Wake up and smell the…
Some of you remember when blogging was relatively young and I decided to wet my feet in the “coffee blog.” That wasn’t its name, but that pretty much described its content. Beautiful and short lived, it began shortly after I ingested the first cup of coffee I actually enjoyed. Since that time coffee has earned its way into most parts of my life. Instant inspiration at work, laid back writing/sketching sessions at night, zonked out crazy thinking time, and even a little late evening relaxing with my step-father. Strangely I still don’t require or crave that first morning cup. This is only because I need to eat first and by that time I’m usually running around too busy to relax for a moment. The special lady friend, however, loves her morning cup and showed me this nasty little device.
I may not need a morning brew, but this device is evil. The smell of coffee is delicious, but nobody enjoys a mechanical tease, especially at 6 A.M… Most comments I read about this expressed their desire to “stress test” this porduct against the bedroom wall.
If you like my little illustration you might enjoy reading about how caffeine really works. Understand the epic battle that takes place between the valiant Caffeine and the vile Adenosine.
Jumping into the time machine I highly recommend clicking the link below this text to read some classic coffee related stories.
Who’s Been Frenching My Coffee? by Davin Haukebo-Bol
So I was leaving spanish 102 the other day (its an undergraduate class…) and this girl says “hey, you wanna finish off my coffee?” I say “yes.” So here I am skating back from class, sipping a nearly full coffee. It was a little sweet, a girl’s coffee (I’m not insinuating anything by that, it just happened to be the former coffee of a female). So I ride and sip. I didn’t spill, thanks given to the plastic cover. Not as hot as I would prefer, and yet a comforting warmth. The more I sipped, the more I began to feel as though my disposable coffee cup was more organic in nature. The combination of a small hole in the lid (proportional to my tongue), warmth, and open exchange of fluids, I felt as though I were kissing someone, and open mouth at that. I know that my relationship with coffee is still just brewing (pun), but never did I expect it to take a turn towards the sexual. Am I to be french kissing my french roast on a daily basis? Am I continuing to just “use” coffee as I have been until now? Or is there a greater symbiosis yet unknown to me? Where does it go from here? Will coffee and I develop a deep relationship only to have a falling out later? Do I really want to risk losing the solid relationship we have now? Perhaps we reach the point when we are no longer able to hangout alone together anymore. No more naked black. We need to invite others, cream and sugar over, just so it isn’t akward. Maybe I won’t brew her quite as often as I used to, or with a greater water to coffee ratio, diluting my former friend out of existence. Until finally one day I get up and have a cup of tea… Where did it all go wrong? At what point rests the line of division between me and my bean juice? Is there an unspoken office code of workplace ethics to abide by? Everything remains professional? No more visits at home? Never again for recreational purposes? Brief stir, polite sip, just one cup. Oh, what we once were…
I Bleed Black from me, vintage 2005,
Tonight I think I need to talk a little bit about an artist’s most potent tool. Some would guess metaphor, or symbolism, or their materials, but many of us know that those tools are lesser sidekicks to the supreme do gooder. “Black magic”, “liquid diligence”, or if you prefer simply “coffee.” By the way, I need to thank Davin for those fine nicknames.
For centuries artists have sipped this elixer. Reducing their chances of Parkinson’s disease and colon cancer in exchange for “the jitters” and maybe an iron deficiency. But really, when do our tools benefit our health anyway? Coffee is one of the few mediums that if I paint in my sketchbook with my fingers all that I risk is a burn or a stain on my clothes.
Loaded up on coffee I become a poet, a scientist, or occasionally a photographer (ideally.) My notebook fills up with excited scribbles and glyphs, only decipherable by Cold War codebreakers or myself with another heavy dose of caffine. Under the influence I’ll start more work than I can ever hope to finish. I’ll write long, pointless blogs on a whim. But occasionally I’ll discover something important and for this reason I bleed black.
*I can quit whenever I want… really.