When it was pouring rain this morning I was mildly annoyed at not being able to ride my bike to work. But maybe it was fate. Because I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this tableau I passed by on the walk home: In the front patio area of the Golden Bear, a questionable bar on Grand Avenue frequented by Raiders fans with very loud motorcycles there were three dudes and a chick hanging out . One dude was holding a plastic bag with a head of iceberg lettuce in it. As they conversed loudly about whatever Golden Bear patrons converse about, all 4 people repeatedly reached into the plastic bag and tore off and ate chunks of the lettuce. Awesome.
Archive for February, 2007
Last week, in anticipation of an internet-free trip to Mendocino, I headed to the OPL Main Branch to check out a couple guidebooks so we’d have some place to look up good hiking and wine-tasting places while on the road. “The Mendocino: The Ultimate Wine and Food Lover’s Guide” was on the shelf. I flipped through, and, having glanced at the copyright date to make sure it was of recent vintage, decided to check it out. Awesome!
Once we were en route, I pulled it out to verify the address of a winery, and I happened to look at the copyright date again. Which was 1997. Which was TEN YEARS AGO. As we discovered the hard way, more than one establishment had changed its address and/or hours of operation in the intervening decade.
It wasn’t so much that I felt like an ass; I just felt old. In the coot-brain, 1997 is like, last year. When I read the date, I genuinely thought it was a great find: such a recent publication!
To be honest, 1988 is also a signal bouy of recentness in my fuzzy conception of the timeline. I think it must be because that was the first year I was really conscious of the Presidential election (elementary school in-class mock voting results: Bush-1, Dukakis-29), and that memory is tied to “88″. Since I recently realized that babies born in that year are now in college I’ve been trying to recalibrate my temporal sensors, but it looks like it might be a lost cause.
At least the pictures in the book were pretty.
The coffee/sandwich shop directly across the street from my workplace has pretty lousy coffee, but of course I go there anyway because it’s directly across the street and because a large coffee is only a dollar. It’s the kind of operation frequented exclusively by local office workers between 7:30am and 4:30pm. It’s a place that thrives on routine; where the dudes behind the counter know everybody’s name, where they work, their coworkers’ names, and what sandwich the get every day, whether it’s the turkeywrapspinachtortillanoonionsyeshotsauce or my favorite (to hear ordered, not to eat) the croissantwithbaconandeggandcreamcheese.
Today I went in with my dollar, and upon proceeding to the condiment island, not only did I NOTICE that the stainless steel milk jugs had brand new labels on them, I was momentarily, involuntarily EXCITED because they looked so fresh and nice (the new ones are black on a white rectangle and the old ones were just die-cut black lettering). Good Lord!
In late December, they switched paper cup brands. Not only did I notice, I thought about it A LOT. The old cups were plain white with white lids. It was nice and simple. It assured you that the coffee wasn’t putting on any airs. It made it seem like a bargain.
The new cups suck. They are purple with black lids and all busied up with pictures of steaming coffee cups and words like “espresso” and ugly swirls. They’re the same cups that the convenience store/deli down the street, which has truly attrocious coffee, uses. I searched online and discovered that they’re the Solo brand “Bistro” design.
Seeing those cups made me not want to drink the coffee anymore. Maybe it was the visual association with the crap coffee down the road. Maybe it was that the faux-artsy design and bold colors implied a richness and quality within that was not being delivered.
What was a girl to do?
The solution ended up being pathetically simple. I did what I should have been doing all along. I dredged up a travel mug from the depths of the breakroom and started carrying it across the street. The coffee’s still cruddy’ the travel mug is hideous, and seeing the “Bistro” cups on the counter still gets my dander up, but I just soothe myself with self-righteous congratulations on what a good little eco-citizen I am.
