The Coffee Guy's blog

No Scare on this All Hallows Eve.

Dylan Thomas has his names backwards.  Thomas Dylan  would be easier to remember.  Let alone pronounce.   The ole` TD, as in the bank as in the football goal, as in Term Deposit, as in Total Destruction, as in Twenty Dollars, as in Trend Direction, as in Turn Down, as in Telemetric Detection.

“And death shall have no dominion.

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.”

 

 

Scary?  Not thought so.  Wasn’t meant to be.  Could be.  Said in the right tone through an echoing speaker on Halloween.

 

I am about surfing the Interweb Thingy and come across this handy trailer.

 It’s a trailer you can live in, cook for thousands in, and smoke your own meat in.

  Now why the heck’in dint I tink of that?  I am talking about the “highest quality pit smoker manufactured.”  Not must some shack on a 6000 pound capacity axle!

It even comes with “4 Stereo Speakers”!  Personally I thought that was Quadrophonic.

http://www.barbecuewood.com/-strse-1591/Cabin-with-Back-Porch/Detail.bok

Now what are you gonna haul this baby with?  Gotta be a Chevy?  Must it  be a built tough Ford?   Or will it be a Rules have changed Dodge?  You need the towing package for sure.  Features the smoker running the full length of the trailer.  Gonna see this puppy smoking along the road.  And you west coasters can get this delivered in 3 to 5 days!  In case you are in a hurry to smoke off 3000 pounds of hog!

Parked in the urban drive or the park spot, you can be assured that others will be bringing their ketchup for that BBQ sauce.  No I always thought that “Ketchup” was an American word or at the very least came from an American in Paris.   But my research had unearthed other facts.   Probably coming from the Maylay word “Kichup”, which originates in the Chinese for fish brine.   Ever taste oyster sauce or fish sauce?  Yeppers.  You can see how our sugary taste buds in the west have bastardized that sauce into our present day tomato and sugar laden ketchup or catsup.

Mix that concoction with the previously, aforementioned, already stated, ere uncovered, ante-jentacularly,  preprandially,  as I have propaedeutically stated, and my nearly isagogic depictions in earlier posts, that gourd we all love to kick in the face; the Pumpin.  One of the best BBQ sauce bases yet.

As  the Great PouPon Mustarde of Parisian fame, the Greeks abducted the “Pou pon” or not until fully ripe phrase from the French.  This was morphed into, and through time and a variety of linguistic acrobatics into the word for the gourd we know today.

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.

 

Sanding in the Dunes of Time

Coffee abruptly intersects life every morning.  How else?  When the great unwashed masses rise from their slumbers one thing should come to mind: What will the Coffee Gurus bring forth for me today?  Will it be Brazilian Arabica, High Mountain Caribbean, or Fresh Ground Bean?

Here are the parameters for this decision.  Will I wake from my foggy bottom of dismay whilst my brew aromatizes my lungs?  Will the tawny liquid engulf my taste buds sufficiently to set off a pheromone initiated state of being?  For what will the warmth brought to my lips reduce my cravings?  These are the thoughts you are destined to develop each and every morning.  No more, no less.

The world caries on, trudging through the solar system as a bus on its route.  Plodding, behemoth-like, along a predestined path of oblivion.  Oblivion, because we have no special relation within the universe.  Not knowing if we are on the edge or the center.  And I bet you never thought I could put the word “oblivion” together back-to-back in a paragraph.

Or then on the other hand you may not have thought.  Exactly as Bertrand Russell spoke of decades ago, “Most people would rather die than think and most often do”.  Chilling I say.  With the thought that our fearless leaders are people too.  The nectar of the Gods graces our urns each sunrise.  Surmise it to say, graciously.  As Margaret Visser states gratitude is something you can expect, but never ask for.  We cannot ask for gratitude for the coffee we imbibe, simply accept it as that which rises.  Percolating through our senses as the scent of Lilac graces us each spring.

The gratitude stick pokes at our consciousness as we receive that brew each morn.  Pondering what the dawn has delivered us from that night.  New air, new thoughts, revelations about our neighbours both spiritually as well as socially.  Will the last great depiction of the mysteries of life be shown to us through the pyramid of the Masonic Temple?   Pointing to the way of the moderns, relegating the knowledge of Neanderthals to the back burner of history.

Coffee, not tea becomes the blood cursing through the veins of knowledge.  Coffee has the two ees and efs contra-positioned as indicated by the
“co” leading the word.  The mystery these letters reveal cannot be unveiled here.  The knowledge unleashed by the understanding of this secret is beyond man’s ability to handle in his infantile state in the universe.  When Terra Firma hosts beings in touch with the power of coffee, then and only then will the secrets be revealed.

In Sanskrit writings of yore undeveloped scripts in coded ciphers were buried in the ruins of Perturbia, now lower and lesser Myanmar.  The ruins were discovered in the late 18^th century by Organic Monastic Monks (OMM) attempting to cultivate land where a great tomb once stood.  While irrigating, they washed away arable matter from the then roof of the tomb.  With picks and hammers they etched their way into the unknown material, harder than plaster and more resilient than steel or other metals. 

Three decades passed before they entered the tomb.  By this time they had constructed a new Monastery building over the site.  The fall to the floor was rumoured to be so far that there was no recovery possible of the fallen Monks.  As well, the remainder of the Monks covered up the blemish in the roof of the tomb and vowed not to mention to anyone the existence of their finds.  Was anything ever brought out of the chamber?  How did the knowledge of the secrets of the Ancient Mysteries of Life ever get out?

The Monks are some of the first to cultivate Coffee for more than the aroma of the roasting beans.  They crushed in a mortar and pestle the beans and steeped them like tea.  The vigour exhibited by the monk was never reasoned, nor connected to the mounds of grounds found outside the Monastery kitchen.  The mysteries of life were said to be buried in the coffee grove.

To this day radio-excavation techniques have processed the complete farm with little or nothing to show.  Was this a myth or mystery?  Don't look it up.  Even the interweb thingy has no data on this.  Whereas the Mason's have had reams published on their existence, the OMM have maintained and order of secrecy beyond the belief of the average man woman or child, let alone the Mossad, CIA, or FBI in the Hoover Vault.  What really happened on the grassy knoll will be known long before the OMM reveal the Ancient Mysteries of Life.

Maintain a cadre of coffee company and you will have your coupon redeemed.  Say no more.

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. 

 

Observations 4

When did we change from creatures of opportunity to planners?  Birds are still opportunists.  They seem ok.  What great privilege or benefit do we glean from planning so much? Seem to be a lot of birds.  Seem to be a lot of us.  They cover the world, so do we.  We travel vast distances.  Birds travel far further than a lot of mono-dentate humans.  The real difference is that we are featherless bipeds, and they are simply bipeds.  For the loss of feathers we gained planning?  Was it a fair trade?  Or simply a GMO coffee?

To Dot the Com or Not?

Should you fester a feeling to foster another Dot Com visit, perhaps you should review all those left in the detritus of our minds.  You know the ones, driving along reading a Bill Board, or the side of a white panel van, or perhaps you heard it on the radio.  Cuzin’ the Lord knows we aren’t talking on our cell phones any longer.

We have been unplugged.  Neanderthalized.  Petro-glyphed.  Typewriter smashinged.  Downgraded, out-sourced, and minimalised.  Wrought asunder.  Become the space between a stalagmite and a stalactite, bottom to top as it were.  With no place to peregrinate.  Our minds are slush funds of places we haven’t been, either ethereally or materially.  Why don't we have huge screens in our cars?  Not little ones which takes our attention away from driving because we need to focus on some piddley little screen to find a number or read and type emails on.

What we need is the totality of our dashboards to be a digital wipe board.  Totally soft.  We can wipe-off and push-to-the-side our Speedo and Tach, then pull up full size movies with no string attached.   No need to squint and peer at some little infantile screen for our most recent E correspondence.  We can see it in huge black and white letters the size of our wallet.  One quick glance as we are performing our shoulder check.

The masses are uprising and revolting  against the pseudo-scientific community.  What about coffee?  When will the ban affect the Hockey threshold drinking public and force their hand in a head-to-head poker game between big government and big business?  Who will force the hand of the other economic engine?   Internally combusting along the road to destruction?

We know in our heart of hearts that the Timmy generation will pull over the steam-engine of compliance.  We let them have our phones, who will let them have Berlin?

Will the senility of Leonard drip and percolate through our senses? 

Go and see if you can find the answer.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid16406059001?bclid=1811167215&bctid=5240467001

Or my favourite.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid16406059001?bclid=1811167215&bctid=5240458001

and the S*&^ head will know my fav’ part of that flic.  Definitely go full screen.   One of the few where our guy emotes.

http://video.yahoo.com/watch/2038320/v2168082

I am in a state of stupefaction about how many I have actually forgotten.  Dots on the Com River of information passing under the bridge on the Information Super Highway.  I say it once a day at least, “Wow that sounds like a great web site, I gotta go there after work.”  Never go.  Another ebb tide washes away my reminder like a grain of sand. 

Not one mention of my site. You are here.

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.   
                                                                                           

Observations 3

When it rains, people leave thier wipers on forever.  What an utter waste of petrochemical resources.  Wearing and tearing at the supple tendrils in contact with that hard unforgiving surface of our windshield.  Better to not use them than not turn them off.  If we are truly cognizant of loss and waste in the environment unlike our governments, then we should take things into our own hands and just stop!  Don't use them.  Squint!

Observations 2

Forever seeing some Goombah piddling around in some Doolly tryin`a park that dang thing in a 9 foot spot.   The huggin wheel base is 8 foot  5.  These dudes have the fag in one side of their face and the cell phone on the other cheek.  They are working the hydraulics of that steering system so hard you can hear the ball-joints groaning.  Back and forth seventeen times seeing if they can get clear of the next car enough to open the door.  They power down the Cummins’s Diesel to ignition rattle sounding like a drum roll.   Gotta have that truck you need a ladder to get into.  Love to see one of these in Europe.

Welcome Weather Weenies

It’s cold.  It’s too hot.  I hate the rain.  When will it stop snowing?  Where is the sun?  Man it’s humid!  Does any of this really matter?

Or as Emerson once stated, “We think it trivial to talk of the weather, yet there is nothing more important.”

Important?  To whom?  To all of us.  Is the climate the same?  Do we think we are as all empowered with access to the interweb thingy and media abounding in our environment?  Are we all so vain as to think WE have control?  As we evolved from the primordial ooze in an environment of acid air, putrid heat, and cosmic upheaval, perhaps we are destined to return.

Could we have stopped the terrestrial onslaught by evolving with polycanthi, hypocanthi, or the still argued upon coelacanth?  Are we predisposed to destruction?  Where are the religious zealots and naysayers explaining our destiny?  Where is the modern day parter of the oceans to expose the reality of the undersea saviours?

When will Moses return in his Biker garb and drug lord fighting armour to show us the path to the top of the mountain?  In 2000 years we have splayed and expurgated our genus.  We have nothing to show for our labours but more debt, more disease, more starvation, and more of less.  Who was the wizard who said, “more is less”?  What pedigree was hosted by this Neanderthal? 

The weather as predicted by the Almanac of repute is as accurate today as it was more than a hundred years ago, long before The Countess of Lovelace and her Babbage graced this firma. The analytical engine was just the precursor to Turing the world on a LCD screen as being possible.  It was posited that, “It is possible to invent a single machine which can be used to compute any computable sequence.”  Now who’da thunk that weather was a computation?  Let alone that images were a computation.   Most still don't.

Now that we have the portable as well as fixed state CPUs, the average Java-Head does not realize that as we use these devices, computations are being foisted upon the electron based desk space.  No, it’s just some information being piped in as our municipal water is.  And when we scroll away from a page or document, that the eternal golden sewer washes our info into the ethereal slough of data waste.

This is how our head swells.  We scurry about on our virtual long-boards, through the clouds and stratosphere of the interweb thingy, and feel that we have actually gone somewhere and found something.  Nope!  Not have you not been, you really have not seen.  And in some cases it’s better to be heard than not seen.

As with carry-on you need to reduce your Babbage and in turn reduce your footprint.  Less toted about, amassed and stored, the more transparent and treading lightly you will be.  Consistent weather depends on consistent usage.  We change, it changes.  We do less, it does less.  Less of everything, the good and the bad.  Our vanity regarding our power over the dynamics and physics of this orb matter not relative to the “Laws of science”.

Our input is generally GIGO. As is the refuse.

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.