‘Tiny Stories’ Archives
Cup o’ Kona
Saturday, September 12th, 2009
Well, for a nice, benign Saturday morning post I thought I would, yet again, pay homage to my beautiful coffee. Actually, come to think of it, I’ve never mentioned my glorious Kona Blend on this site, but my Facebook friends are quite familiar with it. At any rate, what you all are privy to is a first time look at said morning companion. Though this post, actually, is not about the coffee itself, but its holy vessel of delivery: A stellar coffee mug.
As with any great coffee mug, there is a little bit of a story behind it. Nothing action packed. Simply a story. A simple story. My brother lives in New York City. I visit him every year for New Years because it is a good excuse to make sure I see him in his element on a regular basis. It is a great excuse to get out of LA, for which I don’t need much of one, and an excuse to go to NYC, for which I need even less of one. I was tired and bored of my coffee mugs, with the exception of one that my brother had sent me for my birthday. It was bright yellow with a white interior. On the outside it had little black rings, almost like spots, and in black, hand-painted type it said “GENIUS”. I loved that mug, but it was the only one I loved. I wanted another, just to spice things up a bit.
It was the end of December and it had yet to snow. A depressing fact for someone like me that loves a cold, snowy New York. I told Solomon of my desire to find a new coffee mug there in NYC because I had little to no faith that I would find a satisfactory result in Los Angeles. So we set off, and the day quickly turned cold and blustery.
It was the first snow of the year, and I was there to enjoy it! It would not stick, of course, it was still too warm, but at least it felt a little like winter. We walked all over Manhattan. We didn’t find a coffee mug. I thought maybe I could find one significantly different from my Genius mug, but just as precious. After several days of searching, I finally decided we should go to Our Name Is Mud. They were no longer there. Woe is me! *Sigh. But they had another location in Central Station. Like Mr. Universe’s back-up unit in the bottom of the complex! We went to Central Station two days later and got there just in time. Our Name Is Mud was having their “going out of business” sale. It was a sore blow to NYC to lose such a fine little shop. It was a tiny micro-culture within the fast-fading greater culture of the city.
They did not have much left in the store when we arrived, but they had enough. One mug caught my eye immediately, but I was not prepared for something so immense. It could hold a reservoir of coffee equal to that of two normal mugs! Could I drink that much in one sitting? Was I up to the challenge? Or would I simply fill it halfway, incline my head in acquiescence to a battle well-fought and go about my day? I looked around some more, but kept returning to the black megalithic ceramic with its lime interior. I was gearing up. I had to. I am not a drop-of-a-hat type of person, nor am I an obsessive planner, but I need moments to collect myself. I collected myself. I purchased the mug.
When I returned home to California I spent many a morning gauging that mug. Only picking it up one out of five times. There was a challenge here. We circled each other like mongrels around a choice scrap of ripened meat. I would like to think I came out on top, that I won the fight, the battle and the war, but to claim as much would be a fallacy. It would be no more than my ego talking. No, it was a mutual conquering. But what must happen when two opponents go through such trials together? They find common ground and learn to respect one another in ways that few understand. So, my dear mug; my sweet cup o’ Kona… here’s to you.
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Cheers,
~D/L
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Tear Gas Blackened Chicken
Thursday, September 10th, 2009
My buddy, Mr. Jonathan Auch, is staying with me. We’re both fans of food and we both love to cook. Tonight was no exception unless you were to say that is was exceptionally hot. Imagine trying to cook while somebody is blasting pepper spray and tear gas in the kitchen. We took a recipe for blackened chicken. We multiplied the spices by eight. It was fiery. It was smokey. It was good. The fumes that filled the kitchen as the thighs were blackening on the dry pan caused us to cough. Dry, hacking, wheezing coughs. The vaporized cayenne and black pepper caused the air to burn our lungs. If it had not been so dry our eyes might have watered. Not because we were crying, we do not cry, but simply because of the burning in our sinuses. We had to retreat to the dining room to gorge ourselves on the magnificent cheese platter of Glutinos, fig spread, Cambazola, blue cheese and garlic-herb goat cheese. The sweet Chardonnay did wonders as an antidote for the searing air. Our creation has been aptly dubbed Tear Gas Blackened Chicken, and it will kick your f#@%ing ass.
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Make no mistake. It was a damn battlefield. Lives were not lost, for they are too precious, but they were put on the line. For a great meal, we should do and expect nothing less. Tear Gas Chicken, you put up a good fight, and for that you have earned my eternal respect, but in the end, it was D/L & J/A ftw.
Cheers,
~D/L
Tiny Story #7
Wednesday, August 5th, 2009
“WHERE TO TODAY?”
For six days Ridley did not alight except to eat, drink or relieve himself, and occasionally sleep. It was all so new. Learning to navigate from an entirely different perspective was easier than he thought it might be. He simply learned to recognize shapes of intersections and tops of buildings. He really felt as though he had been reborn. He felt free in a way that he could not explain. Nobody else could do what he could do. Anywhere he wanted to go he could go and nobody could tell him otherwise. For the first few days he had had to leave and return via a vacant parking lot. But not anymore. His dexterity and agility increased with each day and he had begun to understand the nuances of moving in such a different manner. So, once again, Ridley looked out over his city from his thirty-story perch in front of the Paramount Clock. Times Square was bustling with life below. Screens and billboards that boldly displayed adverts for Coca-Cola, Samsung and Haughty Couture took up entire sides of buildings. The Virgin Mega Store flashed its stuff like a hawker in a bazaar. He saw the little cars that had to adhere to the strict concrete grid-work. He saw pedestrians that had to wait for signs to signal their right to cross streets. He was one of them, once. Once upon a time. But not anymore. Six days ago everything changed when he awoke to find that it had not just been a dream. So Ridley leaped off the ledge in a perfect swan dive. His wings shot out and spread ten feet to either side. He caught an updraft that blasted up the side of the building and spiraled into the sky. “Where to today?” he asked his city.
Cheers,
~D
Tiny Story #6
Monday, August 3rd, 2009
FOREIGNER:
Thomas did not blend in with the locals in the least. He was more than a head taller than anyone else. The rich dark skin of Mumbai’s inhabitants contrasted sharply with his fair countenance. He clearly did not belong, so the men and women hawking their wares along Fashion Row would raise their prices at least a thousand percent whenever he entered one of the makeshift booths. He haggled and argued over the marked up prices until the vendor would simply cross his arms and look off to the side like Thomas no longer existed. When he turned to leave the man called him back and with a heaviness, as though it would cost him his shop, he would concede to a price that Thomas knew was still five times more than a local would pay. But he had settled on a set of glass bangles and a pair of glass earrings with countless beads dangling from a beaded triangle. He thought his girlfriend would like them. Maybe he could drag a pardon out with them. He wanted to get out of the throng. The press of unknown faces was too much. Every time he looked down there were children reaching up with cupped hands, faces contorted in pained yearning for just one rupee. He saw a woman with a baby that was sleeping in her arms, but when she caught him looking at her she pinched the infant and it started to wail as she quickly approached him and gestured with one hand toward her mouth. She twisted her face into a look of someone not having eaten in days. She placed her hand out for a donation. She had the most amazingly white teeth Thomas had ever seen and they were perfectly straight. All of them had those teeth. Beggars, merchants, businessmen, it didn’t matter. Perfectly straight smiles could be seen wherever he looked. The woman pushed her hand toward him again after pinching the infant a second time. Thomas quickly looked away and made a sharp right toward the road where he flagged down one of the countless yellow and black auto-rickshaws, which was essentially just a three-wheeled moped with a shell over the top. He clambered in.
“Carter Road,” he said, slightly breathless and more than a bit overwhelmed. The driver waved his head slightly and set out to force a path through the ever-present traffic, making his way east. Honking the high-pitched horn incessantly. It seemed to be more habit than anything else. Everyone was honking, but unlike New York, nobody yelled and swore at anybody else. It was all the daily routine as poverty stricken beggars squatted on corners, mongrels skulked in alleyways and merchants plied their goods, crying out over the din “Chaaaaai BabbaChai!” or “Lemonorrraaaaange!” and countless other phrases that Thomas did not understand. The rickshaw reached Carter Road and Thomas tossed the driver two hundred rupees and hopped out. He had to run across the street to the promenade to avoid the cars and rickshaws that caromed down the road, heedless of pedestrians. When he set foot on the wide tiles that overlooked the Arabian Sea, Thomas let out a long breath. The tide was low and the pocked rocks stretched out hundreds of feet before him. He did not venture out but rather leaned against the waist-high wall and sipped the milk from a fresh coconut that no doubt came from one of the many palms across the street. He gazed out toward the water until he saw an aging man walk out toward the water. When the man was nearly to the edge he pulled his pants down and squatted over a small pool, heedless of the numerous people walked up and down the coastline. Thomas could not help but grimace. He did not belong.
Cheers,
~D
