Coffee Talk

The other day I went to my local Starbucks and I settled myself into a comfortable chair with my Triple Dulci Clementi Macchiato with just a hint of cream made from the free range cows who have the benefit, if they wish to, of speaking with a therapist about the various things a cow thinks about; things like how the grass on the other side of the fence looks a little greener; how it would be nice if farmer brown warmed up his hands before he squeezes their teats in the morning, and why does it have to be every morning, can't we have a break once in a while?; how every fall they worry about being mistaken for a giant deer and being plucked, most unfairly, from life when it still has so much to offer, and where is God in that, etc. etc.

At any rate, as a I settled in I asked the woman sitting across from me what the name of the local wifi network was.  It struck me that while this is a perfectly normal thing to ask someone today, its a pretty strange thing to ask of someone in a coffee shop by historical standards.  I found myself wondering how I would have addressed a woman in the coffee shops of yesteryear...

1792:  "I still can't believe that we lost to them, madam.  Still can't believe it.  I mean, who would have imagined in 1000 years that you could sit behind rocks and trees and actually shoot a weapon at someone with the intent to kill them, and then run away, melting into the woods, rather than standing there like a man and shooting a weapon in the general direction of the enemy with the hopes that maybe you would hit something?  Its a diabolical development, damn unsporting, and downright un-British!  But that's the way the world is going, I suppose.  Now, pray forgive me if I am too forward, but I find the night is quickly slipping away and, as it is rare for none other but the most unconventional of women to frequent an establishment where the patrons are almost exclusively male, I simply must ask a question:  Are you a prostitute, and if so how much money will it cost me to see your ankles?"

1888:  "No madam!  I beg your pardon, but I couldn't help but overhear.  I should hope that wisdom should prevail upon you not to throw your money away on a painting that is of nothing more than a bunch of sunflowers.  They are beautiful, but I doubt the painting will be worth much 100 yeas hence.  Indeed, it is doubtful its creator will even be remembered at all.  Oh devil take it my cigar has gone out.  Pray, do you have a light?"

1931:  "Look here, see?  I'd like some coffee, see?  The bar's are still closed so I gotta drink coffee, see?  You gotta light?  Mah!"

1953:  "Couldn't help but notice you were enjoying the jazz.  I really liked the part where the trumpeter went 'skiddly bap bap do bap di dap dap dibbledy dibbledy doowhap POW POW POW BWAAA!  Yeah man, those cats sure can jive.  You gotta smoke?"

1968:  "Some of those long hair fellows on their way to the rock and roll festival gave me some brownies.  Awful nice of them.  Oh, and it just so happens that my brother Thurgood sent us some marijuana from Afghanistan.  You gotta light?"

1977:  "Have you seen it yet?  You know, I really don't understand why those guys have to skim that trench for the entire circumference of the....hey, come back!"

1985:  "You know, about 10 years ago I would have asked you for a light, and then after I blew a puff of smoke seductively into your face I would have said I like the way your put together, and, well, wink wink nudge nudge say no more, yes?  But quite frankly those shoulder pads are downright imposing.  You frighten me.  You look like you are on your way to conquer something and I am sure you are going to win.  I will just sit here and pray for the man who's balls you are about to step on with those dauntingly expensive looking high heels."

1996:  "It's obvious that the show is about the disenfranchisement of the American male.  Dropping a V8 into your vacuum, strapping a jet engine to the lawn mower, and affecting stupidity on all other domestic matters is the last bastion of American manhood.  I mean, look at me.  Here you are, drinking a cinnamon dulce macchiato, which is way better than my black cup of joe.  But I drink it anyway, because drinking black coffee helps me feel like a man.  And this cigar?  It tastes like shit.  It is extremely unpleasant.  But, I feel compelled to smoke it, because this disgusting habit makes up for the fact that my Banana bread is nearly perfected, and that fact gives me great joy.  Speaking of which, you got a match?  This horrible token of my shifting role in society has gone out."

2003:  "I just got to say, it looks like that hurts.  A lot.  I mean, your earlobe has a hole in it that I could drive my wife's Hummer through (that's right, USA! USA! USA!).  That had to be incredibly painful to receive."

2009:  "I can't smoke in here? Not even outside?  Damn.  Oh well.  I'll have a cinnamon macchiato, soy, no whip, with just a kiss of caramel.  Just a kiss."