The Coffee Guy's blog

I Berry and Black Pods

What have you seen that is Berry Berry pretty.  It is also a first person singular cellular.  Or have you dealt with the black side of iPodular life?

Hmm, in all this excitement, I seem to have lost count myself.  So you have to ask yourself, “Do you feel connected?”.  Twenty-five years ago, without the assistance of Cell Phones, E mail, Conway and his Twitter, Faceplant, MyTube, YourTube, Texting, Sexting, MSN, TSN, Ip’s, Ups, TLC, and almost any other sort of ethereal social medium, we survived.  Went to the Moon numerous times.  Lived.  Died.  Thrived.  Suffered.  Warred and Pieced.  (intentional spelling)

Yes, I am connected multifarious ways.  But I still step out.  Take it off the hook

Don't answer it.  Don't respond.  Don't take the thing with me.  Don't turn it on. 

It is possible.  Very few people actually die because they don't respond to an electronic prod.  No cattle were harmed in the posing of this blog.  Very few people have ever had a catastrophic episode because they forgot their thingy at home.  Very few people have been saved from mortal danger by a silicone chip carrier.  Are we all so paranoid and fearful form watching and getting Tweeted about the latest breaking news based on the gore principle?

Let’s deconstruct the average plastic and metal pocket gizmo and see what we possibly have in there that which could save us materially from peril.

The antenna.  More than likely a weak think filament.  Few phones actually have extending wire antenna any longer. 

The battery.  Not enough power in Amps to start a fire.  Not enough chemical to cause a burn.  Not enough heavy metal to be used as a lethal weapon.  Not strong or wide enough to stop those crushing sides of the ever shrinking elevator found in James Bond movies. 

The screen.  Too small to watch a  movie on even if the battery is charged.  Too thin to lever up the lid on the locked dungeon.  Not bright enough to signal an over flying plane when lost on a deserted isle.

The CPU.  Not running hot enough to start a fire.  Not enough lead to kill a Mockingbird.  Too small for using as a door stop.  Not enough wiring to tie up a robber.  Not really even enough silicone to seal up the water closet.

Step out and turn it off for an hour.  See the serenity of your ways.

So here I am on my own lil Silicone based RAM using device, plunking away on my TypePad type pad blogging about my twittering thoughts about Tubing my video out on the interweb thingy, all the while my Java Jo close at hand.

This DOES NOT happen with Tea drinkers.

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.

 

Crinite Crania Cop better Custard Cups

And, as Marie Antoinette had, nice cups.  In fact modeled in wax impressions for the old style wide mouthed champagne glasses.  Custard on the other hand more like gruel than food unless  mixed with lugubrious amounts of butter.  Now that's cream!  Butter creame.  And with my Java  Jo I have a desirous dessert.

But not when not slathered nor blathering about the issue will it wreak cause to couch this issue in cotton swaddling clothes.  Municipal elections are afoot and the delirious drivel from most of them plying for your affectations amounts to more of the old, same as the thing before.  What most advanced democratic societies need now are not yes-men and do-gooders, what we need now are harsh realists with no resistance to speaking truth to power.

Intraurbanites who stand and run for the caput of others in these arbitrary, non-collaborative, non- allegiant allegiances are due their kudos.  Who would endure the anal gazing of reporters, the infantile behaviours at meetings, the pleas for alms from the poor, who has room to store the vast amounts of  lagniappe from prospective developers, who has the blind wit needed to communicate with bureaucrats?

Not I. Then you?  Do I hear the old college cheer as you strundle up to the captain of elections tossing your ten gallon in the ring?  Are you one of those deemed to aid, arrange, benefit, support, yield, serve, please, gratify, convenience, humour, indulge, supply, defer, help, assist, and follow the pleas of everyone?   Can you stretch your political umbrella open far enough to keep enough of us dry in the downpour of desires from the electorate?

Essentially if your busby is not filling with the fodder of support, then it is your obligation to get your sorry duffus out to the polling booth and scratch your EX on the spot!  I know there is the old adage that if you don't vote then you have no gam to stand your complaints on.  It is in itself the verisimilitude of the democratic system.   After all, we don't drink tea, and Boston is some distance away.

If your medulla oblongata is stuffed with enough percipience to read this, or even log onto the interweb thingy, then get your keister out and scratch your mark on the spot.

Mine is mucked up but modular in its depiction.

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.

Fall Leaves Coffee Leaves in the Cup

No leaves in my coffee.  No coffee on my leaves.  I choose a potation made under the barm of liquids hailing from the grape vine while I rakem and shakem.  Fall and fallen foliage forefront  in my mind.  I push and pull, up from the ground, up through the lengthened grass, giving it that last but vital umpff onto the amassing mass.

Amazing as it seems that this much bio-mass re-feeds and feeds then re-feeds then feeds as a seemingly perpetual notion of motion.  Growth to the highest as the lowest grows.  My saxifrage luxuriates under auxiliary light dispersion tactics of the tree itself.   (You try and use three words with an “x” in four)  some chewy spew from my mower trickles its way between blades of green.  No choppy no rotty.  That is the mantra of the mulcher.

Golden, orange, brown, tawny, almond, amber, auburn, bole, brass, Boston university red, buff, burnt orange, burnt umber, burnt sienna, cadmium orange, camel, caput mortuum, carmine, carnelian, chestnut, cinnamon, copper, earth, fallow, flame, harvest gold, jasper, mango tango, mauvelous, meat brown, mahogany, mordant red, ochre, pumpkin, rust, rufous, russet, sangria, amokwy topaz, tangelo, tiger’s eye, urobilin, and vermillion; all and several of the colours found in my leaves.

Unlike coffee, raking leaves can be curbed.  Well at least in our neighbourhood.  In others all you have is Bach’s claim de proviso.

“Old Schlendrian goes off

to see if he can find a husband forthwith

for his daughter Lieschen;

but Leischen secretly lets it be known:

no suitor is to come to my house

unless he promises me,

and it is also written into the marriage contract,

that I will be permitted

to make myself coffee whenever I want”.

 

I ascertain derivative deeds needlessly deemed necessary as is the making of that tawny nectar?  Or can it be made as the Americano, no sleeve not too full from The Good Earth?  I ‘spect they are still awaiting my arrival with un-baited non fishy breath.  A good place ot go if you are in the west.  Cinnamon buns too.

 

We all forgive what which we have been given by those who don't want.

 

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.

 

 

 

Globalization of our Society is like Unanimity of the Masses

With us and them there are always two sides, one of them is always the other.  Up with that bro?  Down with my meaning?  Come over to my way of thinking.  Slip around to a better understanding.  How many ways can we be similarly different?

I venture that I have been down this road before.  One last Norse God divines a wine from a vine of his own.  From Gin Gin north on the Bruce,   the peninsula probes northward into that Iroquoian  lake, faced on one side by the promontory of Niagara.  Not a stiffening of the ridge but a Turkey of a Hungary Nepalese Yak.

Yak a Tee Yak, don't talk Balk. I mean Balkan.  As the world tours.  There has been this ditty passing through the aether of the interweb thingy about our global state.  Harumph.  There is at last recent count: I did it yesterday, 195 countries in the world.  Not the accepted 192, or countries signed up but not necessarily financially current in the UN.

So as a member of the club either you do or you do not have to pay your dues.  Duality encumbers the force of nature.  You naturally find you wended ways regardless of our global cake in which we are baked.  We the mixed gelatinous goop of society.  We make the decisions to pay or to not.  We decide we want the things on the shelves of pusillanimous merchandising gluttony.

The masses fact toward the unwanted and discarded of society.  There is more waste in the world than there is use.  I used to know a guy whose second cousin on his mother’s side had a friend whose brothers buddy had a thing.  It was the only one of its kind.  Now it resides in the Lesser Antilies more or less.

Its on the interweb for those who wanna ogle it.  Now whatever happened to friendly travel in the skies over the orb?  The skies have turned unfriendly, travel is via wire, sights are digital, and our experiences are ethereal.

Go out pick a daisy, touch someone.

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.

Urbania from Ultimate to Unctuous

Not that there are other areas not fully expectant of aesthetics, but in some noted by my recent visits, there is a distinct lack of foresight and forthrightness.   While there are southern commons, there is nothing but common some of the same.

I recently visited the land of plenty as ascribed by those Canuks.  Abhorrent masses of non-descript buildings with nary a customer aside from Saturday.  Masses o f waste and pulchritude wasting in the nature of a possible oily bog.

All and sundry restaurants and eateries are foisting Pheasant like Hoissin sauce on near to be every sort of morsel.  Asian influence and blindness to those of its origin.  Where are those of influence yet pedalled?  Not on this Pampas.

With loss in direction, drivers dither and dally forth aimlessly; turning left to the right with no indication prior set.  Roads wind and wend through urban wasteland like snakes in a pit.  Can you get a 107^th on a 51^st or not get them together.  100 by 100 gets you to the bowels of the beast.  With speeds so slow to make molasses seem jack like. 

Jacks about and bound ceaselessly on the lawns of sub-urban hotels.  Munching till the Armada strikes them a fatal blow.  Hass en Pheffer on the roads of this unmapped expanse.  With nothing and everything available through central provincial transfers.  Recycled through nothing more than a wet day’s rain.

Who said we recycle?  Cardboard packages cursing through the veins of commerce.  Larger than life boxes and construction waste strewn amok on sites everywhere.  I lobby and thrust for less intrusion into the core, but stymied by bureaucratic lethargy.

Bureaucracy is the lifeblood of this quarry.  Inspections and regulations claimed in the moraines of safety.  From the perspective of this writer, they appear as fiefdoms of failure to fertilize the growth of industry.  Thick and oozing like that below the surface not yet refined to fuel efficient modes of commerce.

High highs and slow lows.  The mantra of the resource driven economy.

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.