The Coffee Guy's blog

Coffee Causes Catastrophe Clearing Constellations

We wallowed yesterday as the winds whipped willows of lagging leaves.  As I flew the light fandango in “Easy Pick-up”, aka C-FGRI, the skies were clear, the air cold, and the power on!  Thoughts of letting it all go and taking a break in Tillsonburg, barren runway cleared for my struts.

I veered again eastward and pulled 90 overtop Delhi.  Could see the ice on the bay created by Long Point and the suns reflection made it appear smooth and glassy.   Stillwater not running deep.  For such a great day, traffic was light in the rock solid air.

Today’s yoyo weather gives us rain and snow later from -4 to plus 10 in 12.  As not gazing to the stars a cuzzin’ the clouds, I pondered the constellation of Cafficus Araibicus in my cranial vision.  Dark to the bare eye, but deftly hidden in the Milk Way.  At this juncture it rises slowly from the southeast around 11Pm.  Distinctive with its apparent waft above the handle.  The star Suchrus dead center in the image.

Now that you are all in accordance with the alignment of the stars, what’s in them this fair season.   No pepper for your soul today, salt and vinegar for your thoughts.  We Tandoori with the red meat, and curry ourselves to the Big Q.  Without the constellation we consternate upon visible, guidance is shy toward the fall of Pm hours. ARE YOU LOOKING YET?

In the constellation of Columbus you will find the smaller cherry-like aforementioned constellation.  Now with your head tilted back, your eyes straining, your back aching, your arms up holding the binoculars, your elbows poking the person in front of you, your shirt pulled up, your tummy cold, you stifling a fart, your mind wandering from the star-chart in your cranium, your partner still asking which way is up, your toes now chilling in the night air, all of this while you wonder what has caused you to be outside staring up looking for the coffee club? 

Recently Cafficus Araibicus has entered the house of Esspressonatta with Suchrus stronger now in the mix.  The constellations appears about a quarter the size, but hotter to start, but shorter lived.  At the point you can start to see Americanius rising from the west coast blending into the constellation.  Now from the north, along a line drawn from the zenith to the nadir, you can just start to witness Hortitcus Timonica edging upwards strongly at this juncture.

Either way the stars have it.  Java jewels in the sky cup of nectar.

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.

 

 

 

Coffee on the Carpet Baggers Case

Coffee alerts are on the radar so frequently these days I am a feared of rekindling the NORAD station in North Bay.  Everybody needs a mountain grown species of Java, even if the Robusta doesn’t like my attitude.  Burry your own roots deep into the mountainside to avoid slippage.

The thousands if not twos and threes of them must be strewn like sawdust in a butcher shoppe’ around the countryside’s of our fair and non-litigious land.  What has become of all the bunkers: Archie and Edith excluded?   Have they fallen and can’t get up?  Are they down at the corner bar waiting for one of Archie’s cronies to proffer up some plonk?

The culture of the Coffee Nazi aside, and no I am not going Kona on you, there are other things in the world of less import.  Pipelines running through wasteland, elections being fought on found smut from disingenuous co-respondents, sizable ships lost not at sea, Mediterranean countries bearish and not bullish, dirty bombs under sand hills in Iran, nookyoular fallout in Japan from a Tsunami at sea, satellites falling from military radiotronic interference, specious spies in Canada, and a Knock List revealing the revealer.

Nay I say, there are lesser causes than those thrust to the fore.  We need a cogent discussion on the egregious prices copped for coffee these days.   Not so much on the store front, but more on the sore front.  14 Smackeroos in the Loonie Tunes of this nation for the good stuff snuffs the wind from my sniffer every time I revisit the dispensary.  Ye olde 100 ounce can seemsa’ musta’ been a lotta’ less in the not to recent past.

Cough, cough.  Where have all the prices gone?  Long time passing?  Gone to good thieves every one.  Oh when will they ever earn?  When will they ever earn?

I have the makin’s of my roaster coved inside my brain at this juncture.  Summer fare for the functionary to foster up a nice gasser.   Green beans roasting on an open fire. 

I say I sees it now; home roasted coffee aroma wafting through the hood, drawing bike owning poop and scoopers alike around my garage, the original man cave.  Another cuppa slipping through the grinds.

Can I roast and pour for you?

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.

 

 

 

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.

 

Hippity Dippity Doo Dah New Year to YouToo Dot Calm!

The chorus of contacts making representation to me regarding responsible journalism has dropped to an all year low.  The fewer complaints leads me to believe my hard tack has turned to gruel.  No more fodder fueling the feastivals.

We have entered the year Y2K’s Dirty Dozen Year.  Picture yourself in the Lee of the Marvin Tree, sheltering yourself from the howling Cassavetes wind blowing in from the Savalas Telly valley.  Real men, fighting real dirt, on real streets, as mean as a Jim Brown junkyard dog.  Jim Croce could not chalk out a more prosaic yeare.  (“e” left on rightly).

With Bronson and Borgnine figuratively rounding out the crew, more grit was neer’ exposed on celluloid.  They drove Sutherland toward the fight  with full intention of George “Washington” Kennedying his at the Sten a ready for anything.

But instead on New Year’s day we get a “Stealth” flick.  With two no name Foxx and Lucas, and not of the Red or George kind.  All this salted with the Biel babe in a too tight flight suit.  No plot unforeseeable after the first fifteen, and no scriptology after the first audible nod.

Time for some real start of the year small-screen offerings.  And yes, no, I am not going to the big screen on smelly person day.

I am sayin’, still not sangin’.

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.