Boston

So, Boston.

You know what happened by now. And I don't really have anything to say that resembles a revelation. But I need a catharsis, and this venue has often been that for me. 

First of all, I should say that no one I knew was hurt. That's great, and I'm very happy that it's the case. 

But people I don't know were hurt, and that's tragic. It's a tragedy that feels inappropriately intimate to me, someone from Kansas, with only a few acquaintances attending the event. I feel bad and I feel bad that I feel bad, as if I haven't really earned it, like I'm some tragedy seeking bandwagon jumper. 

I normally avoid news outlets in the wake of things like this. I find the coverage - and indulging in it - to be voyeuristic. I don't need to see weeping children outside of a school that was just attacked, not for one second. 

But I read about this for several hours, then drove to the gym, and watched CNN for two more hours on the treadmill. I saw the explosion and the percussion of the barricades a thousand times, watched as the 78-year-old in the orange jersey fell down. 

I watched while I was running, but mostly, I watched because I was running. I watched because running has saved me from things, and given me things. For better or worse, I am what I am right now because of it. 

Running matters to me. And so, runners matter to me. 

It's a kinship and extended family that makes the sport what it is. It's a community that unites over shared effort - not just on race day, but the grind it takes to get there. And Boston exemplifies that grind like no other event. Simply put: To race it, you have to qualify. It's the people's olympics, the bar the non-elites aim to clear. These are everyday people with superhuman endurance and work ethic, hidden under a common exterior. You don't see the thousands of miles in their legs, logged before or after their full time job, the energy they devote to something most can't understand. 

And so, among those who do understand, there's something. 

These are people I will never meet, and yet with whom I share a mode of expression, of indulgence, of obsession. If nothing else, we have the miles in common.

And so I watched, while logging those miles. It felt entirely appropriate and anything but. 

But this is not about me or my various neurosis. It's about Boston, and more than that. It's about a community of people who unite in their solitary pavement pounding, every day, whenever the hell they can find the time. It's about those that support them too, who cheer from the sidewalks, forgive the 5 AM alarm clocks, the brown rice again for dinner. I know so many people like this, and I know that there are so many more than I could ever know.

But I also know that there were people like that in Boston today. And those people don't deserve the images they'll carry for the rest of their life, the scars, the lost limbs, or the lost loved ones.  

Sprudge Survey on Income

That, right there, is a little taste of The Room, either the greatest or worst film ever made, depending on your inclinations at the moment.

But I'm not just sharing... whatever that is, for kicks.

Talking about money often gets that reaction. It's confidential, you see, so private that even the utmost in private (wink wink) affairs takes conversational precedent.

"How much did you make last year?" is an awful invasion of privacy, whereas "Hey did you (blank) that (blank) last night?" is somehow fine.

Whatever.

Sprudge is asking about money though, and it's worth answering. You even get to remain anonymous, so there's no sense in avoiding it.

The results - if I may be so bold as to hazard a guess - will likely reveal that baristas are somewhere between broke and fucking broke, perhaps leaning towards the latter. But the details matter, and I'm curious to see how it plays out. We know that baristas live on bread and water; but can we, perhaps, afford artisan whole grain bread and Italian sparkling water - or are we doomed to Wonderbread and tap?

Competing, Finally

I've waffled a bit recently, but on the whole, I've wanted to participate in some kind of barista competition for a while now. Years? Probably safe to say without hyperbole. I don't suppose I'm the best there is, but I do suppose that, to be as good as you can be, you have to use others to push yourself.

This is the same spirit I find in foot races. I'm not out to crush those who would run with me, merely to do the best I can. Four times, I've won, but those aren't my most satisfying races by any stretch. You know when you've done good things, and that satisfaction matters more than anything else.

That having been said, a contradiction: I really do like to win.

So, now that it seems somewhat official that I will take part in a Lawrence barista competition, it has to be said: I really do want to win the thing. Sure, I want to meet with others who've spent years developing their latte art, swapping "war stories" and other such things. I want to do all of that, really, to smile and laugh and exchange meaningful words.

But then, I do want to win. I want to stand and smile and say "Yes, I won. I am better than you, and this was all a formality, a mere coronation that could never have ended another way." I want them to ask me how I make the milk dance like that, how I coaxed such silky foam out of my pitcher, how I'm capable of such divine work.

Contradictory, yes, and thus human. I do have my hubris, and perhaps, in the grand literary tradition, I'll be duly humbled. We'll see in one month's time.

Alchemy Coffee

Lawrence, KS, is a college town, located more or less in the center of the United States. While it is popularly considered by its residents to be a bohemian paradise away from the otherwise cloistered conservatism that dominates the rest of Kansas, it is still very much Kansas. That is to say, Lawrence, KS, for all that I love about it, is not on the bleeding edge of anything. We do not quickly adopt, much as we like to think the opposite is true.

But Lawrence has a coffee shop as they're now being created - with a focus on the brew, and the sublime product that results. It's called Alchemy, and I've been pleased with my visits thus far. The beans are provided by Broadway Roasting out of Kansas City, a favorite of mine. And the staff (which is only two) seems interested in their craft. I've never been asked for feedback as much as I was here, and that can only be a good thing. As for the aesthetic, you can see the entire shop above. I adore it, though it may be a bit twee for some tastes.

There is no espresso machine yet, and not much space to sit or park. These are considerable challenges in an already crowded coffee market, but perhaps not damning, considering the uniqueness of the place.
While Lawrence has many other coffee shops, it has nothing like this. The closest, perhaps, would be Oddly Correct in Kansas City, or PT's in Topeka. But those are not close enough to be competition.

In any case, I'm told it's doing well so far, and I hope that continues. There is a large part of me that wants the industry to go in this sort of direction, and thus an equally large part of me that wants to see those who do venture forth find success.  

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.

Plants From Places

It was mentioned to me today that not many people know what coffee looks like, pre-processing.

Here. It looks like the above.

Readers who are themselves "coffee people" know this already, but I imagine many don't. It's worth remembering that everything we consume - coffee too - came from somewhere, and required some work to arrive at its destination.

So consider this a brief reminder. Coffee does not appear in the pot at your local shop; it starts here, looking very much like this.

It is a plant that requires a lot of work from a lot of people to provide, and perhaps more importantly, a great deal of the world's soil and resources. 

This is not a guilt trip. I partake of this product and am employed in this industry. I am quite pleased that those things are true. Still, it never hurts to remember that things come from places, and all the steps required to complete that circuit.

Balancing the Bullshit

I guess you could say that I worked today. Probably, you would say that. I carried several boxes, which counts, right? I also did some ordering, and some forgetting to order. I like to keep a nice balance between having enough stock and absolute panic. I find toeing that line to be refreshing, in an anxiety ridden sort of way.

But I did these things, and cleaning stuff too. I emptied drawers and wiped them out, dusted everywhere my arms could reach, swept and mopped our admittedly small floor space.

I did the sort of things that anyone who's ever barista'd knows are essential to the job, and yet not the things people think of. You see the drink making, the attempts at witty banter, and the leaning with practiced ease against the counter. You don't see the accounting, inventory, and cleaning. And yet it's all part of the job, necessary work to allow the actual coffee stuff to happen.

So I did these things today, as I've done many days. I won't tell you that I like them, or write about them here with the same overly romantic zest I devote to coffee making and customer interactions.

But: Today I was told by someone that I had made the best latte she'd ever had. And she's had many. I know, because she's been around the coffee bar/restaurant scene for as long as I've been alive, and been served by basically everyone around these parts. She said it was perfect, and I didn't argue.

These are the things that make the bullshit worth it. When someone respects the time you've put in to what you do, and the quality that comes from that devotion, it's worth it. When you connect with the people you work with, and those that visit you every day, it's worth it.

There are things I genuinely do not like about this job, yes, but I don't mention them too often. There is simply too much beauty to devote too much time to the other side of the scale.