The Coffee Guy's blog

Lackluster Not a Limit in Lloyd

Asking is not the same as doing not that which isn’t wanted.  Non–attendance at the triskaidekadance notwithstanding my absences started this odyssey.  With the Barr set high for immigrants George led the way and created said Centre Ville of the Lloyd state.

Now kiddies it’s time to ask for parental guidance.  The gritty knotty of this yarn is a’verge of the paragraph.  Nearly three of the diurnal courses from Ye Ole Sttrath’ we find our vehicular transport in the town that Lloyd built.  The only straddling not swaddling town co-occupying both the S’kech’Wan ‘N Lberta borders.  Greatly grid-like goading the driver to Givver.

So strong stand those staying they chick and poose from provincial regulations so oblique is the status they have hefted.  Truly considered the best of the best under charter terms. 

Ulmaceae Ulmus Rubra lines the streets and Avenues arching tip to tip covering the stride you make to the neighbours.  Each adit welcoming and open.  Now the fate of oohhh so many Gallus Domesticus is fixed.  With so many passing the threshold in parchment, we call in the troops from the Found Land on the East Coast.  No rail but trail there.

Favours are called, and staff is trained.  Dave’s Not Not Here, unlike the bistro from the Big Smoke was not here.  And this was no South-East Asian Thai working here.  Ambry was an issue.  We wager on slowing not on rising. A co-negative disjuncture of compliance noting the nature of the business. 

With the townsfolk lined to the aperture from open to close, we strive and struggle a gallant enterprise. Belief from the Barrie Brent has amazement redefined.  We could possibly find more space but it would have to be celestial in nature.  Every cranny, nook and den filled to the limit including mobile devices not transmitting.

Alas departure for the few and strength for the many is in the picture.  Big sky, big ideas, and big dreams.

I like it strong, dark, and in a big cup.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.

Re:posting under Pseudonym: Cases Course their way through Court

At the second attempt at a conviction, the Burg sent a barrow full of books and bodies.  Stymied by the case load, and put off again until summer.

We parry and poke at he the Gov’s of the day, but nary a featherless biped rises before the prosecutor and says, “NO THAT’S WRONG!”.  So now the public and prostrated populous postulate and ponder the next ploy.

To the bench I say!  Out with you all; to the dogs.  The bureaucrats have been attempting to solve a problem created by themselves now for four months.  No amount of navel gazing has produced a satisfactory solution.  One by-law strewn around like a rag doll while others are proposed and confused.

These are paper rats.  Desk jockeys who live in a flat world with no humanity or green space, sparing the odd posty note stuck to their cathode ray tube.  Even our Burgomaster seems to have a nubilous understanding of his own Burg.  His parochial vision is hazed by the fog of planners and yes-men who have never set foot outside their cubicle.  Nay shall I suggest cubicide for these as they merely forward the thoughts and desires of ignominious ignoramuses.

Go ahead; you have a sentence with two following words starting with “igno”.

Yes, I say we all traipse our tired bodies down to the local house of ill repute, City Hall, and state our cases.  Every white squib of parchment redelivered to the house from whence it came.  Be wary though, those who purport to have power are less than full of it.  Unless the want you have in mind is half of what is charged, then you are simply strewn back to the bureaucratic dogs.

No help on the third floor.  Perhaps all that glass disables one’s ability to see clearly.  It’s’a cuzin’ all the neighbors have one vision yet these denizens of the cube are blind to the geometry.  So daily and hourly we keep our wits and eyes open for the lil white car with the Commish inside.  They skulk about in innocuous vehicles so as not to raise the eyebrows of an ever watchful neighborhood. 

Soon your number will be up, will you tally or parry that number for a cuppa Jo?

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

Wagers Wafting Through Windows of Wisdom

With wisps of coffee aroma sifting through the air, targeting my nasal cavity, firing dendrites in my cranium I become conscious of the morning.  Whence cometh the orange factor no matter where I roam.  The Ontario feline oratorical and the Columbian with his anterior talons pinning me and not with a fruit communication thingy.

Speaking of which, a body in normal situ would deduce that battery life would be a paramount concern.  Mine got ripped.  1.5 to 1.25 days max then relinking to the umbilical for re-energization.  WHAT?  36 hours?  I have more zap in my zinger than that.  

Are we on a harvest and heap program where sheaves of slashed gleanings are thrashed till the lowest common denominator drops through the screen of technology?  My fruit is so small, the screen so inadequate, the depressors so precise, are they not aware that with my aging eyes worsening, and my fingers always cyclopean that the operation of such is dicommoding?

I know the Verge Company has a higher calling for culling the herd.  Those with ham like appendages, and non 20-20 fissures need not employ the technology.  I just wanna know if we are going bigger or smaller?   Or is there a dichotomy?  If you carry it, then it must get smaller,  if you have it in your abode, then it must get larger.  WIDE screen TV, Chair and a half, Deep pile carpet, thick Texas Toast, Double wide trailers, Wide are telephone service, surround sound, 4 slice toaster, jumbo paper towels.

Now in the hand held thingy market, its microprocessors, and pin headed buttons and miniscule Blue Teeth, (is that two Blue Tooth Thingy’s?) pixels so small that ants have trouble deciphering the numerals.   Nay I say, there is a limit to the non-Asian hand.  Who is doing the trial testing on these?  They have a bunch of Lilliputians on staff? Have they started a cult of less than average stature people through the Personnel Department at Verge?

So am I happy and trusting in the fruit?  Not yet. At this juncture it is a inbound tool, when I figure how to make the obverse work, I may become more productive.  Until then, I will move at galactic speed on my full size keyboard and high band width connexion.

Java Jo never tasted to good.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, on The Dark Side.

Pestering Petulance in a priori Premise’s

My premise is not to surmise that your purpose was to disseminate formation or information for the masses.  Hence, I don’t want to hear it.  I was browsing sans browser, on foot, and in situ in a fav toy store of the guys. 

Dis’ guy let’s call him Mr. Impo’tent, was orating in the loudest of voices off and into the aether on his azure canine.

I followed him, knew his position on the bargaining his company was in, knew what he was about on the week-end, and knew where he was dining that evening.  Shortly in the timeline of the orb, I was in the adult beverage dispensary when I ofted upon Ms. Decibel.  I knew by the end, where she and hubby were flying, how much they paid, the departure and arrival dates, and sundry other laundry items.

The guy, I could execute industrial blackmail upon, the WHOAman, I could easily set up a second story man to perform a leisurely heist upon their abode while they are on their 10 day junket to SplitLip Saskatchewan.  Good God Magnum! 

Get a cuppa and leave the chattn’ to the face-time constituent.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

Stigmatic Coffee Stigma

Have you ever been to See billy?  Not the goat kind, the tin kind.  Great for all those camp coffees.  Thems’ a made with filler of chaff, barley, beans, wheat, corn meal, an sundry other fibrous non-flavoured fillerants.  Your average pound of coffee not weighing out with the correct amount of coffee?  Weighed it lately?  Does 11 and 13 ring a bell?

Anita Ward did in ’79; you can too!  More to the stigma of the matter; we assume that when it is stated on a package, that in fact what wherein we might find said stuffs.  Ingredients are those things which go into making the “buy”-product in your cart. They needn’t be IN that item at that point.  It might have changed.  They might have changed.  They might have been a catalyst.  They might have been and extractor, a solidifier, an emulsifier, a colourant, a cormorant, (yes the Avi referent) .

Remember the cat poo coffee? … and I quote, “Too oxymoronic for words or is it moronic forewords to think so?  How much would a civetization with too many Civet cats know about coffee to begin with?  And what with all the cats roaming that area, and Civet ones at that, was the gathering of the honey like fluid near the anus of these cats not enough for the perfumeries in the world?  Now they actually have to get more from the anus of these cats?  The excrement?   After eating but not masticating the coffee cherries?”

Ahh the summer of ’09 I remember it well.  The Civitation Coffee no so well.  I prefer the Plantation coffees myself. 

There are the somnambulists of you out there in the aether with disbelief on your CRT at this point.  After the most comprehensive history of the coffee story, my fav’o’spot was the description of the three fellas who started Starschmuck’s telling of how they came up with the lingo used with such panache today by the Rodeo Drive types across the continent.

THEY MADE THE NAMES UP! 

I am not the slightest bit compunctious about broadcasting sad ditty today.

Cogitate on this:  “Vente” made up! “Tall” (actually small) made up!  “Macchiato” made up!  “Frappuccino” made up!  “Misto: made up!

And you thought the language in A Clockwork Orange was weird, (uh…errr what happened to “i before e, except after c or when sounding like A, as in neighbor and weigh”?) Weird eh?  No not odd weird, word weird. Weirder yet, I have you wondering about the word weird. Wonder why?

The faster you foster feathered friends, the farther you can follow these fulminations. 

Another Cuppa Joe please maestro, let the refrain begin.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

Blithe Man’s Bluff Behooves us.

 Merry Christmas to all and to all a good diurnal course. Santa and his Rangifer tarandus group have landed, taxied, de-sleighed, descended the shaft, left the goods, re-boarded, and departed. The bounty was massed under the Pseudotsuga menziesii and all fibrous covering removed to display the wonders of giving.

Waiting for the turkeyus humungousness to be extracted and masticated.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

Anybody Want a Cat?

Larger than normal specimen.  Not fat large.  Orange exterior pigmentation.  Bengal model, (webbed feet and loves water).  12 years of aging practices with all the upgrades.  New schooling techniques used in sanitation matters.  Anterior feet missing all talons.  Good home not necessary.  Willing to pay for removal.

Got Junk?  We do too, over and above the live sample above.  Really, you too can be the proud owner of this model.  My spousal compliment has issues.  This biomass has typical felinous like habitué.  Excessive sleeping most days, up to 23 hours per day, ready and wanting scratching when you are tired, will not endure scratching when you are ready.  Will stand on you when busy.  Will not sit on you when relaxing.

Now if you are inclined toward making and offer, the bidding has started with us paying a mere €20. Euro to the purchaser.  So you can see we are already in an international bidding war.  Get your stilos ready.  Sharpen you graphite based writing instruments, microwave your markers, just bid and bid frequently.

No shotgun bidding allowed.  All auto-bidders will be rejected. Only homo-sapius like responses accepted.  The winner of said auction will present themselves at our abode post-haste.  Our funding remuneration will be made in the hard currency of the nation.  No take backs, not touch backs.  Entrance to our domicile will be restricted on further postdated visits until thorough body and clothing searches are completed.  (it’s not that we are worried you will try to return your purchase unwantingly, but we are a paranoid crew).

Get your sorry butts over here and save us from our mystery.  This cat must go! Clearing out to the hardwood floors!  No unreasonable offer refused!  MSRP accepted on an OAC basis with VISA, MC, or AMEX.  We DO NOT accept Diners Club on felines.  This is not China!

Gotta get a cuppa’!

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

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Hot, Humid, Hazy Days in the Pan

Peter never stood in a mob serried or otherwise.  The sun beating down like a hammer on the anvil in a heat wave.  Pools busy amid stridently languishing bodies pulped to the beat of a new age wave.  The pan piped with H2O steaming off gallons of hydration from the plant and animal matters.

We coffee and curry ourselves off to work where other hot countries have siestas in that time of day and when danger abounds.  Is it our British mad dog mentality which warrants our work in the stink in hot days?  Air conditioning?  Whose vernacular is that we use for the depletion of heat in a small environment?  It is as if the air were ill with coolness.  Not merely absent of heat.  Houses occupy space in which we remove the heat destined for that space and time to be shunted outside for the less than cool to become more than hot.

The skin of the earth heats and cools as the seasons wax and wane through our lives.  Why do we not cook on the heat disposed of, or store it till winter?  Energy should be savoured and saved.  There is no crisis in energy, merely mismanagement. 

We could all have sequipedalian walls and still blow off more fossil fuel than an old eastern bloc resident.  We are beings of consumption.  We need to occupy so much of our time because we are led to believe we need so much.  I prefer the penumbra of cover and the air of the exterior.   Grow bigger trees and more of them.  Oh yeah we can get back the curse of curbs in our parking lots and the futility of spinning tires, but my discussion today relates not to this idiocy, but to the loathsome dipsomania we have with AC.  Not the current type but the current topic.

The displacement of heat must be the most inefficient thingy we do.  Cold, like energy, cannot be created.  It is merely changed from one form to another.  Get me a prodigious Jacaranda tree and a wisp of wind and I am good for the imbibition of the nectar of the Gods or even a nice cool one.  The thin layer we live in on the surface of this orb has nary enough space for what we are.  Now we insist on taking that which is inside constructed parts on the surface, and pushing all that we don’t like outside.  Again we exist for the prurience of desire rather than the grind of reason.

Get me a Java Joey, and make it hot!

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

Kingston, King’s Town, Calif City

The area, now a new not new to the area producer of poultry proffered for prurient passions of mastication.  The taters are not homers yet home runs are called each time they are eaten.  The local purveyors of such fare are of the finest mettle.

Clean, fast, and interested in the welfare of the customers.  They and them do not heed to the principle of the lowest common denominator.  They strive is for higher and better.  No shortages here.  The carapace stands to the front as a beacon to traveller sustaining the petro-chemical industry.  The golden beckons between the sub-terrainian sandwicheer and the modern day Five and Dime Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.

With new help from northern store to those of the Smoke, we do well with what we want.  Knowledge can be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.  No lefts for the right here.  We work as a team, for the team, and by the team.  Now with talented staff we back to the administrative of the trials vouchsafed in our trust.

With the Ig persona-non-gratta, we revel the day after.  No after now nooned the way to the next four years.  There is a challenge afoot for the Stever; he better put it together with Mechano or the world will come crashing down to the lowest common new democrat.  The Separtiste in our midst has vanished in the fog of infamy.  Taken 20 odd years to go from revolution to revulsion.

We dawn the new day with the rain washing the old away.  The dirt and scum runneth to the gutter of past and passé.

 A short stop close by as the coffee brews.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

By Request not Behest or to be Beheaded

The history books abound with nothing but speculation and non-specifics.  A mere 100 years ago and the best they can come up with is a goat story.  A GOAT story.  Well there is that bird story, but it is the same drivel.  The leaps of faith are wider than the Ganges.  The strength of argument thinner than Indian cotton.  Perhaps Ethiopia, perhaps South America, I probably can conjure up a Hawaiian story.

One schlepping old fart of a farmer spots one of his animals acting weird.  They are also eating the coffee cherries at the same time.  (Man why doesn’t Caffeine work on me that fast?)  immediately suspicion lays it’s queried eyes on the  Cherries.  Just as all good scientists would assume I am sure.

One story has it that this farmer IMMEDIATELY gathers the cherries, roasts them, grinds them, then pours water over them.  I know that would the first three steps I would try with any new food I find. Yeahhhhh right.  Another story has the cherries tossed in the fire as inedible.  They smell them burning then, (get this leap)  pull them from the fire, crush them, then pour hot water over them.  Oh, I see naturally.  “Third base!”

Just like Abbot and Costello this act is going.  As much sequitor as mushy peas have to Lamborghinis.  And we have our young children using this medium for research.  The basic necessity of life can’t even be discovered.  Ask not what we have found if thou hast no solution.  My solution ist that which can be that tawny liquid from the heavens.

Again the interweb thingy only produces a web of knowledge more thingy than fact.  Direct calls to this scribe will direct you to press “3 “ for information.  His story turns out to be HISTORY on the aether of the electronics.

Coffee still not stirred is more than the less of with cream.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.