Friday, November 25, 2005

Dreamed a Dream by the Old Canal

Que pasa amigos!

Came home this evening from the gym and found myself walking into a bitter wind--almost a Kansas wind. Brrr! Winter has finally arrived, prompting me to write about perhaps the funniest thing I've seen in London to date. London has a pretty big tourist industry centered on city tours--especially by old-timey looking double decker buses. The tourist rigs, for ease of sight-seeing, however, have the tops cut off. We all know where this is going now. I saw a bus load of gawking gapers driving around all of the famous sites perched on top of one of these things, huddled on top of each other for warmth. Keep in mind, that today's wind chill was well below 0. I was freezing my tads off running from cafe to cafe and can only imagine how cold it must have been on top of that bus. I was tempted to flag them down and offer to show 'em a 'real' london spot--like the bar where Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell in the face for calling him a "fat poof." An over-reaction really given that Ronnie was pretty large (glandular disorder complicated by mental illnes-perhaps explaining the tantrum) and quite homosexual. But I digress. Instead of offering my insight into London for the frozen hapless souls, I ran for the nearest chestnut roaster to huddle by the fire before stepping to the pub for a quick pint of bitter before going home.

I had a completely new experience today and did something I never thought I would, but not that I have, I will again. I bought coffee from a machine. Earlier in the year, I was initially tempted by the prospect of a coffee for a quid but was frightened away by the mechanized way it was to be dispensed, so I ran. Today, however, I only had a quid and was faced with either machine coffee or no coffee. We all know what happens when i had no coffee (and I had to negotiate with a bank manager later), so I grabed my rocks and ponied up to this strange and wonderous device.

It looked a lot like one of those chic new Automatic Saecco espresso makers, and on closer inspection, it was pretty much the same thing. The digital menu offered black coffee-same thing as an Americano in the states, espresso, lattes and cappuccinnos. Skeptical of automated espresso, and seriously craving 20 ounces of hot liquid, I placed my cup under the spout and I pushed the 'coffee' button; sweet jesus what happened next was amazing! Out came espresso to a perfect crema and then hot water, and it was good. It was the best cup of coffee I've had in England barring the Starbucks I had to patronize because I was seriously jonesing. So yes friends, I can now get coffee in the am without having to growl my order to a pimply teen who will mess it up anyway or question why I want a 'six shot' with no sugar, creme or milk (too many calories for that stuff).

This experience, however, has inevitably set me up for doom because now, I want one. Some of you may remember the time I was bidding on that four head commercial model for my one room flat above the gallery in Lawrence only to be beaten at the last minute by only like 20 dollars and how thankful, in hindsight, I was that I was not the proud new owner of an industrial espresso machine. Well fuck. I'm getting one for my new house when I can scrounge together the requisite 2000 unecessary pounds it will cost me. Doing the benifit cost analysis on that, though, means that it would pay for itself in a little less than three years (2 double espressos a day for 3 years at 1 pound apiece); I'd be stupid not to get one. Anyone looking for a Christmas gift ideas for their junky friend in London...

Lamentably, I will probably have to wait until I get a straight job. Speaking of straight jobs and coffee, my friend Jed-featured as "Ghetto Bike Racing at its Finest" just to the right reports that he was on the internet, apparently googling himself (this relates to straight jobs and coffee because Jed is coffee extrordinaire with Jittery Joes in Geogrgia, so the segue works). He found some funny geographic connections to his name which got him excited--as the internet does for a lot of us, and he continued with his wife's name.

The reason I bring this up is one time he sent me some "Dopers Suck" blend of coffee, COD, but we won't get into that--yes, I have enemies in the coffee world from my thesis who still give me free coffee. And indeed, dopers do suck. It's confirmed Heras cheated, netting me 50 quid, but I'm not happy about it and will probably give it to a drug treatment charity, maybe in his name. fucker. I know what you're thinking, maybe both tests are flawed or that someone switched the samples or when fetal, he assymilated an unrealised twin and that's why there's extra cancer drug EPO in his blood, but I for one am not going to be optomistic. He cheated; he got caught; he sucks. Next!.

Tommorow I get the keys to the new flat. I'm sharing it with some young professionals; a cool seeming banking software guy (always good to know a computer person), a social worker (bet some uplifting dinner conversations will come out of that) and another to be named later. I'm hopping for a right wing, fascist, football thug or a fashion model. Good times will ensue I'm sure.

I've caught a sniffle, so I'm going to have a tea, check ebay for coffee makers and go bed.

until later,

thanks for reading


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