--Toney went out and bought a new coffee maker this week.The old one was pretty cool, it was the kind where you press
your mug up against a dispenser, and hot coffee just comes shooting
out.No carafe to
break, and no hot plate to turn your good ol’ Eight O’Clock
fresh-roasted into something straight out of a 1970’s Kentucky
convenience store.
But the thing was old and had started shedding water.Before we went to bed at night we’d set it up to begin
brewing at 5:30
am,
and while we slept half the water in the reservoir would seep out.So we’d stumble downstairs to find half a pot of incredibly
strong diarrhea coffee, and water all over, as one of my aunts used to
say, carnation.
I looked at it, and it didn’t appear a hose had come loose, or
anything like that.There
was just a slow-leak from God knows where, and it was making us go grrrrr.
So Toney was at Sam’s a few days ago, and bought a brand new
fancy-ass Cuisinart model.It’s
all shiny and chrome and whatnot, and features more knobs and gauges
than a Boeing 737.You can
actually adjust the temperature of the hot plate, which is something
I’d never seen before, and I’m almost certain there’s a
headphone jack, for some reason.
Toney read the instruction manual from cover to cover, and is now
certified to operate the apparatus.I, on the other hand, am not; I didn’t read shit.
She gave me a quick overview of how it works, and I didn’t care for
those ridiculous ice cream cone-shaped filters.And I’m not accustomed to turning knobs and sliding levers,
like I’m producing a Doobie Bros. album, while making a pot of
coffee.But I was
convinced I knew the basics.
So this morning, when I saw we were almost empty, I decided to step to
the plate.And something
went horribly wrong...
Somehow, and I still don’t understand it, coffee was coming out of
the machine and not a drop of it was making it into the carafe.It was just running across the top of the thing, and down the
sides, like it was a pumpkin or something. And
when the liquid hit the hot plate there was a godawful carrying-on,
just really loud sizzling and popping and whistling…
Toney came running from another part of the house hollering, “What
did you do?!”
And now it’s not pristine anymore; I’ve tainted our fancy new
Cuisinart.There’s
probably shit baked into crevices, and coffee down in the works of the
thing...Because,
apparently, I forgot to throw open an intake valve, or properly engage
a flywheel, or something along those lines.
Call me a radical if you’d like, but I don’t think it should be necessary to have an engineering degree from Stanford to make coffee.I really don’t.
--I watched an entire
baseball game this week, Braves vs. Phillies, and that’s something
that almost never happens anymore.The game didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped (the Phillies
won), but it was fun watching it.
During the early innings Toney was in the room, and we started talking
about baseball mascots.I
saw that big ol’ Phillie Phanatic running around, with that thing
shooting in and out of its, um, mouth, and I couldn’t believe it’s
still around.I figured
that deal had gone away in the early 1980s.
Anyway, we were talking about the old Braves mascot, Chief Nokahoma.Get it, Nokahoma?The
guy lived in a teepee in the outfield of Fulton County Stadium, and
would come out and do a war dance every time a Braves player would
“knock a homer,” wearing a full headdress and face paint, and the
whole nine yards.
Heh. The
only things missing were public drunkenness, casino gambling, and
tax-free cigarettes.
Then there was the San Diego Chicken.That thing was all the rage in the 1970s, when I was a
youngling, and would occasionally make appearances at the minor league
baseball park in Charleston.
One time my friend Tim and I were there while the Chicken was
“performing.”We were
standing on the left field side of the stadium, leaning against the
fence, and watching that thing pretend to pee on the umpires, and do
hand-springs, and all the stupid shit it was famous for.
And when he was running off the field, he went right past us.Somebody in the stands yelled something about the umps, and the
guy inside the chicken suit, said, “Yeah, I think they’re all
blind out there.”
And it was the gayest, most Will
& Grace poofter voice I’d ever heard in my life.I mean, it was something that brought to mind mincing, prancing,
sashaying, and other related activities.
All Tim and I could do was look at each other, blink real fast, and
try to pretend it never happened.
This also led to a discussion about a local radio station mascot, some
half-baked deal known as the V100 Chocolate Moose.
During live broadcasts this so-called Moose would always be there,
marching around and waving at cars and doing all its exaggerated
movements.One time my
friend Bill and I were out drinking (go figure), and rode past the
Moose hamming it up outside Rax Roast Beef, along Route 60 in South
Charleston.
For some reason there were three or four softballs in the cab of
Bill’s pick-up, and we decided we’d like to hurl one at that
stupid manimal.So I got
in the back of the truck, we circled around, and I let one of those
balls fly with as much relish as I could muster.
And it struck the Chocolate Moose square in the gut.That thing instantly buckled over at the waist, gasping for air, and we laughed so hard I thought our lungs might
collapse.Shit, I’m
laughing right now, just thinking about it…
And that’s just about going to do it for today, children. If, on the off-chance, you have any stories to tell about
mascot abuse, or anything of that sort, use the comments link below.
In the meantime, I’m going to turn it over to our good friend Brad,
who, thank God, has something new and extra-good for us today.Right here.
