precoffnitive: a little short

This is just an idea that popped into my head while I was reading this afternoon. Warning: It probably sucks.

I've just stepped outside of the second busiest branch of the ultimate worldwide coffee chain. I'm looking at all the people smiling and drinking their espressos or bottled water. Smoking their cigarettes or not and making unapproving faces at those that are. The one I'm talking about is at my 1030. Her expression right now can be best described as a pug that just simply is too good for her Iams puppy mix. She takes a cleansing pull off her triple tall caramel macchiato.

Two percent.

Damn it. The clouds of not so twenty five feet away from all public entrances is really starting to get to me. Scrounging for my Zippo with my left hand, my right goes to my breast pocket and I produce a Camel Filter. Click, flick and nick. There's a trio of skateboarders directly to my left. Let's call em 0345. Doubtful they've got a much more creative nickname for their little insane punk posse. The one wearing sunglasses takes 'em off and tries to get my attention. "Sir...?"

I've turned to him now. He's revealed glacier-fucking-blue eyes. Sorry, my mother read me Harlequin novels when I was staring at mobiles. Pack that with my whiskey habit and well you've got a unique descriptive to life. "Yeah Sunglasses?"
"Spare a smoke?"
"Bet I can call out what's in your Starbucks cup down to the flavored syrup. If I get it wrong you get a smoke. Cover up the check boxes too."
"What if you're right?"
"You get the receiving end of an inmate at the state pen. Dick."
"Alright," the kid is covering up the option boxes on the side of the cup, "you're a go."
"Grande nonfat white chocolate mocha. No added flavors."
The kid to the right of him looks at him and whispers, "Owned."
Sunglasses speaks up. "Not fucking fair. You heard me order."
I inhale a long hard drag on my cancer stick.
"Maybe, but I still win."

I'm not really sure where I got this ridiculous talent. It just happened along the lines. Probably when Starbucks took over the world millions of five dollar bills at once. I never really drank fancy coffee either. I was always three cups of drip for the morning, two cups of drip for the afternoon, and then half a fifth of Maker's at night. Eating whatever comes in between the cafe and the bar for dinner. Some people call it a gift. But those some people think I'm full blown psychic. Like I'm supposed to know how you're gonna die. Or if the next scratch and win ticket at the 7-11 counter is the winner. Nah. I just know whats in your cup. And it's really irritating when you're trying to read the paper. Or watching TV. Conan O'Brien's guest of the night takes a long pull of his coffee, says something that's apparently funny but it definitely wasn't a tall order. Judging by the audiences reaction of course. It's like you're trying to read about what Charles Barkley's politics are and all he's saying is in your head is two-percent-non-fat-orange-mocha-frappachino-extra-dry-foam-sweet-and-low-twist-of-lemon- with-nutmeg-shakes. Shit. And don't let Wolf Blitzer get started.

I warned you.

In other news: Roland Emmerich has a new movie out.

It's no surprise I'm a fan of the SLOG. I enjoy harping on my sister and getting the news. I read The Stranger at least three times during the week over and over and over. Reading the blog just kinda helps to quiet the times I don't have a marvelous book to keep in my back pocket.

Speaking of which Dean Koontz, whom I hate, wrote a new book which I'm currently reading as my form of counting sheep. It's not a "hey, look at me, I'm happily displaying my waste of thirty bucks on a hardcover" kind of public reading. It's called The Darkest Evening of the Year. It's about golden retrievers. And it's supposed to be scary? I can't wait for the sequel... When the Frisbee Comes Back.

Anyway, back to my point. I read the Slog to get my hyperlinks on. That's right I steal content for the few people for the moment that read this thing. I love you all. Really.

Which brings me to the news story of the day. Smoking gets hilarious.

I've been had

I can't even finish Tuesday's New York Times puzzle. Consider me, last Thursday, grinning stupidly as I tackled like a premiere cruciverbalist. Now few days later, I cringe at opening up my Seattle P-I again.

I re-read Thomas Harris' Silence of the Lambs again, and by glaring necessity I'm going to rent it again tonight after work. I just have to remember if they refer to Buffalo Bill as "Jamie" or "Jame". I remember the former, but the book itself insists on the latter.

Working on my own crossword has been outrageously obnoxious. I don't know how the fuck Brendan Emmett Quigley does it. It's absolutely frustrating to have some awesome answers but the complete lack of knowledge of three and four letter words to seal the deal. Maybe I should start smaller than a 15x15 grid. I think I've figured out the theme. But it seriously needs some work.

Keep you posted.