The Coffee Guy's blog

Open Your Eyes Holes, And Shut-up Your Pie Holes.

There are no problems, only opportunities.  The three stacked up against the ten past and was here.  Just like Trooper’s 3 Dressed Up As A Nine who were there as well.  Not to diminish those who were in absentia, but you can tell spring is here at Dover when there are more Loonies than Toonies.

What this town needs on Friday of triskaidekaphilia day is more jamming.  Not the tight kind a cuzin’ we all know there are a lot of bikes jammed in already.  It’s the melodic form.  Just love that Beal Street feel of a cacophony of sounds mixing and melding for an atmospheric mosaic defining and event or place.

Where are the pro- and non-pro musical buskers playin’ Arlo Guthrie protest and social commentary songs?  Where is Bobby the Dylan man doing a freebie for the freedom of the masses?  Where is wailing Waylon jostling up a lil Jennings magic for the mob?  Music is the statement and celebration.  Nothing wrong with the organized concerts on hand and the outdoor nature of it all.  What I want is a lil casual, a bit of spontaneity, as smattering of difference engines putting it to the place.

I get the tiny overpowered speakers of some guys bach, apartment screaming out some un known Black Sabbath album.  Or some screechy undirected single side speaker of the stereo out-put spewed onto the streets from his window.  Then the muffled musing coming from inside the closed doors of the local watering spot. 

I wanna see those strings stretched, that skin slapped, and those horns honked on.  I need a lil Chicago at 25 or 6 to Four.  Then I know its time to get ready to depart.  There are so many good rockin’ tonite types which ‘a coulda’ made the heavy street metal ramp us up a little more mettle of our own.

In the end, and the day after I picked and prodded up a new piece of machinery myself.  It hauls like it means it.

Coffee on the iron.

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.

Factious to Fractious

You function fully beyond fortitude and felonies.  Flatulate while in public and feather the brood when in private.  My problem lies, as with us all, in the petrochemical industry.  Only the cotton industry in the times of yore, were there shysters and shakers jostling the bodies for positioning as they are today.  We have a few speculators we hope will take the crash of Black October ’89, the plummet of ’29, or the implosion of ’08.  I have a window ledge on the 35^th just for you.

DO WE ALL want better prices?  Yes.  Will you have the internal fortitude and the desire to minimize our waistline?  Pump frequently, minimally, and with prudence.  NEVER FILL IT UP!  Presently you are the faithful unpaid employee warehouse of the oil industry each time you Fill’er Up.  Now it’s the time to tell the “man” to stuff it up.

The average Joe hauls around a week to two of fuel he does not need.  Not need that day and no need often for a week.  The oil companies know this, and have replenishment on the way.  Now posit that we all fill it up for the day.  Today, tomorrow, the next day, and the day after.  Each day 5 to 10 again Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.

In ONE DAY they have a surplus.  The trucks stop rolling and the orders need adjusting.  Boycotting a place wont work.  First it’s too hard, second its inane.  We need to think as a businessperson and not as a consumer.  Let’s lose some weight and pump daily.  Like Brecky.  It’s a new routine.  We can also not do the drive through.  WHO DRIVES THRU ANY MORE?????????????????????????????

Get off your sorry butt and walk.  Lift that nozzle.  Pump that gas (minimally).  I know it’s hard.  Work on it.  I drive 50,000 clicks a year and I put in a tenner or at most a double sawbuck each time.  I get gas five six times a week.  And I might add, slimmer for it.  Remember the days of sufurized gas and that sweet smell at the pump?  While not as sweet the scent can still put you in a stupor these day.

Pump often as little as you can.  And don't buy anything at the store at the station!  It’s their biggest profit center.

Do I need to make a FacePlant page for this?

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.