Gettin’ Cozy with Grendel
May 2, 2011
Pure circumstance brought me to Grendel’s Coffee House, though I admit I was somewhat fascinated by the name. I’ll be honest, I’m no scholar of ancient Anglo-Saxon mythology. In fact, everything I know about Beowulf I learned from an episode of Star Trek Voyager, so don’t expect any witty mythological wordplay.
Actually, scratch that, I’d like to give it a shot. *ahem*
How could you not want to go in?
Where the fearsome Grendel may be a mythical beast of unparalleled horror, the intimate Grendel’s Coffee House serves up excellent coffee and unparalleled service in a cozy space on East Burnside (count it!). When I say cozy, I do mean cozy. Seriously, it’s about…counting…12 seats. 15 if you count the couch. If anything, it sort of reminds me of a really tiny Southeast Grind, just not open 24 hours. They’ve got wifi, but you can also fire up the retro PCs (CRT monitors, yo) if you’re jonesing for throwback. Of course, that kind of intimacy almost always implies a good place to chill and chat. This is, for the record, a great place to chill and chat.
They also sell Snarky Cards, which practically shouts “we’re cool.”
I opted for the Grendel’s Ghost mocha, which uses white espresso and produced what tasted like a full-flavored mocha with a dollop of restraint. It’s awesome. Try it. Actually, another blogger shared a description of the flavor that also follows the ghastly motif:
“What was at first an interesting experience for the senses, soon turned into a flavour that wouldn’t shift from the palate, haunting every taste bud with its weirdness.”
Grendel's Ghost Mocha. Oh, and yes, this photo was take well after closing.
The owner, Eric, was more than happy to explain the white espresso roasting process to me (something about flash-roasting and more caffeine) while he brewed it up. He was also kind enough to reset the wireless router when it went screwy, let me stay after closing, and even offered some light conversation, all while patiently showing a new employee the ropes. Actually, this guy is such a pro, I think we’ll have to go to the play by play:
It’s Friday evening, and Grendel’s closes at 6pm. It’s now 6:16. Will Eric serve this walk-in?
Yes! Though coffee is off the table. He busts out the tea and hot water. She looks thrilled! That’s the look of a returning customer.
It sure is Bob. Now how about this: It’s now 6:20–twenty minutes after closing–and we’ve got a pair of folks looking for coffee and a little food.
They do offer sandwiches and pastries, Jim.
But this long after closing? We may have seen the limits of what he can do.
Well, it looks like he’s giving them the bad news…but wait! He’s taken them outside and directing them to nearby restuarants. He’s pointing, he’s gesturing, and look at that smile! Jim, this guy’s a first-ballot all star if I’ve ever seen one.
Well there you have it. Customer service at it’s finest. Heck, he even encouraged me to take photos, though I’m sure that’s far from the strangest thing people do in coffee shops around here. Eric, if you can hear me from the legendary world you inhabit, you are the Beowulf of customer service. I shall write epic tales of your exploits…or at least one blog post.
Was it good for you?
May 1, 2011
So this, this, and definitely this got me thinking…
"You lie!" Congressman Joe Wilson shouts in wild, sexual, extacy.
I’ve been baited into a more political exchanges in the last few months than I’d care to remember…two actually. Whether my arguments were intellectual, personal, political, oreven irrational, the heart of it was always the same thing. I wanted to win. I wanted to be right. Rooted in the theory of consumerism as an extension of our primal hunting instinct which has no modern outlet (thank you Jane Lane), I’m entertaining the idea that our often insatiable appetite for moral justification is merely uncontrollable, misplaced sexual aggression. I mean, really, what feels better than being right? What outside of sexual climax could possibly compare to achieving intellectual checkmate?
Nothing.
In that sense, what better manifestation of primal, passionate argumentative energy exists than democratic politics? This begins with electoral primary; elaborate, awkward, and boring foreplay. The real action, starts with campaigns which revel in protracted, competitive, contemptuous orgies of arguments, promises, and allegations. Unlike religious arguments (which always end in stalemate) political arguments have the advantage of inevitably leading to the ultimate “justifcatious coitus” of electoral victory.
Politics isn’t just sex. It’s GREAT sex.
That's it boys. Don't be shy.
Don’t get me wrong. Of course there’s genuine sincerity in there somewhere and many (most, I believe) candidates are essentially good people. In the heat of the moment, though, honest communication doesn’t ignite the passion. News networks don’t want pillow talk, especially when there are hundreds of thousands out there tuning in for hardcore political pornography. At the particularly kinky fringe, there’s always wild conspiracy theories to satisfy those with..*ahem*…unique interests and desires. In whatever form, the masses want to see action. If you’re going to win that election, you’ve got to be a tiger in the proverbial sack.
Of course, when it’s all over and the post election cigarette (inauguration) is burned down, we’re left lying in this intimate relationship with someone we barely know that will likely screw us a few times and make an abrupt unceremonious exit.
Hopefully we had a good four years.
The game of the name is…
April 24, 2011
So, I’ve reached Friday of my first week at my brand spanking new job. I’ve got a head full of new names, places, and procedures, and I’ve got a new, daunting morning and afternoon commute to tackle. A whole new community of faculty and staff to integrate into, and welcome new morning and afternoon routine to carve out. So I found myself churning my way through a lynda.com Adobe InDesign tutorial (played at double speed) and reflecting on my experience at the William Deresiewicz book reading and Q&A when suddenly it hits me:
The title of my blog sucks.
I’ve been telling my students for years “don’t let anything be automatic.” Everything you do should be a conscious choice, which takes into account your objective and desired outcomes. Make a deliberate decision, and resist becoming a backseat driver in your own car. Well, I’ve failed. Not only is it silly that the domain name, blog title, and blog subject matter have absolutely nothing to do with each other, it’s a tad hypocritical to bemoan nonsensical marketing slogans when I haven’t the slightest idea what “Extroverted Introversion” is supposed to mean. Actually, I whimsically came up with that title when I was a bright-eyed twenty-two year old college graduate musician working night crew at a grocery store. Now I’m a twenty-eight year old pseudo-intellectual techie musician with a coffee shop fetish. It’s definitely time for a change.
Welcome to “Caffeinated Counterculture”
It's, like, I'm the cup, ya' know? And society is, like, the table. And I'm, like, "counter" that.
It’s not perfect, but it feels right. Not only does it return few Google search results (when typed in quotes), it has a glorious hint of pretension, which sells like hotcakes in my neck of the woods. Besides, I’ve done some market research (read: asked a few friends, my mom, and my wife) and it’s tested well.
In case you’re wondering, I’m not changing the domain name. I’m far too vain for that. Besides, why type thirty characters when you can type eight?
Que Bella!
April 20, 2011
Like a typical middle-class American, I measure my life in pop songs, presidential administrations, and places…to get coffee. You say junior high, I say Barnes & Noble. You say high school, I say Bertolino’s. College? Jazz & Java. Grad school, Cosmos Coffee (R.I.P), and then Grounds for Thought. My first teaching job…I can’t remember but it was a nice place to play a gig.
This would be Bella, the owner of this coffee establishment.
Downtown(-ish) Vancouver’s got plenty of options, and I never really picked a regular. Actually, it probably would have been Marcell’s had it not caught fire. So, now that I’m regularly commuting to Lewis & Clark College, what’s it going to be?
Bella’s Garage, sitting pretty on Terwilliger Blvd., is what any college neighborhood coffee shop should and could be. At the moment I’m hard pressed to figure out what they don’t offer. They’re serving up a full coffee menu, wi-fi, local pastries (yay for the apple empanada), local tea, and even a greeting card section. They’ve also got generous and varied seating options (even a kids section!) without being stingy with power outlets.
If you drop in between 6am and 9am you get any size drip coffee for a buck. Sure, my knee-jerk reaction is to be suspicious of deep discounts, but $1 coffee is much different than a dollar cheeseburger. Anyways, I can go here five times a week for morning coffee and spend less than I did stopping in most other places twice a week.
If you look closely at the cup, you can tell I am only slightly capable of feeding myself.
The icing on the cake? The wireless service is dodgy, and by “is dodgy” I mean “has yet to actually work in my three visits.” While this may be a red flag to most folks, to me, it means I might actually get something productive done.
Bella’s Garage: a place where the prices are low, comfort level is high, and the wifi is fubar. I think I’ve found a new home.
***4/23 Update***
I think it’s only fair of me to point out that the wireless has worked for the last two days I’ve been there. I’m not changing my marketing slogan, though. That’s poetic gold.
Cooper’s Coffee…[Insert '90s Mark Curry Joke Here]
April 8, 2011
Cooper's Coffee: Stylin' up Stark St.
If you haven’t noticed, I don’t review coffee here. That’s not my forte, and that explains why I use terms like “rocked my socks” and “crappy” to describe the coffee itself. It also explains why I don’t have caffeine headaches. If I really cared about caffeine, then I would just make instant coffee and never spend money. If I really cared about coffee, then I’d probably just go to Compass Coffee and the Paper Tiger. Yeah, it ain’t the coffee of or the caffeine. I’m after the third “C:” chillaxin‘.
Finding a great place to loiter isn’t easy, as certain characteristics set some establishments apart from the non loiter-friendly crashes. Most notably, the open past 9pm standard. This brings us to Cooper’s Coffee. While they aren’t open 24 hours (Southeast Grind is still the only one I’ve come across in PDX or the Couve), I dig that I was able to drop in at 8:15 to snag a honey soy latte before a 9:30 performance at Biddy McGraw’s around the corner. Cooper’s is nothing special, but they’re plenty accommodating. They’ve got all the standards–wifi, pastries, sandwiches–with a couple extras tossed in, such as beer on tap and a washer & dryer in the restroom. Sure, it’s not for customer use (to my knowledge), but it’s a nice aesthetic touch.
Have your PDX, and drink it too.
March 31, 2011
It’s strange to hang out in a place where I’m not the only person taking pictures of coffee.
I wasn't cool enough for the couch in the corner.
Okay, so lets say you’ve just landed in Portland. You’ve watched that show about Portland (which I will not dignify by identifying it by name or linking to it), and you really want to get the Portland experience. Make your way downtown, hit up that goofy donut place (as I said before…), and hit up Stumptown Coffee Roasters. Seriously, your cafe experience can’t get more saturated with PDX-chic unless you hire the Decemberists to pee in your espresso.
Stumptown Coffee Roasters is less a cafe and more an art gallery in which itself is the central piece. It’s a cavernous space, reminiscent of Thatcher’s Coffee, but with 1/4th the seating. The hip, indie music crashes off the walls which are neatly adorned with art pieces hanging in a row with couches toward the rear. As it got darker, I also noticed the reddish tint the lights seemed to have. They’re open until 9pm, after which I assume that’s when the rave starts.
Stools designed for the delicate contours that are your rear end.
The artistry of downtown Stumptown Roasters doesn’t just confine itself to the inside. Anyone taking a seat on the ass-contoured stools can enjoy a glorious breakdown of PDX stereotypes in under 20 minutes. I guess if you’re in this part of town, you’re either a teenage neo-hipster shopping for donuts that match your pants, a “poor” college student (with a Mac Book Pro, iPhone, and $300 camera), a gainfully employed designer-dressed thirty-something, a nondescript forty-something, a suspiciously non-existent fifty-something, or over sixty with your entire life in a backpack. Apparently by seventy you’ve either moved to Lake Oswego or died. It’s as if the middle class (and middle age) somehow don’t exist here.
Now, pretension aside, while I’m not a huge fan of Stumptown Coffee, I appreciate and support the regional flavor they’ve propagated for the Portland area. Feeling adventurous, I had myself a chemex-brewed coffee and let me tell you, this is no coffee bean kool-aid. It’s like coffee wine, that most unfortunately doesn’t get you drunk. It’s a damned satisfying cup of coffee, that also tastes really shitty cold, so get off your iPad and pick up that mug.
A couple enterprising young folks have just unpacked a cardboard sign reading “spare some change for weed and beer.” I really just…forget it. No comment. I’m done.
Wherever you go, there you are
March 14, 2011
I had full intentions of writing something new today, but as I opened up my WordPress “dashboard” to clean out the half-dozen sentence-long drafts, I came across this little gem that I never got around to posting. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste, and my reflecting on trips weeks (or months) after they happen is hardly uncharacteristic. So, everyone pretend that it’s January 24th and enjoy:
You'll eventually figure out what you're doing there, but not until you get back.
“…perhaps admiration for his journey does not preclude a degree of sympathy for those who, in fascinating cities, have occasionally been visited by a strong wish to remain in bed and take the next flight home.”
Andre de Button, from “The Art of Travel”
The most stressful part of travel just may be figuring out how to enjoy it. For the last few weeks any mention of my eminent South American excursion was met nothing but unbridled enthusiasm and jealousy. In response, all I could think was, “wow, I hope I can figure out how to enjoy it as much as you would.” I had a pretty good idea of what was going to (and did) happen. After a lengthy plane ride, the plane touched down in Buenos Aires. I paid for my visa, picked up my luggage, and stepped out of the airport to be struck by the feeling that…I was in another country.
That’s it.
Sure, it’s stimulating (and a little overwhelming) to look around and play “look what’s different” as we depart the airport. It seems slightly ingenuine to have an embassy escort everywhere I go, but it beats the utter terror I imagine of trying to get around myself. I’m a horrible tourist, and it makes me feel more comfortable knowing that I’ve got a definite objective beyond “be there and enjoy it.” Now don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy this adventure I’m on, I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with the pressure of my own expectations of how much I’m supposed to enjoy it.
I have to admit, this sense of purpose (“oh, I’m a performer in the folk festival…”) has become really the foundation of my experience to the point that I couldn’t imagine traveling without it. I couldn’t in months—let alone days—become possessive of any aspect of Argentina, so really all I’m left with are isolated moments, places, and even transits that I could really call my own. I’d even grant a certain degree of possessiveness to my bandmates who recognized the Buenos Aires terminal that they had spent a half day in on two separate occasions.
Without my objective, what else do I have of my own? Of course, there’s the universal language of pop music, Coca Cola, and credit cards that seems to follow everywhere, hovering above our heads and ready to annihilate our sense of time and place. Perhaps one day, it will. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy not knowing what I’m supposed to do or feel, and leave that concern for another day.
***Update 3/14/2011***
Ah, I’m supposed to play a show for 15,000 people and feel awesome about it. Done.
I knew I’d figure it out eventually.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you tweet it,” or “how I learned to stop worrying and love the bird”
February 27, 2011
If you haven’t noticed, there has been a subtle addition to the right sidebar. It’s true. I’ve been baptized into the world of micro-blogging. This blogger is now also a twit…er…er. I realize that this may come as somewhat of a surprise to some of you, particularly since I’ve in the past taken great delight in skewering and belittling everyone’s favorite micro-blogging service, even to it’s face. What could have changed my mind? Well, a number of things. I shall conveniently list them.
- I realized I had more reasons to hate Facebook, and I was already on that. On Twitter, people subscribe if they’re interested in what you have to say. How wonderful it is to have quantified self-worth! On Facebook, we’re all just subscribed to each other by impulses of “friendedness.”
- At it’s best, Twitter is largely what blogging originally was designed to be, a way of sharing links to cool stuff we’ve come across. Twitter gives us a chance to fly on ahead and shout back to the flock. Also, it gives me something to do when I have something to say but I’m too lazy to blog. I guess that explains this.
- I just turned twenty-eight and I realized that I’m simply too young to be technologically jaded. Besides, I work as a educational tech consultant. What kind of example would I be setting by ignoring the hottest craze in social networking (circa 2007-08)?
- In my head, I disliked Twitter users more than than Twitter itself. For a while I really only regarded Twitter as a knock-off of Facebook status updates. The users were the ones that really grinded (ground?) my gears. You know, the folks that I had branded a collective of hive-minded, self-glorifying windbags? Okay, that’s not exactly what I said (the “windbags” part is new), but yes, I was thinking it. Well, I don’t believe that’s true anymore, because I am one now and I am not a self-glorifying windbag, I’m a blogger. There’s a subtle difference.
- Twitter is “catware,“ and I’m a cat person. Dogs would love Facebook, which rewards even the most passive user (*ahem*) with constant companionship, praise, and attention—even if it’s undeserved. Twitter, in contrast, is reactionary, self-serving, and independent. Also, “friendship” on Twitter can be a one-sided agreement in which the follower (cat owner) says “I’ll pay attention to you even if you don’t give two s**ts about me.” Heck, even if I am following someone else, it’s about as passive as watching traffic, or a washing machine.
So, yes. That’s it. That’s my conversion statement. I’ll take no questions, but you can “tweet” at me if you feel like it.
“Douglas Coupland has no Facebook or MySpace page”
-Douglas Coupland’s website
“Make me some stinking coffee you damn dirty ape!”
February 4, 2011
I recently put out my top five Portland coffee shop list which listed Vancouver, WA as number one. Well, I believe Despair Inc. puts it best:
“It hurts to admit when you make mistakes – but when they’re big enough, the pain only lasts a second.”
I’ve bemoaned more than a few Portland coffee shops for being achingly predictable in their attempt to, well, really look like Portland coffee shops. This plague of uniformity means that dozens of independent cafe all seem to have been cut from the same “edgy” (my God I hate that word) bohemian mold. Really, what’s the point of being “indie” if you’re just going to look like everyone else?
It's funny. My mom always told me not to trust purple things.
It reminds me of a situation I found myself in a few years back, when I was faced with the not-so-uncommon challenge of coming up with a last-minute Halloween costume. While I did not have a lot of options available to me, I grabbed some black clothes, black nail polish, and black eyeliner and decided I could go as a poser. It actually went over pretty well, but I recall asking a classmate who was heavily into punk culture if I could borrow perhaps a studded bracelet, spiked collar, or other prototypical punk poser items. Unsurprisingly, she was unable to help because, not being a poser, she didn’t own any of those items.
The decidedly un-poser Spunky Monkey was recommended to me by one of its employees, whom I’ve never actually seen working there in my half-dozen visits. In short: the place is effortlessly eclectic and undeniably awesome. I’ve actually been wanting write about Spunky Monkey for about a month now (not coincidentally, I haven’t posted in about a month), but it’s easier to write a bad review than a good one. Giving good reviews is not only difficult, it’s boring, so don’t expect me to make a habit of this.
Who wouldn't want to sit there? Your table is a door!
Their design motif goes beyond “quirky” and quite literally into “found object.” Tables appear to be cast from halves of doors suspended from the ceiling, and the benches aren’t bolted down, so don’t let that take you by surprise. The menu transcends the chalkboard and is pretty much written everywhere. Functionally, intimate space gives easy-access to power outlets and secure (novel idea these days) wireless. The place isn’t big, but manages to be comfortable without being comfy, if that even makes sense. With seats within striking normal speaking distance of the counter, if you’re a Spunky Monkey barista, you’d best be ready for small talk.
Following my recent temperance rant, it was nice to know that such a thing still exists. Their menu drops down into 5oz drinks, the mochas don’t feel obliged beat you over the head with flavor, and their food selection offers organic meat, veggie, and vegan selections, without making a big deal of it. It’s silly, but I’m getting sick of giant signs that say “ZOMG! VEGAN!” That said, the Basic Barbarian” bagel sandwich–bagel or no bagel, breakfast or lunch–is just one of the tastiest sandwiches I’ve ever had, period.
Lastly, Spunky Monkey encourages local music by keeping a steady stream of local music through the sound system. That single gesture in itself should be sufficient, but they take it one step further by granting any musician who brings in their original music ten free coffees ($1.25 value per free item). I was pleasantly surprised when the staff complimented my contributions on a later visit, which shows that our stuff isn’t being just hurled into the void.
Heck, being here for a half hour made me temporarily forget about my laundry list of issues which included a morning traffic court appearance, a chronic headache, mentally taxing (no pun intended) accounting snafus, and laundry. Now that is a coffee experience.
If a tree “tweets” on the internet, does anyone “follow”?
January 10, 2011
I warned you. I said that once we stopped eating animals it was a slippery slope. Next thing you know plants would start getting all high and mighty. Well, it’s happened, and now there’s a tree on Facebook.
No, really. There’s a damned tree on Facebook.
What you can't see is the Macbook Pro he's typing on.
Yes friends, trees have officially entered the social networking (oh, it’s on Twitter, Flickr, and YouTube too) circle. We’re not talking a fan page or a tree group. This eighty-six year old tree is posting and tweeting like a boss. Scientists in Brussels have rigged up a tree with environmental sensors, a microphone, a camera, and a digital camcorder, giving us human folk a chance to expand our ecological horizons and find out what trees “think.” It’s a cool and playful idea, and certainly pretty impressive for an eighty-six year old plant with no prior technology experience (or central nervous system, for that matter). Of course, you’ve got to think of the flip side: while this may be a landmark accomplishment for a tree, what does it mean for human beings?
Facebook: So easy, a tree—an entity with no functioning brain—can do it.
Ok, ok. So the tree isn’t actually doing anything besides rocking its inherent tree-ness. It’s technically the computers attached to the tree doing all the work, and we certainly aren’t talking critical thinking here. We’re talking straight data aggregated into readable information, devoid of purpose or substance. It’s not like the tree is generating wisdom or even knowledge, for that matter. That’s all okay, provided we’re still talking about trees.
Facebook: Have all the depth of a tree.
But we’re not, and if Facebook were a gauge for sentience, there’s little separating the plant and animal kingdoms. Sure, the tree has generally better grammar and spelling than its human friends, but they also say “to err is human.” Beyond that, the tree has proven to be our equal in the ability to post inane drivel in a public forum. In an honest assessment of the depth of our Facebook correspondence we’re slightly above seagulls (by using of multi-word phrases), but a smidgen below The Sims. It’s harsh, but at least Sims creatively express aspirations.
My favorite reply would probably have to be: "i love horses."
As we see above, every time the tree updates its status, it receives dozens of replies (and hundreds of “likes,” whatever that means). One can draw one of two possible conclusions here, both of which are concerning for very different reasons: 1) people actually believe they are talking to a sentient tree or 2) people want others to see they’re talking to a tree. I assume if they had something important to say, they’d send the tree a message instead of posting on its wall. Of course this would violate Web 2.0 rule #7: why say something privately, when you can say it very, very, publicly?
Facebook: It’s all about you. Your “friends” may as well be plants.
I’m not sure how to assess the quality of online social interaction, and I’m not sure it can be done in any meaningful way. I’m fairly convinced that the answer would be meaningless anyways. I’m only asking you, dear readers, to take an honest look at your online correspondence and ask yourselves in what way(s), if any, have you shown more depth than a tree?
Reality: Separate the folks from the trees.
