synapses. Add to that the fact that the info has been stolen by the Yakuza, and the film drops into neo-noir freefall.

“Johnny Mnemonic” has everything: transvestite hit men, dolphin hackers, TV worshiping cyborg evangelists (played by the REAL Dolph Lundgren – no low budget short-cuts here, people!), and Henry Rollins looking like he’s about to explode, as he strains to deliver his lines without shouting them like a performance art monologue. And since Gibson’s work is regularly read and enjoyed by dedicated readers who nonetheless have no idea what *&@# happened in the book they just finished, the film uses Ice T as a Greek Chorus of sorts, to guide the audience through some of the more esoteric high tech plot points. Ice T is to expository dialogue what Irvine Welsh is to time-share seminars - which is to say, “confoundingly verbose overkill” - but it is fun to watch the one-time Cop Killa attempt to keep a straight face while talking to a dolphin in a swim cap.

"What? My hair gets in my eyes! I am a MAMMAL, you know..."

All snark aside, “Johnny” is better than The Matrix (yes, it is.) in the same way that Terminator 3 is better than T2 (yep, yes, it is): clever without being pretentious, and never dull. No one is ever deemed “The One”, or “chosen”, or destined to do anything. Like Gibson’s books, it’s just a bunch of really jacked up stuff that happens to some unfortunate folks who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Best of all, the film captures Gibson’s paranoia about / fascination with the information age. It’s a sentiment I can relate to, as I try to prioritize the constant stream of data in my life, deciding what I can keep, and what to delete, from my overcrowded brain.

Xmas Xoffee!

"Jeez! What the hell was that last entry? Remember the good old days, when this "Ted" clown went by “caffeinator_x”, and he’d actually talk about coffee on this supposedly coffee-flavored web log? Nowadays, it’s just a constant stream of .02 cent philosophical pontificating, like some excruciating, low-rated daytime talk show - “Chillin’ with Chochem” - how long before this dork finally just disappears in a poof of bargain-basement special effects?”



Yeah, sorry about that, folks. Just so much else going on in the ol’ cranium, I ‘spose - what with the holidays and all.

But, hark! What’s this?... Some astounding miracle of the holiday season is actually inspiring me to engage in some real, live coffee-talk!

Now, this time of year can be a boon for us sales-support types; good old fashioned yuletide guilt sets in among the sales folk, who pity me the paltry sum I get for showing up with a smile on my mug every day. Truth be told, the gift-giving was a little more extravagant at my last job; but where I'm at now, I don’t have to work until 7 pm on a Friday while the sales staff begs off early for a “business meeting” (*coff* round of golf *cough*) Besides, I got some surprisingly good peanut butter candies, a pretty nifty-looking scarf from my manager, and, no matter how “indie” and “hip” you are, 30$ worth of free java from Starbucks is a hell of a lot better than a lump of coal in your stocking.

Sure, everybody has their own laundry list of issues with Starbucks, whether it’s the squeaky-clean corporate atmosphere, or how bitter the coffee is, or that their fully-automated, completely self-aware espresso machines debase the barista's profession, or the fact that the afternoon shift-lead won’t go to bed with them. And, hey... good points, all.

But you know what I absolutely, un-ashamedly LOVE about Starbucks? What keeps me going back, in spite of everything above? It's the fact that I could go back in time to Seattle, in 1991, order a grande drip coffee, put it in a locker at the bus station, come BACK to the ass-hole end of 2007 (where I’d now be ridiculously wealthy, what with all my Amazon stock) dig it out, and it would still be roughly the temperature of the sun’s corona.

For me, this is a huge plus. I can drink the vilest cup of mud in the world - brewed at some god-forsaken diner, from a vacuum-sealed packet, sitting on a heating pad since Neil Cassidy originally ordered it – and not even blink an eye.

So long as it’s hot.

Conversely, I don’t care what religious figure blessed which pound of ultra-rare beans that were digested through whatever exotic animal’s rectum – if it doesn’t scald my stomach lining – baby, that’s just not coffee.

Just what mastery of nuclear fission does Howard Shultz possess, that allows him to weild the power of the sun like a Greek god? Can all his money afford him even that?


The other unexpected, out of left field gift that'll be remembered at least as much as the more expensive presents I've received was a Dunkin' Donuts coffee gift set, from my wife's best friend in Conn.

Yeah, that's right - Dunkin' Donuts coffee, pre-ground, shipped across country, not even packed in an air-tight container, from a fast-food chain that specializes in keeping the U.S. the most morbidly obese country in all the world. And you know what?

It's freakin' good. And, no, my wife's friend isn't reading this now.

Dunkin' Donuts is one of those places that you take for granted when you live someplace where there's one on every corner, but once you can't find one, your rare visits are undertaken with the reverence of a religious pilgrimage, like Mecca for Muslims, or White Castle for displaced midwesterners. The wife (east coast born and raised) has been preaching to me about the virtue of this stuff for years, but only now have I seen the light.

This is not the gourmet, subtle cup from Kaladi or Pablos. This is the stuff Philip Marlowe drinks in a diner while talking shop with Sam Spade; a cup of joe. It does the trick, and it's as good of a coffee as my $20, Satuday-nite-special of a coffeemaker deserves.



The label reads "100% Arabica Beans", but then right below, there's something about "Natural and Artifical Flavors". Which I'm betting is code for "opium" and "cocaine".

Crack for Christmas... almost sounds like a missing Frank Capra movie, doesn't it? And it's a hell of a present.

As long as it's hot, of course.

Jupiter and Pluto in the Hiz-ouse!

My 10th house that is - which is all about career, and fame, astrologically speaking.

Now, I’m not a strict adherent of astrology - not by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, what exactly is there to adhere to, anyway? Candle burning and Goddess worship for Winter Solstice? Do you have to make an annual pilgrimage to the Renaissance Festival to stock up on healing energy crystals? Keep Madonna’s “Ray of Light” in heavy rotation with your whale song CD’s?

I’ve always enjoyed astrology, as a kind of ancient, pre-Freudian psychology. I like to imagine the Druids using horoscopes for pre-job screenings; like, if you’re a Pisces, maybe methodically placing the giant rocks at Stonehenge isn’t for you, but we do have an opening in our “staring up at the sky all day, charting the heavenly bodies” department.

I have this completely bogus, pop-psychological theory as to why any system of divination “works”; I think the Tarot cards, or I Ching coins (or whatever) once they’re dealt, they engage the logical, analytical, language-centered left brain, freeing up your intuitive, creative RIGHT brain to play free-association with the world at large, sort of like a giant Rorschach test. So really, the answers aren’t supernatural; rather, they’re coming from deep down inside you. And the reason you can’t access that wealth of self-knowledge without all the pre-modern parlor tricks and slight of hand is that usually, your left brain is way too busy dressing down your right brain, like James Randi getting all up in Sylvia Browne’s grill over in the smoking area, while the poor old bat is just trying to inhale a carton of Camel Straights so she can maintain the demonic growl that Montel Williams finds so positively enchanting.

Ah, I just love relativism, allowing me to get my new-age cake and eat it, too - with my existentialist tendencies perfectly intact.

But, then, what about those real-live supernatural moments, those honest to mergatroid flashes of intuition, like knowing who’s on the phone when it rings, even though you haven’t heard from that person in years? Sure, science can test those experiences back in the lab and confidently slap them with the “COINCIDENCE” stamp – but what if that doesn’t satisfy the person who actually experienced that nigh-transcendent mystery moment?

Just the other morning, I had a dream where I screwed up a big pile of stuff at work. I’d wake up for an second and know that it was just a dream, but when I drifted back to sleep I couldn’t shake that lingering sense of “Oh, crap”. Sure as hell, I came in, and something was messed up – no, nothing big, but still, just kinda weird.

Which brings me back to astrology; everything I’ve ever read about me, as a Pisces, so entirely captures my little personality quirks and gawky fetishes that it’s downright spooky. On a lark, a few months ago, I got a book called “Darkside Astrology”, which centers on the Zodiac’s less admirable traits. After a few passages like “anything with a pulse will get you going, and you sometimes think that maybe you’re being a teensy bit too picky” and “what you want is never what you will want in one minute, or what you did want 3 minutes ago” I swear, I wanted to cry. My editor at The Onion, he’s a Pisces, and I’m convinced that if I never met my wife (a Pisces-Taurus pairing predicted in the books with a level of accuracy usually reserved for blood tests) I would actually BE him; like, if we tried to occupy the same space at the same time, we’d melt together in a fit of CGI fueled protoplasmagoria, like Ron Silver and his future self in Timecop.

This year has been unusual for me, astrologically speaking. Those hip, irreverent horoscopes from Rob Brezny at “Free Will Astrology” have followed the events of my life over the last twelve months like a Daniel Stern narration from The Wonder Year. It’s not so much that they’ve predicted events, but they’ve commented on little milestones in my life, from my car accident, which occurred in no small part to my infinite distractibility (“I'd like to see you permanently lose at least 50 percent of your chronic aggravation.”) to my freelance gig w/ The Onion (“it's definitely a time when you can move closer to making a living from doing what you love.”)

Then, in October, my co-worker Katy (a free spirited creative-type whose natural hair color is a shade of red that every woman I’ve ever loved has spent countless dollars on trying to mimic at one time or another) pointed me in the direction of Astrologyzone.com, and that’s when things got really weird.

For about 12 weeks now, my horoscope has been predicting a big, enormous shift in my professional life; not just vague little subjective tidbits, but actual specifics, like what industry I’d be working in (media) and even dates when the shift would begin to take place. And sure enough, on December 11th (as predicted) I had an interview for a job. And really, not just any job. You know how you’ll talk to a friend, and ask him how work is going, and he’ll say, “OH, its okay. I mean, it’s not my dream job.”? Well, what I interviewed for, truly, hands down, without a doubt, would be MY dream job. And no matter what happens, I’m just happy to know that it’s out there; I was beginning to think that such a thing – where I would spend my days writing about what I love, and actually make a living wage, AND health benefits – only existed in my post lunch hour day dreams.

But that's the thing - as of now, nothing has happened. I’m sitting, and waiting, and wondering, and hoping, and (so far) successfully staving off little pointless bouts of regret and self loathing about what I could have done differently. But I’ve gotten no word.

So it begs the question: was Sartre right? Is the universe inherently empty, with no direction or purpose, regardless of all our hopes and dreams? Or is Daniel Dennet (another avowed humanist) correct; that a living, conscious universe, guided not by mechanistic determinism, but rather on cosmic intervention, no better for humanity’s intentions?

I withhold judgment for now – but no matter what, I’m gonna continue to do what I can to make the things that I want happen. That's probably the best way to go, no matter what side of the philosophical / spiritual fence you sit on.

TAGGED BY BIG DADDY!!

(get your minds out of the gutter, kids!)

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while… lots going on. We took a whirlwind trip to St. Louis last week, where I was lucky enough to see The Joffrey Ballet’s Nutcracker. Once, just the wife and me, and again with both kids, who got to meet all the dancers up close after the show. I got to watch my daughter cower in fear from the dread Drosselmyer (who my son refers to as “that vampire man”), and then cuddle up to the snow queen. My father-in-law, the executive director for Dance St. Louis, told me that the dancer who performed Drosselmyer is in his 40’s. How come I don’t have quads like that? “Bar exercises”? Yeah, so what? I go to the bar sometimes...

Also, I had 3 stories due in the last week, including one with an amazing DJ / visual artist named Wigdan Giddy; turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself. He’s showing his work next month at The Martini Ranch, so I encourage everyone to put aside their slavish rejection of Lodo for a night to check out his work.

PLUS… I’m waiting to hear back on an Incredibly Awesome Opportunity, which I’m really not at liberty to talk about it right now. Which means, of course, it’s the only thing on my silly little monkey mind. Therefore (ergo, Q.E.D., and all that) I’ve chosen to keep my virtual lips zipped, for the time being. I should know how that will turn out soon-ish, and no matter what happens, I’ll have lots to say about it at that time.

In the meantime - let's do this thing!


1. When you were born, how much did you weigh?
You know, I really don’t recall – but I’m sure I thought I looked fat.

2. What's you're sugar poison?
Like BD, I’m really more of salty guy, but lately, I have rediscovered my palate for Slurpees.

3. If you had to choose between meat and cheese for the rest of your life, which would you choose? Then be specific.
Funny – the thought of being without either really doesn’t really toss me into the pit of despair. I’d miss dairy though (cappuccino made with soy / rice / vegan’s breast milk is just plain wrong)
4. What, is your opinion, is the worst song ever?
Yeah, “Proud to be an American” popped straight away into my head. Since 2 other folks chose the same thing, I think we could make a strong case for it being a "fact". Something about guys in John Deere hats with their chins up, dewy-eyed with the sniffles just fills me with alternating currents of contempt and embarrassment.

Other than that – pretty much any of those neo-country faith/family/ “I love my little tiny daughter so much it’s creepy” songs.

5. Who was your favorite teacher growing up and why?
I had a couple good ones in junior high, which bears mentioning, since everything else about my junior high experience was absolutely wretched. Other than that, it’s a tie between two from high school; Mr. Studholme, who was one of those awesome, cable-knit sweater-wearing, all-day coffee sipping English teachers, kind of like an emotionally stable, in-shape version of Paul Giamatti in “Sideways”. I always knew I could write, but he taught me how to actually read (not just “sound out the words” stuff). The other was Mr. (Dr.?... it was never clear) Talmage-Bowers. He taught a class in Western Civilization that turned me into the philosopher-hobbyist I am today.

6. What personal activity, when performed in public, bothers you the most?
I could eavesdrop on private conversations in a coffee shop all day long, no matter how pretentious or utterly pointless; but I hate hate HATE women who babble incessantly on their cellphones, describing their life in vivid detail, as if it’s the best episode of Sex in the City EVER.

In person - hell yes; but over the phone, it’s just so canned.

7. Ok, there's a $50 bill lying on the ground. You pick it up. Dumbfounded by your incredible luck, what do you selfishly purchase?
Some books. Coupla CDs. The change would get me my coffee for the remainder of the week.

8. Do you have a recurring nightmare? If so, explain.
(Keep in mind that in “waking life”, I’m a high school dropout) I’m, like, 20 years old, and I’ve gone back to school in order to graduate. It’s the day of report cards, and I find out I’ve STILL failed (…something… usually science); Oh, well, just one more semester, right?

Then I realize I’m actually 35.

Haven’t had that one in a while. Great… now I’ll probably have it tomorrow morning. Thanks a lot.

Also, I lose a lot of teeth in my dreams. And I have long, flowing locks of hair when I look in the mirror.

9. Name one place on Earth you've never been, but vow to visit at least once.
Europe. And Europe. Oh, and, Europe.

10. You notice that question #9 wasn't really a question. You feel smart for catching such a small detail. What else can you do really well that reminds you how smart you are?
If being married 10 years has taught me one thing, it’s the fact that there’s absolutely no difference between a question, and a command for information. (OOOoooh, I’m gonna hear about it on that one…)

“do really well”… “makes me feel smart”… ?

There’s stuff, but I can always be better!

Safe Java!

So, yeah, after very little deliberating and not-too-much soul searching, I decided to update the ol’ profile a bit; to drop that clever little crayola self-portrait and to add my real-life name - all in hopes of increasing the visibility of any freelance work I manage to scrounge up for myself. That, and if any of my old girlfriends happen to look me up on The Google, they’ll realize that I’m neither a Methodist minister, nor a motorcycle racer (not that there was much question on those counts. Gay realtor in Florida, though… that might have garnered some hits.)

Aren’t I just oh-so strikingly handsome and literary-looking? And to think, it only took 87 shots of me alternating between my repertoire of “trademark looks”, including (but - please – not limited to) The Full Smile (which makes my cheeks look too big), The Ne’er-Do-Well Half-Smile, and my time-worn “You Bore Me, Lets Make Love” Gaze (which I always imagined would look like something Ethan Hawke would affect in “Reality Bites”, but its way more “disoriented turtle” when you actually see it. How come no one ever told me?) I did figure out that if you take pictures from a slightly higher angle, you don’t have to do that college-girl/freshman 15 thing of balling up your fist and putting it under your chin to hide your neck fat. There was one other shot that came out okay - me, tapping away on my laptop - but it was a little too reminiscent of Stephen J. Cannell hard at work on next week’s episode of The Greatest American Hero, so I opted instead for the one at the side of the page.




I’m always amazed that our Netflix queues and Amazon picks can peg our personalities with a degree of accuracy that Sigmund Freud could only have dreamt about. No, a blogger profile wont reflect that the writer is orally fixated and has mommy issues (except on Myspace, maybe, where that sort of thing is your run-of-the-mill pick-up line) but if you come across a profile for a 42 year old female who’s into German Industrial music, knitting, and Back to the Future fan-fiction, that’s probably much more invaluable than a “Myers-Briggs” test in deciding whether or not you want to hire her for a front desk position at your law office.

Granted, there can be a fair amount calculated hype featured in online profiles, especially among creative types (who meticulously plot out those kinds of things, picking 1 new album for every 2 classics under “favorite music”, making sure they balance out any “graphic novels” they enjoy with something written by Vladimir Nabokov, etc.), but generally speaking, you’d have to be deliberately misleading to come up with interests so entirely idiosyncratic that you couldn’t see one person enjoying them both.

That is, of course, until I came across this headline.

Now - yes, yes - in case you haven’t heard, I do love my coffee. And sex? Ariel… Ookla… RIDE!

Now. Seriously, the kids wont even know we're gone; put on “Breakin’” and give ‘em some chips.

But, seriously... at the same time? This is not "You got your chocolate in my peanut butter" style shenanigans.

Sure, like any 21st century, 30-something wage slave, I’ve got a triple grande barista fantasy in heavy rotation. (Girl 1: “Oh! Sorry, sir, but we don’t open for another 30 minutes." Girl 2: “But… why don’t you come behind the counter… I’m sure we can whip something up for you…” And then from there, it’s all variations on a theme, depending on the shop. You know how that goes.)

But at no point, ever, have I thought to myself, mid-coitus - no matter how bad and/or ill-advised said-coitus was - “You know, I could really go for a Cuban-style macchiato right now.” Not once have I entertained the thought of re-enacting the “9 ½ Weeks” kitchen scene with a steaming hot cup of Kenya AA.

I’ve always heard that Ethiopians are fiercely proud of their coffee heritage, but this is true dedication.

Still, though, setting aside my own (uncharacteristically) prudish attitudes on the subject, this represents a major progressive victory in a part of the world where the incidence of HIV transmission is staggering. Perhaps there’s still hope for our own country, torn asunder by the redneck agenda though it's been; maybe there's still a chance to curb the average Bush voter's incessant breeding.

After all, how hard can it be to make a prophylactic that tastes like “Peanuts and Coke”?

Alpha Male Update!

Have you ever thought to yourself, “Y’know, self, that damn pope is just too damn liberal.”? How ‘bout Pat Robertson?... Now there’s a guy who could toughen up a bit. At least he’s not a sissy, though, like that pansy, peace loving hippy, Jesus.

REAL men know the truth… if you want the Almighty’s will to be done, you need a real straight shooter - someone with a 70’s porn star mustache on his face, a top-notch toupee under his ten-gallon hat, and a round-house kick powerful enough to knock Richard Dawkins straight on back to the stone age, where he’ll see once and for all that marriage means one caveman / one cavewoman, and a steady diet of fresh, hot bronto-burgers for all.

*************************
At long last, Norris: Texas Ranger - star of Cannon Films classics like “Hero and the Terror” and “Missing in Action 2: Still Missing” and all round alpha male extraordinaire has finally stepped forward to choose His candidate from the exciting field of Republican contenders.

Chuck Almighty has granted His divine province to Republican Mike Huckabee, in order to help the candidate do battle with the Democrat’s cold-chance-in-hell contender, Satan’s magik imp, Dennis Kucinich.

Asked for comment, Kucinich repeated the famous incantation from his book “The energy of the stars becomes us. We become the energy of the stars. Stardust and spirit unite and we begin: one with the universe; whole and holy; from one source, endless creative energy, bursting forth, kinetic, elemental” at which point, rainbows shot from his nose.

Dennis Kucinich at a recent campaign stop.

Norris is the second major religious figure to announce their support for a candidate. Last week, the goddess Kali vowed to support Tom Tancredo, so long as the Colorado Republican continues to sacrifice brown people in Her name.

Alpha Male Wednesday!

For the first entry in my “Alpha Male Wednesday” series, I’ve chosen “Brand of the Werewolf” by Lester Dent - featuring Doc Savage – Man of Bronze. I picked this novel up at Half Priced Books, a labyrinthine temple of the written word located in downtown Engleweird; past the Gothic Theater and the paranoid-survivalist outlet store, just around the corner from the creepy Catholic Supply Shop that looks like Sissy Spacek’s living room in “Carrie”. If Mayor Hickenlooper’s office ever chooses Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories for its “One Book, One Denver” program, this would be a good place to find it cheap.

The story begins with Doc Savage and company on a north bound train, headed for some R and R on a nature reserve belonging to Docs’ uncle. En route, the man of bronze receives a telegram from his uncle, stating emphatically that he and his friends are not welcome, making Doc suspicious that there may be trouble afoot.

Why this is the case is anyone’s guess; the man of bronze states that he’s never met this uncle, and he’s headed to his home without ever having heard back that it was okay to do so. It never occurs to Doc, for even a second, why his uncle may be just a little dubious at the prospect of having six well-muscled single men crashing in his rumpus room, eating all his Doritos. Did I mention the reserve is in Canada?

Now, I have to admit, once I committed myself to reviewing these testosterone-laden books, I became concerned that they would appeal, perhaps, to a more conservative audience. Alas, I had nothing to worry about; Doc and his gang (referred to, affectionately, as The FABULOUS Five) are gayer than Senator Larry Craig’s porn collection. His compatriots (represented here with the help of a quick Google Image Search) include:



“Renny” Renwick! – Construction Engineer. Dent continually mentions Renny’s ability to smash in doors with his “enormous hands” (and you know what THAT means…)

“Monk” Mayfair! – Industrial chemist, nicknamed for his simian appearance - the group’s resident bear/daddy.






“Ham” Brooks! – Lawyer and token metrosexual – the requisite ladies man, but possibly bi. He carries a CANE, for crissakes.



(ahem) “Long Tom”! – Electrical engineer and… uh, he’s long. Yeah, that’s about it.


"Johnny" Littlejohn! – Archeologist. He and Long Tom are like the red-shirts on Star Trek, except they never die. You’d think Doc would want to round out the team with a weapons expert, maybe a judo master or something; but… whatever.

Together, they are a crack team of globe-trotting do-gooders, like the special-ops division of the HRC.

Also on the train are Corto Ovejo, his daughter Cere and a “swarthy” man named El Rabanos, who is continually referred to throughout the book as being “girl-faced”; so - while it’s meant to be a mystery - it’s pretty clear he’s the villain. (Again, that would be misogyny, not homophobia, on Dent’s part). If that didn’t tip you off on who the antagonist is, whoever did the copy on the back cover wrote “Stalking them every inch of the way is the archfiend, El Rabanos…” so the mystery is about as thin as “Who is Darth Sideous?” in the Star Wars prequel trilogy.

Cere and her father are on the run from baddies who want to learn the Ovejo family's secret - involving a pirate ship, a hidden treasure, and an ivory cube that holds a map that will lead to both. You know, your typical, run-of-the-mill family skeleton type stuff. To keep the family at arms distance from Doc and company, El Rabanos convinces his traveling companions that the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy gang is trying to kill them.

Not having read the back cover, the Ovejos take El Rabanos at his word, in spite of (or perhaps, because of) Cere’s attraction to Doc. Doc is the prime suspect when the train conductor turns up dead, the image of a werewolf engraved on the victim’s door.

*Spoiler Alert!* or maybe, more appropriately, *Disclaimer!* … at no point does Doc Savage actually go mano e lupine with the werewolf represented on the cover. It’s mentioned more than once in the book that Doc Savage is not a super-human, but a man trained to the peak of mental and physical perfection (which probably speaks to the fact that supernatural skeptic Harry Houdini still captured much of popular imagination at the time of publication) so his adventures aren’t generally of the occult. And hey, the “let’s scare ‘em off with an obscure local legend” thing always got a pass from me on Scooby Doo. But really, the whole werewolf thing in the book is less a red herring, and more just a non-entity; it would be like calling Raiders of the Lost Ark, “Indiana Jones and the Girl With ‘Love You’ Written on her Eyelids”.

Anyway. Doc’s uncle has been murdered prior to the start of the book, because he was in possession of the aforementioned ivory cube. Doc’s cousin Pat ("It’s Pat!”), and her big fat Native American maid (who, like her “half-breed” husband, is treated here with such pathos, sympathy, and dignity, let me assure you) are kidnapped by the bad guys - which of course is a recipe for much high adventure and swashing of buckles.

The main female characters, Pat and Cere, are both described as “beautiful”. Of course, for Pat, that’s coming from the FABULOUS Five, so I’m guessing a few extra pounds and a page-boy hair cut. I concur: hot. Cere at one point attempts to seduce Doc with her feminine charms, and of course, we get the usual story about how Doc remains chaste, to protect potential mates from his enemies. Which is what Senator Craig says when his wife starts hinting around about a Hello, Kitty make-out party. Really! She said so on the Matt Lauer interview.

The climax of the book involves a hidden, booby-trapped pirate ship – if you’ve seen The Goonies, you pretty much know how that goes. Just no Sloth, and they don’t get to keep the treasure… they hand it over to a museum instead. Because Doc Savage is bigger than than anyone else on his team. And if you don’t do the honest, honorable thing while in Doc's employ, he will "Man-of-Bronze" your ass.

*****************

So, what did I learn from this book about being an alpha male?

I learned that the alpha male is not born that way. No, the alpha male is forged, from birth; raised from the cradle by his stern, taskmaster parents to become a world-class righter-of-wrongs. He is molded by a two-hour daily mental and physical exercise program; a regime that would cause a lesser man to curl up on the floor in a puddle of his own urine. His skin is baked (some would even say, “bronzed”) by the scorching sun he’s encountered during his travels throughout the exotic jungles and rain forests of the world.

Of course, requiring that sort of pedigree is bad news for the aspiring alpha males out there who were raised on a steady diet of grilled cheese sandwiches and “Thundarr, the Barbarian” cartoons.

But, hey, what are you gonna do? After all, somebody has to write these blog entries.

Cap Cap Cap... Cappuccino Cappuccino

Whoop-Ass by the 12 Pack

I have a story in next week’s A.V. Club called “Around the World at a Mile High” (unless the editor changes that… he’s got a better handle than I do on oh-so-clever titles). In it, I showcase all the different international markets that Denver has to offer; the specialty cuisines they sell, the idiosyncratic packaging (Hello, Kitty on EVERYTHING. Swear to god, I half-expected to cough up a hairball after choking down a stick of Pocky); the sugary sweet junk food confections that are anathema to our less-refined ‘Merican taste buds (in South America, Nutella is considered the most delicious, creamiest manna ever to be brought down by Zues from on high by. And hey! Did you know that the Frito Lay Company sells cheese-less Cheetos to our lactose intolerant friends across the Pacific? Did you know there were any dairy products in Cheetos at all?)

I kept the coffee references to a minimum for this one, seeing as 3 of the 4 stories I’ve had published so far revolve around the stuff. Still, I couldn’t help but make reference to the brewing equipment available at the Jerusalem Market. Especially considering that, along with smoking paraphernalia, they didn’t sell much else.

Entirely purged from the article is my love of Asian canned coffees. After all, it’s something I’ve covered extensively enough on this very blog. And I’m trying – trying - to avoid that “alt-weekly” writer thing where all my stories read like a hipster’s diary entry about “Hey, look how interesting I am. Aren’t I just fascinating, what with my juxtaposing interests in all things low and high culture?”, those little trademark touches, kind of like how Kevin Smith puts his stupid friends in all his movies, or how Quentin Tarantino puts his foot fetish on display in all of his. (Particularly a problem, as he focuses so often on Uma Thurman’s nasty-ass dogs. Yech.)

Not only that, but I’ve pretty much been through all of the varieties that you can get here in Denver. There’s a big, wide world of other options available out there, like 12 oz., recyclable holy grails, all of which I have yet to get my hands on.

Luckily, though, for those of us land locked and without the ways and means to go meandering across the globe at the drop of the hat, there’s this site. Seriously, the Japanese know how to turn even the most mundane consumer experience into a veritable cornucopia of high-kitch stimulus.

Go. Now. Dig!

Alpha-Me!

On New Years Day, driving through streets still buried under the blizzard from the week before, the wife and I got in a conversation about our resolutions. She’s really good about that stuff; writing them down to make them tangible, so they can be mused over, considered and reconsidered… “words that stay” like Gelfling Kara sez in “The Dark Crystal”

Me, I’m not as good at expressing such concrete thoughts. My goals, like everything else in my life, tend to be sort of transient, vague. In my head, I went through my usual litany of hopes and desires; to write, to travel, to get in better shape, find a better job, to be more assertive… yadda yadda yadda. But when I finally opened my mouth to put it out there to someone else, so there would be no shirking it the next day, I said my Resolution for 2007 would be, ”to embrace my inner Alpha Male."

Yeah, she laughed, too. She signs the checks for all our bills, drives, when we’re both in the car, and (occasionally) watches the sports on TV. I, on the other hand, put the kids to bed, fold our laundry with the precision and intensity of a master ninja, and listen to Erasure. With apologies to the GLBT community, she’s the “Butch”, and I’m the “Bitch”.

But still, I have perused my goal with some small successes; I’ve got a little-bit better job, I hit the gym 5 days a week, I’m writing for dollars (Hey! Did I mention I’m freelancing for The Onion? What’s that? “With the same frequency that Emily Elizabeth talks about her big, red dog”, you say? Oh. Sorry. Forget I brought it up.)

One of the things that’s always stood in my way as far as being the ideal male was concerned (besides my love of Erasure, that is) is my tendency toward overall “flightiness”. My friends always joked that the reason for some of my more random, illogical (read: downright stupid) actions was that I was “missing part of my brain”. And the only thing that could calm me down? The one and only substance that could get me to think straight?

Yep… coffee. The stuff didn’t just wake me up… it tightened the screws… made me altogether sharper.

So, now, smack-dab in the middle of the whole self-improvement, self-discovery, and all round self-centeredness kick I’m currently on, I'm diagnosed with ADHD… a fairly acute case of it, as matter of fact. I’m taking a medication called Adderal (which is one more reason for me to resent the fact that my insurance company paid out FIVE GRAND for the piece of crap Scientology Indoctrination Unit I rear-ended).

Adderal is a stimulant. More accurately, Aderall a speed-ball; a veritable crack-house fire sale's worth of uppers. A chemical cocktail which features Benzadrine, the drug that Jack Kerouac took in liberal doses in order to write “On the Road” over the course of a few weeks on a single, continuous scroll over paper.

Which, hey, would explain my last blog entry. This one too, maybe.

But I digress (as I’m known to do… hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and my ADHD won’t be cured overnight.) I have a lifetime of learned behavior that I’ll be trying to undo w/ the help of a therapist. But the meds do focus me. The speed is, generally speaking, good for me.

Make that some speed is good for me. As such, I’m slowing down a bit on the coffee. No, dear readers, not all the way; just enough to ensure that I don’t claw my way up the ceiling at 11 am every morning.

So this blog, which recently has really only ostensibly been about coffee, will probably be even less so now. And to be honest, I haven’t been too inspired to write about the stuff lately anyway. Everybody needs to change up their focus, every now and again. Paul McCartney and Yoko left The Beatles and started “Wings” ; Jerry Seinfeld tossed his whole act a couple years ago, just to stay fresh; even Jack Kirby left Marvel to mix up his Oeuvre. And now it’s my turn.

I’m starting a new feature… say, TUESDAY… where I’ll be exploring what it means to be an “Alpha Male” – what that has meant, traditionally, to us as a culture. As such, I’ll be reviewing the tomes; the literature* of the so-called alpha male. **

Nietzsche? Bah! Hemmingway? Yeah… running FROM the bulls is more like it.

No, I’m talking REAL men. HEROES! Guys who fight evil while with their shirts are in tatters, like on the cover of a romance novel… but there are no women around!

I’m talking Doc. Savage! Tarzan! Conan! Sherlock Holmes! Mack Bolan e Remo Williams, yo!

I’ve been up to my under-muscled chesticles in new-age sensitive guy-isms for most of my life. Get ready to roll with the Ted’s-tosterone!

* That's pronounced "Lit – aw – ra –tchoor", for you plebians.

** Yeah, yeah, I know, it's called COFFEEcrush, right there in the title. But you know what? When I dropped out of high school, I used to work at a store called "Just Pants". And do you know what we sold? Shirts, and belts, and walets. And, oh yeah, pants... Z Cavarichi's and whatnot. But the point is, that wasn't all we did. Why, my whole job was explaining to a bunch of jokester mall-walkers why a store called Just Pants could sell B.U.M Equipment sweatshirts. Remember the boobie grabbing grandpa in Sixteen Candles? Guys like that. You don't wanna be that guy, do you? I didn't think so.

In Search of Excellence!

In his seminal, post-cyberpunk magnum opus “Snow Crash”, Neil Stephenson states that pretty much all men, well into their 20’s, hold tight to the belief that (and you’ll have to excuse my wild paraphrasing, here), if they just worked out a little harder at the gym, ate their spinach, took a multi-vitamin, and maybe attended a weekend intensive seminar taught by Shaolin Monks at the local free university – there would still be a chance for them to become the baddest ass MF in all the world.

In the story, these hopes are all in vein. Not, as one may think, because of the fact that the average American male is too lazy, has high cholesterol, and is more likely to spend his free time cruising the Craigslist “casual encounters” section in search of a genetically suitable (for the evening, anyway) female than performing a workout more intense than little itty-bitty crunches on the hardwood floor of their apartment. No, it’s too late for them because the baddest ass MF in all the land is a mass of mullet and muscle perched atop an appropriately imposing motorcycle - a motorcycle that just so happens to have a nuclear warhead strapped precariously to its front.

(Damn, I love Snow Crash. The main character’s name is “Hiro Protagonist”. Don’t think I didn’t notice, writers of NBC’s “Heroes”)

For my part, I’ve always fancied myself more as an everyman hero, like someone from a mid-80’s high concept action-comedy picture... the kind of guy who’d be played by Chevy Chase. Somebody who’d be pulled into a situation beyond his control, only to triumph in the end thanks to a mixture of good old fashioned gumption and comic bumbling.

But every now and then, even I can find myself smack dab in the middle of some uber-jingoistic fantasy, the kind where I carry myself like Matt Damon as Jason Bourne, exhibiting that paradoxical “intense calm”; confident enough know that if the Jehovah’s Witness at my front door just happened to be a terrorist agent in disguise, I’d be able to take him down by punching him in neck and snapping his forearm in two. (Or maybe even if he wasn't a terrorist. Depends on how I’m feeling.)

Of course, I’m not a violent guy. It’s like a metaphor, right? It’s about excellence… mastery, even. That feeling of being the one person in the room who knows everything about one thing - whether it's kicking ass, world history, the collective output of Sid and Marty Krofft from 1968 to 1978… ANYTHING. Because, really, you don't just stumble into victory. Real life isn’t like a Chevy Chase movie – there’s a reason they’re called “comedies”, and it sure as hell isn’t because they’re funny.

****************************

This week I have an article in The Onion profiling 3 local coffee roasters (who shall remain nameless, to protect the innocent) * To go along with the piece, my editor asked me to get a hi-res photograph. “Call ‘em up,” he says “ask ‘em if they have any press ready photos.” Easy enough - and frankly, I like doing some of that footwork. Seeing as I never hang out with any of the other writers, never get to shout “stop the presses” over the din of a crowded newsroom, never get invited, as a member of the media, to watch a good-hearted, though misguided, super-scientist unveil the atomic powered robot that will surely make the world a better place to live (and what could possibly go wrong?) little side stuff like getting photos just helps to make me feel more like a Real Writer (™).

But actually talking to people like that – folks who are at the apex of the respective industries (and they are - each of them - or I wouldn’t bother with them) – is an interesting thing. Once they figure out you’re offering free publicity, there’s a fair bet that you’ll find yourself staring down the barrel of an industrial-strength sales pitch, all about how their coffee is served to world leaders, how it cupped better than any of the others at some competition attended by the type of folks who attend that sort of thing, how it dripped from Christ’s wounds while he was hanging on the cross, etc., etc.

And if you’re like me - someone who fancies themself a cosmic court jester; not a post-modernist per se, but definitely afflicted with acute post-modern tendencies - someone who, while he may understand that, say, Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man” is a “better” book than H.G. Wells “The Invisible Man” he'll still cover his bases and put “better” in quotes, 'cause deep down he suspects that maybe it's all just relative; if you're like that, those conversations can feel a little awkward and stilted. Because, hey... it's just coffee, right?

But you know what?... I'm having this epiphany; I'm finally starting to realize that, for all the ribbing I give these guys above, the problem isn't theirs... it's mine. My too-cool-for-school "c'mon, don't take youself so seriously" attitude doesn't affect them one bit. They're gonna continue to do what they do at a level that other companies just dream about, and they're gonna reap the benefits of that - professionally and financially. And me, I'll just be some chump riding on their coattails, coasting along and faking it in my own work, too lazy to even make sure all my information is current - resting on my laurels, just happy that I'm being published at all. **

That is, of course, until I learn to exhibit some of that excellence myself. Because there's nothing wrong with trying to take what you do to a higher level, and to know it when you've done so.

So to everyone in my feature, whether you've been made fun of on this here very blog in the past, whether I'm taking the piss with you right now; or even if you're the one who pretty much blew me off altogether when I asked for a photo... thanks. And keep up the good work... you all set hell of an example.

(what, you thought this "coffeecrush" entry was gonna actually be about coffee? Nope, sorry; just more random musings and soul searching for you. Soon, though. Promise.)

* Go! Pick one up, why don't you? Sheesh.

**however, in the article, the passage "coffees are served at local shops around town as well as many of the big wholesalers" should have read "coffees are served at local shops almost as often as some of the bigger wholesalers" ...that was my editors mistake, not mine. Bastard.***

*** KIDDING!!! I kid! I totally could have been clearer on that. Loves ya, Jason!)

Trailer Park Metrosexual