- Driving down the coast really fast with the windows down, listening to loud music.
- Spraying out the inside of a cooler with a water hose, and especially listening to the noise it makes.
- Cold, light beers when thirsty/dehydrated.
- Seinfeld.
- Cigarettes.
- The smell of a BBQ.
- Letter's from Alex Roome's mom.
- Letter's from your mom.
- Making fun of Ben B's stink-foot.
- J-books
- Calling C-Note's bluff and asking him if he wants to go 'halfzies' on the first five issues of Orson Scott Card's Iron Man.
- Calling Neil a 'big, fat Jew.'
- Telling Dr. P how sweet 300 was, even though it wasn't that sweet at all.
- Moving into new places with good friends.
- Drinking at the Red.
- Prefacing work related shit-talk with a, "i know we don't want to talk shit about work all night, but..."
- Saying 'fag' in public.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Amateur Barista, Professional Psychologist
By now, all of you are, i'm sure, aware of the fact that i work at a coffee shop. This coffee shop is arguably the best purveyor of espresso drinks in the downtown area. Whether this is the case or not, many people think this, and in thinking this, they are either incline to visit or not. For example, I feel extremely self-conscious when suggesting to my friends that we go to my coffee shop as opposed to any other. I still do make this suggestion, and my friends are good sports about it. All of them will get their coffee and they'll say that it's good, or it sucks, or 'who cares, Dude, you're such a fag;' they are not the kind of people who are drawn to this place.
There are whole handfuls of people, however, that love this shop. They should, I guess. It's a good coffee shop. It looks really nice and the people are nice too. There is one couple who comes in everyday, before or after their run (they go jogging together!), and order huge lattes with condensed milk or caramel, and tons of whipped cream, but fuck it, we love them. Everyone loves them. They're great.
One of the things that is great about them is that they accept the relationship between service person and customer. They are the customer, etc. There are some, however, that reject or misunderstand this relationship. These are the people that when asked how they are doing, respond, "terrible today, my dog is dying." I understand that that shit is tragic, it hurts, but i'm a fucking coffee guy. I care, i've been through it, but it's none of my business what your dog is doing. Even if i asked it still isn't my business. Mostly, these people don't play that nice little game that lends itself to my sanity; that game where i pretend i'm not hung-over and you pretend you're emotionally stable. These people encourage me to pursue lines of questioning, hoping upon hope that i will nibble on a juicy piece of gossip that might lead to stories of drug addiction, sex, death, whatever. Anyway, it's just really fucking weird. It's kinda sad. It also kinda makes me feel like we're all sliding down some weird, unforgiving slope, where once at the bottom, we will find ourselves subtly begging our service men and women to ask about our day so that we can answer them honestly, hook them with our feelers, and suck their life-force.
So fuck that. I'm moving to New York to seek my fortune and when i'm rich, or we're all rich, or we're all poor and alex is rich, we will find a city, a house, and a barbeque near one another and live like kings.
There are whole handfuls of people, however, that love this shop. They should, I guess. It's a good coffee shop. It looks really nice and the people are nice too. There is one couple who comes in everyday, before or after their run (they go jogging together!), and order huge lattes with condensed milk or caramel, and tons of whipped cream, but fuck it, we love them. Everyone loves them. They're great.
One of the things that is great about them is that they accept the relationship between service person and customer. They are the customer, etc. There are some, however, that reject or misunderstand this relationship. These are the people that when asked how they are doing, respond, "terrible today, my dog is dying." I understand that that shit is tragic, it hurts, but i'm a fucking coffee guy. I care, i've been through it, but it's none of my business what your dog is doing. Even if i asked it still isn't my business. Mostly, these people don't play that nice little game that lends itself to my sanity; that game where i pretend i'm not hung-over and you pretend you're emotionally stable. These people encourage me to pursue lines of questioning, hoping upon hope that i will nibble on a juicy piece of gossip that might lead to stories of drug addiction, sex, death, whatever. Anyway, it's just really fucking weird. It's kinda sad. It also kinda makes me feel like we're all sliding down some weird, unforgiving slope, where once at the bottom, we will find ourselves subtly begging our service men and women to ask about our day so that we can answer them honestly, hook them with our feelers, and suck their life-force.
So fuck that. I'm moving to New York to seek my fortune and when i'm rich, or we're all rich, or we're all poor and alex is rich, we will find a city, a house, and a barbeque near one another and live like kings.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Wine Talk
Wine talk is bullshit. It is complete bullshit. I'm twenty three years old. I'm allowed to think this way.
Talk of wine, like many things, is a tool; it is a tool that allows the individuals who wield it to raise themselves up from the hordes and their popular springs of knowledge. There are many such tools. Swear words and sex acts, too, have had their moments in style and fame. Indeed, the third-grader who gracefully wields the 'fuck' word and seems to possess the arcane knowledge of 'blowjobs,' is a man amongst children. However, looking back, this charming, nostalgic notion shines with a brilliance that only pure bullshit can provide; namely, no child has a conversational comfort with 'fuck' words, just as no child truly understands sex acts. As adults, and agents, we accept these quirks, just as our forebears accepted them of us. "They're just kids," we often say. We understand that children are capable of childish things. This is fine and natural.
However, the child's desire to raise himself/herself up from the masses by cursing, or speaking of 'blow jobs,' is not representative of strictly childhood behavior; instead, it is a behavioural characteristic that any person can possess. We know this principle well. "Stop being a child," we might say when chastising a friend. This is simply to say that children behave in ways that are not acceptable for adults. Even more broadly: we expect different things from people our own age. We expect a friend to conduct him/herself within certain parameters, just as we expect the child to. For the adult, acting as a child is well outside the acceptable parameters of behavior.
It seems that i may have gotten ahead of myself. We are talking about wine, after all. I said earlier that talk of wine is a tool; a tool that young adults use to superficially improve themselves. This premise, however, seems to beg the question. So let us address this matter.
As a man in my early twenties, my proficiencies are many, and yet, relative to the average living age, few. My knowledge and abilities in regards to breathing in and out have been, over my twenty three years and some odd days of living, finely honed. My understanding of, say, men's fashion accessories on the other hand, continues to be deficient. In regards to the latter, this may very well be the case for all reasonable men my age. Obviously, there are things that simply continue to elude us young men. At twenty three, despite nearly three years of bar room activity and consistent beer drinking in between, I can only begin to tell you what sort of beer i enjoy. Indeed, this may be a purely subjective deficiency of my own; a deficiency of my palate, perhaps. Still, it seems fair to say that given only three years training, experts in any field would be few and far between. After all, these things take time.
Avoiding the possibility that my recent and cursory understanding of beers and beer flavor is due to retarded taste and olfactory senses, let us move to wine. Wine is something that ought to be enjoyed. Indeed, wine has a myriad of wonderful things to offer. Even indirectly, the 'lush' can be seen as a great contribution. And yet, there is an aura surrounding wine that is far from savory. This pernicious aura is one that surrounds and consequently vitiates many things, which are, in its absence, enjoyable. The enjoyment of spirits, cheese, and even coffee, are fine examples. These things, which are good, have been soiled by a foul dust which has settled upon them. Of these examples, nothing has gotten it quite so bad, so to speak, as wine as gotten it.
This aura, this dust that i speak of, is one that exists solely in the presence of people. It brings from them something for which I have an unaffected scorn: wine talk. This talk is the worst sort of talk. It comes from people regularly. We have all done it, i'm sure, as children or otherwise. Regardless of age, however, we can look upon it with shame and humility, knowing full well that we all have sinned. As youths, we have spoken of sex act with the plagiarized confidence of adults, just as we have cursed and swore like sailors. We have all been seduced by the desire to have claimed new wellsprings of knowledge for our own, and consequently we have desired to be apart from the masses, looking back, laughing. Do not get me wrong. I am not saying, "do not explore!" By all means, learn, experience, hone your craft, read thick volumes of wine talk, and labor tirelessly for your love. Speak to me of finishes, highs and lows, and flavor profiles. However, if your talk has that nice, familiar stink to it, I will not be accepting, and, by God, you will receive no quarter.
Talk of wine, like many things, is a tool; it is a tool that allows the individuals who wield it to raise themselves up from the hordes and their popular springs of knowledge. There are many such tools. Swear words and sex acts, too, have had their moments in style and fame. Indeed, the third-grader who gracefully wields the 'fuck' word and seems to possess the arcane knowledge of 'blowjobs,' is a man amongst children. However, looking back, this charming, nostalgic notion shines with a brilliance that only pure bullshit can provide; namely, no child has a conversational comfort with 'fuck' words, just as no child truly understands sex acts. As adults, and agents, we accept these quirks, just as our forebears accepted them of us. "They're just kids," we often say. We understand that children are capable of childish things. This is fine and natural.
However, the child's desire to raise himself/herself up from the masses by cursing, or speaking of 'blow jobs,' is not representative of strictly childhood behavior; instead, it is a behavioural characteristic that any person can possess. We know this principle well. "Stop being a child," we might say when chastising a friend. This is simply to say that children behave in ways that are not acceptable for adults. Even more broadly: we expect different things from people our own age. We expect a friend to conduct him/herself within certain parameters, just as we expect the child to. For the adult, acting as a child is well outside the acceptable parameters of behavior.
It seems that i may have gotten ahead of myself. We are talking about wine, after all. I said earlier that talk of wine is a tool; a tool that young adults use to superficially improve themselves. This premise, however, seems to beg the question. So let us address this matter.
As a man in my early twenties, my proficiencies are many, and yet, relative to the average living age, few. My knowledge and abilities in regards to breathing in and out have been, over my twenty three years and some odd days of living, finely honed. My understanding of, say, men's fashion accessories on the other hand, continues to be deficient. In regards to the latter, this may very well be the case for all reasonable men my age. Obviously, there are things that simply continue to elude us young men. At twenty three, despite nearly three years of bar room activity and consistent beer drinking in between, I can only begin to tell you what sort of beer i enjoy. Indeed, this may be a purely subjective deficiency of my own; a deficiency of my palate, perhaps. Still, it seems fair to say that given only three years training, experts in any field would be few and far between. After all, these things take time.
Avoiding the possibility that my recent and cursory understanding of beers and beer flavor is due to retarded taste and olfactory senses, let us move to wine. Wine is something that ought to be enjoyed. Indeed, wine has a myriad of wonderful things to offer. Even indirectly, the 'lush' can be seen as a great contribution. And yet, there is an aura surrounding wine that is far from savory. This pernicious aura is one that surrounds and consequently vitiates many things, which are, in its absence, enjoyable. The enjoyment of spirits, cheese, and even coffee, are fine examples. These things, which are good, have been soiled by a foul dust which has settled upon them. Of these examples, nothing has gotten it quite so bad, so to speak, as wine as gotten it.
This aura, this dust that i speak of, is one that exists solely in the presence of people. It brings from them something for which I have an unaffected scorn: wine talk. This talk is the worst sort of talk. It comes from people regularly. We have all done it, i'm sure, as children or otherwise. Regardless of age, however, we can look upon it with shame and humility, knowing full well that we all have sinned. As youths, we have spoken of sex act with the plagiarized confidence of adults, just as we have cursed and swore like sailors. We have all been seduced by the desire to have claimed new wellsprings of knowledge for our own, and consequently we have desired to be apart from the masses, looking back, laughing. Do not get me wrong. I am not saying, "do not explore!" By all means, learn, experience, hone your craft, read thick volumes of wine talk, and labor tirelessly for your love. Speak to me of finishes, highs and lows, and flavor profiles. However, if your talk has that nice, familiar stink to it, I will not be accepting, and, by God, you will receive no quarter.
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