For A Young Friend

This post is dedicated to a young barista who for so long now has incessantly pestered me to write it. Yet, in stern procrastination I have held off, uttering excuses like,

"I will post it soon," or " I haven't gotten the blog up and running yet, but as soon as I do..."

Well I hope the wait has paid off, for I no longer have a pliable escape, and the dupable minds of our youth are only so malleable.

The following is what I will call a reminiscent entry, as the instance occurred a good time ago, months now. So it may not be altruistically fresh in my mind, but I will attempt to report the past with as much comedic bipartisanship as possible.

It was mid-afternoon in the drive-thru, sunny and warm on the outside as typical Tucson goes and blazing hot inside, as the store's air-conditioning unit was firing on empty for the third year in a row. We were taking orders and filling orders, as intriguing as that sounds when suddenly we see an old grey something or other rounding the corner. The car itself was one of those things that you want to write about, but there is simply nothing in your mind at all that registers that it actually existed.

The thing that made not registering the car acceptable however, were the things that were attached to eachother in the cockpit. Oh yes, they were attached, attached at the lips. Whatever they were they were engaged in a tongue of war that the mighty Gandalf himself would have cowered away from. Seriously, it was as though Gene Simmons had cloned himself and then wanted to play the game, who can reach the others toes through their stomach fastest. It was probably the most immodest piece of public fore-play I have never wanted to see. In fact I'm getting a little noxious right now just picturing it.

I would probably have been inclined to acknowledge the existence of God, if that were the worst part of the episode of Cinemax meets Cops, but it wasn't; and I can rest comfortable as an atheist tonight. The worst, I mean the absolute Hannibal Lecter worst was the fact that there were two extremely young children plastered to the back seat, forced to watch the public beating that was their parents (at least I hope they were their parents) making out three feet in front of them. You remember that Cher video where she was front and center stage wearing her leather pants with the ass-cheeks cut out, so the whole world could see her lilly white posterior in all of it's middle-aged glory? That was her son playing guitar not a cars length behind her. That is what it must have been like for these innocent young children sitting in the back of the car that I can't remember.

So they finally get to the window, and someone goes to collect their money. It wasn't me, that is all I know. But I seem to distinctly remember watching the whole transaction and one thing that does not come to mind is them ever peeling away from eachother, even to talk, even to breathe. I was well beyond the point of screaming "get a room" at this point. I more wanted to yell "someone call 911." Given my overall shock however, I was forced to just watch the entire moment climax, and then slip away into oblivion, forever to be remembered as the time I realized that public affection is okay.

Public death by mutual tongue strangulation however, is not.
Thank God they were wearing clothes.

Circus K

I recently visited what I have grown to refer to as "My Circle K."

I imagine at this point that we all have one or two that we call our own. In the age of the almighty Starbucks and the infestuous Wal-Greens, we seem to have forgotten, or at least have taken for granted the original King of Convenience. This is, in my observation quite unfortunate for us. For while high society may look with scorn upon the decomposing vestige that is the Circle K, lower society hasn't. And by lower society I mean those both less intellectually fortunate, and less economically fortunate.

Now before anyone gets there silk panties twisted into their posterior, I wish to mention here that I frequent the Circle K; almost daily, for my convenience needs. I am not implying that the only clientele that the K has are those mentioned above, any more than I am implying that the only people who frequent Starbucks are top notch cognitively healthy people; they aren't, believe me.

All I am implying, and I hope my subtlety is not lost here, is that the Circle K has become quite an entertaining venue. A place where the natural world can play out its most Darwinistic art for the greater aesthetic good of an evolved society. Go back to a Circle K sometime, you will see what I mean.

Anyhow, this post regards a moment in my life a couple of nights ago when I visited my Circle K. I had gotten the bottle of water that I wanted from the cooler, and had made my way into line. As I was standing there, pretending to mind my own business, I watched a Tucson Fire Department truck pull up directly behind the gas pumps. Now this in itself is no strange occurrence at my Circle K. There are always police and firefighters and EMTs and security guards. So this is nothing new.

Until I began to listen to the conversation of the Circle K associates behind the counter, as they purposefully make no secret any of the stores shenanigans. The lady who was ringing, I'm sure she has a name but I do not know it now nor do I think I ever will, was saying to her comrade that some customer at the gas pump had called the fire department for assistance.

Here the questions come flying into my brain. Why on earth, other that a fire involving toxic fumes, which were nowhere to be seen, would anyone call the fire department out to a Circle K?

Well, fortunately I was able to learn through observation and strategic question asking exactly what happened. Apparently the man who called for help had shoved the gas pump in his truck in a way that would not allow him to retrieve it again. That's right, I said it.

Some dude got a gas nozzle stuck in his pickup truck and had to call the fire department to help him get it out.

I am truly sorry for this man in so many more ways than one. It will take much more than a fire department to help him through life, and sadly I won't be there to witness most of it. But that's alright. At least I have this moment with him. He will forever be remembered, like the mighty Achilles, only in a much different context.

A Quick Change Of Pace

Originally I had intended to post the most crazy customer experience I may have had that day, for five days a week; with my current job being the sole contributor.

I think I'm realizing rather quickly that I may not face a debacle a day worthy of writing a hefty and meaningful piece on. So, with the consent of my comrade I have already changed the dynamic of the Daily Crazy (yes within the first month of operation, that's just how I roll) to include consumers of the psychotic persuasion from all walks of the service sector.

No longer should you look to find only Starbucks customers here, but customers from each and every retail outlet that we may grace from day to day.

This will be an adventure that rides us on the winds of Valhalla all the way to Olympus. The gods will be jealous of the insanity we witness.

And we are willing to bring all of this to you, free of charge. Unless you want to pay us for some ungodly reason. If that's the case I have connections. Just let either of us know. If you do decide to pay us I can assure you that we will make it worth you while, if you know what I mean.
I hope you know what I mean because I don't.

Anyway, point is that we are now on the lookout for all crazy all of the time and are committed to presenting it to you in the most entertaining form possible, until we are blue in the face.

200 Degree Mocha Lady

Here she is folks, the very first dishonorable mention in the Daily Crazy.

200 degree mocha lady has beaten out the tough competition she faced while I was deciding who was going to be our cherry popper. She should feel proud, really.

200 degree mocha lady is crazy. She has been coming to our store (despite hopeful threats to stop doing so) for far too long now, and boy how she hates me! So sad.
She almost always runs her lazy ass through the drive-thru, which I really shouldn't complain about because this way I usually don't have to deal with her; and she always orders the exact same thing:

"I want a tall mocha, 200 degrees with whipped cream."

Seems harmless enough. Bear in mind that this is the same lady that used to order 182 degree mochas before she decided that they just weren't quite hot enough for her. 182, not 180 or 185, but 182. Hmmm.

Everytime she comes through and I am playing in the drive-thru, I have the same routine. I begin to steam the milk, I prep the cup with all of the fixins and then I turn to my co-worker (whoever that may be) and I say, "Aaahhhhhhhwww, I can't stand this woman."
Once I have gotten that very necessary meloncholic groan off my chest, I begin to steam the milk. Not to two hundred degrees mind you, but to the point where the temperature can no longer be physically raised . To the point where you push the button to continue steaming and the damn lactose substance explodes in your eyes like a seemingly innocuous chemistry project gone mournfully awry. I then grab the spoon that one uses to separate the milk from the foam, heat it up under the 195 degree water tap, then pour the milk into her cup. I then top with whipped cream and graciously hand her her beverage.

Here is where I usually begin my downward descent into hopeless anger. She takes the tasty beverage, presses it against her cracked and souring lips, and partakes. And inevitably each and every time, she looks back at us through the open window and says, in a Bette Midler in the movie Hocus Pocus type of way, "this isn't hot at all."

This isn't hot at all?
Are you @#$*ing kidding me?
I can physically, scientifically get the milk no hotter. Milk, being mostly water has roughly the same boiling point; which is approximately 212 degrees Fahrenheit. As I have said before, I pay no attention to the actual temperature of the milk while I am steaming, I just let her rip and stop only when it is no longer safe to continue. So the milk is as hot as is humanly possible, unless she would like to try and drink the vapors that a higher temperature would create.

I have told her this before. I have actually said, in the most cordial voice I have, "mam, it is physically impossible to get your milk any hotter than I have made it." She looked at me with hate in her eyes and said "I know that." Then she proceeded to tell me that if I simply put the milk into a larger pitcher and let it boil over for a longer period of time, that it would be hotter.

So by putting it in a bigger pitcher and letting it boil over, I can defy the laws of physics. Richard Feynman is kicking himself in the nuts right now.

What kills me is this lady is a highschool teacher. Charged with guiding the youth of America to lead us to a better lot. Son of a B are we in trouble.

200 degree mocha lady is Hitler's long lost niece.
I am only too happy to have known of her existence, as she has given me the opportunity to tell the world that she is a crackpot, and if you ever have the chance to meet her...
I am sorry.