In search of a good subject for rambling journal entries.
written 2000-03-13 01:15:57

Y'know, it's just never too late to look like a punk kid.

I got jumped by two security guards at a mall yesterday, because I was
wearing a trenchcoat. All these security vans swarmed around me in the
parking lot. I had a baseball cap on backwards over my ever-growing hair,
and about an inch of growth on my face, so clearly I must have been
looking to blow something up or rape an old lady or something. Later on,
some guy pointed me out to his friends called out, "Hey, it's Silent
Bob! What's up, Silent Bob?"


I finally made my way to a coffee house out here. The place was called
"Dierdrich's Coffee", and it's kinda like a slightly less yuppie version
of Caribou Coffee. Heaven knows, it's DEFINITELY less suffocating than
your average StarBucks. So I ambled in for a cup o' joe.

For those that aren't ardent coffeehousers, you should understand that
there really is no such thing as a cup of coffee at a coffeehouse. I know
that sounds odd, but it's true. You have to order a cup of Sumatra or
Kona, or find something else that sounds like a breed of pot. ("Yes, I'd
like a cup of Mexican Gold, please.") Other options are Espresso (but not
EXpresso; ordering that is apparently a sign of an amateur), or for the
really brave, a MOCHA LATTE or some crap like that.

Chances are, you can't even get a SMALL, MEDIUM, or LARGE drink; you'll
probably have to ask for a "Venti" or "Grande". I think that's
Italian. Being a stubborn American, however, I find it's best to say,
"just gimme the biggest thing you've got, ya lousy java jockey, and make
it friggin' SNAPPY."

I mean, could you see Sylvester Stallone or John Wayne in one of these
places? Try to imagine The Duke sipping a grande mocha latte and reciting
bad poetry. See? You can't do it. There's just nothing badass about these
places. It is a wonder to me that anyone who frequents coffeehouses ever
gets laid. But then again, we all know this is just a front; after
spending an hour or so being tragically hip artistes, these junior
highschoolers hop in their daddies' convertible Jaguars, throw the black
berets in the back seat, and drive off to the mall to make fun of people
wearing trenchcoats. How trendy.

To make a long story short, I made my way to the counter and got a cup of
Chai. If you've never had Chai, think liquid pumpkin pie. Most decidedly

After deferring my student loans, presenting two forms of identification,
and splitting the bill between my credit card and an I.O.U. signed in my
own blood, I paid for my drink and was ready to take in the atmosphere.

Tonight, like many nights in coffee shops across the country, there was a
band performing. Normally this is enough to make me flee the premises
without so much as a sip of my financial venture, but tonight's
performance was at least a little different from the usual fare of
suffering highschool bands and bad Radiohead covers. This group was
apparently going to perform "authentic" spanish music for our
coffee-swilling pleasure.

Immediately I'm imagining a bad reproduction of The Buena Vista Social
Club, but the music, I can safely say, jammed.

The stereotypes, however, were pretty bad. The lead singer had a
psuedomexican mullet, slicked back AND standing up at the same time. Think
Adam Sandler in "The Wedding Singer", but with more grease. He was
wearing sunglasses at night. I decided that he must be a good singer,
because from the looks of him, he could probably be making better money
mugging people in alleys. I was right; that dude could SING.

One of the guitarists was the standard viejo verde, raised on a healthy
diet of whisky, cuban cigars and whores. His shirt was opened about three
buttons too far to show gray chest hair, and his lips curved into a gaping
smile that displayed teeth that were never quite maintained properly. He
had to be about 20 years older than the rest of them, but you could tell
he never had as much fun in his life as when he was jamming with the

I find that I really like this music, even if for the life of me I can't
understand one word of it.

Other stuff. I'm now in my new house. I'll send my new phone number and
snail mail address tomorrow (hopefully I'll know it by then). My last
official act as a resident of the Draeker house was to pick Scott up from
the airport, where he had just finished speaking at GDC (Game Developer's
Conference? Something like that.) He's thrilled because of some very
important deals that are now in the works, and the majestic reception our
OpenAL library is getting. We spent most of the trip back to his house
discussing what we would do if we could actually get rich off this
business. Some of the better suggestions were "Blow 5,000 bucks on a hand
of blackjack," "light a cigarette off a burning 100 dollar bill," and
"pay to have people that call you 'Silent Bob' killed."

Ah, to dream.


"Where'd you get yer information, huh?
You think that you can front when Revelation comes?"
      -- Beastie Boys.

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