Blowing Smoke
Nearly a complete disaster this morning, as with every other morning. My commute goes something like this: my wife drops me off at a major intersection near our home where I catch the bus that brings me, and other like minded folk, downtown for the Day's Work, my wife then drives to her office. (We are a one car family, but that is a story for another day, as is the the bus, I'll note them in case I ever stumble on a lack of something better to write about:
Future topics:
1. One car family
2. The Bus
There.)
At the major intersection, there is a coffee-shop, one of those suburban chain joints that all look the same from Blaine to Lakeville, from Stillwater to Zimmerman, a Caribou to be exact. The bad news for stockholders is that the company is in the toilet, financially, but that's good news for consumers, as the improvements they are making to get back into the black are actually quite nice. There is a new dark roast, of which I am a huge fan. And the staff must have received orders from up top to skip the attitude and smile at the folks who come into the fucking store to give you money. A prime directive, so to speak.
The shop has a warmth to it, which I appreciate on fall mornings, it is bright but not too bright. It's nice. Much better than the coffee-shop of my college days: the Purple Onion in Dinkytown. They served their mud in beer glasses and the floors were painted a sickly blue. There was very little warmth to the Onion, but it still served its purpose. That is, it gave me somewhere to go. Be it winter, spring, summer, or fall, you could find me in the smoking section, reading, writing, laughing, sometimes alone, sometimes not, drinking my beer glass full of mud, smoking reds, with a sweater and a collar, actually feeling like I was connected to something bigger than myself, a city, a neighborhood, a university. A time. A place. Which is a good feeling, one that I miss, for it is never about what we own, but always about what we are apart of. But that, again, is a topic for another day:
1. Surburban. Disenfranchised. Apart. Small
Noted.
I digress: Onto the catastrophe!
I had no money. Normally in the morning I have at least four dollars on me, two for the cup of joe, two for the bus. (Yep, that's right, the bus costs two freaking dollars. It is not a special bus either, it is just your usual ratty city bus with 300,000 miles on it and with holes in the seats. Buses should be free.) Again, I had no money. I had left my four dollars on the kitchen table. Damn. This was trouble. No coffee and worst of all, no bus.
I got cash, I got coffee, and I even caught the bus instead of having to wait twenty minutes for another one.
Catastrophe averted.
It's not the destination folks, it's the journey.
Future topics:
1. One car family
2. The Bus
There.)
At the major intersection, there is a coffee-shop, one of those suburban chain joints that all look the same from Blaine to Lakeville, from Stillwater to Zimmerman, a Caribou to be exact. The bad news for stockholders is that the company is in the toilet, financially, but that's good news for consumers, as the improvements they are making to get back into the black are actually quite nice. There is a new dark roast, of which I am a huge fan. And the staff must have received orders from up top to skip the attitude and smile at the folks who come into the fucking store to give you money. A prime directive, so to speak.
The shop has a warmth to it, which I appreciate on fall mornings, it is bright but not too bright. It's nice. Much better than the coffee-shop of my college days: the Purple Onion in Dinkytown. They served their mud in beer glasses and the floors were painted a sickly blue. There was very little warmth to the Onion, but it still served its purpose. That is, it gave me somewhere to go. Be it winter, spring, summer, or fall, you could find me in the smoking section, reading, writing, laughing, sometimes alone, sometimes not, drinking my beer glass full of mud, smoking reds, with a sweater and a collar, actually feeling like I was connected to something bigger than myself, a city, a neighborhood, a university. A time. A place. Which is a good feeling, one that I miss, for it is never about what we own, but always about what we are apart of. But that, again, is a topic for another day:
1. Surburban. Disenfranchised. Apart. Small
Noted.
I digress: Onto the catastrophe!
I had no money. Normally in the morning I have at least four dollars on me, two for the cup of joe, two for the bus. (Yep, that's right, the bus costs two freaking dollars. It is not a special bus either, it is just your usual ratty city bus with 300,000 miles on it and with holes in the seats. Buses should be free.) Again, I had no money. I had left my four dollars on the kitchen table. Damn. This was trouble. No coffee and worst of all, no bus.
I got cash, I got coffee, and I even caught the bus instead of having to wait twenty minutes for another one.
Catastrophe averted.
It's not the destination folks, it's the journey.
posted by Matt at 8:19 AM
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