hot air

a trio of very happy undergrad girls enter the campus coffee shop. one of them is holding a long hot-pink ribbon that extends high into the air and eventually explodes into a black helium-filled balloon that has two special features:
1) hot-pink letters that spell out "princess grad"; and
2) a pink and silver tiara on top (as in, a tiara made of balloonery).

witnessing the scene firsthand, i can't deny that, while their celebratory spirit is kinda contagious, it all looks pretty precious, pretty pretentious and, honestly, rather ridiculous -- not unlike the way princesses (or the drunken bachelorette-party-goers these girls currently resemble) tend to seem.

then again... remember the fairy tale about kissing a frog and finding a prince? well, now it seems you complete your exams and (poof!) become a princess. both narratives could use some tweaking, i'd say. but the direction of this shift in plot ain't half bad. stay tuned!

and now back to translating...

some things are not open for interpretation

me: hi there. may i please have a grande, half-sweet, no-whip hot chocolate?

barista: sure!

me: thanks.

barista: would you like whip cream on that?

if only this were a one-off kinda response.

and now back to translating...

#nailsonachalkboard #wheresmybazooka

next to me in the coffee shop:

bright, friendly grade-twelvers are, one by one, consulting with a bright, friendly Cornell graduate (not Andy from The Office, much to my dismay), to find out more about the oh-là-là ithaca school they're crossing their fingers to be accepted to later this year. among the positive and negative takeaways from overhearing the lengthy conversations is one that's especially threatening. one that screams out for attention. one that states, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that we (anglophones, at least) live in an Unstoppably Uptalking World. it's not just the kelly taylors, the alicia-silverstones-as-stacey-dash, the kim kardashians. it's also boys. it's grown women. it's grown men. it's ivyleaguers.

i'm clearly in the minority on this one. and inevitably i'm ageing myself by thinking such thoughts (let alone writing them down to share with others). but here it is: i don't want the spoken world around us to sound like this, g%ddammit! when i don't know the answer to something, i will ask about it. when i'm confused or hesitant, i will allow (and at times urge) myself to say as much. but i refuse to hand my thoughts and feelings over to the netherworld of statements-formulated-as-questions. and so, for now, the struggle towards acceptance in this matter is a closed, closed door. locked nice and tight. with the key thrown away.

and now back to translating...

the izz and izznt of coffee shops

a coffee shop is:
a space for [insert any number of activities that you already know a coffee shop is intended or useful or enjoyable for].

a coffee shop ain't:
a space for watching youtube (or lubetube or facebook or netflix or home recording) clips (of a hilarious cat or a most recent sexual partner or your kid's birthday party or a bit by Jimmy Fallon (gawdlovehim!) or your most favouritest TEDtalk or a tragic scene from last night's news) at a volume that any other human can detect with their ears, as though your phone were the television (or radio or computer or morse code transmitter) in your home living room (or bedroom or basement or bathroom...*flush*).

we've been here before. (remember the nail clipper? and Little Miss Dora the Explorer?) yet dogma seems necessary when it's motivated by a reverence for common courtesy.

while we're at it, we might as well cover a few other activites that just aren't ok in a coffee shop, since (apparently) nothing is too obvious. so, you heard it here first, folks: the coffee shop is, unfortunately, also not a space where you can:
-let your dog lift its leg for just a quick pee
-run an up-and-coming clown training program
-have sex
-pedal drugs (though orchestrating pyramid schemes -- provided they're cleverly disguised as self-confidence-boosting small-business ventures -- regularly proves to be a kosher practice)
-can preserves so you can enjoy peach slices or pickled eggs or strawberry-rhubarb jam all year round
-draw chalk outlines on the floor, as though the coffee shop were a crime scene
-hurl doughnuts (whether fresh or stale) or cranberry-bliss bars at someone seated across the room
-use a sharpie to draw movember moustaches on the faces of strangers' babies, claiming it's all in the name of prostate cancer awareness

the list goes on, of course. feel free to contribute your own.

and now back to translating...

yappy days

imagine the sound of a parakeet. a squawking parakeet. a squawking parakeet with a penchant for hitting higher decibels and octaves than you'd thought possible.

or

imagine a high school hallway floor freshly washed by the janitor and now overcome by sneaker-sporting teens incessantly twisting about (like wedding guests on the dance floor, hypnotized by Chubby Checker's dogma), and digging deeper with every stop it already from the principal and teachers.

now imagine that that parakeet / those sneaker-sporting teens on a wet floor are dressed up for hallowe'en (more of a "trick" than a "treat") like a small yappy dog that's been tied to the bike rack just on the other side of the coffee shop window. and that its owner, seated comfortably on the inside of the café, thinks this is all very cute and, therefore, smiles and carries on with her saturday leisure reading.

and now back to translating...

cuckoo for coconut

six mocha coconut frappuccino samplers.
barely anyone in the coffee shop.
the barista circulates with her sampler tray.
no takers.
these thirty seconds after the samplers have been prepped, she returns, disappointed, to her station behind the counter.
manager, without flinching: ok. throw them out. if no one wants them in the next five minutes, chuck them. they'll start melting.

just a mocha coconut frappuccino reminder that we -- in our business- and consumer-obsessed world -- are effed. (alas, that's as much originality, subtlety and poetry as this moment will allow.)

and now back to translating...

all reptile, no magic

enter a puffy-chested man. caucasian. mid-height. fortysomething.

in spite of the bit of John Goodman hanging over his belt, he looks a whole lot like Don Johnson: tight white tee, wannabe gentleman's blazer, and the presumption that he's "all the ladies want" spewing out from his hair gel.

he places his drink order.

the barista enquires as to whether Puff would like his beverage made with whole milk. affirmative. then: hesitation, distrust. quickly inflating his chest further, Puff lets out: sorry, um, is this the first time you're making that drink?

affirmative.

at once, and deadpan, Puff signals to the other, more familiar barista (has he just snapped his fingers at him?): yeah, could you make my drink for me instead?

at which point a silent cloud of smoke seems to bleed from the collective nostrils of the other customers.

and now back to translating...