The Coffee Chronicles

You know, sometimes there just isn't enough time in the day. Either I'm working a job while I'd rather be doing something else, or I'm doing something I've wanted to do all day late into the night, when I should rather be sleeping. In a related fashion, I've found lately that organizing my physical (paper-filled) life has become well-nigh impossible. Too many books, not enough shelves; a torrent of manila folders, and no drawers to put them in. What's going on?

Lately I've tried to deflect my habit of shopping on the Internet - browsing and/or buying to suppress boredom and idleness. All that got me was a roomful of computer equipment, two more cameras than I really need, and a nasty case of auction anxiety. So instead, I've been banging my head against /., taking great pleasure from watching the trolls and the zealots go at it each day. My recent favorite discussions have been about the tyranny of the DMCA and a major blow to free speech in China. I don't know how much of a reasonably mature alternative this is, but it sure is saving me money, a resource that is becoming more and more scarce these days, especially given the rising gas princes in Southern California.

My kingdom for a $#@!ing subway, even one that's 100 years old. Happy birthday, MTA.

I've also only recently discovered the wonder that is kottke.org; even though other trusted folks have referenced it for some time now, I've never seen the light. Perhaps I'm just too unwilling to see how good fine web design can be. Damn efficient css; you've foiled me for the last time.

Only just now coming down from a wicked strong coffee jones, I feel I can finally focus on the keyboard enough to get this down in ASCII. Sitting alone tonight, kinda wandering idly down amnesia lane, as it were, I was again reminded that solitude is the fuel to my creative engine. And that engine, of course, is not boredom; rather, it is - in a word - procrastination. Believe me, I know; it only took five years of higher education to find that one out. And what of all this, you ask? Well, sit right down and grab hold of your hat, as I grind the crank of narcissism for a second. And as I begin, I'll open with the requisite, but deceptively apropos, rhetorical question:

Why is browsing through old [pictures, letters, email, insert meaningless chattle here] so distracting? Huh?

I'm sure you can tell where this is going. So, as it turns out, I've got a bunch of stuff to do tonight - and it stands to reason that I'll blunder aimlessly into any pastime that will deflect my attention, because that's just the way I am. Not unlike the way, in fact, I've spent a good portion of my life; those that know me can attest to this, no doubt [and if you don't know me, what the hell are you waiting for?]. I have a - shall we say - storied history - of creative rambling. Anything goes, when there're More Important Things to do. A short list of the evidentiary findings, if you will:

• I've studied other students' textbooks, just so as not to read my own. Really; ask me anything about wastewater management. And no, that's not supposed to sound like bathroom humor.
• At times, I've been quite the email impresario; what's more, I've spent a good amount of time organizing said email, amassing a not small collection of files that now occupies several hundred megabytes of disk space.
• Kept a rather extensive - and extensively detailed - journal throughout my college career. I mean, c'mon.
• I have a history of wonderful, but singularly obsessive co-dependent romantic relationships with otherwise perfectly reasonable people. Much time spent in introspection, discourse, and mutual exploration. And I'm not even talking about the sex - which was fine, thank you very much.
• Um, I started this blog. Heh.

Okay, I guess that last one was a gimme. Otherwise, there you go - Your Honor, the People rest their case. At any rate, there I was, doing it again. Before long, I found myself ego-deep in old email, reading up on myself, as it were, and poof: it was 1997, and I was in grad school, and grad school was in the Shittiest Place on Earth.* Words were poignant again, and reading correspondence exchanged with friends - and lovers - in such a strange (and strained) time gave new import to our shared histories. Even the music spinning in the background merged appropriately.

But most significantly of all, and by a strange and irrelevant coincidence, the house was otherwise empty. Except, of course, for me and my ego-ghosts. Just as it was, years ago, in solitary academic confinement, wedged into a tiny studio apartment upon a high bank of the Hudson River, with only the aroma from a 24-hour Dunkin' Donuts to keep me company.

Thank the gods for that damn Dunkin' Donuts and their coffee, taken as it was, "light and sweet," with cream and two sugars. And so I am brought 'round again, for my Tall Traditional - taken jet-black these days - is finally empty, and my otherwise inexplicable java jones is, for the time being, satiated. Tomorrow is another day, filled with things I should otherwise be doing, and so I'm sure that I'll have more to say. That, you should know, is an ironclad guarantee. And in the case that you want to hear more about my adventures, just ask; I could go on for days, especially if I've got papers to grade, lesson plans to write, or just about anything else I'd rather put off until later.