hate edge

This is an assignment for class.  We made a "spell poem."  You know the "Double double toil and trouble" type thing.  I was able to switch into political mode and make one about cigarettes.

clever slogans and pics of babes

a fun lifestyle and things you crave

stinky clothes and cigarette butts

uncontrollable cravings drive you nuts

smoke our cigarettes and forget your strife

now your addicted, addicted for life.

Tobacco schmomacco look into our eyes;

tobacco schmomacco you fell for our lies.

I'm not anti-smoking or anything, but it just came to mind.  I think it is kind of funny that the tobacco industry has to take all the hits for using sex and a fun lifestyle to sell their product when every company (almost) does it.  But then again, most products out there don't usually kill you when you use them too much.  

Just livin' the Dutch life.

If you don't already know, I work at Dutch Bros. coffee shop.  Yes, that does mean that I am cooler than you, but I  am willing to overlook my superior coolness and remain friends with you.  Except maybe you (you know who I mean).  But during the course of my day, I come in contact with some very interesting people.  These "Dutchies,: as I will from now on call them, range all over the coffee drinker spectrum.  From the extreme ignorant coffee snob that is ignorant to their own ignorance, to the also ignorant homeless person that just wants a cup-o-joe, and everything in between.  Recently, two Dutchies have become blog worthy and now is the time to tell their tale.

The first Dutchie of whom I shall share, is from the snobby/ignorant elite class.  She is a woman of about fifty-five years old, possibly older, but only slightly.  She comes through regularly, making her a regular, and always has something regarding her drink to complain about. Except one time that I was able, with the help of the coffee gods above, to make her drink exactly to her liking.  But that was an exception to the rule.  A simple example of her pickiness is this; she is left handed and brings in her own coffee mug to drink from.  If you hand her her mug with the lid facing the wrong direction, so that (Heaven forbid) she would have to drink holding the mug with her right hand, she will hand it back to you and have you turn the lid around.  You will also get the drink handed back to you if it is the wrong temperature, or if it has too much foam, the list goes on and on and on.  Anyway, she is from Boise and is VERY proud of this simple fact.  But somehow she got the idea in her head that Boise is some kind of coffee haven and that the best coffee and coffee culture comes from there.  All this being said, one day my favorite (please note that "favorite" is oozing with sarcasm) Dutchie came through and ordered a, "Mocha at one fifty (degrees) flat."  Now, me being not from Boise and very naive, did not know what "Flat" meant.  I'm sure at least half of you reading this now know what "Flat" means and think I'm a silly fool for not knowing.  But please remember, I am from Menifee.  That is in the southern part of Calif-ore-nie-ay.  Very, very far from Boise, or Idaho for that matter.  I said to the Dutchie supreme, "Flat? What does flat mean?"  To which she responded, a tinge of pride shining in her eyes,

"It means no foam or whip.  You've never been to Boise, have you?"

Right about now was the time I wanted to punch her in the teeth.  So I made her a mocha, but  it was not hot enough, ("only luke") so I heated it up and handed it to her.  Just between you and me, it was not flat.  I loaded that fucking mocha with bubbly foam.

And now for my favorite part.  My Dutchie delight came through again, maybe even the next day, and ordered an iced double mocha.  Please note that iced is in italics.  If you didn't catch the italics before, here they come again:  iced.  I just really want to stress that she said, "Iced."  Get it?  If you do not know, iced means that the drink is served on the rocks, like an iced tea.  I made her the iced mocha and gave it to her.  She took a drink and frowned.  "When the girls in the morning make this for me it's more icy.  This is like pudding."  Stated the Dutchie of Doom.  

I replied, "Oh did you want your drink blended?"  Again for those that don't know, blended means like a milk shake, or dare I say? a frapuccino.  (I'm really surprised to see that my spell check doesn't know frapuccino).  

"Oh yes, blended ice."  was her response.

So I made her a blended mocha and gave it to her.  All the while desperately wanting, longing to say to her,

"You've never been to Boise, have you?"

Moving on to Dutchie number two.  This one happened just today, quite early in my shift, and I am extremely thankful that it wasn't a sign of more things to come.  

So there was this man, obviously homeless, sitting on the block wall outside of my work today.  He sits there quite often, usually for hours, and mostly keeps to himself.  He was sitting there, and work was slow, so I was sitting there too.  For a while we were doing the same thing, just sitting.  I noticed him there and thought maybe he wants a cookie.  We had a few of those delicious cookies that every grocery store has, the ones with the thick seasonally colored frosting, you know the ones.  The powers of charity overwhelmingly (sarcasm, again), or maybe just boredom (more likely of the two), led me to grab (a generous) two cookies and offer them to my fellow sitting Dutchie.  I said,  "Excuse me mister, do you want some cookies?"  He mumbled something about being hurt and stayed seated.  A car pulled up that I had to attend to just as he was saying something that I couldn't understand.  I helped the car and they left, and he came stumbling up to the window.  I went to hand him the cookies and noticed how very filthy my Dutchie was.  I tried my hardest to hand him the cookies in a way that I wouldn't touch him.  Near success, my finger tips grazed his hands.  Another car pulled up, I helped them blah blah blah.  Dirty Dutchie was still there, looking at me.  He asked if we had a bathroom he could use.  I told him, "No I'm sorry it's for employees only."  He said, something to the extent of, and I kid you not, "That's too bad, I need to clean myself up, had an accident."

Happy Noah?

Hawk photo

So it has become apparent that my photo of a hawk does not appear.  That's a shame.  You should just make believe that you can see a thankful hawk soaring freely and majestically above the tree line.  The moral of the story:  Don't try to copy and paste pictures to your blog.

The autobhan society would be proud

This weekend was a delight.  Kelly and I went camping with good friends and visited good family in the old mining town of Mariposa.  While in Mariposa, Kelly and I helped her parents pick grapes in the vineyard (which you can read about on Kelly's blog).  That being said, I will not bore you by writing about the same weekend that she wrote about, just a certain happening.

Kelly, Val (Kelly's mama) and I were upstairs chatting, I do not recall what about, when Bob (Kelly's papa) shouted to me from the living room.  He said, "Zach I need your help!" a speck of haste in his voice.  I began walking down the stairs and he told me that he found a hawk in the vineyard tangled up in a net.  The nets are used to cover the vines so that birds can't get at the grapes and eat all of them before they have a chance to become delicious wine.  I thought it was quite ironic that, a bird, one that likes to eat bunnies and other small mammals, had become stuck in a net designed to keep grape eating birds away.  I really love irony.  My second thought, after thats ironic was We'll need something to cut the net.  So I turned around and ran back up the stairs to get my pocket knife, pretty clever right.  On the way out Bob asked me if my knife was sharp enough.  I told him I thought it was (spoiler alert, it wasn't).  So we walked out to the vineyard, Kelly, Val, Hannah (Kelly's sister), Libby (Kelly's Mom's bitch (literally, a bitch)), Bob and I.  I couldn't see the hawk until Bob walked over to it, the large raptor blended in with the dirt.  It was stuck hanging upside down with the net wrapped around it's feet (from now on I am going to call the hawk "Hawk" because I feel to connected to Hawk to call Hawk "it").  Bob had obviously planned ahead and had a blanket ready to cover Hawk with so he would not freak out while watching us strange looking humans cutting nets by his feet.  Come to think of it I don't remember seeing Bob pick up the blanket, for all I know he could have sewn it on the walk out to the vineyard, but how he got the blanket is irrelevant.  Bob wrapped Hawk in the blanket, again to keep Hawk calm and to prevent Hawk's wings from flapping wildly, while I began to cut away the net.  I had quite a difficult time cutting the net, as the spoiler alert told you, my knife was/is not very sharp.  It was slow going and I really did not want to slip and cut Hawk's leg or toes.  Val asked if we needed a sharper knife, I replied in the negative, too proud to admit that my knife was too dull.  She (luckily) ignored me though and went back to the house to retrieve her Ginsu knife.  I continued carefully cutting the netting away until she came back.  I was very concerned with one of Hawk's toes in particular.  I think it was the bird equivalent to a human thumb.  This "thumb" was twisted around and seemed to be holding a great deal of Hawk's weight.  Val handed the Ginsu to Bob, who as it turns out is a much better net remover and cutter than I could ever dream of being.  He made short work of the net while I took over in cradling Hawk in the blanket.  While Bob sawed away at the net with a much sharper knife, I noticed how crazy a hawk's talons are.  They are long and razor sharp, maybe even sharper than the Ginsu that freed Hawk from the net.  Bob cut away all the netting and Hawk's thumb was restored to it's normal position.  I held him in the blanket for a few moments, nervous about all the possibilities that may happen.  I'd never released a hawk and had no clue about what it may do.  I released Hawk, he flew away, he landed in a nearby tree and rested.  

It was spectacular, magnificent and stressfully lovely.  And they all lived happily ever after.

PS. this is a picture of a hawk, not Hawk.  You can get this same picture from image googling the word "hawk."

Yet another assignment.  For this one we modernized a fairy tale or folk tale to make it better suit the times.  On a side note, when we turned in our two assignments for the week (the other was a How to guide) we were told to post them in the discussion page.  Meaning that the entire class will be able to read your assignments.  The assignments are due today by midnight, that leaves just under five hours, and I am the only one to turn anything in.  This is remarkable because I thought I was the biggest procrastinator in the world.  I'm worried for my class mates.  

There was an old sow with three little pigs. When the three little pigs turned eighteen years old the sow told them they had to move out saying, "I can't afford to have you three sitting here all day long and eating all of the food! Go and buy your own house and eat your own food!" So off the three little pigs went into the big scary world to make a living and buy their own homes and food. The first went to Wolfe Banking to get a loan to build his house. He told the man at the bank, "I am just moving out of my mother's house and would like to build a home for myself. I have no job and no way to pay you back, but may I please have a loan?" The loan officer smiled, showing a set of shiny and sharp teeth, and said, "Of course my little piggy, you will have thirty years to pay back your loan with no interest whatsoever. However after thirty years your interest will be 783%. But you should have it paid off by then." The little pig was delighted. He signed in all the appropriate places and took the loan and built his home. Thirty years later, after squandering his money away and not saving, he received a letter from Wolfe Banking. The letter said that the little f piggy's interest free grace period was up and that he owed 5 million dollars to the bank. The letter continued that they would seize and repossess and they would take his house back. The little pig said, "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" So they seized and they repossessed the piggy's home and gobbled him up in debt. The second little pig got a job in a deli. He earned the minimum wage and worked twenty five hours a week. Being a part time employee he did not qualify for medical benefits. And seeing that he earned only the minimum wage, he could not afford health insurance. One day when slicing the roast beef at work, he accidentally chopped his finger off. A co-worker was able to quickly retrieve the finger from the ground and place it in a cup of ice. The little piggy was taken to Blue Wolf Health Care where they were able to reattach the finger. One month later, the second little pig received a bill in the mail. It was from Blue Wolf Health Care and it said that he owed them 78 thousand dollars for reattaching his finger. The bill had a letter attached that read,"Mr. Pig we regret to inform you that unless you pay the above sum, we will be forced to seize and repossess your home." The pig was greatly angered by this and he wrote back to the Blue Wolf Health Care insurance company, "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" So the Blue Wolf Health Care seized and repossessed and gobbled the second little pig up in debt. The third little piggy moved to England and enjoyed the benefits of receiving socialized medical care. He worked at a good job and lived responsibly and never bought things that he could not afford. And he lived happily ever after.

A light hearted post for a light hearted day...

     The generous Lord above has finally decided to bless the dry and burnt lands and people of the greater Redding area with a light yet ample pouring out of the Heavens above this fine day.  About fucking time.  The rain is finally falling in Redding and everyone is quite happy about it.  Of course, as is our nature, we will all be complaining about the non-stop rain in a matter of weeks, and the circle of life goes on.  On a less cynical note, today has been quite magnificent.  I walked the two little dachshund  that I walk on weekday mornings and hopped onto my bike as the first few drops of rain bravely began leaping from their homes in the clouds above to join us here on the ground below.  It was oh so very nice to ride my bike in nice cool weather.  When I arrived home I decided it was time to get a bike that is more suited for rainy weather, namely something with some sort of a braking mechanism.  So off I went to Village Cycle and purchased an old and rusty Schwinn from Andy.  It is in surprisingly good condition and, as is the case with all old cheap low-end Schwinns, is also unfathomably heavy.  But fixing up old bike projects are always fun and a good dirty way to pass the time.  When I arrived home for the third time of the morning, Kelly and I prepared brunch, consisting of chili, corn bread and potatoes, and watched Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.  Now I am sitting in a corner at Sue's, the one that is a window at a 45 degree angle to the other walls, sipping on coffee sweetened with honey and staring out into the parking lot.  The usual crew is working this afternoon, and I have to say it is always nice to talk to them.  But before I get too carried away, which I already fear I have, I must stop myself from going off on too many tangents and getting to the point.  I wanted to write this post about the video game Sing Star.

    If you haven't ever played Sing Star, it is like Guitar Hero, or Dance Dance Revolution, in that things move across the screen and the player must react to the moving things at the appropriate  time.  With this game, pitch levels are moving across the screen and you have to sing at the right pitch to get points.  Sounds simple?  I thought so too.  If you don't know this about me, and be prepared it may be a shocker, I am and have always been tone deaf.  I know it is very surprising that a barely mediocre musician (If I can be called such) is tone deaf, but believe it I  am.  Ironically enough on the way over to the Gray's house, where we were to play the game, I told Kelly about my tone deafness.  We joked about it some on the way there then we didn't think of it again until game time.  When my turn came I had to sing a Duet battle with Kelly, who has a lovely voice and in-tune ear.  The first note to the song that I had to sing flew out of my vocal chords and into the microphone like a baby bird taking it's first flight and falling wildly onto powerlines.  I attempted to adjust my pitch and failed miserably, picture the baby bird twitching on the ground as sparks still fizzle out around it.  I could not do it.  My average score was "Lousy."  Which was a huge self-confidence booster.  The scoring system goes something like this: If you are good it will say things like perfect, great, right on, or you rule!  If you are me it will say things like awful, terrible, you are the worst vocalist ever on the face of the Earth past or present, you fucking suck stop wasting our time and hurting the ears of those around you, and the worst possible score is simply, lousy.  Which again was my average.  The baby bird has died and it's birdy mother has been forced to move on and is thinking of building her next nest on the ground, away from powerlines.  Needless to say, the lovely Kelly with the pristine voice and pure heart destroyed me in the battle.  David tried to cheer me up by saying, between laughs, "You're harmonizing really well."  I don't really believe him though and I will never sing again.