I know I said their would be updates...I know I said I would have an unique design for my site...I know I said all of these things...But I am a liar.
Truth be told, this blog is done. I appreciate people reading my angry diatribes about nothing. But between writing papers for class, writing for a paper and my other independent projects. This site is no longer an outlet I need. Maybe someday I will return...maybe...
JW
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Lack of updates
Its come to my attention that I haven't been cynical publicly for quite sometime, almost 2 months. Although I am working on articles, I am investing myself in another project right now, and this explains my absence.
However next month, I will be posting again and giving my site an original design so stay tuned...We've only just begun.
However next month, I will be posting again and giving my site an original design so stay tuned...We've only just begun.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Minneapolis: A City Lost.
Last week, I found myself in Minneapolis. A part of the country that I usually try to avoid, I found myself there for a concert. Now, if you know me, and chances are you probably do, you know that I hate Minneapolis. I could never figure it out, I placed the blame on heartbreak that young phillies have caused me, who subsequently came from Minneapolis or resided their after we broke up. Having healed from these wounds, I saw it as a great time to revisit the area, and give it a second chance. I am proud to announce that I still hate Minneapolis!
A wasteland of vapid, fake and boring people, lumbering through a city who has no direction and no identity. I knew it! I fuckin’ knew that my hatred couldn’t be so superficial that it could be rested on the shoulders of a couple of broads, who just happened to be a waste of my time. I just couldn’t pinpoint it. Then two events happened.
First, I found myself in a charming little area of Minneapolis called Uptown. A nice little area filled with stores frequented by people who like boring, drab and ugly clothes who want to be on the cutting edge, this place is probably the arrogant, greasy-brown asshole of the state. I always here people talk about their trips to the cities, and of course, they always mention Uptown. I guess this is where small town folks east of the river go to learn how to be “hip”. Well, there are a shit ton of hipsters there, but none of them are actually “hip”. Imagine if you will, you find yourself in a store with shitty, over priced clothes. Then you show up, and you’re wearing old blue jeans and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. Now, you got all these poorly dressed fuckers looking at you, who are obviously thinking one of two things:
1. “What the hell is he doing here?” (Trust me the feeling was mutual)
or
2. What aisle did he get that shirt in? Are those back in style again?
The observations I made in Uptown were very important, as I made my second discovery.
Before I left, I got together with some fine locals for lunch. In a conversation about the cities, two nice Asian gentlemen pointed out to me, the big difference between St. Paul and Minneapolis is that St. Paul has sort of its own history and has a bit more older scene. More culture if you will. Whereas Minneapolis is a place that is always trying to emulate one of two cities; either Seattle or New York City. So, you have a copy of a city, far removed from its source material, and then you have these kids come from small towns and try to bring THAT back to their small towns. So now, not only do you have a copy out their, but you have a copy of a copy. Not only is it a copycat, but it’s a boring copy. And that within is the problem. Minneapolis is a cancer within the Midwest. A gross, vile being destroying anything authentic with in our towns. It’s obviously all fake, and I don’t rally for fake shit. FAKE SHIT is what they should call Minneapolis. Fuck that place. Long live St. Paul, they got it down.
By the way, just because one follows all the latest trends and has the newest music, that doesn’t make them hip. They are definitely hipsters, but they ain’t hip. Hip is more about of state of mind, if you get what I’m saying when I label someone hip, then you are more than likely hip yourself, and if you don’t well you’re lost and belong in the hell hole known as Minneapolis.
A wasteland of vapid, fake and boring people, lumbering through a city who has no direction and no identity. I knew it! I fuckin’ knew that my hatred couldn’t be so superficial that it could be rested on the shoulders of a couple of broads, who just happened to be a waste of my time. I just couldn’t pinpoint it. Then two events happened.
First, I found myself in a charming little area of Minneapolis called Uptown. A nice little area filled with stores frequented by people who like boring, drab and ugly clothes who want to be on the cutting edge, this place is probably the arrogant, greasy-brown asshole of the state. I always here people talk about their trips to the cities, and of course, they always mention Uptown. I guess this is where small town folks east of the river go to learn how to be “hip”. Well, there are a shit ton of hipsters there, but none of them are actually “hip”. Imagine if you will, you find yourself in a store with shitty, over priced clothes. Then you show up, and you’re wearing old blue jeans and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. Now, you got all these poorly dressed fuckers looking at you, who are obviously thinking one of two things:
1. “What the hell is he doing here?” (Trust me the feeling was mutual)
or
2. What aisle did he get that shirt in? Are those back in style again?
The observations I made in Uptown were very important, as I made my second discovery.
Before I left, I got together with some fine locals for lunch. In a conversation about the cities, two nice Asian gentlemen pointed out to me, the big difference between St. Paul and Minneapolis is that St. Paul has sort of its own history and has a bit more older scene. More culture if you will. Whereas Minneapolis is a place that is always trying to emulate one of two cities; either Seattle or New York City. So, you have a copy of a city, far removed from its source material, and then you have these kids come from small towns and try to bring THAT back to their small towns. So now, not only do you have a copy out their, but you have a copy of a copy. Not only is it a copycat, but it’s a boring copy. And that within is the problem. Minneapolis is a cancer within the Midwest. A gross, vile being destroying anything authentic with in our towns. It’s obviously all fake, and I don’t rally for fake shit. FAKE SHIT is what they should call Minneapolis. Fuck that place. Long live St. Paul, they got it down.
By the way, just because one follows all the latest trends and has the newest music, that doesn’t make them hip. They are definitely hipsters, but they ain’t hip. Hip is more about of state of mind, if you get what I’m saying when I label someone hip, then you are more than likely hip yourself, and if you don’t well you’re lost and belong in the hell hole known as Minneapolis.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
AMERICA: Land of too much freedom
Fuckin’ A, some people are retarded!
It’s a realization that most of us have early on in life. You’re friends get hurt when the scrawny asthmatic kid tries to pick up the fat fuck, replicating the Andre the Giant vs Hulk Hogan fight. How about the kid who eats glue well into the 6th grade? These activities, while retarded, are performed by tikes who just don’t have the wits to keep themselves together. Usually they mature, and go on to do things not retarded and most of the time, they do smart things. However, sometimes they do not and even though their actions become less harmful to themselves, they are still harmful and also become more dangerous to others.
Take for instance…People on goddamn motorcycles. Not that long ago, I was moving my car to 72 hour parking from the street. As I am in my white 2000 Dodge Stratus, I come to cross a street. At one end of the block is a group of motorcycles turning down the street, this gives me more than enough time to cross, SAFELY. But, the douche bag on the loud ass motorcycle guns it, not only is he speeding but he is putting his life in danger. Why? Probably to impress his friends, who are also have small cocks. He narrowly avoids clipping the back of my car.
Would I have felt bad if he hit the back of my car and smashed his skull over the street? Not a damn bit. The first thing I would have done is got out of my car and kicked him in the his stupid dead mouth. For one, he damaged my car and two he used my vehicle as a means to kill himself. If suicide is your bag, do it on your time and dime. I don’t get why driving a motorcycle has to by synonymous with being a loud, noisy prick. The summer time brings these assholes out by the butt load.
You hear them all the time, driving as fast as possible…and for some reason never getting pulled over…revving and peeling out, making as much noise as possible, so people who LIVE nearby, can’t take a nap, read a book, watch a movie, jerk-off, write a blog, beat their kids, plant a flower, make a cake, listen to a good album in fucking peace! If you want have a motorcycle FINE, but at least pick one that admits your neighbors and people you may pass by to enjoy some peace. Another group of assholes who also make society suffer the same grievances is pick-up truck drivers.
People who drive pick-up drivers are possibly the most wasteful pigs ever. I see people all the time driving these huge, unnecessary, gas-guzzling P.O.S’s. If they are not hauling something, or going somewhere to haul something, one does not need that truck. Not only that but they suffer the same shortcomings that motorcyclists bestow.
Inventions like the pick-up and the motorcycle are proof that American’s have way too much freedom. Because, they hide behind the excuse, “Its my right to have whatever want! This is America, dammit!” Well, what about my rights? When will someone come along and liberate America from loud noisy douche bags?
It’s a realization that most of us have early on in life. You’re friends get hurt when the scrawny asthmatic kid tries to pick up the fat fuck, replicating the Andre the Giant vs Hulk Hogan fight. How about the kid who eats glue well into the 6th grade? These activities, while retarded, are performed by tikes who just don’t have the wits to keep themselves together. Usually they mature, and go on to do things not retarded and most of the time, they do smart things. However, sometimes they do not and even though their actions become less harmful to themselves, they are still harmful and also become more dangerous to others.
Take for instance…People on goddamn motorcycles. Not that long ago, I was moving my car to 72 hour parking from the street. As I am in my white 2000 Dodge Stratus, I come to cross a street. At one end of the block is a group of motorcycles turning down the street, this gives me more than enough time to cross, SAFELY. But, the douche bag on the loud ass motorcycle guns it, not only is he speeding but he is putting his life in danger. Why? Probably to impress his friends, who are also have small cocks. He narrowly avoids clipping the back of my car.
Would I have felt bad if he hit the back of my car and smashed his skull over the street? Not a damn bit. The first thing I would have done is got out of my car and kicked him in the his stupid dead mouth. For one, he damaged my car and two he used my vehicle as a means to kill himself. If suicide is your bag, do it on your time and dime. I don’t get why driving a motorcycle has to by synonymous with being a loud, noisy prick. The summer time brings these assholes out by the butt load.
You hear them all the time, driving as fast as possible…and for some reason never getting pulled over…revving and peeling out, making as much noise as possible, so people who LIVE nearby, can’t take a nap, read a book, watch a movie, jerk-off, write a blog, beat their kids, plant a flower, make a cake, listen to a good album in fucking peace! If you want have a motorcycle FINE, but at least pick one that admits your neighbors and people you may pass by to enjoy some peace. Another group of assholes who also make society suffer the same grievances is pick-up truck drivers.
People who drive pick-up drivers are possibly the most wasteful pigs ever. I see people all the time driving these huge, unnecessary, gas-guzzling P.O.S’s. If they are not hauling something, or going somewhere to haul something, one does not need that truck. Not only that but they suffer the same shortcomings that motorcyclists bestow.
Inventions like the pick-up and the motorcycle are proof that American’s have way too much freedom. Because, they hide behind the excuse, “Its my right to have whatever want! This is America, dammit!” Well, what about my rights? When will someone come along and liberate America from loud noisy douche bags?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Only a stupid asshole calls himself "McG"
Man, if you’re like me, nothin’ is better than a great action movie! Who just doesn’t love on the edge of your seat chase sequences, explosions sequences, fight sequences, unnecessary CGI, flat acting, a bunch of shit stolen from its predecessor, a stupid/boring plot and a poorly directed movie made by a dick who is so self-important he goes by the name McG?
Terminator: Salvation is the latest boring/shitty action movie, released just in time so jerk-off fanboys can spooge all over their keyboards glorifying this piece of shit all Memorial Day weekend. My hatred for this “movie” is actually my fault. I’m the one who thought that maybe the studio would pick a decent script for this franchise. I’m the one who thought maybe the director would give a shit about the source material. I’m the one who had little to no expectations going in (and the film couldn’t even meet those). I mean, after all, the last time I checked IMDB had a rating of 8.4, actually within the weekend it was released it dropped down to 7.6, i gave it a 4, so I guess its me who has the problem, not the film itself. But hey, just for the sake of fun, lets see if I can’t find some flaws.
Marcus Wright, who is on death row and signs his life over to Cyberdyne systems. It’s never fully explained why he is on death row, other than he killed some people. Rather than trying to flesh out the character, the writers just said, “Fuck it…Good enough”, so we are left with this remorseful convict. Who later shows up in the future after Judgment Day takes place. He spends his entire time defending Kyle Reese, John Connor’s father, from SkyNet. The logistics of Time Travel are never elaborated on in any of the Terminator movies, which is fine, but I think this one needed to go there to explain how in the blue fuck SkyNet knew Kyle Reese was John Connor’s father. I’m sure one of you jack asses is thinking, “Jay! It’s because of the first movie! LOL!” I’m not buying the mere suggestion of the first movie as an explanation. It doesn’t matter that this is never elaborated on, because by the time you’ve stopped caring, you find out Marcus Wright is part robot, and at the end its revealed he is a new model and infiltration model that was meant to bring John Connor and Kyle Reese to SkyNet and they will meet their demise by a CGI Arnold Schwarzenegger, only to find out the robot is more human than robot and he will save them. This movie is more predictable than Titanic.
The last twenty minutes is a good indicator at how the movie was produced. If I was a betting man, and I am, I would suggest they found a bunch of frat boys, and possibly a few seventeen year old males and had them watch Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Being so excited from seeing the best action movie ever, these males took it upon themselves to write their own terminator movie. Lacking any creative talent or writing ability in general, they merely took their favorite parts of T2 and put them into their script. They couldn’t even pick a new song, they stuck with “You Could Be Mine” by Guns N’ Roses. I love G’N’R as much as the next guy, but fuck! Actually, this is part of the movie that makes the most sense. Being the leader of the Resistance is a very taxing position and does not allow one to keep up on current trends. Thus, John Connor is still listening to his jams from when he was a twelve year old.
Oh, and while we are on the subject what the fuck is up with gratuitous use of CGI? How is it possible that a movie almost 20 years old has better special effects than this pile of shit? You know the downfall is that everything has to be CGI. They use to actually use props and models. McG is quoted as say that they took the Sam Winston approach to film making and only use CGI when they had to. Apparently, this includes helicopters and fight sequences. This lackadaisical approach to film making is a trademark of McG as he only makes shit, EX: Charlie’s Angels 1 & 2.
Terminator: Salvation is the latest boring/shitty action movie, released just in time so jerk-off fanboys can spooge all over their keyboards glorifying this piece of shit all Memorial Day weekend. My hatred for this “movie” is actually my fault. I’m the one who thought that maybe the studio would pick a decent script for this franchise. I’m the one who thought maybe the director would give a shit about the source material. I’m the one who had little to no expectations going in (and the film couldn’t even meet those). I mean, after all, the last time I checked IMDB had a rating of 8.4, actually within the weekend it was released it dropped down to 7.6, i gave it a 4, so I guess its me who has the problem, not the film itself. But hey, just for the sake of fun, lets see if I can’t find some flaws.
Marcus Wright, who is on death row and signs his life over to Cyberdyne systems. It’s never fully explained why he is on death row, other than he killed some people. Rather than trying to flesh out the character, the writers just said, “Fuck it…Good enough”, so we are left with this remorseful convict. Who later shows up in the future after Judgment Day takes place. He spends his entire time defending Kyle Reese, John Connor’s father, from SkyNet. The logistics of Time Travel are never elaborated on in any of the Terminator movies, which is fine, but I think this one needed to go there to explain how in the blue fuck SkyNet knew Kyle Reese was John Connor’s father. I’m sure one of you jack asses is thinking, “Jay! It’s because of the first movie! LOL!” I’m not buying the mere suggestion of the first movie as an explanation. It doesn’t matter that this is never elaborated on, because by the time you’ve stopped caring, you find out Marcus Wright is part robot, and at the end its revealed he is a new model and infiltration model that was meant to bring John Connor and Kyle Reese to SkyNet and they will meet their demise by a CGI Arnold Schwarzenegger, only to find out the robot is more human than robot and he will save them. This movie is more predictable than Titanic.
The last twenty minutes is a good indicator at how the movie was produced. If I was a betting man, and I am, I would suggest they found a bunch of frat boys, and possibly a few seventeen year old males and had them watch Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Being so excited from seeing the best action movie ever, these males took it upon themselves to write their own terminator movie. Lacking any creative talent or writing ability in general, they merely took their favorite parts of T2 and put them into their script. They couldn’t even pick a new song, they stuck with “You Could Be Mine” by Guns N’ Roses. I love G’N’R as much as the next guy, but fuck! Actually, this is part of the movie that makes the most sense. Being the leader of the Resistance is a very taxing position and does not allow one to keep up on current trends. Thus, John Connor is still listening to his jams from when he was a twelve year old.
Oh, and while we are on the subject what the fuck is up with gratuitous use of CGI? How is it possible that a movie almost 20 years old has better special effects than this pile of shit? You know the downfall is that everything has to be CGI. They use to actually use props and models. McG is quoted as say that they took the Sam Winston approach to film making and only use CGI when they had to. Apparently, this includes helicopters and fight sequences. This lackadaisical approach to film making is a trademark of McG as he only makes shit, EX: Charlie’s Angels 1 & 2.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Teh J@m M@$t@Z
The internet. What a wondrous, joyous tool we have at our disposal. Mostly, its great for starting shit with complete strangers. Message boards all across the World Wide Web make it possible for people to collide and bicker about meaningless, stupid crap. Movie dorks know this. Who doesn’t love logging on to http://www.imdb.com and going to the Mannequin 2: On the Move message board and flaming the fuck out of the crappy film, just to give a slight ribbing to the tasteless whores who actually enjoy the film. Fuck that hippie “live and let live" crap. Its completely anonymous, there’s no chance of these poor hapless people getting retribution. I am all for online bickering. But we all have our limits, and there’s a point where it becomes just plain…dorky.
Head on over to http://www.netcees.com and find the darkest pits of nerd-dom ever encountered. Deeper than a sarlaac pit, one can see the saddest of the sad. A place for souls who have lost direction and can’t even realize how their life is a complete mockery of what they are trying to portray. A place so dismal and lacking of any hope, that hacks without talent come together to put each other down, with shitty slams and crappy rhyme-driven poetry. Netcees is a place where people rap battle on message boards.
I first noticed this phenomenon on IMDB. Log on to any rapper page or some shitty movie starring a rapper and one can actually witness this pointless and often lame activity. If you find yourself as an “online rapper” I want you to imagine someone telling you, “I rap battle people thru online message boards.” Does this person sound cool, edgy or maybe even a little dangerous? Or does it sound like some dipshit mouth breather who lives in his parents basement? Because, isn’t battling suppose to be about some sort of honor? Aren’t you defending a turf? What the hell kind of honor comes from insulting people poorly and anonymously on a message board? Trashing a movie is one thing, but to go out of your way to exchange limp hand slaps with a stranger is another. My biggest gripe is that none of these “Netcees” have any sort of talent and unlike real rap battles, they have time to sit around and write their “disses” rather than having some sort of improvisational skills. But largely, the extra time given to the Netcees does not equal better produced rhymes in comparison to somebody who can actually rap. The shortcomings of your average Netcee isn’t limited to just style and structure of the raps it extends very well into the content. Mostly, these rap battles resort to the infantile; penis jokes, accusing the other Netcee of being gay, your mom jokes, accusing the other Netcee of not being a good rapper and of course, inflating ones own ego. I almost didn’t want to do this, but I think its important to show my audience how crappy these rhymes are.
This first one comes from a guy who calls himself Kwame:
LMAO LMAO LMAO
ROFL ROFL ROFL ROFL ROFL LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
THATS AN ACTUAL BAR. I WISH YOU WAS A BITER
I CANT BELIEVE YOU ACTUALLY THINK A BATTLE IS A CYPHER
How original! How talented! Repetitious laughing at the beginning! He seems to at least recognize how shitty his work is by pointing out the irony of it in the next line. “That’s an actual bar.” Someone tell this cocksucker where the cap locks key is at.
This next little gem comes from a guy who goes by DiaBoliCaL:
Ur a Nobody newb. U can Claim u a vet but any survey we take wont show dat
This whole site Must be Dumb cuz EVERY single person here dont know Jack
When a….ahem… “rapper” drops the word newb in a “battle” you know your dealing with a person who is a true geek at heart. Way to really slay him! Next move is insult his pocket protector and the fact he isn’t using a Mac. DiaBoliCaL has one thing right, everyone on the whole site is pretty dumb.
This last one is the generic gay joke, and is representative of what you usually find on these sites. Here’s one from Illogically Logical:
you from brick city but im the nigga coming with the cold rhymes
this a keystyle off the dome you silly fag bitch
i'ma wrap this up quicker than a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich
how pathetic was ya verse, everyone look at dun
This guy is in a “rap battle” and he’s using words like silly and rapping about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, even by online standards that’s pretty friggen lame. Of course, this dumb ass just had to squeak in some stupid rhyme about homosexuality, which the person he was battling also did. Most of the insults on this site are on par with “I know you are but what am I!”
No matter how dorky I am…I’ll never be this dorky.
Head on over to http://www.netcees.com and find the darkest pits of nerd-dom ever encountered. Deeper than a sarlaac pit, one can see the saddest of the sad. A place for souls who have lost direction and can’t even realize how their life is a complete mockery of what they are trying to portray. A place so dismal and lacking of any hope, that hacks without talent come together to put each other down, with shitty slams and crappy rhyme-driven poetry. Netcees is a place where people rap battle on message boards.
I first noticed this phenomenon on IMDB. Log on to any rapper page or some shitty movie starring a rapper and one can actually witness this pointless and often lame activity. If you find yourself as an “online rapper” I want you to imagine someone telling you, “I rap battle people thru online message boards.” Does this person sound cool, edgy or maybe even a little dangerous? Or does it sound like some dipshit mouth breather who lives in his parents basement? Because, isn’t battling suppose to be about some sort of honor? Aren’t you defending a turf? What the hell kind of honor comes from insulting people poorly and anonymously on a message board? Trashing a movie is one thing, but to go out of your way to exchange limp hand slaps with a stranger is another. My biggest gripe is that none of these “Netcees” have any sort of talent and unlike real rap battles, they have time to sit around and write their “disses” rather than having some sort of improvisational skills. But largely, the extra time given to the Netcees does not equal better produced rhymes in comparison to somebody who can actually rap. The shortcomings of your average Netcee isn’t limited to just style and structure of the raps it extends very well into the content. Mostly, these rap battles resort to the infantile; penis jokes, accusing the other Netcee of being gay, your mom jokes, accusing the other Netcee of not being a good rapper and of course, inflating ones own ego. I almost didn’t want to do this, but I think its important to show my audience how crappy these rhymes are.
This first one comes from a guy who calls himself Kwame:
LMAO LMAO LMAO
ROFL ROFL ROFL ROFL ROFL LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
THATS AN ACTUAL BAR. I WISH YOU WAS A BITER
I CANT BELIEVE YOU ACTUALLY THINK A BATTLE IS A CYPHER
How original! How talented! Repetitious laughing at the beginning! He seems to at least recognize how shitty his work is by pointing out the irony of it in the next line. “That’s an actual bar.” Someone tell this cocksucker where the cap locks key is at.
This next little gem comes from a guy who goes by DiaBoliCaL:
Ur a Nobody newb. U can Claim u a vet but any survey we take wont show dat
This whole site Must be Dumb cuz EVERY single person here dont know Jack
When a….ahem… “rapper” drops the word newb in a “battle” you know your dealing with a person who is a true geek at heart. Way to really slay him! Next move is insult his pocket protector and the fact he isn’t using a Mac. DiaBoliCaL has one thing right, everyone on the whole site is pretty dumb.
This last one is the generic gay joke, and is representative of what you usually find on these sites. Here’s one from Illogically Logical:
you from brick city but im the nigga coming with the cold rhymes
this a keystyle off the dome you silly fag bitch
i'ma wrap this up quicker than a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich
how pathetic was ya verse, everyone look at dun
This guy is in a “rap battle” and he’s using words like silly and rapping about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, even by online standards that’s pretty friggen lame. Of course, this dumb ass just had to squeak in some stupid rhyme about homosexuality, which the person he was battling also did. Most of the insults on this site are on par with “I know you are but what am I!”
No matter how dorky I am…I’ll never be this dorky.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Extraordinarily Ordinarily Boring
Quirky, odd and weird.
These seem to be words that people like to use to define themselves in today’s society. More often that not these are terms that people are using to label themselves, and then go through great lengths to fulfill their “identity”. Sadly, these attempts often create “boring, lame and stupid” personas. The evidence of my accusations can be found on social networking sites in either the “interests” or “fan” sections.
I swear in all that is holy, some people are just straight up fucking boring. BORING! What kind of interest is naps? That’s one of your interests? Naps?! Is your life so void of activity that the only thing that comes to mind when asked of your interests is naps? It’s shit like this, that people think makes them stand out…It doesn’t. Everyone is interested in naps, because everyone likes sleeping. People sometimes want to really stick out and become “fans” of sleeping.
People who have no personality or a really annoying personality that they are trying to conceal are the ones who become fans of such activities. If you look close you can find the annoying ones amongst their other interests. A dead giveaway is they include “LOLing”.
Listen, no one should be a “fan” of sleeping. Nor should they be “fans” of water, air, or food. How can you be a fan of something so elemental?! Isn’t the point of social networking is to tell something about someone about yourself and the best you got is the basic elements that make you a person? Do you like having skin, too? How come “working organs” doesn’t fall under your interests page? Surely, “working organs” and “skin” is just as good as “sleep”. Shit, I prefer skin over sleep any day of the week. But, I don’t tell anyone my love for skin, because everyone already knows that I like having skin! Maybe, I want to share a little bit more with people than the obvious.
People have these lame ass interest and fan sections in order to create an image of “quirky”. It doesn’t. You are just normal. And since EVERYONE just has to share their love of naps, these attempts to stand out are even more half baked. And just how big of a “fan” of sleep can you be? Do you have some sort of sleep memorabilia? Surely, you have the standard bed and pillows, but so does an insomniac. Do you have t-shirts about sleep? Is your favorite letter Z? When does one jump from just taking part in elemental life and become a fan?
The answer: Never.
These seem to be words that people like to use to define themselves in today’s society. More often that not these are terms that people are using to label themselves, and then go through great lengths to fulfill their “identity”. Sadly, these attempts often create “boring, lame and stupid” personas. The evidence of my accusations can be found on social networking sites in either the “interests” or “fan” sections.
I swear in all that is holy, some people are just straight up fucking boring. BORING! What kind of interest is naps? That’s one of your interests? Naps?! Is your life so void of activity that the only thing that comes to mind when asked of your interests is naps? It’s shit like this, that people think makes them stand out…It doesn’t. Everyone is interested in naps, because everyone likes sleeping. People sometimes want to really stick out and become “fans” of sleeping.
People who have no personality or a really annoying personality that they are trying to conceal are the ones who become fans of such activities. If you look close you can find the annoying ones amongst their other interests. A dead giveaway is they include “LOLing”.
Listen, no one should be a “fan” of sleeping. Nor should they be “fans” of water, air, or food. How can you be a fan of something so elemental?! Isn’t the point of social networking is to tell something about someone about yourself and the best you got is the basic elements that make you a person? Do you like having skin, too? How come “working organs” doesn’t fall under your interests page? Surely, “working organs” and “skin” is just as good as “sleep”. Shit, I prefer skin over sleep any day of the week. But, I don’t tell anyone my love for skin, because everyone already knows that I like having skin! Maybe, I want to share a little bit more with people than the obvious.
People have these lame ass interest and fan sections in order to create an image of “quirky”. It doesn’t. You are just normal. And since EVERYONE just has to share their love of naps, these attempts to stand out are even more half baked. And just how big of a “fan” of sleep can you be? Do you have some sort of sleep memorabilia? Surely, you have the standard bed and pillows, but so does an insomniac. Do you have t-shirts about sleep? Is your favorite letter Z? When does one jump from just taking part in elemental life and become a fan?
The answer: Never.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The Culture of Coffee Part 2
Coffee used to be an adult thing, you had to be a certain age before could go into a coffee house and order. Until then, you had to go to a Perkins and get their sorry excuse for coffee. But, more frequently I see these young kids, who never tip, come in and spend hours and hours in the confines of the store. They are loud, obnoxious and overly mean to each other. If they are in a disagreement they are sure to make the whole store aware of it. Sometimes they are there all night, and I find myself wondering, “Don’t these kids have homes? Don’t their parents want to eat dinner with them?” Resoundingly, the answer appears to be no, and if they were my kids I wouldn’t want them around either. The coffee shop is usually filled with two types of people, older couples just having a cup of Earl Grey or college kids trying to study. Conversations with other patrons leads me to believe that not only are these kids spoiling my work day, but the entire coffee shop environment. Caught at a weird age, when one has a foot in childhood and another in adulthood, behavior becomes erratic. Not only do these little shits annoy everyone, they work hard to befriend the employees in an effort to get free things? I honestly was in shock the day one asked for a free drink and I had to explain to him that someone has to pay for this drink, and he ended up with a nice glass of crystal clear water, complete with a lemon. As Confucious said… “There is no free lunch”
While working, I usually consume vast amounts of coffee. Cup after cup I suck down the brown liquid, and once I am done, I walk back to my place and quickly follow all my caffeine binge up with a lengthy nap. I suppose my caffeine junkiness has caused me to be immune to its effects. Now I just need it to feel normal. I see the same trait in myself, as I see in countless others who pass through my place of work.
Fiends, junkies, addicts…They all come together at the coffee shop. People anxiously, or sometimes way too happy approach the register and slip me some cash, and say “Triple espresso con pana” and then quickly they find a place to sit and fidget to no end while you craft their beverage. The average coffee addict is a litter bug by nature. A guy comes in and has some sort of homework with him, he sets up his laptop and lays out his books at one of the booths. He then reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and pulls out some change. Pennies fly loose as he quickly removes his hand, he hand me a neat stack of quarters. “Small dark roast, please?” His eyes are stuck into his darkened sockets, his blonde hair still suffering from weeks of not combing and his shirt buttons don’t match up. I had him the cup of coffee and he twitters away. He isn’t content in just creating a neat pile of trash and disposing it by themselves. The table resembles a disaster area after they have left the premises. One can see the signs that a coffee addict was there, by the inability to get all the sugar in the cup, as one can see how they missed the cup, frequently, by the amount of sugar on the table. More than not, there are often shredded pieces of napkin spread everywhere, and broken stir sticks, or straw wrappers ripped apart. Never is any of this mess picked up or orchestrated in a way that would make it easy to clean up. The mess is spread all across the table, and coffee is spilt everywhere because they were jittering so much just to bring the cup to their lips.
These people, flawed as they may be, are my livelihood. The rewards are there, you just have to wait from them, amongst the weird behavior and non-tippers. Look past the demanding nature and extravagant orders. The benefits do come and when they come they make you feel like an artist of sorts. A master of the espresso machine, who composes beautiful orchestras of milk, sugar, and coffee. It will occur on some particularly frustrating day after a long rush. Some guy will come up and get your attention and just as you expect him to ask for a glass of water, he’ll say “Hey, that Espresso con pana you made me the other day, was so damn good.” What can I say to that? I usually give him a small nod, and just say “Thanks”
While working, I usually consume vast amounts of coffee. Cup after cup I suck down the brown liquid, and once I am done, I walk back to my place and quickly follow all my caffeine binge up with a lengthy nap. I suppose my caffeine junkiness has caused me to be immune to its effects. Now I just need it to feel normal. I see the same trait in myself, as I see in countless others who pass through my place of work.
Fiends, junkies, addicts…They all come together at the coffee shop. People anxiously, or sometimes way too happy approach the register and slip me some cash, and say “Triple espresso con pana” and then quickly they find a place to sit and fidget to no end while you craft their beverage. The average coffee addict is a litter bug by nature. A guy comes in and has some sort of homework with him, he sets up his laptop and lays out his books at one of the booths. He then reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and pulls out some change. Pennies fly loose as he quickly removes his hand, he hand me a neat stack of quarters. “Small dark roast, please?” His eyes are stuck into his darkened sockets, his blonde hair still suffering from weeks of not combing and his shirt buttons don’t match up. I had him the cup of coffee and he twitters away. He isn’t content in just creating a neat pile of trash and disposing it by themselves. The table resembles a disaster area after they have left the premises. One can see the signs that a coffee addict was there, by the inability to get all the sugar in the cup, as one can see how they missed the cup, frequently, by the amount of sugar on the table. More than not, there are often shredded pieces of napkin spread everywhere, and broken stir sticks, or straw wrappers ripped apart. Never is any of this mess picked up or orchestrated in a way that would make it easy to clean up. The mess is spread all across the table, and coffee is spilt everywhere because they were jittering so much just to bring the cup to their lips.
These people, flawed as they may be, are my livelihood. The rewards are there, you just have to wait from them, amongst the weird behavior and non-tippers. Look past the demanding nature and extravagant orders. The benefits do come and when they come they make you feel like an artist of sorts. A master of the espresso machine, who composes beautiful orchestras of milk, sugar, and coffee. It will occur on some particularly frustrating day after a long rush. Some guy will come up and get your attention and just as you expect him to ask for a glass of water, he’ll say “Hey, that Espresso con pana you made me the other day, was so damn good.” What can I say to that? I usually give him a small nod, and just say “Thanks”
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Culture of Coffee
This is the first of a two part blog. The second part should be up later this week. Thanks for reading feel free to leave comments.
Americans are real ball busters, man. They throw fits when they can’t get what they want. They claim to be the most giving nation on the planet, but getting one of them to actually tip someone is like pulling teeth. I’ve never seen a group of people take so much pleasure in treating people in the food service so shabbily. Working at a coffee house one can see arrogance at it’s worst. Not all patrons are arrogant, some are quite hip. But it only takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. The arrogance of these people come in many forms.
Most people, unless they have worked in a coffee shop, have no clue about how to make good espresso. Other than taste, the procedure for pulling good shots is far from the minds of most. People who know how to pour good shots themselves, instantly become the boss when they enter any coffee shop. Since they can watch what I do as I pack and pour shots, they will do so, and very closely. They listen to every word I say to my co-workers, they watch my every move. Most of the time, its some pseudo-posh couple at the end of a long line, striking a pose every time they move forward in line. Usually, you can spot these people a mile away, both dressed all in black, and have some sort of pretentious set of thick rimmed eyeglasses, that weren’t prescribed. The lady usually has really long black hair and the guy, not to be out done, has black hair with enough gel in it that he probably can go without a helmet for any extreme sport. More than likely, they will be ordering just straight espresso. Its one of those drinks that says, “Hey, I’m chic and don’t need steamed milk in my espresso! Normal brewed coffee is for the weak! I’m tough and fashionable!” Really, I think they just like the little cup it comes in.
So they watch you make several drinks, every time interrupting what I am doing, saying, “That’s not how you make a Macchiato.” I turn and have to explain that I am working on another order, but his should be up, and tailored to their exact specifications. Being analyzed under a microscope while working is no fun. Especially if one is just working with the knowledge they are given. My boss isn’t even as strict as some of these people that come in. “Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice that you used 29 lbs PSI when you packed the shot. You’re suppose to use 30, right?” Then they have to look at the person they are with, “It’s thirty, right? I’m pretty sure it’s thirty! Go ahead and try it again using thirty.” His friend and I are dumbfounded as to the demanding pretentiousness of the person in question. Some people aren’t arrogant, they’ve just been inundated with the snobbiness that is known as “The Starbucks.”
If you go to Starbucks and order a Macchiato, you will get something dramatically different from what a true macchiato is. What you receive is a large amount of sugary caffeinated fluid. Which is quite different from the traditional beverage. A macchiato is composed of just espresso and a tiny amount of foam from steamed milk. That’s it. People who frequent at Starbucks, do not know this. Often some bleach blonde, orange skinned, twenty-something girl comes in, creating the illusion she just went to the gym by wearing a wife beater and mesh pink short-shorts. Gaudy huge white sunglasses decorated with stick-on rhinestones cover her face. She has an oversized purse under one arm, which her little Chihuahua dwells in. She’s obnoxiously talking on the phone about the latest celebrity gossip or the last episode “The Hills” she happened to catch. She tells who ever she’s talking to on the phone, to hold on, and then she gives the menu a long squinty stare, and says “Can I get a macchiato?” Before I can ask her to specify she reaches into her purse, pushes the little dog out of the way grabbing her credit card and thrusts into my hand. The look of shock and wonder is great as they look at the tiny drink that they unknowingly ordered. Even better is the reaction of their first taste.
Frappucino, what the hell is that? People order them all the time, and I always have to say that we don’t have them. I don’t even know what they are. I just know they aren’t on the menu. Aren’t they the ones that come in the bottle at the gas station? There’s always a guy who’s morbidly obese and smells as if he hasn’t showered since the Clinton years, wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt that says “100% Stud”. He comes up to the till and takes a wadded up five out his pocket and throws it at the counter, “Twenty ounce frappucino”, I have him explain what that is, never getting a real answer, I’ve come to the conclusion that its an iced latte with whatever flavoring I feel like putting in there. That’s what I give people and rarely anyone complains, at least not to me. Starbucks has infiltrated every level of our society. You can buy Starbucks coffee without even being in a Starbucks. They have been dispersed everywhere. They create these abominations of pure sugar. Monstrosities that take traditional terms and twist them into sick, disgusting and freakish drinks. But when one isn’t asking you to be Dr. Frankenstein, another one needs you wait hand and foot on them.
A customer named Wilbur came in to the shop quite frequently. Wilbur was always very talkative and needy, but he tipped well and was friendly. It wasn’t until later that his weird quirks and demanding behavior earned him the privilege of being the first person banned permanently from the place. It started out with him needing three beverages, which isn’t weird in itself, but if I had to say a place where it started, that would be it. A glass of water, a cherry slush, and a half a glass of skim milk with ice. None of these beverages would be finished by the time he was ready to leave, but unlike other customers he wanted all these beverages to go. He would walk up with his gray hair slicked over, and head slightly cocked to the side, dragging his left leg, he’d raise an eye brow and point back to his glasses, “Can I get those to go?”, and I had to pour them into individual to-go glasses and give him a drink carrier. I often imagined Wilbur’s fridge filled with half plastic to-go cups from the shop. A plethora of watery skim milks, water, and melted slushies.
Things took a turn for the worse, when he started requesting certain things that we just could not provide. He didn’t want us to put basil in the Tomato Basil soup, as he had acid reflux and it gave him indigestion. He didn’t like the chips cause they were too crunchy and he didn’t like pickles. He often suggested that we get alternatives, “Because people like choices” as he put it. When the alternatives didn‘t arrive, he brought in his own chips and pickles too serve to him when he came in. I think the irony was lost on him, how he was in a sense paying for the chips and pickles twice. Wilbur eventually became angry when he found things he didn’t like at the coffee shop. A list had formulated in his head, and goddamn it, the staff was going to know about it. It all started one day, while an employee he didn’t recognize was working. “I don’t know you! I want Shauna to take my order!” Shauna kindly took his order, while Joel, dumbfounded, went to find other tasks. It was too early to make food, so options are limited to pastries and granola. Wilbur orders granola. Within a matter of minutes, he storms to the back of the café, knocks on the employee door, and motions for Shauna to come to the door. Shauna responds by saying,
“What’s up, Wilbur?”
Wilbur responds, “There’s cinnamon in the granola!”
Shauna, not seeing this as a problem, responds “Yeah, there is! Isn’t that great?”
“No!” Wilbur angrily says “You should tell people there is cinnamon in it! There wasn’t cinnamon in it before!”
There has always been cinnamon in the granola. The recipe has never changed. That’s the way it is. Wilbur waved his fist to some customers and calmed down, and left. That’s the way it went for a while. On and off, you either got happy Wilbur, or angry Wilbur. This was all depending if he was on his medication. Sometimes the guy would come in with a friend and yell at them the entire time.
But after this mounting pressure, the guy got to be too much. He was his normal self, kind of cranky, but not angry. He ordered his normal half a grilled cheese, special chips, special pickle, skim iced milk, water, and cherry slush. Something must have been really bothering his old gut that day. It took him four hours to finish just half of a half a grilled cheese. I waited on him the day before and it took him forever to finish half a lime slush. And he kept on wanting half another one, which became a big pain in the ass, because he kept bringing it up and wanting me to add more, and ringing it up as a special order…just for him.
But on this particular day, Wilbur had enough. He flagged Joel over and pointed to the couches, “Those kids have been here for an hour,” pointing to a group of high schoolers conversing over drinks, “They haven’t bought anything for an hour! You should kick them out!” This is coming from the guy who has taken a nap in his four hour attempt to eat half of a grilled cheese. Joel calmly states “Wilbur, its okay. They are fine”
“Isn’t this a restaurant?! I thought this was a restaurant?!”
“Wilbur, let it go. If they become a problem, I’ll take care of it.”
Wilbur takes matters into his own hands, yells at the group of kids, particularly one girl, who had accidentally taken his newspaper while he was in the bathroom. Then motions at other customers by waving his fist at them. The cops are called, Wilbur was asked to no longer return. However, he was allowed to take his fourth a grilled cheese. Even though he had been sitting with it for four hours. I’m surprised he wanted it so badly. Wilbur was on to something though, since when do high school kids hang out in coffee shops?
Americans are real ball busters, man. They throw fits when they can’t get what they want. They claim to be the most giving nation on the planet, but getting one of them to actually tip someone is like pulling teeth. I’ve never seen a group of people take so much pleasure in treating people in the food service so shabbily. Working at a coffee house one can see arrogance at it’s worst. Not all patrons are arrogant, some are quite hip. But it only takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. The arrogance of these people come in many forms.
Most people, unless they have worked in a coffee shop, have no clue about how to make good espresso. Other than taste, the procedure for pulling good shots is far from the minds of most. People who know how to pour good shots themselves, instantly become the boss when they enter any coffee shop. Since they can watch what I do as I pack and pour shots, they will do so, and very closely. They listen to every word I say to my co-workers, they watch my every move. Most of the time, its some pseudo-posh couple at the end of a long line, striking a pose every time they move forward in line. Usually, you can spot these people a mile away, both dressed all in black, and have some sort of pretentious set of thick rimmed eyeglasses, that weren’t prescribed. The lady usually has really long black hair and the guy, not to be out done, has black hair with enough gel in it that he probably can go without a helmet for any extreme sport. More than likely, they will be ordering just straight espresso. Its one of those drinks that says, “Hey, I’m chic and don’t need steamed milk in my espresso! Normal brewed coffee is for the weak! I’m tough and fashionable!” Really, I think they just like the little cup it comes in.
So they watch you make several drinks, every time interrupting what I am doing, saying, “That’s not how you make a Macchiato.” I turn and have to explain that I am working on another order, but his should be up, and tailored to their exact specifications. Being analyzed under a microscope while working is no fun. Especially if one is just working with the knowledge they are given. My boss isn’t even as strict as some of these people that come in. “Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice that you used 29 lbs PSI when you packed the shot. You’re suppose to use 30, right?” Then they have to look at the person they are with, “It’s thirty, right? I’m pretty sure it’s thirty! Go ahead and try it again using thirty.” His friend and I are dumbfounded as to the demanding pretentiousness of the person in question. Some people aren’t arrogant, they’ve just been inundated with the snobbiness that is known as “The Starbucks.”
If you go to Starbucks and order a Macchiato, you will get something dramatically different from what a true macchiato is. What you receive is a large amount of sugary caffeinated fluid. Which is quite different from the traditional beverage. A macchiato is composed of just espresso and a tiny amount of foam from steamed milk. That’s it. People who frequent at Starbucks, do not know this. Often some bleach blonde, orange skinned, twenty-something girl comes in, creating the illusion she just went to the gym by wearing a wife beater and mesh pink short-shorts. Gaudy huge white sunglasses decorated with stick-on rhinestones cover her face. She has an oversized purse under one arm, which her little Chihuahua dwells in. She’s obnoxiously talking on the phone about the latest celebrity gossip or the last episode “The Hills” she happened to catch. She tells who ever she’s talking to on the phone, to hold on, and then she gives the menu a long squinty stare, and says “Can I get a macchiato?” Before I can ask her to specify she reaches into her purse, pushes the little dog out of the way grabbing her credit card and thrusts into my hand. The look of shock and wonder is great as they look at the tiny drink that they unknowingly ordered. Even better is the reaction of their first taste.
Frappucino, what the hell is that? People order them all the time, and I always have to say that we don’t have them. I don’t even know what they are. I just know they aren’t on the menu. Aren’t they the ones that come in the bottle at the gas station? There’s always a guy who’s morbidly obese and smells as if he hasn’t showered since the Clinton years, wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt that says “100% Stud”. He comes up to the till and takes a wadded up five out his pocket and throws it at the counter, “Twenty ounce frappucino”, I have him explain what that is, never getting a real answer, I’ve come to the conclusion that its an iced latte with whatever flavoring I feel like putting in there. That’s what I give people and rarely anyone complains, at least not to me. Starbucks has infiltrated every level of our society. You can buy Starbucks coffee without even being in a Starbucks. They have been dispersed everywhere. They create these abominations of pure sugar. Monstrosities that take traditional terms and twist them into sick, disgusting and freakish drinks. But when one isn’t asking you to be Dr. Frankenstein, another one needs you wait hand and foot on them.
A customer named Wilbur came in to the shop quite frequently. Wilbur was always very talkative and needy, but he tipped well and was friendly. It wasn’t until later that his weird quirks and demanding behavior earned him the privilege of being the first person banned permanently from the place. It started out with him needing three beverages, which isn’t weird in itself, but if I had to say a place where it started, that would be it. A glass of water, a cherry slush, and a half a glass of skim milk with ice. None of these beverages would be finished by the time he was ready to leave, but unlike other customers he wanted all these beverages to go. He would walk up with his gray hair slicked over, and head slightly cocked to the side, dragging his left leg, he’d raise an eye brow and point back to his glasses, “Can I get those to go?”, and I had to pour them into individual to-go glasses and give him a drink carrier. I often imagined Wilbur’s fridge filled with half plastic to-go cups from the shop. A plethora of watery skim milks, water, and melted slushies.
Things took a turn for the worse, when he started requesting certain things that we just could not provide. He didn’t want us to put basil in the Tomato Basil soup, as he had acid reflux and it gave him indigestion. He didn’t like the chips cause they were too crunchy and he didn’t like pickles. He often suggested that we get alternatives, “Because people like choices” as he put it. When the alternatives didn‘t arrive, he brought in his own chips and pickles too serve to him when he came in. I think the irony was lost on him, how he was in a sense paying for the chips and pickles twice. Wilbur eventually became angry when he found things he didn’t like at the coffee shop. A list had formulated in his head, and goddamn it, the staff was going to know about it. It all started one day, while an employee he didn’t recognize was working. “I don’t know you! I want Shauna to take my order!” Shauna kindly took his order, while Joel, dumbfounded, went to find other tasks. It was too early to make food, so options are limited to pastries and granola. Wilbur orders granola. Within a matter of minutes, he storms to the back of the café, knocks on the employee door, and motions for Shauna to come to the door. Shauna responds by saying,
“What’s up, Wilbur?”
Wilbur responds, “There’s cinnamon in the granola!”
Shauna, not seeing this as a problem, responds “Yeah, there is! Isn’t that great?”
“No!” Wilbur angrily says “You should tell people there is cinnamon in it! There wasn’t cinnamon in it before!”
There has always been cinnamon in the granola. The recipe has never changed. That’s the way it is. Wilbur waved his fist to some customers and calmed down, and left. That’s the way it went for a while. On and off, you either got happy Wilbur, or angry Wilbur. This was all depending if he was on his medication. Sometimes the guy would come in with a friend and yell at them the entire time.
But after this mounting pressure, the guy got to be too much. He was his normal self, kind of cranky, but not angry. He ordered his normal half a grilled cheese, special chips, special pickle, skim iced milk, water, and cherry slush. Something must have been really bothering his old gut that day. It took him four hours to finish just half of a half a grilled cheese. I waited on him the day before and it took him forever to finish half a lime slush. And he kept on wanting half another one, which became a big pain in the ass, because he kept bringing it up and wanting me to add more, and ringing it up as a special order…just for him.
But on this particular day, Wilbur had enough. He flagged Joel over and pointed to the couches, “Those kids have been here for an hour,” pointing to a group of high schoolers conversing over drinks, “They haven’t bought anything for an hour! You should kick them out!” This is coming from the guy who has taken a nap in his four hour attempt to eat half of a grilled cheese. Joel calmly states “Wilbur, its okay. They are fine”
“Isn’t this a restaurant?! I thought this was a restaurant?!”
“Wilbur, let it go. If they become a problem, I’ll take care of it.”
Wilbur takes matters into his own hands, yells at the group of kids, particularly one girl, who had accidentally taken his newspaper while he was in the bathroom. Then motions at other customers by waving his fist at them. The cops are called, Wilbur was asked to no longer return. However, he was allowed to take his fourth a grilled cheese. Even though he had been sitting with it for four hours. I’m surprised he wanted it so badly. Wilbur was on to something though, since when do high school kids hang out in coffee shops?
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