Resistance is Futile.
January 2, 2010
We worry about a lot of stupid crap in our society. What makes it worse is that it’s never the right stupid crap. We worry about “global warming,” and the “crisis in the middle east,” and the “fuel shortage,” and “death.” What kills me is that we don’t need to worry about any of these problems, because they can all be solved, quite simply, by one powerful force.
Yes, indeed. That seemingly innocent pamphlet chillin’ in the pouch of the seat behind you, next to your illness bag and your emergency instructions. With the flip of only a few pages, I came to the terrifying realization that if one person were to possess all of the items in the SkyMall catalog, they would wield the ultimate power over nearly all of existence. Listed below are a few of the things that the the artifacts of this SkyMall catalog would either destroy or render obsolete. Keep in mind, my memory of the exact items in the catalog is a bit rusty, but I’ll try to remember the best I can.
The SkyMall catalog empowers its holders to control:
Gravity: Trampolines, moon shoes, and even $3,500 trips that guarantee a gravity-free skydiving experience.
Humanity: Literally dozens of robots capable of performing human tasks ranging from vacuuming, dusting, feeding and caring for pets, sorting CDs, and eating children.
Literacy: Clocks which don’t use numbers, pens that read.
Cultural diversity: Pens, handheld devices, and computer program which instantly empower the wielder with bilingualism.
Inertia: Skateboards which require no force to propel the rider.
States of matter: Electrical power grid, and roughly anything smaller than that can be instantly transformed into aesthetically pleasing boulders.
Limbs: Sensor operated trashcans, voice operated coffee makers, indentured servants.
Knowledge: Robot which contains encyclopedic knowledge of human history and English language.
Death: Escape ladder from room, soul-capturing digital camera, Necronomicron ($17.99, $29.99 for authentic human flesh-bound edition!).
Thermodynamics: Countless tools for controlling temperature of everything from luggage, food, and car seats, to hardwood floors and the surface of Ganymede.
Class distinctions: Middle- and Lower-class empowering self-help books, “money saving” home improvement kits, firearms (including a marshmallow gun capable of embedding a marshmallow in an adult male skull).
Metabolism: Rendered obsolete by Hollywood’s secret “cookie diet” allowing one to lose up to 37 pounds a day (chainsaw not included).
Exercise: Belt flexes abs for you, sweater curls dumbells for you, goofy robot tazers your testicles until your lazy ass gets up and runs around the block a few times.
Such power should not be offered to travelers. Imagine if one man held all of that power. He’d be unstoppable, and his house would look incredibly tacky.
“I cannot comply.”
“Latte” is Italian for “you paid too much.”
October 5, 2009
I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that most patrons of Mugs Coffee are generally younger and hipper than me. The girl who just woke up from napping on the couch reminds me of my days of casual loitering at Cosmo’s Coffeehouse in Bowling Green.
Matcha Latte (Green Tea & Steamed Milk) at Mugs Coffee in Vancouver, WA
“It is green.”
Lt. Commander Data
Gettin’ Sensual in Central Park.
August 24, 2009
Sensuous Blend in Central Park. Sounds like a trashy romance novel.
I will not romanticize NYC. I will not romanticize NYC. I will not What the heck is that smell?romanticize NYC. I will not romanticize NYC. I will not romanticize NYC. I Dude! That was in the trash can! will not romanticize NYC. I will not Who do I have to stab to get an cappuccino around here? romanticize NYC. I will not romanticize NYC. HEY!!! I’M WALKIN’ HERE!!! I will not romanticize NYC.
I’ve been sitting in Central Park for a half hour and judging by the number of strollers, joggers, and very elderly, I’ve concluded that it Is where you either come to frolic in the gaiety of childhood, exercise, or die. Of course, the mid-20s Northwest douchebag that I am, I’m sitting on a park bench drinking coffee and blogging. Whatever. It’s my revenge for having to wander around for nearly 45 minutes before I found a coffee shop that serves espresso. Then again, I imagine that New Yorkers feel the same in the Northwest trying to find a deli that cuts meat.
The sensational offerings of the Sensuous Bean
Since the caffeine craze only really took hold in the last twenty-five years, it’s interesting to see cities that built their identity before then. Every café seemed to…a kid in a stroller just gave me the weirdest look…silently suggest “if you want to sit and drink coffee like a pansy, there’s a Starbucks around the corner.” Anyways, thanks to google maps and process of elimination, I managed to actually find coffee shops that weren’t mini-restaurants and weren’t Starbucks.
For $1.25 each, they'd better be good.
While not at all what I expected, The award-winning Sensuous Bean on Columbus Avenue certainly exceeded my expectations. They carry an abundance of roasts, offer six brews “on tap,” and provide an assortment of cookies and small baked goods…in jars! The kind saleswoman (definitely not a barista) offered to make me an espresso drink but I opted for the “Sensuous Blend” instead. While they didn’t give me anywhere to sit unless I wanted to sit on the one bench out front like a lawn flamingo, Sensuous Bean clearly catered to oddballs who actually make coffee themselves.
Well, my battery is running low, and I’ve got powdered sugar on my face and pants. I should probably get going before I get mistaken for high functioning a coke addict.
Another horrified look from passerby.
*sigh*…too late.
Road Gig!!!
July 17, 2009
The Student Loan headed south for a show at the Axe & Fiddle in Cottage Grove, slogging through a couple hours of traffic in the
I-5 wasn't particularly kind to us today.
process. It brings to mind a quote by Jerry Seinfeld who said “we only truly live our lives when we’re neither going somewhere nor waiting for something.” A car ride happens to combine all the fun of both. Combatting this feeling of anti-being can be difficult, since the limited space of a cabin complicates engaging activities such as juggling, gardening, or soccer. Since my companions are not keen on “I Spy,” I’ve decided to perform the death-defying act of blogging while inside a moving vehicle.
It’s a little known fact that the car ride actually outdates the car itself. People dreamed about the state of being inside a fast moving wheeled pod decades before the automobile was invented. In the mid-19th century there actually was a sleep disorder (named “Gregory”) in which people would actually experience sleep in real-time, while riding in a car across nameless country counting mile markers. Of course, those having these automobilic visions had no idea what they were seeing and would typically wake up with an urgent need to use the bathroom and purchase dried meat products. Shortly after the invention of the automobile, these real-time going/waiting visions were replaced by extended periods inside long, pressurized cylinder with reheated egg products and ginger snaps.
Some o' the scenery.
On an unrelated note, I’ve been having recurring dreams of being mounted atop winged, metallic dragon in the vacuum of space. I’ve yet to discern what these visions could possibly mean. Also, since I’m in “one of those moods,” I present you with 20 Unlikely Ice Cream Flavors:
- Iceberg Lettuce
- Onion Ring
- Testosterone
- Cinnamon (unsweetened)
- Corned Beef
- MSG
- Tap water.
- Birth Control Pill
- Bay Leaf
- Margarine
- Labrador Retriever
- Soy Sauce
- Parmesan Cheese
- Shitake Mushroom
- White Rice
- Refried Bean
- Seaweed
- Wheat Germ
- Fillet o’ Fish
- Soul
Busty Baristas, on Steilacoom Blvd.
Experience and logic lead me to believe that everyone comes from somewhere. Not everyone’s “somewhere” is truly somewhere. For many, your somewhere is a nowhere. My somewhere, Lakewood, Washington was formerly a nowhere until it became a somewhere separate from Tacoma, a nowhere, in 1995. I love my somewhere, because it has character. It’s got all the fun of Tacoma (voted the “Most Stressful City in America” by BestPlaces.com in 2004), with a classiness that is uniquely its own. How classy is Lakewood? When discussing Lakewood, you may hear words like “s**tty,” “f**king scary,” and I’d rather chew off my **** than spend thirteen minutes in Lakewood.”
Don’t let the praise fool you, though. Lakewood’s classiness has a more…questionable side. When I heard that Lakewood had opened its third bikini
"You gotta' sell it."
coffee shop, I was moved to investigate. I know what you’re thinking, “wow, what a profoundly progressive city Lakewood is. I’d like to raise puppies there.” Being forward-thinking, however, comes with it’s share of complications. People love coffee, and bikinis are worn by women, so it’s logical to combine the two, right? Well the issue isn’t as straight-forward as you might think, and I’d like to take a moment to really examine the bikoffe phenomenon.
Now, since we are not in Back to the Future II, coffee does not just make itself. At many critical junctures of the coffee making process, a human barista plays a key, if not critical role,
Hot Chick-a-Latte, on Custer.
manipulating the grounds into coffee and even providing some light conversation in the process. The bikini barista, however, throws a troubling kink…y snag into what should be a smooth interaction with what would normally be a fully-clothed, coffee serving person. Let’s say I order my vanilla latte, and I’m waiting patiently for her to prepare it. Is it courtesy to ogle the non-bikini clad portions of her body? I’d like to say no, but perhaps the bikini changes the rules. Is it now rude not to look? I’d like to say that you should simply ignore the bikini and act natural, but the simple fact of the matter is that no one acting natural wears a bikini when performing non-bikini related activities.
The small talk situation has an unusual flair to it as well, since you’re not sure how to handle the elephant in the room uncommon lack of clothing. When one finds
Bikini Bottom Espresso, on Bridgeport Way.
themselves confronted with a bikiniista, the first impulse may be a witty comment with thinly veiled sexual innuendo, i.e. “I’d like a hot steamer, and afterward perhaps I’ll order a drink.” In the case of the bikiniista, the impulse is there, but then you can’t assume that just because she’s wearing a bikini that she’s “asking for it.” Being a gentleman, I would prefer not to be lewd, but what do I say? Does the bikini warrant a comment at all? What about the tattoo? Can I mention that? I considered “you must work out,” but, again, you’re being a bit presumptuous assuming that 1) she okay with you ogling her, and 2) she actually does work out. And what if she doesn’t work out? Then you’re making a sarcastic comment that the bikini is not flattering on her “unrefined” body.
"NO BIKINIS," says Annette's Grind
Surprisingly, the bikoffee concept has yet to gain universal acceptance. There are those who look with scorn upon the noble, yet often misunderstood world of brewing bikini bods. Some call it exploitation, despite the fact that the girls are clearly serving coffee from the safe, enclosed confines of a wooden booth. Others demand to know why it’s only women populate the bikini coffee establishments, when it would be laughably absurd for men to serve coffee in bikinis. I could see a case to be made, however, that the hiring practices of bikini coffee shops discriminate by only hiring women. This likely would not hold ground since, from what I understand, bikibrewing requires certain specialized skills not found in men. This is an unquestionably touchy subject, since down the road from Bikini Bottom Espresso (Nickelodeon lawsuit in 3…2…), Annette’s Grind rages against the bare body machine by advertising “NO BIKINIS.”
As a final note, let it be known that while retrieving the pictures of theses establishments, I saw several patrons drive up to support their local bikiniistas. Most of these customers were women, which leads me to believe that not only does the bikoffee shop serve coffee, but likely serves up practical fashion advice. How will you know whether a one- or two-piece bikini is most appropriate for steaming 2% milk? I kid. If anything, this demonstrates that people want coffee, they will likely stop at the first coffee establishment available to satisfy this coffee craving, and the baristas could be wearing anything from aprons, to bikinis, to live tarantulas.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Swine Flu Espresso has just opened up across the street and I’m craving a chai like it’s nobody’s business.
“Oh geez! I spilled syrup on myself!”
-Bikiinista A to Bikiinista B, while preparing my Vanilla Latte.
***12/3 update – With the addition of Hatte Latte on Gravelly Lake Drive, Lakewood is now sporting four bikoffee establishments. Words fail me.***
“You mean well, but you make this hard for me…”
July 9, 2009
Hawthorne Farmer's Market - "Cash or Barter"
As we’ve stumbled into the 21st Century, I’ve noticed an odd preoccupation with getting in touch with our Earthy, 20th & 19th century roots. I assume this is just a silly phase we need to go through before cars start flying, but I’m willing to go with it. Case in point, America has gotten preoccupied with open markets again, and we sure know how to make a stink about it. Anachronism is in, man. It’s been in for a while actually. Granted, I’m not saying this is a bad thing. It’s a bit odd, but not bad. You know, about as odd as seeing a vendor peddling the herbs he grew in his back yard while sipping an iced cappuccino from Peet’s Coffee. We just need to be honest with ourselves and accept that we are, indeed, in the future. We’re in a future run by the past with the “neo” prefix attached to it.
I won’t wear the highbrow musician mask and say that I can’t stand pop music. I can stand pop music, I just don’t typically listen to it. I am, however, a fan of the more acoustic end of the spectrum. Today, “acoustic” is the musical counterpart to “organic” food: plenty of technology guiding the process, it’s just not over-manufactured–and it might cost a little more (vocal harmonizers, looping pedals, and the irony-laden Acoustic Image amplifiers). It’s difficult enough already to justify my preference the acoustic genre without sounding pretentious. I thought about including the label “independent” but I’m not even sure what that means anymore. Saying I’m way into “Indie,” well, that would just make me a card carrying blowhole.
So yes, I bring this up because of Sara Bareilles.
Oh yeah, I said it. Sara Bareilles. I know, I know: The Grammy nominee? That goofy ditty about not writing a love song ? “Dude,” you say, “she is soooooooo last year.” You might even follow that up with, “Man, you may as well go get yourself a passport that says ‘Table Saw’ because you’ve just entered the land of the tools.”
Fair enough. Dual citizenship is hardly a bad thing to have these days.
Bareilles comes on the heels of my recent K.T. Tunstall kick. Where I had come across Tunstall playing solo on Leno one night, I overheard Bareilles’ single “Love Song,” on my lunch break over the sound system in the school store. Now I imagine that the song had appeared in everything from movie soundtracks to advertisements for tampons before I heard it, but it was new to me and I kind of dug it. Being the professional Googlesmith that I am, I pulled up some info and was…conflicted when I pulled up this trippy video (Embedding disabled by request. Just click on the damned video).
My first impression was, “Wow, that’s a strikingly attractive (or adeptly photoshopped) person overdressed in inside a giant analog karaoke machine.” My second impression was that she appeared to be playing the piano. Intrigued by the possibility of genuine talent, I decided to investigate further, and pulled up this video.
No, it’s not the acoustic version of “Love Song.” It’s Peter Gabriel’s “Your Eyes,” and not a bad version of it if I may say so. The girl’s no Harry Connick Jr., but she’s an able pianist and a respectable vocalist. Her songwriting isn’t particularly ground-breaking, but overall she’s a solid artist capable of passing the intimate-live-setting-with-limited-EQ test. Fair play to you, Sara. As it turns out, you can actually get this and four “stripped” versions of songs from her album, but only if you buy the whole, non-stripped album as well. I haven’t checked out iTunes yet, but I’m just not a fan of the purely digital realm.
It’s fascinating because I wonder how many pop songs I would love if they didn’t carry the stigma label of being top 40 hits. A friend of mine “admitted” to purchasing a Colbie Calliat album because he knew that “if she were playing around the corner at the coffee shop, [he]‘d totally go see her.” Yeah, “Bubbly” did kind of lose its luster when I saw it in an ad for…what was it? Allergy medicine? Genital herpes treatment? You know what I mean. It’s often difficult, in this day and age, to determine whether we are enjoying something because we like it or because it’s being marketed specifically to us.
I guess if someone’s doing their job right, there’s no difference.
“Is that why you wanted a love song?”
I’m my own grandpa’
July 4, 2009
“…and just like for an instant, all his life is just folding in on itself and it’s obvious to him that time is a lie.”
Sippin' Rogue at the Terrace.
A year ago when I was blasting off fireworks with siblings that were strangers to me merely three years ago, I figured it wouldn’t be possible for another Independence Day to live up that one. Never again would I have such a unique combination of family, friends, fireworks, and spirits.
Cafe Flame Lily, which I broke into.
A year later, well, it still seems pretty impossible. I certainly would have never thought I’d come close though. I woke up today on a sofa in Tacoma, Washington. I ended the day sipping a mini Afritini at Café Flame Lily, an African Cuisine Restaurant that I broke into.* I also had dinner with the mayor of Lake Oswego and enjoyed some fantastic food expertly prepared and served by the staff of Terrace Kitchen. We swapped crazy family stories sipped Arnold Palmers (iced tea and lemonade), and enjoyed a panoramic view of a dozen fireworks shows in Portland and various surrounding areas.
All because I decided to attend a jazz jam session at Proper Eats on Thursday night. Causality is a crazy thing.
I’d love to elaborate, but it’s damned late. Happy Fourth, y’all.
*for the record, I did not actually commit breaking and entering.
Reason #58 why I Don’t Like Chocolate.
June 8, 2009
I had something that I was going to post today, but not anymore. That can wait until tomorrow. I’ve been inspired by this wonderful blog post which completely kills off one of the two rules I learned about marketing.
1. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
2. There are no accidents in marketing.
There are bad marketing choices, and there are marketing disasters. Bad marketing choices get you bad/generous publicity. Marketing disasters deep six your entire company, and that rarely happens. Unlike the rest of the marketing gaffes on the list, this ad is truly a mistake and unquestionably a marketing disaster.
Wow. Just wow. Let’s recover from that with the Seinfeldesque mix-food-and-sex-into-one-urge trick.
“Put it in me, Scott.” As Paris Hilton (the girl who sexed up Carl’s Junior ads) says. “That’s hot.”
“God bless the absentee…”
January 20, 2009
Coffee on I-Day at the East Burn.
I really don’t want to post about Inauguration Day. I’m not sure what’s more depressing about this election: people who waited for a new administration to become agents of change, or people who griped about the previous administration and won’t change as much as their socks with this new one. I guess can admire the latter for consistency.
When it’s all said and done, I’d love to have the honor of meeting either George Bush or Barack Obama and being able to sit with them away from all 
the press and politics, and chat about something real. Perhaps we’d talk about those last moments right before you fall asleep and those first few in the morning as you wake up. Those brief moments when you are simply you with no real effort or concern about anyone or anything else. Or maybe we’d talk about music, or history, or food. I don’t know really. All I know is that the responsibility of final judgment—whether you believe it belongs to God, fate, history, or no one or thing at all—is thankfully not my burden to carry. I respect both men just on the basis that both were willing to rise to the challenge of having one of the worst jobs there is. I’m just here for the ride…and obviously the coffee.
As an aside, “Barack Obama” gets flagged by the spell checker. I don’t know why I find that funny.
Coming soon.
January 15, 2009
It's a damned lobster.
*Ahem*
