Actually listened to Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen at 4 in the morning. I slept fitfully on a bed stripped bare after I got home. My linens had been dropped off at a Mexican laundry days ago, and only picked up that morning. I didn't bother with it, because I was not set for sleeping, linen-wise, or other. Coffee and smokes was my first accomplishment. I treat the pair singularly, as I view them as inextricable delicacies. Two hot larges, numbered 1 & 2, respectively, are to be consumed numerically.
Speaking of which, I'm sick of snide coffeeshop baristoes oh-so-subtly correcting me when I order a large. Fuck you! Give me the big one on the right, because I won't say Venti. I an increasingly tense relationship with a Baristo at a shop down the block from the shop where I worked. I'd order a large daily. Daily, he'd say something;"One Venti coming up.","Beth, Can you grab a Venti for me.", et. al.... Shit, It took him a month to lay off the biscotti oversell. You have to ask? I'll tell the Manager to post a note. "That one guy doesn't want any Biscotti." It all came to a head when he tried, like a tricksy little monkey, to trick me. I ordered a large, as per usual. He turned towards the drip. I breathed a sigh of relief. We finally have an understanding. This coffee cold war is over! Just then, and dramatically, he turned with an understated Supervillian zeal. "You did said Venti... ... ... Right?" I was a simultaneously a little taken aback & flattered. This little bastard just dusted off some bold shit right in front of God & everybody.
"I said large."
"Same thing," with a shrug.
"Apparently," with a prisonyard headnod.
He pops the lid on and settles it on the counter, snug in its cardboard cozy. It's a Mexican standoff. He's not making eye contact, and all of his motions are fluid and Kabuki, redolent with obvious practiced ease & professional Baristic grace. He stabs Subtotal, looks me square in the eye, and lunges. "Would you like a Biscotti with that?" He's soooo proud. He can hardly keep the smirk down until that foreseen moment when I slink out the door, tail betwixt legs. " You mean to say, would you like a Biscotto with that... ... ... Don't you?" Who's the one smirking at that point? me, that's who.
"You see, Biscotti is the plural."
"And, no, I don't want any biscottis."
This reaction isn't rooted in Xenophobia. It's just unsettling what is revealed about us when something is so forcibly shoved through an American filter, and then mushily foisted. I feel like an ass saying Croissant, most times. I feel embarassed saying Croissan'wich. I don't even know where the apostrophe goes...
I stopped at the crap strip mall music store to not buy an overpriced LP to play while I clean my house. I picked up the new Broken Social Scene, which, thus far, is good. It seems noisy and swirly with the vocals low in the mix, so it's to be listened to while driving, preferably straight & in the early afternoon & halfway through the drive, Low 70s... new sweatshirt. In all honesty, I probably will listen to it while I clean my house.
Kal-El and I were talking last night about how Gamelan would be a Badass name for a kid. Then again, so would Badass. I vote for Spacebird...
I was going to try for some wry commentary on the zombified corpse of the hippy subculture, but it came out sounding bitter. Here's some cool footage of John Lennon backed by the Rolling Stones.
Is it me, or are JL and MJ a little... cozy?
Hilarious Anime Jiggle....
I adore Fiona Apple's new album. She's got a great new live performance video up at herspace. I was digging around, and it turns out that her sister, Moira Maggart, is a professional Jazz Chanteuse. I can understand the adoption of a stage name for Fiona.
I found this superb design blog. This guy has Cigarettes equipped with a strikable match tip!