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lyin' cheatin' coffee whore
Apr. 3rd, 2009 11:43 amOur capitalist economy may be taking a nosedive lately (Will we be sorry to see it go? Buh-bye, Cappie, take Protestant work ethic with you on the way out, please, and tell socialism and welfare state to call me!) but I like to think I’m doing my part in keeping this miserable enterprise afloat by buying myself a cup of coffee everyday. Still. But not from Starbucks, nor Dunkin’ Donuts. I usually get my morning cuppa from a local café a few blocks from our home. An even better justification there for my spending: Supporting small, local businesses, right?
Well, my little THI-verse was thrown into a tizzy a couple weeks ago when another local joint opened up. And not just any joint, but a joint that brews Stumptown coffee, which, among New Yorkers of a certain finicky ilk who believe there is not a decent cuppa to be had in the entire five boroughs, is the holy grail of coffee in our fair city. (Of course, this black gold comes from Portland; whenever we can’t do something for ourselves, we simply import the best.) While I’m not that picky about coffee—who can resist a frappacino from the Evil Empire? Not me!—I gotta say about Stumptown: Damn, this shit is good.
So I have been cheating on my usual café with the New Shiny Stumptown Place. I know. I know.
The old café won’t notice me not coming in every day, I thought. They have plenty of regulars. I may go back to them during the summer, because New Shiny Stumptown Place probably won’t sell iced coffee—
And then it happened. The other morning while Mrs. THI & I walked to the subway, my hand wrapped around the environmentally safe recycled paper cup filled with a delicious Americano, we ran into the owner/manager of my old coffee place. Like a husband caught groping a chippie at a cocktail party, I grinned nervously. And said “Hi!” in a brightly alarming manner with which I never greet anyone in the morning. He smiled, returned the greeting while placing a huge, mental black X on my face, and went on his way.
Was my spouse sympathetic to embarrassing plight? No. “YOU LYIN’ CHEATIN’ COFFEE WHORE!” she chortled. “You broke the social contract!” (This said because she’d watched that episode of House recently and I guess she thinks she is Wilson to my House. Or vice versa, because she is the smart one: She had opted not to have coffee that morning, and as a result did not get caught Stump-handed.)
Aside from all of this, it does give us an excuse to sing “Stumptown coffee sure is good!” and other variants (“Stumptown coffee bad for blood pressure!”) to the tune of “Camptown Races.”
In other news,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angharad_gov brought to my attention that it’s National Poetry Month, so I’m planning on posting some poems during the month. I have been wanting to post some Lawrence Durrell, since I have been reading Bitter Lemons (his memoir about living in Cyprus during the 1950s), but have yet to find any of his poems that I really, really like. So perhaps Larry will get a prose-post instead. Or should I wait for National Prose Month?
Well, my little THI-verse was thrown into a tizzy a couple weeks ago when another local joint opened up. And not just any joint, but a joint that brews Stumptown coffee, which, among New Yorkers of a certain finicky ilk who believe there is not a decent cuppa to be had in the entire five boroughs, is the holy grail of coffee in our fair city. (Of course, this black gold comes from Portland; whenever we can’t do something for ourselves, we simply import the best.) While I’m not that picky about coffee—who can resist a frappacino from the Evil Empire? Not me!—I gotta say about Stumptown: Damn, this shit is good.
So I have been cheating on my usual café with the New Shiny Stumptown Place. I know. I know.
The old café won’t notice me not coming in every day, I thought. They have plenty of regulars. I may go back to them during the summer, because New Shiny Stumptown Place probably won’t sell iced coffee—
And then it happened. The other morning while Mrs. THI & I walked to the subway, my hand wrapped around the environmentally safe recycled paper cup filled with a delicious Americano, we ran into the owner/manager of my old coffee place. Like a husband caught groping a chippie at a cocktail party, I grinned nervously. And said “Hi!” in a brightly alarming manner with which I never greet anyone in the morning. He smiled, returned the greeting while placing a huge, mental black X on my face, and went on his way.
Was my spouse sympathetic to embarrassing plight? No. “YOU LYIN’ CHEATIN’ COFFEE WHORE!” she chortled. “You broke the social contract!” (This said because she’d watched that episode of House recently and I guess she thinks she is Wilson to my House. Or vice versa, because she is the smart one: She had opted not to have coffee that morning, and as a result did not get caught Stump-handed.)
Aside from all of this, it does give us an excuse to sing “Stumptown coffee sure is good!” and other variants (“Stumptown coffee bad for blood pressure!”) to the tune of “Camptown Races.”
In other news,
angharad_gov brought to my attention that it’s National Poetry Month, so I’m planning on posting some poems during the month. I have been wanting to post some Lawrence Durrell, since I have been reading Bitter Lemons (his memoir about living in Cyprus during the 1950s), but have yet to find any of his poems that I really, really like. So perhaps Larry will get a prose-post instead. Or should I wait for National Prose Month?
