Lightly Roasted

They say that the most flavorful coffee comes with a longer roast. I beg to differ.

If you’ve never had the opportunity to see coffee being roasted from its raw state, you’re not missing much.  Essentially, the beans go into what looks like a commercial laundromat dryer for a set amount of time determined by the desired outcome. While the beans are being tumbled, the little casings on each one falls off and is dried at a much faster pace, and removed through a vent. The color changes from green, to light brown, to dark brown in the most severe cases. Burning it. You’re God Damn burning it! I learned all of this at Pedal Pusher’s Café in Lanesboro many years ago. It was a mess, and I’m glad I wasn’t responsible for cleaning it up. Or, at the very least, I didn’t clean it up.

Anyhow, I’m writing this because I want to portray for you why I like light roast coffee. First, I think it has much more flavor. When it comes to steak, I’m the same way. Some people would say that a steak that has been charred has the most flavor, but what has really happened is the piquancy has changed from meat, to char. They sell whole bags of charcoal if you’re into that sort of taste. It is my belief that the closer you can get to raw when it comes to anything perishable, the closer you are to its true essence.

I’m sitting here at Nina’s Coffee Café on Selby and Western in St. Paul. I come here every weekend for a few reasons. First, it’s a good place to sit down and type. I could do that anywhere, but the second reason is that here, I’ve found the world’s most perfect cup of coffee. And although the country from which it comes is different every week, I know that when I sit down and take my first sip, I’ll taste something closer related to a berry than a campfire. It’s sweet, bitter, and full of life. It’s not complex. The true flavor of coffee has been hidden behind a dark roast for far too long, and I love that they have this option here. Yes, other coffee shops have light roasts, but there is no comparison for me: this is it.

One significant difference I’d like to point out is the higher level of caffeine in a lighter roast. The good stuff is burned out more the longer you roast. As I down the last sip of my first cup of the day, a bead of sweat forms above my brow so I know it’s working. When I was in prison, many of us would drink Folgers Crystals in relatively excessive fashion, because that was the only form of buzz we could create. In St. Cloud especially, I would mix water and crystals 50/50 and chug it because it would get me all jittery, a feeling I had been familiar with up until my incarceration. I was attempting to recreate a high. Of course that’s not possible, and the actual result was just me sitting and sweating in a hot concrete and steel cage writing out my life story with the pages sticking to my arms. There was no relief from the heat in that place unless you had enough money to buy a fan, which I did not. So, I would strip down to my tightey-whiteys, put a towel on the cement floor, and pace back and forth. There was no relief, but it was something to do. I remember being jealous of the gangsters and pimps who would make their bitches[i] send them money for T.V.s and fans, and comfortable clothing. If only I had been a womanizer, maybe I could have enjoyed my stay in prison.

But I digress. It looks as if it’s going to be a beautiful, if not hot day, so I’m going to go home and get Willie and head to the river.

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[i] This is not how I refer to women. It is exactly the term used by many men in prison. In this case, the truth would probably sound racist coming from a white male, so I will say that the people in prison that most commonly referred to women as bitches were a dark roast.

Fire

I thought I'd share this post from the old  because I'm being lazy. That's it. I wrote it in treatment and it describes my worst 24 hours. In fact, there were probably worse but this is the experience I chose to write about. So, enjoy 

I’ve been free for a week now, and I have written very little. I decided to take a look in my treatment folder for some inspiration, and I found it right in front. This was written by me early on in treatment nearly six months ago. It’s a story from a long time ago, when I lived in Richfield. It is true to the best of my knowledge. My memories aren’t always clear, and the incident occurred while I was very near a blackout. I’m not proud of this particular incident, but I wrote about it because it had a substantial impact on my life, and the treatment assignments required an honest look back on the terrible times I put myself through. I will type it as it is. Here goes….
The worst 24 hours of my life occurred all the way back in the year 2000. 15 years ago I was in the worst alcoholic stage of my life. Drinking all day every day when I wasn’t working. My habit was supported by my girlfriend who worked as the manager at a liquor store and could steal anything I needed, which was a lot.
Cupboards well stocked that same girlfriend of two years left me because, well, I was a horrible drunk piece of shit boyfriend. She packed up while I was in jail for a D.U.I. warrant, fortunately for me, she left all of the alcohol. It took me three minutes to assess the situation and then I began drinking. Oh, I was also in the process of being evicted from our apartment. Based on those two things, I went into destruction mode. Something I am well known for is doing really dumb stuff when drunk….
I started by going into the laundry/storage room, looking for something I could use to make a mess of things. I saw some ceiling paint and the ideas started forming. I saw a few things I wanted to bring back across the hallway into my apartment for decoration. A huge drill, a fire extinguisher (I’ve never seen one work), and the paint. Before I left that room, however, I decided to fuck up the washing machines and dryers. I put a gallon of paint, equally into the two dryers and started them on high heat. I decided not to waste any more paint so the washing machines were spared. I know I can’t remember everything from that long ago, but I think I left the room at that point.
Back in the apartment I fixed myself a classy drink. What that means is I didn’t use a glass or a mixer. Straight vodka. I had finished half of a 1.75 litre bottle. I found out what fire extinguishers do. They make a lot of noise and fill the room with a cloud of powder. I opened up a window, then realized people driving by might mistake the escaping cloud for a fire. I closed the window.
I assume this is where most writers would transition. Not me. I got the idea to start a little fire of my own so I went into the stairwell and lit the cord for the sliding drapes that must have been 15 feet tall. It really didn’t do too much but after some waiting, the individual sections of the plastic curtain began falling down. Cool! The fire never got big or at all out of hand, but the falling curtains did make a lot of noise and there was some smoke and a tenant came out into the hallway to check it out. Mind you this was pretty early A.M. She saw me and I mumbled something and ran back to my apartment. In less than five minutes I started hearing the sirens. Shit, two fire trucks and an ambulance and of course, a police car.
I knew I was fucked so I really started hitting the bottle. I’m talkin bout hammered drunk. Things are starting to get blurry, both back then, and now as I try to look back.
After who knows how long, there was a knock at the door. I opened the door for the officer and gestured for him to come in. He knew that I knew why he was there. We sat in the living room where I had not yet done any damage. I don’t remember how the conversation went and I got up maybe five or six times to have another swig while he was asking questions and I think at some point I said I lit the fire.
In my mind I formulated a plan of escape. On my next trip to the freezer for a drink, I zigged instead of zagged and left through the front door and up a short flight of stairs to the rear entrance to the building. With no shoes or socks on I ran like hell. For about ten feet. On my third or fourth step, I shattered my left ankle and immediately went down. I crawled around to the side of the garage and around the back and hid under a car to wait out the cop. I never know if he actually looked for me, or just left
After a bit I started walking down to a gas station through the back side of houses and apartment complexes. The plan was to call for a ride. Somewhere along the way I met a nice man that gave me a pair of boots. I must have looked like a lunatic. I got to the station and used the phone then went into the public restroom to wait.
After 15 minutes I decided to bring the bathroom key back inside. Coming back to the side of the building, I heard tires screech. The cop pulled right up to me and got out. I tried to run but couldn’t. I made it two steps when I was tackled to the ground by the huge police officer. He punched me in the ribs and yelled, “Nobody runs from me!” And that is when somebody pissed in my pants. And off to jail I went.
In the end I was charged and convicted of 3rd degree arson. Sentenced to five years’ probation, and sat in the lockup for 60 days. I was never charged or even asked about the destruction in the apartment other than the fire. It was a horrible day in my life. I’ve had many bad days, but that was my worst.

The Round Up

The overall success rate in the program of A.A. is estimated at somewhere between 5-10%, probably around 6%. Roughly one in 15 people who walk through the doors is able to become and stay sober. Yesterday I was surrounded by over 6,000 people who had made the decision to quit drinking. It was cool.

There were meetings everywhere, food plentiful, and conversant faces all around at the Gopher State Round Up. Whatever XLIII means, that’s how many Round Up’s there have been. I had attended one previously in 2001 when I went with a group in Hazelden. I spent most of my time with a friend handing out pamphlets we had stolen from a kiosk to random people. We thought it was hilarious.

Yesterday, I went to a meeting right when I got there, and then began circling around the main court searching for food and friends. It only took a few minutes before so many memories came back.

Joe, Ben, and myself were alike in so many ways. We were fun, friendly, caring people, who had lost their way. We had all met nine or so years ago in Rochester shortly after I had come back from my cruise. Joe and I actually lived in the same duplex, and we started hanging out and drinking right away. It didn’t take too long after we had a conversation about never doing hard drugs again before we started doing hard drugs again. And that’s how we met Ben. Ben had drugs. Drugs, Ben, drugs.

Like I said, I was pretty fresh off the wagon, but I started hitting it pretty hard. Within a few weeks, my group of friends had changed exclusively from one set to another. I could now stay up all night, because of the active ingredient in methamphetamine. And I used my new found time to play cards and search for agates with my new best friends. Truly, honestly, Joe and I became good friends even in the world of shit. And Ben began to come over, and we went to his place more often because I believe we offered an escape from the reality of his life as he knew it, and there was some comfort for him in having a place to just relax and get high with some “normal” people.

My life, my job, and my family were quickly slipping away, and that’s when I made the decision to start my career as a professional drug salesman. It looked easy, and I would surely reach peak popularity with the masses in no time at all. So naturally my life slipped away from me. I became isolated, alone, and afraid of every movement and sound. People became my enemy, and everything was being stripped away from me at an alarming rate. My pride, my dignity, my self-esteem were all washed away with every hit I took. I could see myself wasting away in the mirror, and I weighed in at 135 pounds. I could see my heart beating through my chest.

Flash forward nearly a decade as I’m wandering through the poolside area of the largest sober get together in Minnesota, and I’ll be damned, there they were. I saw Ben first. He turned when I said his name and I don’t think it quite clicked, I mean it had been a while. That’s when I saw Joe. That’s also when I couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. The last time I had seen these guys we were all so disheveled and desperate I definitely had thoughts that I never wanted to see them again shortly after I got out of that mess. But here they were, sober and smiling. And they had some time under their belts which I was happy to hear. I’m not going into details about an anonymous program but we spent a couple hours catching up and it was by far the highlight of my day, my week, maybe even since my release from prison.

We are part of the tiny little miracle: the 6%. I’ll finish by stating the obvious, that leaves 94% unaccounted for out there. Any of you who know somebody out there still struggling, there is hope. I found proof of that yesterday over and over. It’s never too late.

My Biggest Fan

Well, my only fan, really. Sometimes I’m inspired to write in the strangest ways. Last night I purchased a $13 oscillating fan from the king of stores, Walmart. It’s not so much the fan itself but the fact that it came with an owner’s manual that it recommended I read before trying to assemble the four components. Not just for assembly, however, this manual it is recommended I should keep for precisely one year, the extent of the warranty, at which time I have determined it would be safe probably to discard both the fan and its directives. At this time, I’m going to walk you through the manual so you may have a better understanding of its functions and dangers.

First, the warnings:

1.        To reduce the risk of electrical shock, do not use this fan with any solid-state speed control devices.   Sure. But what the fuck does that mean??? Google says that it’s pretty much like a light dimmer. Or, kind of like the switch on the fan if you ask me. But why would I get shocked if I plugged it in to the wrong outlet that happened to be controlled by a light dimmer? Great question.

2.       If the power cord is damaged, it is strongly recommended to request a specialist to handle.   So, if the cord on a $13 fan is broken, I should pay $100 to get it fixed? This is how I read that. I am now switching careers from laminating expert to Walmart fan cord replaceman. I just made up that word and Microsoft hates it.

3.       This appliance has a polarized plug (one blade is wider than the other). To reduce the risk of electric shock, this plug is intended to fit in a polarized outlet only one way. If the plug does not fit fully in the outlet, reverse the plug. If it still does not fit, contact a qualified electrician. Do not attempt to defeat this safety feature.   Well there goes my fun Saturday afternoon. Instead of trying to defeat the safety feature of a cord on a fan, I now have to contact a Walmart fan cord replaceman, and a qualified electrician. The bills are starting to add up. This is an expensive fan.

4.       Do not leave fan running unattended.   Fuck! Now I have to pay my cousin to watch the damn thing while I go to work. This is the worst fan I have ever purchased. And I haven’t even gotten to the rules for safe operation yet.

Rules for Safe Operation

1.       Never insert fingers, pencils, or any other objects through the fan housing when the table fan is running. Unplug the fan when moving it from one location to another.   The first sentence is logic, the second blew me away. I kept trying to move the fan but it wouldn’t go any farther than three feet from the wall. It’s as if it was somehow connected to it. And now I know.

2.       To avoid overturning, be sure the fan is on a stable surface when operating it.   No shit?

3.       Disconnect he(sic) fan before cleaning.   Now that we’re assigning gender to a table fan, I suppose it wants rights.

4.       To reduce risk of electrical shock DO NOT use fan near a window.   Does anybody remember the old S.N.L. commercial for Happy Fun Ball? This fan seems to come with just as many warnings.

5.       Do not use fan in a window, rain may create an electrical hazard.   Was instruction #4 not clear enough about the windows? In a window, near a window, I get it now.  

6.       Ensure that the fan is switched off from the supply mains before removing    And that is where it stops abruptly and switches over to Spanish. End scene.