OLD FART

The name of the folder on my hard drive is “old fART” It’s an odd collection of fits and starts of sketches, essays, and random observances (“art” if you will). Most of it dates from the ‘90s, when I was busy running an improv troupe, and thinking very highly of myself. I never have the heart to read or delete any of it, because I want to believe that the ideas are strong, and that I really was a genius back then.

Like any old journal or record of the times, most of it is cringe-worthy, while parts of it evoke a nostalgia for what caused me to start writing about it in the first place. I once had an idea for an all lesbian musical revue called Dykes on Mics. Each sketch was a different “ike” word, including Dykes on Ikes, which was to look at lesbians in the 50s, there were Dykes on Hikes, Strikes, Spikes, you get the idea. Nothing ever came of it, but I still carry the image in my head that inspired it, an ensemble of butch lesbians, dressed in blue jeans, leather jackets, and Doc Martens with lacy ankle socks, doing a synchronized dance while riding tricycles and singing “we are dykes on mics.” Yeah, maybe one day, or maybe that image is enough. 

Certainly when I wrote those things, I imagined the next 15 years would play out a certain way. They most certainly didn’t. I certainly never could have guessed the loops, swerves, loves, and losses that have made my life what it is, and I guess that’s the nostalgia, for that of a 30ish performer who had big dreams and the balls to pursue them. And while part of me spends a little too much time in the bitterness of how those dreams eluded me, the me who wrote that stuff on my monochrome Mac Classic (flying toasters!) still resides in the optimism between the TV Producer, Playwright, and Certified Barista.

I’ve always loved a good cup of coffee. My mother and I used to sit in the morning after my brother and sister went off to school. She’d pour a little percolated goodness in my milk, and we’d read the paper and smoke. Well, she’d smoke. My smoking would come later. A habit I always “hid” from her, because she intimidated the hell out of me. While in college, I discovered The Coffee Connection. I loved that place. I drank Kenya AA every day. No matter how broke I was I never skimped on coffee (or my dog’s food. Trust me, cheap dogfood will make your dog fat and sick – spend the $$ for the good stuff). When Starbucks bought the Connection and eventually obliterated them, my heart broke. I was adrift in mediocre coffee when I discovered Peet’s while living in LA. I was saved, and was thrilled to see they had expanded to Boston when I returned in ’04.

When things were dim on the work front, I decided that it might be fun to learn more about coffee, and took a job in their Lexington (MA) store. I still work there part time, and am still a coffee snob, but have never been a fan of the milk drinks, because let’s face it, they’re not coffee drinks; they’re milk drinks. A medium latte is 2 oz of espresso and 14 oz of milk (technically, some of that is foam, but it’s still a cup full of dairy). With the exception of the temperature, that’s more or less what my mother was serving me when I was 4.

What does all this have to do with art? 1998 was my first visible disdain for the latte culture, and something inspired me to write a spoof barista union newsletter. Rereading it now, 14 years later, I’m tempted to clean it up and make it funnier. However, that doesn’t seem to fair to 30ish me, who had a point to make, no matter how inarticulate. So, here it is, unadorned, just a double shot – no foam, sugar or flavored syrup – drink it quickly, like the Italians, or linger like the French. Or finish it and sit there all day, like Lexingtonians.

written 19 October 1998

The Official Barista Union Page

Latest News & Happenings

•      Full length aprons for fall now in three fashion colours:  Loden, Pumpkin and Ochre

•      Half and Half vs. Cream.  Join us for a lively debate

We are a union divided--geographically so--on this hot button issue.  “I think it really just comes down to texture,” says Norma Bleen of Norman, OK.  Norman being in the midwest, is itself divided.  “Cream leaves your joe a caramel color,” betraying her preference, Norma goes on to say, “that you can tell which part of town somebody’s from by how they order their coffee.  Since we’re in downtown, we just ask, ‘smooth or chunky?’.”

Norma will be speaking at next spring’s Seattle Symposium:  Coffee Domination:  Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

•      Letter from the president--2% taboo

Tips of the Trade

•      Milk steaming safety

The union no longer endorses the “stick your finger in and see if it’s okay” practice to check on steamed milk.  Please use the thermometers.  New ones should be arriving shortly.  The Union thanks and acknowledges Rusty “Thumbs” Riley for his leadership in this area.

•      Gloves a fit for all hands

Taking a page from the exciting world of Golf, the midwest union members can now get tight fitting gloves made from an exciting new polymer developed by Maxwell House.  For years now our upper Great Lakes have been complaining of chapping in winter due to the deadly combination of tumultuous door swinging, steaming milk and cold coins.

•      Multitasking, how to be charming without late lattes

Charm.  Not a quality we’re known for.  It’s sort of part of our charm.  Why pay $2 for a steaming cuppa joe if you can’t have hardy handful of attitude served up with it?  When that morning rush comes and the lowfat halfcaf lattes are piling up, what do you do?  In order to fully address the question, we spoke to two of our liaisons. 

First Dennis Dupree who works for a major chain. 

We’re not supposed to have ‘tude.  If people want tude chances are they’ll patronize a real coffee hut. So we need to be chipper or no tips.  My trick for joy in the face of YUPPIES who are making more money than I’ll ever see is to swallow my anger and resentment.  I try to get there first thing in the morning, and make my self the most expensive roast  in the house and smile involuntarily from the high grade caffeine coursing through me.  It helps me feel superior without being patronizing.  I say helpful things like, “Enjoy the commute”, “Nice tie” these things remind me that I can be happy at a minimum wage (minus dues) since none of my clothes need to be dry cleaned.  I try to think about my guitar.

Crystal Brandiron who works at the Dire Cafe in Cambridge, MA, has this to say:

I have in intimidating tattoo on my right forearm.  I just roll my eyes at the customers and tell them to try and have a great day despite themselves.  And, I’m convinced it’s what keeps them coming back.  When we’re really busy, I always try and say something politically incorrect about their appearance.  Since we’re in Cambridge, I can count on their being so shocked, they can’t cope with their change and just drop it in the jar.

•      Strike Information

Happily, there are no strikes to report.  However, unrest is brewing in several geographical areas.  The fall cider season has made its usual dent in coffee sales. In Appleton, WI (coincidence?) Plotsky’s Lube and Joe reported double cupping on cider.  “Cider just doesn’t get that hot,” said Frank von Bruegger, aka Midwest Watchdog.  We’ll keep you up on developments.

Benefits Update

•      3rd Degree burns are now 100% covered

Thanks to a valiant effort leads by Rusty “Thumbs” Riley, a barista in Reno, NV.  Our health plan now recognizes both the common occurrence and the severity of such burns.  Health plan representative Dr. Arnold Profit calmly stated that he was confused and thought “1st degree were the bad ones,” and has thus flipped his policy.  So, stay out of the sun (as if) cause 1st degree burns can only now be treated with Solarcane, Noxema and Sour Cream.

•      Chamomile is a now available without a prescription

In a related note--to keep our overwrought caffeinated coffee constructors calm, dosages of Chamomile can now be found in every Zee First Aid Kit next to the Pain Aid.  Please do not touch the tea in the store, it is for the customers, and reportedly, a placebo.

•      Fee free coin wrappers available at the Credit Union

Roll those tips in style!  Free wrappers in fashion colors at the Barista Credit Union.  Also low low interest rates (15%-18%) for members needing a auto loans. 

OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN

It begins around 40.  That ticking sound that started at 35 gets louder.  Whoops!  Forgot to have children. 

Now, as a lesbian, having kids is a little trickier since accidental pregnancies tend to not happen. Besides, I’d have to be really drunk.  Like that one time college.  Hey, we all experiment. 

Anyway, around 40, for those of us who expected to have kids by now and find ourselves without any, the ticking reaches a point of distraction.  So we consider the options:

1.     Anonymous donor/sperm bank which is kind of like a one night stand without the walk of shame.  But 50 thousand dollars? If I had that kind of dough, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on sperm, especially when there’s so much of it lying around. 

Which leads to the second option.

2.     Begin the mental inventory of male friends.  Who’s married?  Who’s single?  Old enough to remember “The Big Chill?”  Who’s Successful?  Artsy?  Who’s open minded enough to participate in this kind of life changing experience?  Should he be involved beyond donation?  So many questions.  Eventually leading this single girl to a drink and a cigarette – two things apparently frowned upon during pregnancy - puritans.

3.     Adopt one of them made in China models.

4.     Meet a woman who has already done the work.

It began innocently enough.  She was only 8.  Hmm…that doesn’t sound innocent at all, does it?  Let me rephrase, I met a woman who had an 8 year old daughter.  Let’s call her “Punky.”  Punky thought I started coming around the house to hang out with her while her mother cooked dinner.  It was fun.  We’d watch public television together, participate in learning crafts, and read.  Wrestling was frowned upon as promoting violence but we still managed a few body slams now and then. The next thing I knew, we started to become pals.  Until…Punky caught her mom and I stealing a smooch in the kitchen.  Not a big smooch, but a smooch nonetheless. 

And that’s how the war began.

Like most wars, this one was about territory.  And after a lifetime of absolute power, this princess wasn’t about to cede one iota of the kingdom. 

I never had a chance.  But that didn’t stop me. 

Reasoning with an 8 year old is an exercise in crazy, so explaining that adding me to the equation actually meant more love, not less, was interpreted as “I’m taking your mother and putting you on the next boat back to China!  bwahh hah ha…

I needed a new approach.  I resorted to bribes and trickery.

I happened to working for PBS on a kids show at the time, so needless to say, Punky was the Princess of Swag.  She was outfitted with hats, t-shirts, posters, pencils, stickers and anything else I could lift from the foundation.  Her response, “I love Ruff Ruffman.”  Then.  “But I still hate you!” 

When that blatant attempt failed, I began to feign interest in soccer.  Because really, what’s better than setting your alarm for 7am on a Saturday to watch a bunch of kids who barely understand the rules of Red Rover engage in a complex game of passing and goal scoring?  Week after week I saw a group of frustrated sweaty kids who for the love of God, should be home watching cartoons and eating Cap’n Crunch.  Plus there’s the added bonus of being an object of wonder.  Obviously, mom’s been coming to these games alone all year…they’re not sisters…ooh, lesbians.  How exotic.  Our politically correct exterior is compromised by our traditional upbringing.  Cognitive dissonance takes over so they say nothing, and stare.  And at least in the case of the fathers, and maybe one hot mom, imagine what we do in bed.

After about six months, Punky realized I was in it to win it.  I picked her up from soccer practice one day and we stopped at a local BBQ place for take out.  On the way over she complained that my car smelled like coffee, the radio was too loud and that I was not to speak to her.  After we ordered and were waiting for our food, there was one stool open by the window.  I offered it to her, but she refused, so I sat down.  As we waited, and she looked at everything but me, I could see how tired she was.  I sat there quietly, and the next thing I knew, Punky came over and rested on me.  For 15 seconds she was my kid.  This battle was mine.  But the war raged on. 

Even though she was not my girlfriend’s biological child, Punky learned a lot from her mother, especially when it came to trust. Every step closer - like that one - was met with tremendous recoil.  So every time Punky let me in, she’d push me back twice as hard – just like mom. 

Here’s a lesson for all you would be step-parents, pointing out this mirror pattern of behavior in answer to the question, “Do you think I’m a good mother?” is always a bad idea.

And so on it went.  Punky’s Sherman marching through my Atlanta.  I hate you, you’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do, you’ll never move in here, you’ll never marry my mom, I never loved you, I was lying, blah blah blah.  

I needed to retreat.  But there was nowhere to go. 

Mom defended Punky’s actions by suggesting I was assigning adult motives to a child.  I don’t know, she seemed pretty damn immature to me.  My suggesting she lend diplomatic relations to the turmoil turned into my making her choose between myself and Punky.  Speaking of childish motives!  Mom liked to point out that my “lack of compassion” stemmed from my not having children of my own.  Note to all of you single parents out there looking for love.  Saying, “You don’t understand; you don’t have children” is never going to make things better.

No, I may not have children, but I have been on the planet long enough to gain a little insight into the parent/child dynamic.  And whether they’re homemade or store bought, they’re still a reflection of you.  So the next time you’re wondering why Punky’s such a pain in the ass, and ruining your love life - look in the mirror. 

Cause I’m telling you – first hand – nobody can break your heart like a kid.