
Echo Beach Tide Pools
Java Junk and Art
Jive
By Keith Alan Johnson
03-26-2000
It
took me a long time to start drinking coffee. I went through
high school and college without touching the stuff. I never acquired
the taste. Odd for a Seattleite, I know. My father likes coffee
that will dissolve spoons, or at least allow them to stand up
in the mug for a few minutes. Perhaps that's why I didn't drink
the stuff for so long. Or perhaps it's because I have a sweet
tooth and coffee tastes bitter. In the end it was that sweet
tooth that was the first half of my downfall.
On a side note, my introduction
to abstract art was in college. A professor there would go on
and on about what I would call "Paint thrown randomly on
a canvas". Then he would go up to a student's piece of fantasy
art and rip it up. I decided abstractionists were full of s**t
and that abstract art was a reflection of their soul.
What's this got to do with
coffee? There is a connection. My Uncle is an artist. He paints
what I call abstract realism. Perhaps there is actually an art
form called abstract realism, I don't know for sure. His art
is abstract, but you can actually see what he is painting. He
managed to show me the finer side of abstract art, how abstract
art in the hands of a master could actually be something very
cool, something you could drink a latte in front of and not feel
like a yuppie. That was the second half of my downfall.
One cold December night back
in 1989 I attended an opening night gallery show of the latest
artworks of my uncle, Dale V. Cox. He had three dominant themes
there; "Flowers in the Field", "Night Railroads",
and "Doomsday Clock Graffiti". I had seen many versions
of these works under construction, but I had never seen them
displayed in a gallery setting. My uncle's art adorned the walls,
throughout this hollow, cold, single room gallery. Each painting
had it's own spotlight. Either the piece would warm the surroundings
with its touch of heartfelt whimsy, or it would chill you further
with its bleak outlook on the future. And then, as a counterpoint
to both of those themes the third would give you a feeling of
powerful mystery.
Just outside the gallery
entrance there was a latte cart. The steam from the esspresso
machine surounded the cart, barista and patrons with an erie
mist in the cold night. The cart beckoned to me. "Come to
me" it said. "Let me warm your hands. Come to the
dark roast side. Smell my eggnog latte." I didn't have a
chance. Soon I was standing in front of "Cascade Division"
with a white paper cup topped with a plastic lid... a 12 oz single
short eggnog latte with a dust of nutmeg. It was ecstasy. It
was my first time.
I was lost. I was hooked.
For the next ten years I would be drinking "double tall
skinnys with a touch of hazelnut", or "single short
skinny mint mochas". I would have stories I would relate
about how new espresso shops would open up in foreign cities
in far off lands, like San Diego, and how they wouldn't know
what to do with them. I would show off my knowledge with the
flare of my ordering technique. I would pass judgment on the
talents of baristas. My wallet filled itself with coffee club
cards from around the country until it would nearly explode.
I became a coffee connoisseur. I could tell the difference between
a dark Italian roast and a light Kona blend, even though I would
still smother both in a cream sweetener. I would sip with many
people. I could even offer to "buy a cup of coffee"
for a social visit. I would sit in coffee shops with out of town
friends and visit. I would sit in a coffee shop by myself, reading
the newspaper and nursing from that white plastic topped cup.
Best of all, in the morning I could bring a warm cup of coffee
to my wife and place it in her hands, one of the many displays
of love and affection.
It all started with that
one eggnog latte and an art show.
Fast forward to last month,
over ten years later. Something clicked. I don't truly know what
it was, but one night the romance faded, I stopped drinking coffee.
I haven't had a cup for three weeks. I haven't had the desire.
I haven't had any withdrawal symptoms. The flame simply faded
and I just stopped drinking coffee. I don't know what I'm going
to do at the next art show I go to. I have to admit though, that
a lot of my artistic friends are just as comfortable viewing
a piece of art with a can in their hands that reads "enjoy
Coca-Cola".
My wife gave up coffee for lent. I don't know why she decided
to do that. I didn't even know she participated in lent. Perhaps
it was a show of support to me or perhaps it was just something
she wanted to do. I must say though, there is no romance in placing
a cold can of soda in her hand in the morning. Perhaps we will
use all that tea stash that I've had stored since my college
days.
03-26-2000
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