Saturday, August 23, 2008
How do you spell Kolachi?
This picture is from last Saturday morning. Jackson was, shall we say, less than thrilled that Katie and I got hungry at the ungodly hour of half past nine and dragged him out of bed and over to Mi Mexico for the Breakfast of the Aztec Gods.
He survived. And Katie got to test the camera on her new cell phone. Notice how Jackson continues my brother's tradition of wearing his place of employment on his chest at every possible opportunity? Unfortunately, you can't really see my shirt, because it's way cool. A close up of Alan Rickman. Bought it at Hot Topic. I know how jealous you all must be.
This Saturday is "something completely different".
Sometime this week Mindy will tell you the story of our newest business in town - an independent coffee shop. The story is damned hysterical and she tells it so well. We're a little behind the curve here when it comes to cultural relevance. But we do try and the results are sometimes hilarious.
Katie is out of town this weekend, and I'm not pushing my luck with Mr. Happy Face two Saturdays in a row, so I'm hanging out here this morning, trying to make do with a steamy cup of earl grey until he drags himself out of bed.
I am having the bestest time.
Fake Cow is not a college town. Even though we have a university which is a major employer and economic powerhouse (well, maybe economic powershed?) this is so not a college town. So, when Starbucks opened a store here on the interstate about two years ago, we all scoffed at their overpriced coffee and knew in our hearts that it was the beginning of the end for that particular franchise. And yes, our Starbucks is on the list for the first round of closures as they try to pull back and salvage some threads of their corporate dignity.
So, this week, when the new coffee house opened, it has been drawing college kids in the evenings like flies to roadkill.
Early Saturday morning is such a different story.
When I first got here, there was a bit of a line. The person in front of me was a professor that Ester and I decided years ago was most likely to be the corpse in a Murder She Wrote episode. Not because he's a bad guy, but because if you were casting a college professor, you couldn't find anyone, anywhere, who fits the stereotype any better.
Within moments there were a few other happy stragglers cuing up for muffins and chai. Saturday mornings bring out the old folks. And me. Which means... Oh, never mind.
Anyway, I'm sitting here, still enjoying the cuppa, when the guy at the bar calls to his wife - "Stace! Get out here!" We all followed his gaze out the huge windows that line the front of the place. The old guy in the booth next to me drawled loudly, "Oh gawd. This is turin' into a biker joint." We all laughed.
A gang of gnarly-lookin', white, middle-aged scooter-riders (Scooter-ers? Scooteristos? Hell's Errand Boys? I don't know what to call them.) were carefully lining up their candy-colored rides in a bad-ass line in front of the old diner.
They have flames on their helmets.
I honestly didn't know there were more than two people in this town who owned scooters. Motorcycles are another story, but scooters? Not s'much. We're on a slippery slope now, it appears. If this keeps up, the gins will stop handing out gimme caps and the John Deere dealership with start selling golf carts.
What's next? Restaurants with salad bars?
Pray for us.