Sunday Coffee: Eggnog latte edition

“Not only is there no God, but try finding a plumber on Sunday.”

                                                                                Woody Allen        

Winter weather has arrived early this year in the San Francisco Bay Area.  At a time when we would normally be enjoying the last few weeks of the typical warm Indian summer and maybe a sunny Thanksgiving the rains have settled in.  Much to my dog’s dismay the trips to the local ball field to let her run around have been cut short.  Getting the mud off a setter is no simple chore so we’re relegated to walks down the recreation path. And no I didn't have an eggnog latte this morning. Nothing particularly against the gloppy drink but I need to keep down the calorie count on this Sunday before Thanksgiving. 

Twas weeks before Christmas and all through Star-bucks:  Thanksgiving is still days away and I’m already approaching Christmas overload.  Starbucks has started the nonstop Christmas music.  Can’t we at least wait until after we’ve gotten up from the post-Thanksgiving dinner nap? There is one interesting phenomenon about Christmas music.  At what other time of the year would the under 25 crowd that normally listens to hip-hop suddenly listen to hours of Sinatra, Crosby and classical music?

The new formal wear?

No shoes, no shirt…:  A young woman strolls in this morning.  Just get out of bed dear?  Pink pajama bottoms and cheeks with that wiggle and jiggle that shout; “Hey I’m not wearing any drawers!”  Drawers are probably a good idea if you’re wearing anything but tight pants to keep those cheeks in check.  When was it that Americans decided that it’s okay to be complete slobs?  Fashion statements like flip-flops in any restaurant that doesn’t otherwise have a door leading to a pool deck or beach?  Did we gradually get here by replacing slacks with khakis and then khakis with jeans and then jeans with torn jeans?  Or did we suddenly throw on the unkempt switch; screw this button down shirt I’m wearing my Big Johnson t shirt.  And who could possibly overlook, “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, lookin like a fool with your pants on the ground.”

You don’t got to show me no stinking Elmo:  According to a Nielsen survey the most wanted Christmas gift among 6 – 12 year olds is the iPad.  Wow; and to think that when I was 6 or 7 I was looking for a set of toy soldiers and a slot car set.

Capitalist bastard, baseball edition:  I’d like to thank Bud Selig for sticking yet another pin in his baseball voodoo doll by announcing last week that there will be another wild card team in the playoff mix.  That must be because a 162 game schedule just isn’t nearly enough to determine which teams are the most deserving.  Or maybe it could be all about more revenue from an extra playoff game.

But when will little Johnny have time to play video games?  Reading Tom Brokaw’s new book The Times of Our Lives.  Brokaw relates the story of when he was in South Korea to cover the Olympics; “Because of the time difference I anchored Nightly News at 5:30 AM, Seoul time.  We broadcast from a building roof overlooking a junior high school.  The first morning when I finished at 6:00 I was startled to see the schoolyard crowded with uniformed students hunched over their textbooks, studying by flashlight, waiting for the doors to open at 6:30.”  Meanwhile here in California, which was once the model for the world, budget cuts may shorten the school year, class sizes continue to grow, students are forced to use woefully out of date textbooks and parents whine that their poor dears get too much homework. We can thank the GOP faction of the state legislature for not allowing any, and I mean any, new taxes or extensions of expiring taxes.  Not to worry though. While our kids learn to kill zombies in their elementary years, get piercings and tats in their high school years and get put on a fast track to careers at coffee houses and record stores we can rest assured that if we need any engineers or scientists they can always be imported from India, China and Korea.

On a related note, I wonder how successful our nation’s youth would be if parents were as attentive to their childrens' academics as they are to their athletics.  Parents never seem to have a problem getting their kids to soccer practice and then spending hours huddled on a chilly evening watching that practice. But getting parents engaged in their kids academics or with the school results in a weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. “I don’t have time to get involved with the school.  When are we going to have time for dinner?”  Dinner didn’t seem to be a problem during that 7 PM practice that was being held by the dim light of an autumn moon.  Do parents spend as much time making sure that their son can read at grade level as they do making sure that he can read the opposing team’s defensive scheme?  Do they put as much effort in getting to know the teacher as they do the coach?  Part of that problem might be the unrealistic expectation of the coveted D-1 scholarship.  It’s a lot sexier to brag about a full ride basketball scholarship than the one for writing an essay about Gandhi.  Unfortunately that athletic scholarship is a lot more elusive.  Case in point, there are about 19,500 D-1 and D-2 football scholarships available to be divvied up among about a million boys who play football.    

Let's see, Libya.  Is it bigger than a breadbox?

From Tripoli you can see Russia (well maybe if you’re looking at a world atlas):  This past week an interviewer asked Herman Cain whether or not he agreed with President Obama’s policy on Libya. The pizza king who would be president paused, took a deep breath, paused again and said, “Libya,” as if he was trying to remember whether it’s animal, vegetable or mineral.  Cain then asked the interviewer if Obama supported the uprising.  That was all within the first thirty seconds and it went downhill from there.  It brought me back to my high school days when a classmate was called on to answer the previous night’s homework question and clearly hadn’t cracked the book. Only problem is this isn’t high school and Mr. Cain wants us to give him the ignition keys to the nuclear arsenal.  Is this the best we can come up with?  This isn’t a matter of politics but rather a matter of competence.  The video is an embarrassment.

Wants to be your priest

Devaluing the dollar:  In a recent radio broadcast Glenn Beck christened Rick Santorum as the next George Washington.  In the immortal words of Scooby Doo; “Ruh?”  Washington was a well-rounded, thoughtful statesman who believed in the rights of the individual.  He put his country first above personal considerations.  Rick Santorum is an unrepentant ideologue, a zealot who doesn’t just wear his conservative religion on his sleeve, he wears a veritable religious suit.  And he would like nothing better than if you and I and the rest of the nation embraced that fashion statement.  Washington was an enlightened man.  Santorum is the anti-enlightenment.  Take his stance on the sex scandal that shook the Boston Catholic Diocese; “Priests, like all of us, are affected by culture. When the culture is sick, every element in it becomes infected. While it is no excuse for this scandal, it is no surprise that Boston, a seat of academic, political and cultural liberalism in America, lies at the center of the storm.”  Yeah that’s right Ricky, we wouldn’t want academic liberalism.  After all that leads to critical thinking and the debunking of some of Santorum's ideas such as discrediting Darwin while pushing that nonsense known as intelligent design; essentially creationism loosely cloaked in a lab coat.  In 2001 Santorum tried to insert into the No Child Left Behind bill (a loser in its own right) language promoting intelligent design over evolution.  Washington on the other hand displayed an illumination beyond Santorum’s scope that inspired fellow founder Fisher Ames in his eulogy to describe Washington as one of "that small number" of men "who were no less distinguished for the elevation of their virtues than the luster of their talents. . . who were born, and who acted through life as if they were born, not for themselves, but for their country and the whole human race."  Beck’s comparison of Santorum to Washington brings to mind Lloyd Bentsen’s famous scolding of Dan Quayle when the would be Vice President compared himself to JFK; “Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.”  Rick, you’re no George Washington.

Trashing Tim:  Listening to sports talk radio last Friday morning following the Denver Broncos’ Tebowing of the New York Jets I caught another installment of the new national sport which is making sport of Tim Tebow.  It’s the fashionable thing to do these days.  Now I have no real issue with the criticism of Tebow’s skills as an NFL quarterback.  As a passer he’d be challenged to hit the ocean standing on the beach.  But the boys on this show, were taking on Tim Tebow the person; too squeaky clean, too goody two shoes, derisively describing a Tebow interview sound bite as a “Disney moment.  This is a common theme of the criticism.  Well just what is it that we’re looking for?  The normal sports talk fare is an unhealthy serving of jocks behaving badly; shootings at strip clubs, greed, over the top end zone celebrations and fines for various and sundry rules violations both on and off the field.  So now we have an unpretentious young man who carries himself with dignity and grace in the face of derision, who has done more charity work in his short life than most do in an entire lifetime and he gets pilloried as if he was a linebacker who beat up an overweight, out of shape salesman in a bar dispute.  I should probably put this particular bashing in perspective.  It was delivered by a drive time pair who call themselves, Murph and Mac.  Their shtick could best be described as juvenile although when they want to put on their serious hats they manage to elevate themselves to drunken frat boy.  Okay I’ve given up the secret that I’m less than impressed with this pair.  I only listen to them when I jump from another station that’s gone to commercial.  Aside from the poop and belch humor they embrace, my problem with these guys is that they’re basically two pudgy dough boys who would probably huff and puff after a flight of stairs and they have the gall to criticize high performance athletes.  There’s something in that deserving of a penalty flag.

Red and gold revival:  Folks are filtering into Starbucks proudly sporting their San Francisco 49er gear.  It’s been a long time since Niner jackets have been worn with pride.  Under new coach, Jim Harbuagh the 49ers have made a remarkable resurgence.  Maybe the best part of the story has been the redemption of quarterback Alex Smith who was mishandled badly by two coaches who through Smith’s current success have been exposed as incompetent pretenders.  Harbaugh’s team proves that coaches make a difference.

It’s time to adjourn now and go pick up the turkey for Thanksgiving; about 20 pounds should do. Holy moly, there must have been a pajama party.  Another one makes an appearance. Cheeks jiggling like Santa’s belly; or a bowl full of jelly.

Sunday Coffee V

Sunday, sweet Sunday,
With nothing to do,
Lazy and lovely,
My one day with you.

                                Oscar Hammerstein (from Flower Drum Song)

A new building has been going up on one of the main streets in neighboring Pinole in the midst of a strip of fast food restaurants.  Thought it was another fat vat until I drove by yesterday and saw that it’s a Chase Bank.  Slippery by any other name…

Filling station dinosaur

Filled up the truck this morning.  Now there’s a ritual that’s undergone change.  Used to be you pulled into the filling station and drove over a little pneumatic hose that tripped a bell in the station garage telling the young fellow in a natty, if slightly oily, uniform of your arrival.  He would stride over to the driver’s side window, “Fill it up?”  You could usually tell a gas jockey was new if he took a couple laps around the car trying to find the fill pipe.  Gas jockeys didn’t just pump your gas; they cleaned the car windows, checked the oil and tires and checked out your girlfriend while doing the windows.  A lifetime of pumping gas was the threat levied on kids if they didn’t keep up their studies.  “If you don’t get a college education you’ll end up pumping gas when you’re forty.”  They were both wrong and right.  I got my degree and here I am at age 57; you guessed it, pumping gas.  I just don’t do it for a living.  Gas jockeys started going into extinction during the seventies oil crisis.  Full service turned into mini service into do it yourself which inevitably led to people driving cars with a dry crankcase and balding tires.

Distracted driving.  Since we’re on the subject of driving in the olden days, distracted driving had a completely different connotation if you owned one of the many cars with bench seats.  It was customary, as you pulled out of eyesight of your girlfriend’s parents for her to slide over to the middle of the seat.  Your right arm went over her shoulder; her head would rest on your shoulder and her hand on your leg, or elsewhere.  Kind of makes cell phones pale by comparison.

Because you can never have enough:  Listening to ESPN radio this morning.  LSU QB Jordan Jefferson had 49 pairs of sneakers confiscated by the Baton Rouge police.  The local constabulary was apparently looking for evidence tying Jefferson to a recent bar fight.  I don’t know about fight evidence but they seem to have found an athletic iteration of Imelda Marcos that's going to raise the eyebrows of the NCAA boys. I’ve had something of a running debate with a Face Book friend over what he calls the exploitation of college athletes, specifically football players.  According to him, the athletes make the schools millions of dollars not only for their performance but from the sale of jerseys.  At the same time, the athletes are strictly forbidden by NCAA rules to be compensated with money, goods or services and when caught violating those rules are subject to suspension.  All of this is true.  He calls it exploitation and specifically cites Terrell Pryor who was suspended for selling jerseys and getting free tattoos.  My take is this.  They’re being given the opportunity to get a free college degree, in itself worth tens of thousands of dollars.  All of these young men know the rules going in.  All they have to do is toe the line, show up to class and then go to the NFL and make millions.  Those who don’t go pro still can come out with a degree.  A number of these young men wouldn’t get a second look from a college if the criteria were strictly academics in which case they might otherwise be pumping gas all their lives.

Zero tolerance gone wild.  Breaking news that the world’s premier track and field athlete sat out the premier event in the world championships.  Usain Bolt false started in the 100 and was DQed.  The disqualification rule has changed drastically from my T&F days when each runner got one false start and was eliminated on his second.  Then the rule gave the entire field one false start.  Any subsequent false start would result in disqualification.  The current rule DQs a runner for the first violation.  Violations are electronically detected.  If I spend top dollar for a ticket to the worlds just to see Bolt sit out the 100 for what might have been a twitch, I’m not a happy guy.   

False start that deserves a DQ:  On the other hand at the women’s marathon championship there were TWO false starts.  Seriously?  How can you false start a marathon?  That deserves a DQ on the grounds of stupidity.

Is there anybody out there who can justify leaving a dog out all night like the folks up the street, letting it bark incessantly?  Just thought I’d ask so that I would know how cruelty to your best friend and lack of consideration for your neighbors can be rationalized.  Any takers?

The job creators:  A recent ABC news investigation found that four GOP presidential candidates have their campaign t-shirts made overseas and when asked to do some explaining none of the four came off looking very good (at least in my humble opinion).

Newt:  "I didn't order it. I didn't do it.”  Well that tells us that Newt’s no Harry Truman.

Herman Cain: "No, I wasn't aware it was made in Honduras," Cain said. "I was just aware it was Fruit of the Loom ... which is an American company.”  Technically I guess you’re right Herm.  The shareholders are American as are the executives.  The working stiffs are Honduran and American workers just got stiffed; by you, Mr Pizza Magnate.

Rick Santorum:  "It's tragic that so many products in this country are made outside of this country. You probably can find a T-shirt occasionally made here in the United States ... but it's harder and harder to do."  There’s a quality I want in a president.  It’s too hard to do, so let’s just punt.

Ron Paul:  "I wasn't aware of it ... but I wouldn't change it," said Paul. "I would argue the case that the market should determine it.”  Based on that logic everything gets outsourced or the American worker settles for the same pennies an hour exploitation as foreign factory workers.  Do we really want a social Darwinist for president?

These are the same old boys who are lambasting the current administration for not creating jobs while saying that they’ll step up and create jobs.  Not even in office yet and they can’t walk the talk. The title of the article says, Candidates Claim Ignorance.  Well, that about says it all.

And speaking of saying it all:  A fellow came into the Starbucks wearing a t-shirt proclaiming on the back; You’ve Never Met a Mother F***** Like Me.  Let’s go over the thought process here.  Fellow was looking for a t-shirt and thumbed through the racks.  Giants? Nah. Raiders? Meh. U.S Flag? Ahhhh, not feeling patriotic. Oh, look at this.  You’ve Never…..: This is the one for me.  I can proclaim to the world that I’m a stupid, offensive, lout in one concise sentence (bet he doesn't know the word concise).  

And just because I can't end this on the galactically stupid note above there were two dogs rule stories this week:

Ricochet the surfing dog has raised funds and awareness for over 150 human and animal causes.  In addition, the surfing canine hangs four (paws) and helps balance the board for disabled riders. 

And then there was Hawkeye, the Lab who laid next to the casket of his fallen master, U.S. Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson through the course of the service.

Sunday Coffee IV

Most of us spend the first six days of each week sowing wild oats; then we go to church on Sunday and pray for a crop failure.
                Fred Allen (comedian)

Another change of venue this Sunday.  At the other Starbuck’s in Hercules, right on the border with Rodeo.  I guess you could say that Rodeo is the ugly stepsister of Hercules.  You could say it, but I won’t.  I think that Rodeo has more charm than Hercules, even with its Conoco-Phillips oil refinery.  Rodeo has a lonely downtown that’s maybe 50 percent vacant.  The face of the downtown doesn’t look like it’s had a lift in 50 years.  I think that’s part of the charm of the place.  In some places it seems that the murky San Pablo Bay waters lap right up to Parker Ave, the main drag.  I just wish there were more businesses here.  There are some venerable old places here though.  El Sol is a Mexican joint that’s been around for fifty years.  The anecdotal evidence is that it’s authentic and authentically good.  Ricky’s Corner is a local dive bar which I’m told offers some killer broasted chicken.  As best I can tell broasted chicken is kind of a kissing cousin to fried chicken.  I think once I’m off the blood thinners I’ll pay a visit to Ricky's.  Be fun to go into a dark, dank tavern with Kessler gracing the back bar.

Broasted chicken was once one of our Friday night staples.  I would pick up a bucket from a restaurant called Tommy’s in next door Pinole.  Tommy’s was a diner with a bar off to the side.  The bar is where you went to order your chicken.  It was dimly lit and decorated with owner Tommy Prather’s hobby memorabilia; hunting, fishing and golf.  Decorated is a kind way of saying that a new memento was hung on an unoccupied patch of wall.  I would go in of a Friday evening, nurse a martini or two and wait for my chicken, sitting at the bar amongst the regulars; retired blue collar guys and brassy blue haired women.   Bulging plain white bucket, potato wedges on the bottom, chicken on the top and grease seeping through the bucket.  With a spritz of hot sauce, nothing better.  Portly Tommy Prather who prowled behind the bar sharing anecdotes with the regulars passed away many years ago.  The restaurant is gone now replaced by something un-memorable.  Tommy was charitable to a fault and the community is much the worse for his passing.

Listening to Janis singing Me and Bobby McGee.  It’s revered as one of the great songs of all time.  She still sounds to me like the cat that unwisely swished her tail underneath that rocking chair.

This is strictly a generational thing and I’m going to come off as an unrepentant geezer but it seems to me that slang today lacks something.

 For instance, I often hear, “word.”  According to the Urban Dictionary, “word” means well said or is a statement of agreement.  “Word”.  There’s nothing there; just a word.  Word. 

Now consider the many colorful terms I used to hear to describe a jail; calaboose, the joint, the can, the cooler, stir, up the river and my favorite, the stony lonesome.

“Broseph” according to the Urban Dictionary describes a good friend.  Yeeeaaah, it’s okay I suppose but not up to, pal, pard, side kick, chum and buddy (which I call my grandson all the time).

It’s not that all of today’s slang is bland but much of it seems to lack imagination and color.  Just sayin’…

They're playing Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher, being covered by a pretender. 

Speaking of moochers, yesterday’s big news is that Kim Kardashian got married yesterday.  Who in the bleep (and I’d really like to drop the “F” bomb here) cares?  I say moocher because she’s one of those rich socialites who feed off the fame trough for doing basically, well, nothing.  She is as the Bible scripture says, like the lilies of the field; “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.” 

The manager of this Starbuck’s is working this morning.  She looks strikingly like Sandra Bullock.  And that’s pretty dad gum striking.

Kimmie’s wedding apparently trumped the news that two hikers being held by Iran were sentenced for spying by a religious zealot, kangaroo court.  They’re going to spend the next 6 to 8 years of their young lives in an Iranian calaboose.  And this is why I preach (pun intended) that we need to beware of politicians who wear their religion on their sleeves; who make decisions because they “prayed on” the issue or, God forbid, God told them to make that decision.  It’s not a liberal/conservative issue.  It’s a first amendment issue and yes I do consider myself a Christian.

Kim also was more important news than your paycheck if you’re a working stiff.  Seems the GOP is actually considering raising a tax.  No we aren’t taxing the rich or an oil company.  A payroll tax deduction that was temporarily reduced last year from 6.2 percent to 4.2 percent is due to expire and the GOP is hatching a plan to let it die.  We don’t want the rich and business to pay more taxes because they’re the “job creators”.  I’m still waiting to see them create all those jobs.  So is the legion of jobless.

I’m walking with a cane these days.  That’s a big step for me.  I’ve gotten rid of the crutch which was an improvement over the two crutches, which was much better than two crutches and a cast.  I won’t burden you with my problems but the short version is that I broke my ankle in May.  When the therapist told me I would be getting a cane I felt like it would be much more distinguished than the crutch.  I asked him if it came with a deerstalker hat and a pipe.  He wasn’t amused, “Just take the cane.”  For the uninitiated a deerstalker hat is also known as a Sherlock Holmes hat.  Now you have something to share at cocktail parties.  Do they still have cocktail parties?  They did when I was a kid.  Best described as happy hour at somebody’s house.  Anyway, I got the cane and was very disappointed.  It’s a black, sterile aluminum thing with a button and notches to adjust the height.  I’m hoping that this cane arrangement is very temporary but I’m still tempted to get a nice polished wooden one topped with an artistic porcelain or pewter knob.  They even have canes which hold a hidden brandy flask.  I could see myself with one of those.  Be a nice way to fortify the morning coffee.  A beret would be a great accessory.

My daughter and the grandkids are visiting today.  They should be getting up anytime now.  Time to go home for some quality time.

Finally I would like to thank my good friend Scott for pushing this little rag of mine.  I’ll remember him when I’ve become a rich and famous writer.  I would love to write a book.  Working on an idea about a bespectacled British kid named Harry who dabbles in magic and consorts with wizards. Nah, it’ll never fly.

Sunday Coffee 3

I’ve gone for a change of scenery for this morning’s Sunday coffee; Peet’s in neighboring Pinole.  Peet’s is largely a California chain although there are a few locations in Oregon, Colorado and of course, Seattle.  Walking in, I noticed that there are outlets galore here.  Ah, more computer friendly than Starbucks.  Logging onto the web I found that I needed an access code which I was kindly provided.  One hour; hmm, not so user friendly.  I'm just going to have to break down and get 4G and the Luddite in me is going to chafe at that notion.

Peet's tries to be a bit more highbrow than Starbucks.  The mood music is jazz or classical whereas Starbuck's leans towards pop.  Peet likes wood paneling and leather(ette) and the lighting is on the dim side.  If Starbuck's is the family room of coffeehouses then Peet's is dad's den.

Dad's den.  For the uninitiated, the best way to describe dad's den is that it was the man cave of fifties and sixties television.  For discussion purposes lets consider Ward Cleaver's (Of Leave it to Beaver) den/man cave.  While a common theme seems to be leather(ette) and wood there are some important generational distinctions to be noted.  Today's man caves are highly infused with sports and games, technology and testosterone; pool tables, sports team memorabilia, computers, big screen TVs, sound systems and weaponry.  Ward Cleaver's, den was simple, wood paneling, leather chairs, bound books and a big desk.  It veritably screamed for a crystal decanter of scotch but Ward didn't drink; well at least not on TV.  Another generational difference is dad himself.  Today's dad hangs out in his man cave sporting flip flops and a baseball cap worn backwards (guys, unless you're under 12 or a catcher you might want to consider turning that cap with the bill facing front).  Ward Cleaver didn't "hang out" in his den (beatniks hung out). Ward, in a manly, dignified manner read the newspaper or did important paperwork while wearing a business suit.  If he was dressing down Ward would be in slacks and cardigan, but would never lose that tie.  I don't know if I ever saw Ward crack one of those books. Maybe they were all for show.  I'd be a well read guy if I ever, you know, opened a book.  Ward's den was nothing if not a reminder of a fifties male dominated society.  It was here in his patient Solomonic wisdom that Ward dispensed sage advise, passed sentence on the offspring's misdemeanors or made a final decision on important household legislation.  Ward in his den was familial chairman of the board, the tribal judge in his chambers and the president of the house all rolled in to one.
 

I've digressed horribly from Peet. When I was handed my coffee the young woman behind the counter said, “We brewed Major Dickason today.”  I offered that it didn’t seem like such good news for the major. After all what had he ever done to them?  She didn’t seem at all amused.  Like I said, they're highbrow at Peet’s.  Major Dickason is the Peet’s flagship blend.  Just for fun I Googled Major Dickason, uh, so to speak.  Is it my prurient little mind working overtime or does that sound kind of kinky?  Googling Major Dickason.

Would I get slapped if I went to a bar and asked a woman if she would like to get together and google?  I shouldn’t offer to google with strange women; I am married.  I never had any luck at that sort of thing anyway.  Except for one time and that one didn’t really work out as planned.  Linda, my significant other at the time (it isn't PC to say girlfriend anymore is it?), and I decided to play out a little fantasy and go to Perry’s near the San Francisco Marina.  Perry’s on Union Street was a fern bar, well-known as the “meat market” as the saying goes, in San Francisco.  Henry Africa’s another fern bar over on Van Ness Avenue was the other popular bar where you might meet your next match.  And then there was always the Safeway in the Marina District.  No Match Dot Com, and Neil Warren hadn’t the vaguest idea yet that he would launch eHarmony. The little game with Linda was to go into Perry’s separately as strangers, “meet”, chat and go home together.  Place was packed on a Friday night and it took forever to get a drink and then forever again to spot Linda in the crowd.  Finally found her, sidled on up, and got ready to hit her with a clever pre-googling line when she latched on  like a leach and said, “Don’t you ever leave me in here alone.”  While I'd dawdled over my drink she'd apparently had some offers to google.  We stayed for a bit and decided it really wasn’t our type of place.  Perry’s was yuppie.  Working retail, Linda and I were well below yuppie pay grade.  Yuppies were materialistic and could afford to be.  We were just living paycheck to paycheck and for us materialism was a new pair of jeans.  We finished our drinks and went home.  I won’t say whether we googled or not.  A true gentleman doesn’t google and brag about it.

I digressed again didn't I.  Major Dickason was a real fellow who lived in Berkeley and helped Peet develop the blend of coffee that bears his name.  It’s a pretty potent brew with a good sturdy backbone.  Not something the frou-frou frappa-crappa crowd would go for.  I like the taste of my coffee so I order mine black, no room for cream or sugar.  I think us no frills folks should have our own express line at the coffee joints.  Standing in line and listening to someone order one of those “blended drinks” is like getting a root canal; “Yes I would like a caramel brule frappuchino, ½ soy, ¼ half and half and ¼ 2%, steam it for 12 seconds please with a 2 count spray of cream and just a dash of chocolate powder and it has to be at 198.3 degrees.”  And then the barista has to do it over because it was at 201 degrees.  Seriously?  It’s a coffee drink not a 60 dollar Porterhouse at Mortons  ordered medium rare.  Now that’s something to be anal about.

A family comes in looking like they're dressed for church.  Even the little boy is dressed in a natty gray suit.  Poor kid. 

Let’s consider coffee.  When I was a child coffee was brewed on the stove top in a pot, called a percolator.  Grounds went into a basket in the top of the pot; water went into a bottom chamber, was boiled and forced through a tube that distributed the hot water into the basket holding the coffee.  A little clear glass bubble on the top of the pot would let you see the color of the coffee as the blackening liquid continued to flow through the tube.  When the liquid was the color of coffee it was time to pour.  At some point my parents upgraded to an electric percolator.  Same theory, different heat source.  Either way, those baskets weren’t fine filters, making coffee some pretty tough, gritty stuff; especially that last crunchy cup.  

As I was just getting out of high school and starting to drink coffee in small amounts, Mr. Coffee made his debut.  Mr. Coffee was shilled by former baseball great Joe DiMaggio who unfortunately is probably best known by most Americans for being a coffee maker pitchman and the subject of a lyric in a Paul Simon song.  Do people outside of the San Francisco Bay Area where he was born and New York where he played for the Yanks know he was a hall of famer who went by the nicknames, “Joltin’ Joe” and “The Yankee Clipper?”

Joe became the face of Mr. Coffee of his own volition. But what about those famous folks whose names have been purloined by entrepreneurs with a questionable sense of propriety? The thought occurred to me as I was driving down highway 880 through Oakland when I was passed by a van emblazoned, LONDON JACK’S CLEANERS.  No, that’s just not right.  I pulled up alongside and there under the name was an image of the great writer himself.  A slap in the face that the great local writer, amateur boxer might have responded to with a solid right cross to the proprietor’s jaw.  I’ve also seen that a plumbing company has appropriated Benjamin Franklin’s name and likeness; a founding father relegated to stopping leaks and rooting toilet lines.  And then there’s Mark Twain Redi-mix in Twain’s own town of Hannibal, Missouri.

My hour of wi-fi is about to run out.  This post has bounced around like one of those old Super Balls we used to play with as kids.  Blame it on Peet's coffee. I told you its strong stuff.

Sunday Coffee 2

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.

    Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson from Sunday Morning Coming Down

It’s a windy, cold, steel gray morning.  Seven A.M.  It looks like seven A.M. Hercules is still asleep as less than a handful are here at Starbucks. 

Someone has been up for a while this morning.  The sweet, smoky aroma of barbecue from the Kinder’s Barbecue next door is seeping into the coffee shop.  A hot link sandwich slathered in a tangy, spicy sauce for lunch is sounding pretty good.

The fellow next to me isn’t asleep either.  He’s Skyping with someone, taking the rudeness of the public cell phone conversation to a new level.  Meanwhile John Lee Hooker and Bonnie Raitt are “In the Mood for Love” on the in-house music.

A quick look at the news tells me that a lot of folks haven’t been in the mood for love.

A cyclist was struck and killed by a Chevrolet Avalanche in Los Angeles.  The driver of the truck was in a road rage confrontation with the driver of a Kia and cut over onto the shoulder to pass, striking and killing the 62 year old rider.  Some cyclists are cruising past the strip mall right now.  Good luck guys and girls.  I’m what you would call a part time cyclist.  I pick and choose my ride carefully.  There are some country roads around here that are very popular with cyclists but I stay off of them; they’re narrow and very winding.  I figure riding is a crapshoot to begin with.  I don’t feel like stacking more odds against me.  That poor guy in L.A. rolled snake eyes.  This isn’t to say that cyclists don’t piss me off.  The ones that cruise through stop signs and ride about three abreast regardless of the traffic annoy the hell out of me.  It’s not just because of the unsafe riding; it’s mostly because those idiots are making it harder for those of us who try to do it safely and legally.  There are already plenty of tensions bubbling between riders and drivers.

It’s like people who carry their little dogs into Starbucks or the grocery store making it hard for those dog owners among us who do it right and responsibly.  Just because little Fifi can fit in the palm of your hand doesn’t mean you get to carry her into places where she's not supposed to be.  Every time that I see some knot head pack Muffy in a bag into the local super and get away with it I wish that I could go fetch my 70 pound Gordon Setter, put her under my arm and parade around the market with her big squirming self.  Do you think I’d get away with it? 

One day I'm carrying her into Starbucks

It was a bad day in Afghanistan yesterday.  Thirty American and seven Afghan soldiers were killed when their helicopter was shot down.  Six French soldiers were killed in another incident.  Did I miss something?  Wasn’t the mission to get Bin Laden?  Can we get out now?  Hasn’t it dawned on this president and the last that Afghanistan is known as “the graveyard of armies?”

A woman was killed in a shootout in Oakland last night.  According to The Chronicle the shooters were gunning for people in a rival group but hit the victims (the deceased woman and her aunt who was wounded) who were not involved in the dispute.  It looks like as a society we’ve decided that there is going to be a limitless supply of guns.  Anybody can have as many as he wants.  If that’s the course we’ve decided to take can we just get firearms training for everyone? Yes, everyone, even the criminals.  That way maybe a few less innocent bystanders, many of them children, will get hit.  Not trying to be flippant here, just pragmatic.

In other news,  “A politician who emailed a woman nude photos of himself that were later posted on a GOP activist's website announced his resignation Tuesday and said he'll consider all legal options to have the pictures taken down.”  The pictures show the 53 year old politician standing naked in front of a mirror.  He sent them to a woman who he had been corresponding online with for several years.  She asked for them and he did what any straight thinking fellow would do; he sent them.  I might be going out on a limb here but my guess is that nobody, N-O-B-O-D-Y, wants to see pictures of a 53 year old politician showing what he was born with and what’s grown since.  Nobody that is except for a political foe.  Is it just me or do politicians (usually male ones) seem to be getting more and more galactically STUPID?

DC has a high rate of drinking!!

The Chron. has a link to a “Map of Sins” posted on The Daily.  Washington D.C. has the highest rate of alcohol abuse.  No. Really?  What a shocking revelation.  I wonder if that correlates to all of the middle aged naked politicians on the web.  Utah has the lowest rate of alcohol and drug abuse but at 5.4% the highest rate of folks who’ve considered suicide.  You know, maybe an occasional Maker’s on the rocks isn’t such a bad thing.  Alaska has the highest rate of people who’ve smoked weed in the past month.  Double the nationwide rate.  I’m not making any Palin jokes here.  You can, but I won’t.

I should actually be on my work computer this Sunday morning.  Too much work at the office and not enough time.  My wife is getting ready to retire in a year and a half.  Theoretically I’m up in 7 more years, that is until the government pushes it out again.  I’m tired of it.  I’m seriously considering retiring early, way early, packing up the wife and a few belongings and moving to her native Philippines.  Try my hand at more serious writing.  Teach, maybe?  I know she wants to do volunteer work.  Between the news and just being tired of doing something that I no longer enjoy, The PI is looking pretty sweet.

It’s a chilly Sunday, but it is Sunday.  A good day to set aside the war, the budget bickering, the shootings and naked politicians, have that hot link sandwich and spend some nice quiet time with my wife.  It really doesn’t get any better than that.

Sunday Coffee 1

Early Sunday morning at Starbucks.  They’ve changed the décor.  It’s not very friendly to those of us who like to hang out and read or write.  Power outlets at a premium and the seats are damned uncomfortable.

An elderly Asian woman is rummaging through the trash outside.

Sitting at the newly installed communal table.  Not that I want to be communal, it’s just near one of the few outlets.

The local group of regulars is sharing the table with me.  Blue collars, bikers and retirees.  I don’t know them, they don’t know me but I can’t help but to hear their conversation.  It isn’t very communal.  Guy in the camo bandana disparaging Filipinos and the other agrees; those people.  The women who staff the place are Filipino.  These guys are always “friendly” towards them.  Watch your backs ladies.  My wife is Filipina and the temptation is to call them on it.  What’s in it for me?  Will I open closed minds?

Twenty first century racists in the San Francisco Bay Area.  They have to talk sotto voce, in hushed tones.  You mean you’re not proud of your beliefs?

Woman ties her dog to a table outside and settles inside to read.  Would you tie up your best friend?

Two of the old boys here are finding work hard to come by.  Maybe if you were a little more charitable to those different from you, God would smile on you.

People in their Sunday best; coming from or going to church.  Is God smiling on them?

The Asian guy at the table is capping on Mexicans.  I wonder if he knows  his buddies cap on Asians.

The smokers are banished to the cold (yes cold) outdoors.  They’re not even welcome at the outdoor tables anymore but they smoke there in defiance of the signs.  Starbucks doesn’t enforce it.  Bad for business.  Money talks.

A man brings roses to the woman who’s been sitting near the window.  She cries, he turns to leave. She talks and he turns again to sit.  He talks, she cries.

A woman walks in wearing a Brandon Crawford, Giants jersey.  He’s a rookie batting around .200 and he has a jersey already?

The woman who was crying leaves with her flowers and the man.  Good.  They’re all smiles and so it looks like all’s well.

The old boys have drifted from the communal table.

A Hispanic couple sits nearby.  Speaking Spanish.  Good thing the old boys are gone.  They’d have something to say.

They’re heating up one of those breakfast sandwiches.  I love the smell of bacon in the morning.  Actually I love the smell of bacon in the afternoon and evening.

A man sitting at the table formerly occupied by the couple with the flowers.  A woman walks in, he gets up and they shake hands.  “Hi. Nice to meet you.”  Online dating?  He pulls out a stack of papers.  Just business.

               

Sunday morning at Starbucks.  It’s 10 AM and the crowd is sparse and it’s quiet as a library in here.  Not a good sign for the remodel.