Shots to Miles

A one-to-one ratio of espresso to miles provided not as interesting of a day as you might expect, proof enough that even the most staunch of advocates sometimes misses the high, yet still chases.

Sometimes, you taste more shots because the first two were shit. Sometimes, you drink more because that sushi left you in a coma, and it's 11:30. And then, what's another two? These actually taste good, after all. And then another two for the road, of course, all the better to prepare for the miles to come.

And then those miles. You here about this supposed runner's high, a thing you've perhaps experienced, but more likely, missed. People tell me that often, suggesting that they must be doing it wrong. I don't think that's the case. I simply think that sometimes things aren't fun. The people we love sometimes agitate us, and the things we love sometimes fail to give us the elation we seek.

Sometimes, the miles suck. Your legs never loosen, and those knots in both your calves only tighten. The concrete hurts more than usual, and someone yells something vaguely insulting, probably, but you couldn't really hear for sure, from their car.

But you go on. You click off the miles, one at a time, because the miles don't care about what hurts, or about your various anxieties or neurosis. The miles are a great cosmic apathy, immune to the desires of the petty humans who would measure themselves thusly. They are a cold, infinite mountain, the faces of which people will eternally scale, no summit to seek.

The miles don't care, but you do, and so you go on. You finish, eat, and write about it. You go to bed and dream of the shots and miles to come, the shots and miles that as of yet can all be perfect, profound.  You chase the horizon, and in that pursuit, there is meaning.

Heavy Ass Weights

You could be forgiven if, looking at Ronnie Coleman, you took him as a poor source for wisdom. This is why I've not included a picture of him here - though you can certainly Google all you like. Ronnie was a 7 time Mr. Olympia, and as such, looked to most eyes a grotesquely massive figure. This is not the aesthetic people associate with pithy quotes to live by. And yet, he gives us this:

"Everybody wants to be a bodybuilder, but nobody wants to lift no heavy ass weights"

You can cross apply this to nearly anything. "Everybody wants to be a marathoner, but nobody want to do no long ass training runs", perhaps? 

But this isn't a running post, and it certainly isn't a bodybuilding post. It's not really a coffee post either, specifically. Though it could be all of those things, or anything else, if you wanted it to be. 

It's a post about this: Don't consider the end goal, so much as the process. If you don't lift said heavy ass weights, you aren't going to get jacked. (Steroids help.) If you don't run long, you won't race long. So find something you like doing, do it, commit to working your ass of at it, and see where it gets you. This is not to say that your work will always be fun; but if it's meaningful, if it matters to you and adds value to your life, you'll do it. 

And you'll get there, wherever there is. 

Resolved

We see and here a lot about New Year's resolutions this time of year. People make them and question their utility at the same time, defeating themselves before they begin. This is not surprising. Specific goals are hard to meet; all but that outcome will feel a failure. And non specific goals are hard to chase; how do you plot a course without a destination?

And yet we continue. We continue to give voice to our desires, to put in words our hopes for what we can become. We do this so that we might be held accountable, both by ourselves and others. Once a thing is stated, it is made real. And then it cannot be unmade. The venture will either succeed or fail; but in either case, it will be.

I have to say that I like that sentiment. What I don't like is that it's relegated to the beginning of each year. The utility of such things extends to every day, not merely those that mark the successful circumnavigation of the sun.

"We are what we repeatedly do," said Aristotle. "Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit."

And so it is that every day we make resolutions, decisions that craft the narrative of our lives. We become what we do.

All of that having been said, my resolutions for 2013 are the same as they were for 2012: I want to read great things, to make great coffee, and to run well. But those are the things you do every day anyway, one might protest. To that I would simply say: Precisely.

Today

It is December 27, a day that is not regarded as anything but a moment in time between two MOMENTS IN TIME, Christmas and the New Year. It is a day spent recovering from long drives to distant relatives so that one can sustain a night of relatively sterile partying that your 18-year-old self would merely call pre-gaming. And then it's off to 2013, full of possibilities and resolutions, things do to and things to be.

Today is December 27, a day without any meaning - except that which you give it. Maybe you make your resolution a few days early; maybe you simply make the change. Becoming is a process best started in the ever present NOW, since it's all we live in anyway. The future is always the future; today you can say tomorrow forever.

But I'm not writing about plans for weight loss, job security, or any such thing. I don't pretend to have any particular wisdom or life coaching credentials beyond this one: I know how to enjoy a moment accompanied by coffee, how to enjoy the coffee itself. I know how to enjoy the process of making it, to indulge the ritual. I can look at the oil swirling on the surface, and know that there are impossibly complex things taking place. It is a beverage of endless complexity and yet so basic.

I know how to take this day - any day - and create something beautiful. It isn't forever - nothing is - but the sensation is real; the meaning is real.

Resolve to do the same. Resolve to give yourself that time and that pleasure, to find beauty and meaning in simple things. Resolve that happiness is a decision you make right now, not 6 inches to be lost by next year or a debt to be payed off.

It is December 27, a moment in time. It is just a day. It is just a day. It is 24 hours of life, an impossible set of circumstances conspiring to make THIS; and here it is. It is opulence and luxury and opportunity beyond words; and here it is.

Being Easy

Running and pulling shots matter a great deal to me, and are thus the primary concern of this blog. Both endeavors, though hands on, are still largely about speed. To be a good runner is to be a fast runner, of course. And although there is growing tolerance for pour over bars and other "slow coffee" methods, most customers want their drink within a 90 second window. And that's fine.

In some ways, it's become more than fine. It's become a set of circumstances to which I am so well adapted that, when they are absent, it feels as if something vital is missing. Without the urge to GO, to get shit done quickly, precisely, and exactly, I feel like something of a bum. Life without grindtamppullsteampournext is lacking something, and it's noticeable, even for this one week.

There is a place for such activity, and value in embracing it. I don't think I'll ever rid myself of the pleasure I get from manic activity, from simply doing things. But there is value in not doing such things as well, in inaction and stillness. And that's something I've never quite been able to embrace, though I'm realizing, more and more, that I really ought to.

I took a three hour walk today, out by the lake. There is a trail there which I run a great deal, but I'd never walked it before. It was cold and somewhat wet, the sky tinged with a soft grey. There was snow and the ground too, and a little ice. It felt like Winter. I had rice, beans, and coffee, then set off. I didn't take my phone or an MP3 player and there were no cars nearby. There was the crunch of my feet on the dirt, the ice crystals cracking beneath me. Otherwise it was silent. My only company was the skeletons of trees and the wind, omnipresently pressed up against my face, finding its way inside my coat. I got cold but embraced the sensation, feeling just that one thing and not really minding anything else. I thought about nothing and did nothing but walk.

It was a spectacularly useless afternoon spent doing nothing of any value at all and yet I feel very good having done it. I feel refreshed, as if my mind had been thirsty for such a thing and had now drank its fill.

A customer once told me to be easy and I think he was right.

Things Change and Life Goes On Unless a Shark Eats You

We spend most of our lives, not finding ourselves, but finding shit to busy ourselves. It changes a lot and that's cool. 

In my youth, I went from basketball (shitty at it) to riding my BMX around (shitty at that too) to sitting on my ass and reading (this never changed and boy, at least I've always been good at it) to college where I took up lifting (which I actually got kinda good at until I exploded a non-essential organ) and coffee (still truckin') and running (fucking foot still hurts). 

So that's me. I'm 24 and probably not done exploring obsessions. If this blog still exists in 10 years we may find that I've traded in running for something else. I doubt it - heaven is at 120-150 BPM, a nice easy cruising heart rate - but you never know. Maybe there is a Zumba instructor inside of me waiting to burst out. Maybe my Crossfit mocking will redirect in to a passionate love for kipping pullups. Maybe I will overcome my crippling fear of sharks and move to some isolated beach and surf my life away - until I get eaten by a giant fucking shark because god that could totally happen. Think about it. (True aside: I will never, ever do a triathlon, because I couldn't possibly swim in a lake. Any water that I can't stand in and isn't totally clear is just not happening. There could be big gnarly things that could eat you in it and you can't tell me otherwise. Also, triathlon tights look funny.)

Maybe I will learn to write personally and with real verve without relying on profanity. But you know, probably not. 

Coffee though, that's sticking around. I'm going to keep drinking it because it's awesome and also I have a crippling addiction to it. I will continue to obsess over a great cup and beautiful shots and god help me, if I can't keep making those things for money I will have to find a damn fine shop. After spending a few years pulling shots to your exact tastes, trusting the process to someone else would surely take time. 

But I'll probably have to spend it one day - it's only a question of when. I imagine I will not live out the rest of my life as a barista, because people just don't. Maybe that's accepting a stupid paradigm, but whatever. Someday I will maybe wear a tie to work, but god I hope not, because what a stupid piece of clothing that is. Think about it. It's a random piece of pointy cloth dangling from your neck and strangling you a little bit all day. AWESOME. 

For now though, I'm happy doing what I'm doing, wearing t-shirts to work and sometimes even wearing the same one two days in a row. I'm so hardcore. 

College Town

KU's academic semester is coming to an end, and as it goes, so goes a great deal of my business. When people call Lawrence a "college town", what they mean is that there is a certain youthful, hipster vibe to the coffee shops, and a certain broish, douchey vibe to the bars. There are art galleries and a skate park and other things that are maybe not what you expect from the place everyone still knows as Dorothy's home state.

But literally, it means that a great deal of Lawrence's population is transient, gone for several months out of the year. Business owners/managers do not forget this fact, I promise, because of the financial impact it makes.

And so here we are, creeping towards that money sapping 40 days or so without students, and I'm thinking a lot about it. Both how the shop will do and how I will do, because I'm somewhat neurotic about things in general, and it's my job to be neurotic about this thing specifically.

But I can't, just can't, focus on that entirely. I can't think of these people as merely potential purchases, because I've seen them too damn much recently, and, uh, feelings and stuff? I've written about this before, as you may recall. If you haven't, that post went very much like this one seems to be going. I talk about how I genuinely, like, care or something, and mention that the prospect of never seeing certain regulars again is not entirely a pleasant sensation.

So I'm not going to rehash that post. It's here, if you care to read it. My post count is getting somewhat high on this blog, as I've maintained a decent output for about three years now. Still, that post sticks out as one my better offerings, so I dare say it's worth your time.

So, one semester later, and we're doing that dance again. I'm saying goodbye to people forever in my usual flippant ways, wishing that I could convey something beyond the icy apathy that seems to come out. But for all of my (sometimes fairly personal) writing here, I'm not very good at being forthcoming in person. So I say thanks, and return to work, mostly so I don't have to say anything else. I go over alternate lines in my head, contemplating another universe in which I'd actually say something. But I just rinse the pitcher.

Life goes on. I know that, and all of my beatnik pop-zen reading reinforces it. People come and go, and so do we. Our lives are all better off for our interactions and experiences, and so we go to acquire new ones, to add to our life's scrapbook.

It's just nice, I guess, to have people tell you nice things, to say that you were a bright spot in their day, every day, that you meant something to them. It's nice to hear it, and it's nice to aspire to it, to have a job where your expressed purpose is to be a sort of omnipresent friend. The coffee is great, of course, but maybe a bit beside the point. This job is really about the people, what you mean to them, and though we don't ever say it, what they mean to you.

What Matters

People complain about things, and that's fine. It happens, and it doesn't mean I - or anyone else - needs to pay it any mind. Still, I've been reading some high profile articles lately, damning the whole "foodie" thing, specialty coffee, fancy wine, etc. The argument, basically, is that we're latching on to relatively cheap indulgences to make ourselves feel privileged, that we're grasping at pseudo-elitism.

And while I understand that obsessing over single origin beans - or whatever other culinary delicacy you might fancy - is ultimately frivolous, I don't think that's what this is about. It is, rather, people being pissy that some people like things that they do not. Juvenile, yes, but just that simple.

Furthermore, we can be that reductive about anything, if we so choose. After all, people are dying right now, of starvation, disease, gunfire, etc. There are infinite cruelties being committed at this moment, at every moment, so we could easily decide to never enjoy anything.

But it just doesn't matter, they might protest. It's just coffee; it's not important. Well, sure. On a long enough timeline, whatever pleasure I derive from this beverage does not matter. In the grand scheme of things, it is totally irrelevant. But you know what? In a few thousand years, our cities will be gone, and so will we. The Universe is bigger than we are, so much bigger than we can possibly fathom. It doesn't care what coffee I drink, sure; but it doesn't care about anything anyone else does either.

This is neither fatalism or nihilism, however. I'm not saying that life and its pleasures don't matter to us - indeed, they are everything. So when I buy apples and sweet potatoes from local farmers, or Yirgacheffe from a local roaster, I'm not grasping at some imagined hipster ideal. I'm buying things that I like, from people I like, because it makes my life better, and there's too.

And, as much as anything ultimately can, that matters. I'm here, now, living the one life I know for sure I've got. It would be a shame to waste it drinking shitty coffee.

Remember to Forget

It's absurdly cliche for a man of my age, disposition, and occupation to find zen writings interesting, but here we are. While we're here, I'd like to share something with you, a poem I found on this blog.

To listen to the songs of birds, I skipped the evening meditation,

enjoyed a patch of grass by the edge of an ancient mountain stream.

Pleasure recollected depends on a beautiful phrase;
the appreciative mind meets with a close friend.

Spring water cries out in a rocky valley;
pine trees echo when wind is coming.

I drank a cup of tea and watched the flowing and stillness.
Quietly and naturally I seemed to forget the return of time.

-Cho Eui Seon, 18th century Korean poet, calligrapher, painter, tea-maker, and Taoist philosopher

I'd also like to ask why it is that tea has a monopoly on introspection, on meditation and relaxation. Furthermore, I'd like to posit that this need not be the case; that coffee can be enjoyed with such serenity; that it need not be a beverage relegated to hurried mornings and more frantic days; that it can, indeed, offer a respite from the maelstrom.

Try, if only once, to drink your coffee with the same attentiveness described in the poem. You may not forget time, but you'll likely remember what it's like to really enjoy coffee, rather than merely consume it.

Death at the Bar

"My doctor says I shouldn't have these. But I don't care. It's my life, and if I want them, I can have them."

I remember her vividly, leaning heavily against a cane. She was big, nearly immobile. Walking to our cafe seemed a great inconvenience for her, but she did, and there was no doubting why: She liked the drinks. Not all of them, mind you, but the seasonal ones. The fancy drinks with syrup, powdered something or other, and cream. She got one every week, no matter what it was, asking for extra syrup and extra whipped cream. Every time, she told us about her looming health crises, her diabetes, her blood pressure, her peripheral neuropathy. Her body was quitting, and not even slowly. She looked twice her 40 years, and talked openly about not seeing 50. She sorted her pills and took several of them, before getting the drink I had made, and then ambling to a nearby chair.

I always hated serving her. Not because I disliked her - although the above description isn't flattering, no could argue it isn't true - but because it was hard, in those moments, not feel some part the executioner. She knew better, and I knew that she knew it. Every time, she told me about her declining health, the numbers that were too high, or too low. And she was not ignorant as to why. She knew the constant and massive sugar infusions had put her body through metabolic hell, and that the damage was severe. She knew she needed to stop, if there was any hope at all, but she didn't. Maybe she couldn't. Addiction is a powerful thing, and sugar a potent narcotic. Or perhaps she had just given up. She never did elucidate the reason behind her continued unhealthy indulgences, beyond asserting that she wanted them, and that that was enough.

I don't pretend that mine is the tragedy here. She was dying, and she knew it. No matter the external front, that can't be an easy conclusion to make peace with. All I had to do was make the drink, and move on. I simply had to make peace with capitalism, with providing what was being paid for. Ultimately, I just had to do my job.

And is that really so hard? I got to sell an expensive drink to willing customer, an exchange of money for a good. It wasn't my fault, nor that of the company. We simply make the drinks; we don't make anyone drink them. And then there's moderation to consider. No one becomes diabetic on one splurge ever week. In fact, there was a bodybuilder who came in as often, and ordered the same sort of drink. He had veins in his biceps the size of my wrists, and looked as if he'd never so much as heard of body fat. Clearly, we weren't killing him.

I told myself those things. The guy working on the line at Chevy needn't feel guilty if someone wrecks his car, right? Even a gun manufacturer doesn't make anyone pull the trigger. She wants the drink, she can have the drink. Like she says, it's her life, she can live it how she wants. I told myself those things, and even believed them, mostly. But it's hard, still, whether it should be or not, to hand someone their death, even as they thank you and smile.

Appreciating Customers

I was watching CNN last night, in the wake of the Colorado shooting, spinning on an elliptical machine, still trying to will some pop back in to my fatigued legs. The anchor, I forget who, asked the guest, a congressman, something about potential legislation to prevent assault weapons from being so readily available. I forgot all of that, because I only remember than answer, or more specifically, the gist of it. The interviewee dodged, said that this was not the time to look for answers or solutions, but to mourn. "Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims," he said.

And, no disrespect to thoughts, prayers, or those who indulge in either, but neither of those save lives, especially after the fact. It's easy to feel sorry; it's a lot harder to do something, especially when that something might be politically disadvantageous. But going on TV, and saying how sad you are? That's good PR, not to mention damn easy.

If this feels like an out of place political rant, misplaced on a coffee blog, give me a second to bring things around, because I don't mean it to be.

I returned from an abbreviated long run this morning, feeling rejuvenated, drenched with sweat and pleasantly sore. Still, I couldn't help but think back to another part of last night's coverage. The segment focused on the suddenness of the whole thing, on how, as we always hear, people can be taken from you so quickly. There were significant others, friends, and parents, hysterical with grief. I changed the channel last night, and I changed my thoughts this morning. I couldn't help but feel voyeuristic on both occasions, watching from a comfortable distance.

So I logged on to Facebook, hoping to ground myself in the usual trivialities. There were those things, but here was also an update from a coffee shop I'm friends with, with a link to an obituary for a customer of theirs. (To be clear, his death was not related to the Colorado shooting.) Again, I found myself witness to the sadness of others, listening and reading about the ablation of life.

Humans are social creatures. This is not a revelation, and is basically accepted as fact by anyone with a passing interest in either anthropology or biology. But this job, standing opposite hundreds of people a day, many of them every day, uniquely satisfies that primordial piece of humanity. Sure, I give them coffee and they give me money, but there is a deeper exchange. We trade in stories, emotions, expressions and sometimes, nothing much at all beyond mere presence.

I'm not saying to hug your customers or obsess over the negative aspect of "you never know". What I am saying is that they are people who choose, however often, to involve themselves in your life, and you in theirs. Most of all, I'm saying that that's significant at the most basic and beautiful level, and we can't possibly appreciate it enough. Still, it can't hurt to try.

Coffee and Stories

This is going to be an explanatory post, of sorts, but will take a while to get to anything like a point. Mostly, it's about how working in coffee is pretty great.

As my tendency towards verbosity probably suggests, I like words. I like mine enough, but I like others' better. They take me places I'll never go and teach me things I'd never hear about otherwise. So yes, maybe those trips to the library in grade school worked, maybe Reading Rainbow influenced me that substantially. Or maybe there is something enduring about books - or more accurately, about stories.

The truth is, I'm not sure the medium matters too much. Though I read a lot, the majority of my consumption is via the internet, an endless bounty of words written about anything, and yes, everything. There are coffee blogs and running blogs, and it comes as no surprise that I like both. But there are others as well, and I like those too. These are blogs that deal with books - quite the mind-bender. It is writing about writing, and it's good. It helps me hone whatever skill I have, and more importantly, makes me aware of things with which to occupy my time.

That's because, for all the free words the internet offers, I still buy books - a lot of them. I enjoy books about things - anything, really. I'll read about climbing deaths on K2 and Wave Theory, and yes, I'll read about coffee and running. But as often, I like books that aren't about anything - except entertainment, or perhaps escapism.

This is not new to me. My earliest memories concern Batman action figures, Hobbits, and Han Solo. In that, I suppose I'm not unique. But that didn't change much, which maybe is slightly outside the norm. As I grew up, in some ways, I didn't. I still read Star Wars novels, and found other venues for "speculative fiction". (This is, if you've not heard, the PC name for nerdy things people make up. Apparently sci-fi and fantasy weren't cutting it.) I watched Cowoy Bebop until I could recite every episode title, in order, and was that kid, crouched down by the shelf, reading a pile of manga.

But again, I got older, and you're supposed to forget about these things, maybe, or at least hide it a little bit. Instead, I majored in English, and kept reading books about epic quests and orcs, kept wearing my Cowboy Bebop shirt to class. I made the requisite room for the authors you're supposed to read, but not too much, and certainly not enough to take Joe Abercrombie out of my life. Not enough, even, to keep me out of conventions filled with fat people with odd hair colors and cat ears.

Of course, nerdy things are somewhat chic, at the moment. The Avengers movie just made a billion dollars, and there's a new Batman movie on the horizon, which will probably do the same. But those people who spent Saturday night watching superheroes probably didn't watch 8-year-old episodes of Teen Titans, and then follow that up with Jupiter Jazz, part 1 and 2, my favorite Cowboy Bebop episode. (If, of course, I'm allowed to count a two-parter as one episode. I'm deciding to allow it.)

So, though I'm older now than I've ever been (funny how that always seems to be the case), nothing seems to have changed much. I like words, and I like stories.

And here we are, finally, at something like a point. Working behind a bar gives you an endless supply of both words and stories, people living out their lives, one day at a time, right across the counter. You know their drinks, and frequently, their life stories. But it's not even quite that simple. As often as the profound things stick with you, so do the absurd. And more often even than that, it's the mundane. We are social creatures, humans, and our shared identity is woven with these threads of interpersonal communication, of that one time your dog got out, or how you really liked a certain breakfast cereal. And yes, sometimes it is more obvious than that. Sometimes the conversations turn to physics, fiction, or the intersection of the two.

But there are stories, and there are people, making up my own dramatis personae. And there is espresso, without which I'd not have a cast half as dynamic. This isn't exactly the same as all of those books - it might even be better. Because this isn't escapism, and it doesn't end after 30 minutes with one final saxophone whine and a "See you, space cowboy".

24

So I wrote this one year ago, and it's a bit of a trip to go back and read it. It's odd, because I know that guy, and he even sounds a lot like me. But there is an undercurrent there, a suggestion that maybe, he is trying to convince someone of something. Maybe, he doesn't quite believe in what he's doing, so he needs to sell it. And that isn't me, not now.

This, then, is what it feels like to be 24. It's an age that's strikingly present. In the past, I worried about what I might become; in the future, perhaps I'll think back on what was. But for now? Well, now is all there is. 24 feels like the age were you go about being who you want to be, rather than becoming that person.

But I don't know. That implies a sense of false permanence, and probably, a lack of perspective. I'm not done growing, becoming, etc. Certainly, I hope I'm not. But there is a lack of anxiety about things, these days, a lack of the neurosis that filled my post from a year ago.

I am doing the things I want, better now than ever before. My latte art has improved to the point where Roast Magazine has tweeted a pic of my "bird in the cup", which flattered the hell out of me. Business is good, and I'd like to think that I've helped that become the case, since becoming "manager". (Which still sounds absurd to call myself. "Barista+paperwork" is a better title, I think.) And I'm wiping off counters much better, which pretty much accounts for my coffee bar related goals for my 23rd year on Earth.

There's also the running thing, of course, which has taken on an increasingly large role in this blog. At one point, I tried to resist that, but have since given up. It's gone from something I enjoy doing to something I have to do, a part of myself I can't imagine being without. In that regard, it's like my being a barista. Both are hats I can't fathom not wearing. Anyway, this has been a good year for running. I've won some short stuff, finished two ultras and one marathon. This year is going to be about improving, and hopefully, competing. I want to look back at this post in one year, and know that this goal was stated, and then met.

Of course, that's all well and good, but doesn't make for very compelling reading. In fact, I'm realizing that this is a pretty awful post, on the whole. But I'm going to publish it anyway. Sorry about that. So yes, I'm older, yes, who really gives a shit?

I'm going to finish my cold press, go do some marathon pace work, eat a potato, then pull some shots. And it's going be great. Those are the metrics by which I measure my life, moreso than years.

Coffee at the End of The World

This is a hard thing to write about, both in the way you're thinking about, and in that other way too. It's hard because it's abstract, and the words are difficult to grasp. And it's hard because it involves feelings and stuff, and well, I'm a 23 year old guy, and we don't talk about feelings and stuff. What we do is smile, joke, and say things that shockingly undersell whatever emotional significance a given moment might have.

We say "Good luck with life," and we mean it, but more than that. A lot more.

Let me back up a second, or a few months, or a year, in some cases. The bar I manage is not on campus, technically, but only technically. It's across the street from the KU art museum, and I could throw a rock to class buildings, if I didn't throw like an 8 year old. But I do, so no, a rock isn't getting there, but a lot of students do manage to make the journey. The majority of our business isn't these kids, but a lot of it is. Enough that it's pretty significant financially, but also in other ways, which is were we get to the hard part, the stupid sappy part.

I saw quite a few of those kids at least 100 times, which isn't that much, maybe, in the grand scheme, but what grand scheme is that anyway? I've talked to them a lot, about life and things, and hopefully made that better with coffee. I've poured pretty milk designs, and they've tipped me, bought my food and boosted my ego. It's been a pretty great relationship, both parties benefitting, which is why I like this job in the first place. People like you when you make them their coffee, so long as you're not a total dick about it.

But this is May, which means a lot of those kids are done now, and they're supposed to go not be kids anymore. It's a weird thing, that period of time, and I'm living in it right now. I'm 23, basically 24, trying to become a pretty good regional trail runner, while living out my barista dreams. It's all pretty damn cool, precisely because I still feel like a kid every day. I make coffee and run up hills, which, to be clear, is pretty fucking sweet.

Maybe they've got that to look forward to, or something like it. I don't know, and I won't, but I do know that I won't see many of them ever again. I would know this no matter what, but cognitive dissonance is a pretty powerful thing, and while I would know that fact, I would never really feel it, never really care. But when they come to say goodbye? Then you know. Then you feel it, because they're right there, making you feel it. They're twisting that dagger in your chest, smiling, telling you how you helped them this year, how you were like a friend or something, and damn, it's all pretty hard to stand and listen to. You want to diffuse it all, to say that you're some sort of coffee mercenary, and get the hell out kid, I always hated you because you put too much sugar in your coffee, go get a real job and let me deal with the next person in line. You want to say that because it would be easier, it would be easier than saying that they were pretty cool too, and that the street runs both ways. You don't want to tell them that baristas need their interaction a lot more than their money, you can't say that, I can't, because it's all too damn hard.

Why?, Why

A caffeine addled mind will go places, strange places, twisting and turning down treacherous intellectual switchbacks. And we like that, as a people. We like that, we always have, and probably, we always will. That is, after all, a large part of the coffee shop identity. We picture people asking the big questions, and straining to try and answer them, from Voltaire to that guy who really, really ought to consider bathing soon.

How? Why? What if?

I talked today with a long time customer, and a recent physics graduate. He is smart, as you might guess, but not just in that he knows things. Anyone can recite answers others have found; intelligence is finding them, and in knowing how to use them. He is quite skilled in the latter, and thus presented a rather articulate defense, when questioned by another customer, of gravity, and how we can really know it exists.

Principally, the query was driven by particles, and how we can only understand gravity as it relates to them. However, gravity is supposed to have existed since existence, whereas particles came later. So, how then can we claim that this same gravity existed, when our only frame of reference for its existence hadn't yet come about?

He's not here now, and I'm not going to track him down or ask that he repeat his answer. But he had one, and it sounded good, at least to the extent that I understood it. I should say, probably, that I've never taken a physics class, and very nearly failed the only astronomy course I did take. I was an English major, after all, and sometimes stereotypes ring true.

But his answer isn't really important anyway; that the conversation happened is. His big questions are not my big questions, and neither of ours are likely to be yours. My questions are found in a bronze layer of crema, and the answers too. I want to know how fast I can run up that hill (any hill, really), and how many rosettas I can fit in one cup (3, as of now).

But this isn't about my questions either. This is about the venue that allows those questions to be asked, entertained, debated, and generally passed around until the edges are tattered and yellow. This is about coffee, and coffee shops, and the sort of thing you can't make at home, no matter how good your beans, grinder, or brewer. This is about people, conversation, and how coffee makes them come together beautifully. This is about the answer to a pretty big question everyone asks: Why do I do what I do?

Portafilter in Hand

I can't tell you how many times I've sat here, with my fingers on the keyboard, and stared at a blank screen. There were no words, only sensations; and no way for me to bridge that gap. And so I sat and looked, waiting for some muse to offer up divine inspiration. But it never happened.

And so I wrote other things sometimes, or nothing at all. Sometimes I'd put out several posts in several days, hitting on various topics with... varying levels of quality. And of course, there would be stretches of silence as well, when I simply couldn't muster anything worth saying.

What I wanted to write about all those times was the feeling of a portafilter in my hand, the first tamp, the tap, then the second, and the twist. I want to convey that feeling of technique and artistry, or maybe just the comfort of holding on to a solid piece of metal.

There is something to be said for a tool which can produce cool shit, the sort of toy every little boy would dream of playing with. You can hit it, for one, and it spits out hot water. I'm not sure I'll ever grow out of that being fun, just like I'm not sure running in the mud and the rain will ever stop being scintillating. It is what it is; and so what if it's maybe a little immature?

But there is that technique and artistry too - or at least I said there is. It's the sort of thing a lot of people could fuck around with, but they'd probably break something, and those machines aren't cheap. Even if they didn't, the odds of getting a good drink would be nil. So no, it's not just a toy. It's a tool, one that can break and burn, but that can also produce 2 ounces of heaven at a time. It can extract ambrosia and offer up salvation and deliverance.

But what I want to tell you about isn't the shots it can pull, or anything else about it. I want to tell you about that sensation I get - maybe that you get - when grasping the handle, flicking the portafilter free, and going to work. I don't want to tell you about it; I want to tell you how it is, it's nature. I want to pull a shot of that essence and make a drink out of it, to make tangible what my words can't.

Maybe it's the same sort of thing a carpenter feels when gripping a saw, a guitarist when fingering the strings, or a priest when cracking open a Bible; I don't know. I don't know because to be honest, I don't know much else. I know that the sensation I get when flushing a portafilter - nevermind doing anything truly productive - is just so right that it's not like anything else feels to me. And I know that that's what this blog mostly exist to aspire to, to put in to words what baristas know and to express - maybe even validate, a bit - what we're doing with our lives.

I want to do all of that, but you know, there's a reason the screen was blank all those times before, and maybe, why it still should be. But in any case, there are words here now, and maybe, though they don't reach my heights of aspiration, they don't fall altogether short. So I don't know. Maybe just go grab a portafilter, and see what it's like.

Firing Magic Blanks

Success is a difficult thing to quantify, and probably impossible to ever achieve, in totality. Those who get it want more, and those without envy even that. And so we turn to those with promises, lists that spell out how to get from our current drudgery to our aspirational heights.

I'm a sucker. Write an article about the secrets to faster recovery from hard workouts, and I'll read it. Nevermind that it'll be the same stuff about ice baths and a 4:1 ratio of carbs to protein consumed in some mythological post-workout window. Promise secrets to making better coffee, or running a better bar? I'm there, even if I could write the article myself.

We want magic bullets, no matter how many times we fire blanks.

So I'm not here to make any promises, to tell you that I have any new insights in coffee, or much anything else. But I'm also going to tell you that that's a good thing, and here's why: Whatever it is you want to do, whether it be run a marathon, make good coffee, write a book, fix your car, do the laundry, teach your dog to sit, whatever, you almost certainly know how. You probably have the knowledge and have the tools.

They say that there is nothing new under the sun; and they're half-right. There may not be much in the way of new knowledge, but there are new opportunities, and new days. That's what the sun reveals ever time it rises, a chance to do that thing, whatever it is.

(And yes, that is a picture cribbed from a Nike ad at the top; and yes, the general tone of this entire post is very "Just do it". I already admitted to being a sucker. At least I'm an honest one.)

Labor and Love

Good advice, from an espresso machine repair man today: "If you want to make a lot of money in the coffee business, you better start with more."

I smiled, and tamped, creating the shots that would test his work. I rolled what he said around in my head, trying to find a response, and the proper balance between wit and wisdom. "Yeah," I said. It was all I could manage.

I brushed the rim of the portafilter, locked it in to the head, released the water, and watched. A drip, syrup and amber congealing in to a thin stream, twisting in to a waiting shot glass.

I glanced at the repair man. He was 50, maybe 60, with white hair cut short like a summer lawn. His hands were creased, but they lay on the counter then, resting. He wore a full-body blue suit, with a name tag stitched on, indistinguishable from an auto mechanic, unless you looked around his tool box a bit. I glanced at him, but his eyes didn't move. They were fixed on the shots.

They finished pulling, and then neither of us moved. "Looks good," he said.

I nodded. "Yeah."

He started putting his tools away, and I began replacing mine, ensuring that everything on and about the machine was as it had been. (Other than the thermostat. That was new - thankfully - and the reason for his visit.) The customers, who had been milling about, waiting, began to trickle to the register.

The first ordered a latte, and I took to making it. The repair man watched again, looked at my tamp, tap, brush, twist, and everything. He watched the milk steam, the shots finish, and the two combine. He saw the milk cut, like a white stream, a twisting swath in the burnt orange crema, and form a rosetta.

"Looks good," I thought, but didn't say. He didn't speak either.

There were three more drinks to make, by then, and so I was quickly back to work. "Looks like your back in business," he said.

"Happily so," I replied.

"It's a labor of love though, isn't it?" He asked, but it wasn't a question. "If you love it, it never feels like work."

I wiped a portafilter, and purged a grouphead. The water came with a click, hot, and ready for some alchemy. "It is," I said. "And it doesn't."

Why I'm Glad to be Baristing

It occurred to me tonight that I'm lucky. It's hard not to feel this way, when reading a piece in Outside Online, discussing shark attacks. I'm quite happily a Kansan, and thus not likely to become dinner for a giant fish. (Though some perspective is worthwhile here: We've nearly eaten them to extinction, whereas they consume only several of us a year.) The Great Plains, after all, lack Great Whites. Happily.

But this is not about sharks, and my not being eaten by them. Nor is it about the nice weather, or the pleasant runs it has afforded me. No, this is about coffee. Because this is always about coffee. And it is about something human as well: Validation.

I went to work today, and so did many other people. It was Monday, and so you might expect the usual cavalcade of begrudging hello's and bleary-eyed nods. Kansas just made the Final Four, after all, and this was the first day back from Spring Break for KU students. I thought that many people would simply not show up, and that those who did might wish they were elsewhere.

But not only was business steady, it was downright pleasant. I was told, more times than I can specifically recall, that I was appreciated, and that the service I provided was something like a godsend. Ultimately, I think this is what people want from work, and from life in general. They want to feel needed, liked, and as I mentioned before, validated.

This is bordering on mushy, and so I'll try and be careful. However, it does need to be said that I, and probably many other baristas, are uniquely lucky in this regard. How many other jobs can one do, and be told on a daily basis that you and your work are valued? Too few, probably. And yet we, who are privileged enough to hang out at a coffee bar and get payed for it, are also praised for it.

There are few things as pleasurable as a good cup of coffee. I know that, and I understand how important such pleasures can be in an otherwise ho-hum morning. And there is something to be said for community as well - indeed, I have said a lot about if before. But mostly, for now, I'm just saying that I'm lucky. People spend lives searching for validation, for people to tell them that they matter and are, by whatever standard, good enough. I've found a job that gives me that, and a virtually non-existent risk of shark attack.

I Believe I Can Fly (How'd That Work, Icarus?)

Hubris is a bitch.

You'd think that, as an English major, I'd be familiar with literary devices, and how they play out. The protagonist, impressed with his achievements and abilities, assumes too much, and pays for it. This predates English lit, even, as the term is Greek in origin. And let's not pretend that, back in day, our good ol' cavefolk ancestors didn't have the same concept. Some guy thinks he can chuck a pointy stick at a sabretooth tiger, and lo and behold, it works once. Probably, it did not work twice. Hubris.

So yeah, this is old school. Hell, this is older than school. In any case, I should know better.

But I thought I was invincible. I though I did all of the core and strength stuff you need to, that I wore the right kind of shoe (or lack thereof), and trained intelligently. Bulletproof, baby.

Enter hubris.

My left IT band is now rather inflamed, and I've been reduced to that guy hobbling up to the elliptical for an hour of light spinning, trying to coax my heart rate over 100 BPM. Granted, it's only been two days, and things are feeling quite a bit better. And at any rate, nothing but my transient pride depends on how fast I can manage the 5K in a week and a half.

But my income depends on my ability to make coffee. Well, that, and my ability to sweep, chat, hand over muffins, etc. But mostly, I make coffee. For a while there, that coffee was looking pretty good. By which I mean that I was pouring some pretty swank designs in lattes, and whipping up some lusty foam for cappuccinos.

Enter hubris.

Oh, wait. Hubris was that other thing. This is arete, a Greek word English hasn't co-opted, so I'll have to explain. Short version: It's the opposite. Whereas hubris is an overabundance of confidence, arete is a lack thereof.

There was a latte art "throwdown" last Friday night, of which I was made aware with plenty of time to prepare myself. I had a week to hone my hearts, rate my rosettas, and get ready to go kick some ass. Or pour pretty milk designs in espresso. Whatever. In any case, I did neither, because instead of psyching myself up, I psyched myself out, and went running instead. (See above for more info on how that went.) Maybe I'm a coward, maybe I just care too much. But whatever the reason, the result is the crappiest string of rosettas I've presented in months. 

So while hubris is a bitch, so is balance. If Space Jam taught us anything, it's that you must believe it to achieve it, but that you can't take anything for granted. So I'm going to lace up my... actually, my shoes don't have laces. But still, I will wear shoes, because I value health code. And then I'll go make some good drinks, to save the world from alien baristas that have stolen the skill-set of former WBC competitors.