fascinationstreak-blog

[fascinationstreak-blog]

Tough beans

The coffee you are about to enjoy was made from beans grown under the absolute worst circumstances you can imagine. Fair trade? Hardly. We work hard to ensure ours is nothing short of a raw deal. A raw deal you’ll taste in every delicious drop. 

Beginning at germination, we see to it that each individual bean is brought into this world in the harshest manner possible: partially aborted in an alley behind a Bogota vacuum cleaner repair shop. We then use a leaf blower to scatter them in a patch of rocks and weeds beside a chain link fence. Life is bad. And it gets worse when weeks later we rip them up by their scraggly, nascent branches and relocate them to a cinder block-walled compound beside a drainage ditch. 

Welcome to flavor country. 

Once the beans mature we enslave village locals to unceremoniously whack them from their pods using nothing more than their own rage-filled fists. Are the beans then simply gathered and roasted and sent to my local coffee house, you ask? Oh, you naive American coffee drinker. Not a chance. 

Just look at that heavenly foam. 

Our beans then lie in the hot, dry sun praying for sweet death before we finally immerse them in a bucket of water. Ahhhh, you’re thinking. That’s got to feel good as hell for those hot ass beans after being out in all that sun. Think again. Because the bucket is connected to a car battery with exposed wires. 

Talk about your afternoon pick me up. 

Once we’ve fully shattered the beans’ spirits, we drive them in an aging Toyota Tercel up to a hillside hacienda and force them to do things your soft American mind can’t even begin to comprehend. 

Behold the dark, dark, oh so very, very, very dark color of your beverage. 

Days later when it comes to, each bean then goes through its own process of coming to grips with now being stuffed in the back of a U-Haul surrounded by literally millions of other beans. It’s stifling hot and from what they can make out through nail holes in the walls it looks like Arizona. And it’s not a dry heat either like you always hear about and associate with Arizona and when people say it’s hot out you make that joke about well at least it’s a dry heat and then everyone nervously laughs even though that joke hasn’t been funny in years. No, this is a sticky heat and when the doors finally swing open the sunlight is blinding. Oh, how those beans will wish they were blind after they regain focus and see what awaits them: desert meth addicts. 

Who’s ready for that second cup? 

Our meth addicts meticulously roast each bean in glass pipes until they develop a rich, dark hue. It’s the trauma that brings out the flavor. We then snatch them up in a midnight raid, hood them into burlap bags and corral them into a 1986 Ford conversion van for the drive to your local coffee house where they’re ground to smithereens and immersed in boiling hot water. 

The resulting brew is the beverage you’re currently enjoying. We find our harsh growing conditions give your coffee its signature smooth finish. We can’t think of a more inhumane way to bring you what we think is the most delicious coffee questionable business practices can produce. 

Enjoy.

[fascinationstreak-blog]

A good fit

There were many boxes on the shelves that day. But I chose you. With high hopes for a future full of exercise, I chose you. And I have failed you, FitBit. 

I took you home and after I set you up I lashed you to my arm. The adventures we would have, I thought. I remember it like it was only a month ago. Because it was. I know that first day when we got sucked into the Teen Mom 2 marathon wasn’t our finest hour(s) but you and I both know that Jenelle is just pure white trash and, well, she does make for pretty captivating television. So, my bad there. But you really do wonder is she ever going to get it together? She’s got bad taste in men, apparently knows nothing about contraception and has no life skills to speak of. And that mom of hers! Stop coddling the child and maybe she’ll fend for herself! But no, there she is bailing her out of jail and credit problems and, well, motherhood. You and I both know she’s hopeless. But on the bright side, we logged 39 steps to the kitchen and bathroom over the course of that afternoon/evening so not a total loss. 

The morning of day two you informed me I’d not slept well. You and I both know I had a lot on my mind, what with knowing you were watching me and all. It’s a lot of pressure to sleep while being recorded. And yes, I was also wondering if that creepy boyfriend of Jenelle’s was going to show his face again. You know that guy is bad news with a capital B-N. But once we were up it was off to the races, wasn’t it? I laced up my new sneakers and we hit the streets. We made it two blocks before we ran into Donna and her kids but once I mentioned you and we began talking about the radical health changes you were helping me make, well, my heart rate had plummeted and frankly I didn’t feel it was safe to go revving it up again. So 187 running steps, 324 walking back home. Progress was made regardless of what you showed in your little “app.” 

Speaking of apps, I took you off that night when I devoured that box of Bagel Bites, so you don’t know everything Mr. Smarty Wrist Thing. Day three was a breakthrough in the sleep department as I logged a solid 13 hours, sleeping until just a shade after noon. Guess all that exercise really did have positive effects! Given that it was a shortened day I’m not beating myself up too much over the fact we only logged 129 steps before I got into it with Gladys on Facebook. But who does she think she is posting something about “being present and not just staring at our phones” to Facebook? YOU’RE STARING AT FACEBOOK, GLADYS! Did she not see the irony in that? And people were actually “liking” it! Who are these people! I will suffer many things but not Facebook unawareness. Yes, to decompress I did watch that Lifetime movie but you have to admit that husband could not have been more creepy. With the plaids and the corduroy all the time? In the summer? How did she not realize he was going to kill her? And who keeps that many swords around who’s not a samurai or a teenage boy. The signs were all there, girlfriend. She had it coming if you ask me.

I don’t have enough fists to beat myself up over that day I forgot to wear you to Curves. Damn it. I was on that treadmill for easily 40 minutes, FitBit. 40 minutes. Was the last 15 spent chatting with Barbara? Yes, but was I on it? Yes. So it counts. Had I worn you, you would know. A lot of what happened the rest of that week is a bit of a blur. Mainly because I realized that by never opening the app I was no longer subjected to your merciless critiques. I could simply bask in strangers’ admiration for my futuristic wearable exercise tech. If you could measure the amount of time I spent talking about you I’d be Lance Armstrong. Before he cheated. Or while he cheated but I guess but not the drugs part. You know what I mean. 

Now, the remaining weeks were a challenge for everyone. Who could have seen Cathy’s accident coming? Certainly not Cathy or she wouldn’t have been out walking at that hour. What was she thinking? She doesn’t even own a FitBit! Now, they say raccoons are more scared of you then you are of them. Well that one must have been pretty spooked ‘cause it leapt right up on her face and went to town, scratching like she was a garbage can full of cat food on the back porch. Poor thing. I didn’t have much choice than to tend to her wounds because lord knows that deadbeat husband of hers, Kenneth, wasn’t around. What that man does for a living, I have no idea. Does poster-board even need a salesman? How many class projects and ball games are there? Buy it or don’t, I say. I’m not saying I blame Cathy’s gnarled face but things might have ended differently if I could have focused on my exercise. Was it necessary for me to be there for the two whole weeks? It didn’t didn’t help that Teen Mom 3 came out during that time. And it appears Jenelle has made zero progress with parenting or her life. Sad, really. 

So I know neither of us reached our goals, FitBit. And I know I failed you. But I still like wearing you and talking about you. You make me feel like a fit person and when you think about it isn’t that why I bought you in the first place? 

[fascinationstreak-blog]

Garden variety

He was a shovel thief.

Most people when they hear that are confused about why a guy would steal shovels. But if you think about it, you can steal pretty much anything and for this guy that thing just happened to be shovels, strange as that may be. Maybe he had a lot of holes to dig. Maybe he didn’t like buying things. Or maybe he just liked the danger of sneaking into sheds and onto porches to steal shovels.

Whatever the reason, the man was a shovel thief.

Most of us are taught at a very young age that stealing is bad.  But it was clear this guy’s parents never imparted this lesson onto the young shovel thief. We still wonder how it all started. Was he always a thief? As a toddler, did he steal a sand shovel and like the feeling? Did this future shovel thief boost one of those little three-pronged hand rakes from a neighbor's yard as a teenager? Did one thing lead to another? What led the young thief to choose a life of shovel thievery, we may never know. 

But for the residents of Vista Acres, the shovel thief wasn’t just a curiosity. He was a menace. Leaving one’s garage door open was as foolish as hanging one of those “come and take it” flags out front and actually meaning it. Only instead of a snake your flag has a shovel. "No, please, come take my shovel. Seriously." Every morning in the Acres, as the residents were fond of calling it, emails reporting shovel thefts forwarded around like Obama jokes. The clubhouse at lunch was a beehive. 

Then one night, Frank Treadwell heard a rattle outside his garden home in the Lakes section of the Acres. It was the “nice” section of the Acres. The area with the nicest shovels. Those yellow and black ones with padding on the handle that Home Depot puts up front. The ones on an endcap display with a catchy slogan like "A deal you can dig!"

Telling his wife Vicki to stay in bed, Frank made his way downstairs to try to get a look at what might be the trouble. Padding across the kitchen floor he spotted a shadowy figure just beyond his glassed-in sun porch. Was this the shovel thief? Had his own shovel already fallen victim to the elusive bandit? His hand felt along the wall until he located the switch for the outside floodlights. He flicked the switch and the lights came on with a football stadium’s intensity. And there, lit up like the Statue of Liberty (only this one was holding a shovel), was Tom Blankenship. 

Tom Blankenship lived in the section of the Acres that was considered the least desirable: the Pines section. Tom Blankenship was the shovel thief. Almost no one saw that coming. Except maybe Debbie, his wife. She had to have known. 

In the days and weeks that followed, rumors flew about Tom and his wife Debbie. He was somehow responsible for the great sewer backup of ’94. She singlehandedly threw the bake off of ’01 leading to Carol Feinstein’s unlikely victory. They both had a hand in the coup d'etat that led to Rick Hemingway’s ascension to head of the Homeowner’s Association back in ’09.  None of it could be proved but boy, it sure was it fun to speculate.Tom and Debbie eventually sold their condo at a loss and simply skipped town. Some people remember him simply as Tom, the insurance appraiser who grew up in nearby Centerville. Others remember him as Tom who led the local Boy Scout troop during the early 90’s when his boys were scout-age. Still others remember the man who overdid it with decorations every Christmas. 

But for those who owned shovels, he was remembered as one thing and one thing only: the shovel thief.

The residents of the acres never did find out what happened to all those shovels but then again, most of them still had AOL email addresses and had never heard of Craigslist.

[fascinationstreak-blog]

The pits

There was a special on avacados that day. Everyone loves a good deal but—as anyone who’s ever bought an avocado knows—avacados are tough to buy in bulk because you only get about a 24-hour window to enjoy them as they pass between hard as a rock and mushy as a nursing home. 

So Phil Thompson just bought two. 

Phil Thompson got home with the avacados and set them on the counter. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with them. Make guacamole? Slice them up and put a little salt and olive oil on them? Really, what else can you do with an avocado? Thinking about this, for a second Phil began to regret his purchase. Like seasonal cherries or heirloom tomatoes, Phil felt like he only bought the avacados because they were on sale. Because he had. The more he thought about it, the more Phil felt like he had been taken for a ride. An avacado ride. 

That’s when Phil hatched a plan.

Rummaging through the trash in the garage, Phil found his receipt for the avacados. 2 for $4. Phil began to imagine the other things he could have bought with those four dollars. Three-quarters of a gallon of gas, a gallon of milk, a six pack of soda. Why was he only imagining liquids? He didn't know. But why, he thought, was he duped into buying these things?

Striding into the store with a purpose not often seen at the local Piggly Wiggly, Phil approached the customer service desk and demanded the manager. A stout woman with a fondness for nurse’s shoes, Carol Riley had only been the store’s manager for seven months but no amount of experience could have prepared her for this showdown.

Setting the avacodos on the counter, Phil explained to her how he wanted to return them for a full refund. Carol informed him of the store’s return policy on perishables: they don’t do them. Hearing this, Phil began flailing his arms and ranting about how this was an outrage and a mockery of the whole concept of capitalism. No one really understood what he meant by that. His assertion that Margaret Thatcher would never buy avacados at Piggly Wiggly thoroughly confused everyone because she didn’t even live in the States. And as the Prime Minister of England, she likely didn’t eat too many avacados. What's more, the avacado (or persea americana) is really an equatorial fruit that thrives in more tropical climates, not the northern latitudes and certainly not the damp British isles. But then again, she was the prime minister so she could probably get her hands on anything she wanted. It was still a weird thing for Phil to say. 

Carol tried her best to calm him down but Phil was inconsolable. The wheels finally came off when Phil threw a March of Dimes brochure display to the ground and began to climb over the counter. A security guard who'd been posted near the door arrived just in time to grab him by his pants and throw him to the ground.

Unfortunately, in the ensuing mayhem the avacados crashed to the floor causing their softened husks to split open, their green guts squishing out. Now they were of no use to anyone.

Months later, as Phil Thompson picked up discarded cans and cigarette butts on the shoulder of a highway outside of town, his mind sometimes drifted to thoughts of a big bowl of creamy guacamole. Next to it maybe there was a bowl of tortilla chips and a pitcher of cold margaritas. Maybe his friends were there. And maybe someone would remark about how expensive avacados had gotten recently and Phil could assure them he knew a place where you could get them cheap. 

2 for $4, even.

[fascinationstreak-blog]

This is going to be the best damn kids party ever

Our little Tyler is turning four on Saturday so you know what that means: I’m getting ready to throw the best damn kids party that Pine Oaks has ever seen. Sure, the Harrisons threw one hell of whopper last year for that little bastard Kyle but this shindig is going to make that little get together look like a wake. Will there be a bouncy house? You bet your ass there will be. And we’re not talking about some little rubber box here either. We’re talking a Great Castles of Europe-caliber bouncy house with parapets and flying buttresses and gargoyles. Better bring a spare mind ‘cause your kid’s gonna lose his up in that thing. How will your kid get to the bouncy castle? Well how ‘bout they just hop aboard one of the hundreds of ponies that are gonna be roaming all over this piece. Black ones, brown ones, white ones, Shetlands, you name it. Hope you’re ready to saddle up ‘cause I’m not gonna stop procuring ponies until this thing is a full-on ponypalooza. What’s that, you wanna pet something? Well then just hitch a pony ride over to the petting zoo where you can pet to your little four-year old heart’s content everything from a salamander to a shih tzu. You’re gonna feel like Steve Irwin up in that zoo. Only when he was still alive, more alive than four year-old should ever feel. You're gonna wish you had an extra set of hands there's gonna be so much fur to be petted. But what’s a birthday blowout without a balloon animal station? Not a soiree I’m throwing, I’ll tell you that much. Name an animal—real or fictional—and none other than the Michaelangelo of balloons, Miguel Espinosa, will make it for you. Welcome to the jungle, kids! 

Tell ya what, why don’t you go ahead and get your face painted too because we’re also gonna have the Picasso of Pine Oaks himself, Jeff Robertson, straight up transforming faces. Get you that tiger face you’ve been wanting, son! And don’t think I’m gonna just book some little kids band to play this thing. Ah , hell no. You can keep the Wiggles ‘cause I’m straight up booking DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince. That’s right, Will MF’n Smith. And Jazzy Jeff. Get ready to get jiggy with it, kids. Looks like parents do understand after all, huh? Hope you’re ready to get that cake too ‘cause I got a Freedom Tower of a cake coming. This thing’s so tall I had to secure a building permit for it. And bring your SUV because we’re gonna send you home with so many party favors it’s gonna be like the gifting room at the Oscars come Saturday afternoon at this place. 

If you’re thinking this is just some little celebration of young Tyler’s life, think again. This is full on thermo-nuclear showmanship. Fact is, I’ve hit it big and you’re gonna know it when you get smacked in the face by decorations your little mind can't even process. You’re gonna feel so inadequate you won’t begin to know where your life went wrong. Two quick notes: gifts are mandatory as hell and show up on time ‘cause this thing is costing me a bundle.