My Coffee Mug!

My Coffee Mug!


My coffee mug is the greatest coffee mug. Why? Because it’s my coffee mug. Simple as that.

My coffee mug was made in 1982 by the Wallace Berrie Company based in Van Nuys California but was made in Korea. Shocker. Thing is, my coffee mug isn’t a coffee mug at all. Nope. It’s actually a beer stein. Sort of. It’s too small to be a real beer stein and it’s ceramic. I’ve never seen a 10oz ceramic beer stein before, have you? That Wallace Berrie guy must have been deranged.

My coffee mug and I found each other in the summer of 1994. I was living in Santa Barbara, dabbling in college, planning to move to San Francisco and was dead broke. If memory serves me I was in a local thrift store just looking around, killing time, when I looked up and found that little gem. That’s the best thing about thrift stores. You never know what you may find.

My coffee mug had a price tag on it. “$1", it said. My pockets were so empty back then a dollar was stretched far beyond it’s limit and sometimes was tucked deep in my wallet for an “emergency”. But there was something about that mug that made me throw caution to the wind. I grabbed it, went to the counter, paid for it and walked home with a certain stride in my step. It was destiny. I had to have that mug. Even though I had to skip lunch to own it.

My coffee mug made it’s debut the next day. Sure I was broke but I still had to have my morning fix. I walked down to the coffee shop a buddy worked at, had him fill it up for me and I sat outside reading in the sun, sipping coffee out of my new coffee mug. To be honest with you, that was probably the greatest cup of coffee I ever had. Excuse me...mug.



My coffee mug was packed up a few months later and drove in the back of a moving van going to San Francisco. At the time I was living with a girl and after a few months of living in that San Francisco flat, we broke up and I had to move out. My coffee mug came with me. She kept the cats.

My coffee mug helped me get up in the morning. Some days were harder than others, but it was always there to greet me with that big orange and red BEER over an animated image of a rushing waterfall, rocks, pine trees and a mountain top. Even through the drudgery of a 9-5 job, somehow I was always transported, briefly, to a better more serene place. A reminder that life is great and things would get better. Thanks coffee mug!

My coffee mug was with me through good times and bad. Through countless dates and failed relationships. It was washed by various room mates and once used as an ashtray (asshole!) by one. It sat in shelves in a number of kitchens across San Francisco. It lived in the Richmond, Mission, Presidio, Sunset and even North Beach. It even survived a house fire. Actually most of my stuff survived that disaster. Even Castle Grayskull and my “Breakin’ 2" poster. But, that’s a different story.

My coffee mug even came with me on trips. It’s seen hotel rooms in Vegas, cabins in Tahoe, friend’s houses in LA, dad’s place in Palm Springs and was even seen on the playa out at Burning Man. Yes sir, that coffee mug gets around!



My coffee mug is awesome because it holds more coffee than most cups. Why? Because mine is a MUG yo. I feel manly sipping strong coffee (with just a splash of low fat milk thanks) in my coffee mug first thing in the morning. Sometimes I drink from it in the afternoon. If I’m feeling zany, or just run down, it even makes an appearance at night. Oh coffee mug. You’re always ready to go when I am.

My coffee mug intimidates other coffee mugs. Mainly because other coffee mugs are mere “cups”. Mine has a more baritone and roughneck sound to it. Mug. Say it aloud...”mug”. Now say “cup”. See the difference? And if you drank from my coffee mug, you’d taste the difference too.

My coffee mug nearly died. One bleary morning I set it down on a table in the garden as I got the hose out to water. Well I didn’t judge the distance from that table from the knotted heavy hose and, whoops!, the mug got pushed off the table as I wrestled with the hose. It fell, almost in slow motion, to the concrete ground below. My eyes widened and began to tear up, my muscles tensed and my heart sank. Before I knew it, my coffee mug hit the ground. With a loud “clink” my coffee mug failed to shatter, letting me know that my coffee mug is indestructible!

My coffee mug sits next to me as I type this and many other dopey fables. It’s seen me laugh, cry, get mad, pick my nose, have sex, dig lint out of my navel, sleep and eat. It was there when I chopped a big chunk of my right ring finger off. It sat in horror as I almost got arrested (read my book). It’s endured years of thunderous metal music being blasted. It’s watched roller disco, breakdancing and Muppet movies with me. It even came with me to Tucson AZ, when I found true love, and is now here keeping the coffee warm and my heart even warmer.

Yep, my coffee mug is the bestest coffee mug ever!

So raise your glasses everyone. To my coffee mug!

Irksome

Irksome


One of the best thing about getting older is the fact that when you get upset at something folks tend to let you. It’s kind of like you’ve earned it or something. When some curmudgeon is going off in a store about the price of tomatoes or the fact that Kid Rock is playing too loud while they are trying to enjoy their early bird surf n turf, I usually think, okay old cruster...go for it. Because, it’s true, good produce is expensive and Kid Rock can suck my balls.

But give those same issues to some young buck and I go “dude, shut up you annoying turd. Deal with it.”

Not to say that I am old but I am pushing 40 so my yielding method of ‘going off’ can sometimes be on the wall.

Here’s the thing:

I am a pretty happy go lucky guy. Life, in general, is really good. The world is my playground, so to speak. I still get carded when I buy beer on occasion. What’s my secret they always ask. Outside of the “drink lots of water, take naps, moisturize and heavy metal will set you free” I tend to keep to myself that a truly happy person will live forever. Sure I’m graying and getting a few wrinkles here and there, but generally my low pro child-free lifestyle of writing goofy stories, gardening and hanging out with my lady tends to take it’s toll with a certain Peter Pan essence. So, for that, I am what I am.

Thing is, I get cranky really easy. Why? Because things bug the crap out of me. It’s a snowballl effect. Say I experience a rather unsavory situation, like, standing in line at the DMV with some schmuck breathing down my neck and stinking of cheese. That’ll bug me. Then, I think to myself “hey, this guy just made me cranky That sucks.” In turn I tend to get more cranky because I am, well...cranky. Cranky begets crankiness. See where I’m coming from?

Point is, three things of late have weighed heavy on my mind. They are nothing too vicious and world dominating to relay a swarm of negative feedbacks and general hate emails coming my way. But, for a dork like me, they have somehow embedded themselves on the irksome cerebellum and for that the fingers start to move.

OK...here goes.

Remember that loving, awesome, beautiful and amazing cartoon “Calvin and Hobbes”? Of course you do. Even if you were born during it’s reign in the 80s (or even after...I hope) Calvin and Hobbes has remained a template for newspaper cartoons for today. Still, nothing has even come close to what Bill Watterson put pen to paper with. In my humble opinion anyway.

One of the most unfortunate phenomenons to coincide with Calvin and Hobbes as the mess of boring nimnuts to come forth and claim “That Calvin...he’s just like me.”

Um, no he’s not. And you, drab sir, are nothing like him. Even a guy like me who was an only child, who lived in his own imagination, who was a spazzy geek and who hated pretty much everything...I wasn’t even that close to being as brilliant and horrible as that cartoon kid. So why was it that every dullard with some fabricated “crazy streak” read that comic and went “oh dude, that is so me”?

It’s like those dopes that say “I am just so crazy” or “you have no idea what a weirdo I am”. Those are the people to avoid because they aren’t eccentric loons who keep balls of yarn in their freezer just in case and had to chop down that tree out front because “it was just looking at me funny”, these are folks wanting to be free and zany but have absolutely no capacity to do so. In turn they just will let you know that they are just “oh so wack-a-doo” and are crashing bores when photos of their cats come out.

Those Calvin and Hobbes guys would always talk about their wild childhood, how they got into so many adventures and, gosh, back in the day I was always getting into trouble. Then you find a photo album of theirs and there they are, sitting calmly on a stoop, shirtless and wearing RayBans by some pool, leaning against a Chevy of some kind in a denim jacket and in a cheap tuxedo with a plastered smile at their prom with some girl wearing braces who is two feet shorter than they are.

“So, where’s this wacky childhood?” I’d ask. Looks to me like you’ve lived the American dream of being totally average and safe in that middle territory.

“Oh no,” they’d reply, “when the camera was down, it was on ”

Then, you know, I’d just let it go. Maybe for some, Calvin and Hobbes provided a service to those who yearned for freewheelin’ satisfaction but never allowed themselves to truly give into the liberty and pain that comes with being nutty. On the other hand, why couldn’t they just admire the comic and let it be what it was and live in truth about their blandness? It’s when people start fibbing about a past or personality to make them appear cooler than they are that is an immediate turn off for me. If you’re a dope that loves Calvin and Hobbes you’re more likely to be my pal than someone who thinks every panel of that cartoon is a reflection of your life. I can tell by the wood paneling and polo shirt that it’s not.

Years later those same guys would put stickers of Calvin pissing on the logos of football teams they don’t like, car makes they deem “unmanly” and even on political opposites. Oh well...



Here’s another thing that makes me stand out amongst most guys out there, at least the ones that haven’t been completely neutered by significant others for fear of reprimand or another week without sex: I like to do housework.

Now, as a kid I didn’t. Why? Because my dad told me I had to do it. When you’re a kid and someone says “you have to do that because I said so” it takes all the fun out of doing, well, anything. That’s why I really didn’t enjoy school. Sure I’m smart and love to learn but 15+ years of someone older than you going “do this because I know better” just made me wanna skateboard in the sunshine or lazy by some tree somewhere rather than be stuck under those eye sucking lights and next to someone with intestinal difficulties.

Thing is, I don’t have a washer and dryer. Haven’t for quite some time. Renting in San Francisco for years on end put me up in places just big enough for a sink and sometimes a bed. Washer and dryer? Yeah right. It’s a few blocks over and to the left, next to the gun shop and smelly bodega with surly men sitting out front on apple crates, arms crossed and donning thick sunglasses.

Laundromats, in my experience, are pretty much all the same. Have you been to a Wal-Mart? Yeah, it’s the same in Los Angeles as it is in rural Kentucky. The same shuffling lobotomized creatures with screaming children, bad hair and coupons seem to just mold and gel their way into those places. It’s weird.

Same goes for your local coin-op laundrette. Tired mothers with a scathing hell brood set free like the place is Pleasure Island or something seem to pop up in every single one that I have been to. Their all the same. How and why is that? How can the same ankle biting fiends that think it’s funny to open up my dryer and watch all the pretty colors of my silly boxers (the ones with chainsaws, beer cans and sumo wrestlers on them) tumble to the floor are here in Tucson, were in San Francisco and even made appearances in LA and Austin? Is there some kind of cloning device found in the dryer sheets? Or maybe there’s some kind of special secret laundromat cult out there that has specific rules and regulations much like the Amish and Nascar fans. They all look the same and they are everywhere, completely unescapable. It’s more of a scientific curiosity than a fear.

Another factor of laundromats is the inclusion of your local wacko. There is always some person, men and women are equal here, lurking in the corner doing something creepy or just sitting there looking at everyone with murderous disdain. Today as I do my laundry a thin Mediterranean man approached me and carried on about “paying the bills, that’s all there is...paying bills.” I just gave him a “what the...?” look and carried on. Turns out he was trying to sell me a large (most likely purloined) boombox that was sitting on one of the folding tables. But he wasn’t making a sale, he was simply talking about paying bills and making rent. Is this some kind of sympathy purchase he’s trying to guilt me into or does he actually believe the garbled ranting of ones financial distress will make me go “Sounds good buddy! Wrap ‘er up ‘cause that fine piece of electronic majesty is sold!”? Either way he left holding that huge beast and thanked me on the way out.

There was also the time of the crazy yelling lady. This loon literally started a fight with almost anyone she came in contact with. Luckily for me I was hidden by the front entrance, silently folding my dainties and trying not to attract her sinister gaze. A man walked by her and said “excuse me” which caused a tirade of cursing and threats and things such as “Well excuse you! Excuse me for living in this god forsaken world! There is no excuse for you fxxker!” It was bizarre.

An attendant asked her to keep it down and she threatened to burn the place down but not before suing the owners. Another lady who had had it asked her to “just shut up” and super psycho bitch yelled back at her telling her to shut up, her to fxxk off, her to do things with silverware and shove them up places that silverware should not be shoved up in. The best part is, crazy lady didn’t stop folding her clothes at all. In fact, her folds were so precise, so uniform you’d think she was a regional manager for the GAP or something. It was incredible. I stifled my laughs and averted my gaze just enough to not get noticed, but the spectacle stuck with me for quite some time.

There are also the wheezing nappers, the old people that don’t know how to operate anything past 1960, the skinny crackheads that just can’t stop texting and the woeful overweight lonelys that just stare at the spinning clothes, huddle by the vending machine area or watch the fuzzy television and whatever game show happens to be on. It’s a necessary and utilitarian establishment, the laundromat, one that is usually met with a heavy sigh, much like the DMV or Social Security office. You don’t wanna be there but you have to do it and once it’s over you’re happy to be out of there.

It’s just that why are there so many weirdos hanging out at laundromats making it all the more intolerable? I guess getting hypnotized by circulating underwear is only so much entertainment.



One last thing to get off my chest is relationships on MySpace and Facebook. See, for me, along with writing, they are my few outlets to try and make a positive connection with people. My whole life, it seems, has been trying to find my niche or even just fit in somewhere, mostly to disappointing results. It’s not like I am a freak or anything it’s just, well...I don’t know. I guess it comes down to not being comfortable being one thing, having one job or one hobby, being part of one group, but in most situations that seems to get you ahead or paid or whatever. I also have this incredible filter for people and, usually, the majority can’t get through the first layer. The obvious, the standard, the dull, the blind faiths, the followers, the gullible, the weak and unhappy seem to come at me at a million miles an hour so, for those that are reading this, congratulations. You’re probably pretty cool in my book.

Something I do pride myself on is my sense of humor and goofy outlook on things. Because of the aforementioned adjectives, I tend to let them be and let me be free. So, for that, my writing is pretty lighthearted and my approach to things is fairly the same.

To be a part of the internet communities I try and do what I can to let you know what’s going on and how I’m doing. Why? Because I wanna know the same about you. Are you sick? I’ll send a get well message or dumb cartoon from YouTube to cheer you up. Are you happy that your team won some sport thingamabob? I’ll go “Yay” and secretly not give a crap. Point is, isn’t that the point? Maybe for a near shut in like myself these websites provide a service. I’ve even found buddies from high school something I NEVER thought would happen. Talk about being invisible. I was a ninja when it came to that in high school.

So I find it rather funny when friends put up notes, blogs or even updates and they get, like, dozens or so comments. I can’t tell you how many times a buddy has put down as their status “(Person) is making dinner tonight!” and before you know it they have an acre of responses from people saying “Ooh, sounds good!” “Hey what are you cooking?” “You cooking? Better call take out!” Etc, etc, etc. Then here I am with “Mark is currently being eaten by a rabid can of tuna...call for help” and after a day or so I can literally hear crickets over the internet.

What’s the key? Obviously I haven’t found it but for those that do keep in contact and respond and all that good stuff, cheers. Because I don’t get out that much and when I do I tend to run into crazy yelling ladies or guys that try to be “oh so zany” because I have long hair and a Muppet Show belt. Just relax and everything will be fine.

Except for you guys. You’re cool...